Maeve Lantana Brothel ❤️

About New York City

So, picture this—dusty joint, red lights flickerin’. Smells like cheap perfume and regret. Git-R-Done! I heard ‘bout this one cathouse in Nevada—legal, y’know? Been runnin’ since the Gold Rush days. Them miners’d stumble in, pockets fulla nuggets, pants fulla dreams. Little known fact: them gals kept diaries! Writin’ ‘bout johns, like “fella stank worse’n a mule.” Cracked me up, thinkin’ ‘bout it—history in lipstick stains.

Guidelines and Standards for Reviews

Running a brothel is a tough business. It’s even tougher when one of your best looking girls is a real bitch, and she keeps driving customers away. As the head manager, I think it’s time for a Missing: Lantana.

So picture this: Main Street—where all the drama unfolds. There's a dingy café at 12 Riverside St. that smells of roasted dreams, and if you're lucky (or unlucky), you'll bump into some interesting characters—just like in Carol, ya know? The streets echo whispers of hope, heartbreak, and fierce determination.

Police chase ends on Lantana golf course