giga papaskiri-spiritual healing original mix
Chapter 6:
Why did I call it a feast during the plague?
It’s very simple. The brothel is overflowing with successful men who cannot meet a woman and have children with her. The rooms in the brothel are equipped with trash bins where used tissues are thrown away. In one night, cleaners have to empty those bins several times.
There are no pretty little fair-haired German children—because their mothers do not want to give birth to them. And their potential fathers buy love by the hour in brothels. The sex factory works without days off, twenty-four hours a day.
According to some unconfirmed reports, a brothel can receive from 1,000 to 3,000 men per night.
Meanwhile, European girls and women live alone with their little dogs. Some go to the gym, work on their abs, and choke down convenience food in cold, empty apartments. Others gain weight and lose interest in life, lying on the couch and thinking that all men are also sitting at home, drinking beer in cold loneliness.
The huge parking lot is packed with expensive cars. Some leave, others arrive. There is no space in the locker room—everyone is changing. Half-naked men are preparing for sex, taking showers, fixing their hair. They want to please the women. They give themselves to prostitutes who also do not give them children. There is sex—but there are no children. There is a celebration—but there is no love. Here, love is called a service.
Visiting a brothel is an attempt to challenge one's incompetence in everyday life, often imposed by the woman next to him. A man who is humiliated at home becomes a “tiger” in a brothel and pays money for compliments; at home, he also pays, but for humiliation.
After some time, I would learn everything about brothels and about how some visitors fall in love with prostitutes. But that love exists only in your head; in reality, things are different. To her, you are fifty euros. No more, no less. And if you want to marry her—wait until she works out the time specified in her contract, then she will go back to her village. Then you go there and bring her to Germany—not made up, not pretty, without eyelashes and without high heels, but with a sick mother who urgently needs surgery. And here option B comes into play—to sleep with a new one. From the next batch. Healthy, young, with new eyelashes.
Nevertheless, I did not lose hope of meeting a woman. I want to note that all this time I was trying to return home, despite visiting brothels. Physical needs took over. But my wife remained firm and refused me. An apartment, money from the state, health insurance, and beautiful children—I was no longer needed. She had carried out a plan she had conceived back in Ukraine.
I registered on Tinder. Liked one vulgar woman. She replied immediately. We texted, moved to WhatsApp. “How are you?”, the first photos, the first call.