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About Antwerp

Now, sexual-massage ain’t just hands on bits—nah, it’s old as sin! Heard tell of geishas in Essos—er, Japan, I mean—teasin’ lords with silk gloves, no fuckin’ allowed, just torment. Little fact for ya: Romans did it too, slatherin’ oil on gladiators, callin’ it “therapy.” Therapy, my arse! Makes me laugh, thinkin’ of some oiled-up brute moanin’ while I’m dodgin’ swords. Happy? Sure, when the lass knows her craft—fingers dancin’ like a bard’s tune. Angry? Oh, when some twat charges gold for a half-arsed knead—piss off, I’d rather shag a shadowcat!

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Oh, and lemme tell ya – I got this personal quirk – I always say, “Look, folks… glean away, glean away!” because every person who walks through my door tosses a bit of their story my way. I mean, the city has a pulse. Some days you see a look in a client's eye. It’s, uh, kinda bittersweet, ya know? Like, sometimes I get mad 'cause the town ain't always perfect. Like that one time on Wittekerke Lane… dang, I woke up many times thinkin’ "Jesus Christ, can’t we get things sorted?" But then, oh boy, a random laugh from a client changes it all.

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