Cora Mckeesport Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About New York City

I reckon—pause—brothels got layers. Not just hookers and johns, nah. There’s history, man. Did ya know, ancient Rome had em everywhere? Called em *lupanars*—wolf dens, how badass is that? Girls painted their lips red, signalin they’re open for biz. Wild fact—some had stone beds. Stone! Imagine the backache, jesus. Makes me mad thinkin bout it—those girls, no cushy gig, just grindin it out.

Disclaimer

Liberty Avenue, between Heinz Hall & the Greyhound, was a mecca for those with prurient tastes, offering everything for this considerable market.

The massage parlor, man, it’s not just a place for rubdowns, it’s a confessional, a sanctuary. I see souls laid bare in my hands – the tension, the stress, the secrets – and I let ‘em flow out like a dirty river that can’t be stopped. Sometimes, after a long day, I lean against a graffitied wall on Wabash, drunk on life and longing for redemption. “Motherf**er, life’s a bitch!” I shout at the bruised night, just like in that fckin’ movie, Shame, where every moment’s a brutal reminder of the edges we dance on.

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