Ellie Whittier Brothel ❤️❤️

About Houston

So here’s the deal—erotic-massage ain’t just a backrub. It’s got history, like ancient Rome shit. They’d slather oil on gladiators, rub ‘em down before fights. Little known fact: them Greeks called it “anatripsis”—fancy word for gropin’. Nowadays, it’s all “sensual vibes” and dim lights. Hate that crap. Gimme a stiff whiskey over some lavender-scented nonsense any day. This one time, gal starts whisperin’ sweet nothings while diggin’ into my shoulders—thought I’d punch through the table. “Beasts don’t die,” Oldboy says. Felt like a damn beast, alright—trapped, oily, and pissed.

You’re Temporarily Blocked

Irvine police have arrested two men on sex-trafficking charges, saying the duo leafleted neighbors' cars with ads for a brothel.

I’ve got typos in my brain, man—like, smudgy, rushed thoughts all day. Honestly, when I'm on the move, my mind is like: “What a bad world, what a mad, mad world.” I get so irked by the facades people wear. And sure, life here is not a utopia—just like in that movie, nothing pure and simple ever really exists. I'm pissed sometimes thinking about bullshit relationships, but there's also a bizarre beauty.

Remembering the Whittier Man Who Taught Us to Sip, Not Shoot, Tequila