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About Ghent

Anyways, I’m cruisin—dark corners, neon buzzin, stinks like piss n’ regret. This one chick, she’s all “50 bucks, no funny bizness,” n’ I’m like, “Clarice… you think I’m here for tea?” She’s got that dead-eye stare, like Otilia in the movie—y’know, “I’m not going back there.” Fuckin chills me, but I’m hooked. Somethin bout that edge, that danger, gets the blood pumpin.

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You see, bein' a sexologist here? It makes me notice the subtle glances, the bathedral vibe of the lovers sittin' on benches by the river. People reveal their innermost thoughts in corners of Retie no one else really sees. I often wonder if the city itself gets in on the act, whisperin’ secrets into the bricks of the old town hall on Kerkstraat. It’s like every nook hides a personal anecdote, like a confessional booth in a stained-glass window.

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