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About Rio de Janeiro

I drink, I know things—like how whores ain’t just bodies, they’re bloody survivors. “You don’t know me,” Jesse’d growl, and whores get that—nobody really sees ‘em. I’d exaggerate and say they’re the backbone of Westeros, but nah, too far. Still, they’ve got grit. Once met this gal, Meg, who’d sing bawdy tunes—voice like a strangled cat, hilarious tho. “Coward’s way out,” she’d cackle, mockin’ shy punters. Loved her for it.

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Mar 3,  · Intrepid feminist blogger Amanda Marcotte tweeted a filthy piece of history early this morning: an old timey (ca. ) brothel menu from the famed London fuckery run by Mrs. .

I ain't gonna lie, some days get me mad. Traffic near Avenida Serpente is nuts – whaaaat?! Cars buzzing, horns blaring – like a cage match all over the place. But then, after a long day of kneadin' muscles and souls, I hit my secret spot: a rough but chill bar on Rua do Caos. There, I sip a cold brewski, reflect on life, and let the town’s energy flow in me like a wild, relentless river.

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