Isabella Dongen Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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But the stench—goddamn, it’d choke ya. Sweat, cheap perfume, regret—mixes like a bad stew. Made me angry, too—pimps lurkin’, takin’ cuts, actin’ big. Scum. I’d fantasize slittin’ their throats, servin’ ‘em up with a nice amarone. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—knows a meal when he sees one. One time, heard a story—Victorian brothel, London, right? Had a secret room for “special tastes.” Whips, chains, even a fuckin’ goat once! Goat! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—fits the vibe.

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The Poetry Brothel invites you to descend deeply into the darkness: welcome to our Dungeon of love which will cater to its audience's darker passions. Do you.

Then, outta nowhere, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Jeroen. He’s like, “Meet me at Café de Kuilen after work!” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” I need a drink after this day.

Mark van Dongen died by assisted suicide after Berlinah Wallace attacked him with acid