Blankenberge doesn’t sparkle.
It pulls.
Slow, salty, inevitable.
Like she did.

I met her at the edge of the pier — hair loose in the sea wind, coat wrapped tight, face tilted toward a sky that couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain.
She didn’t look like she was waiting.
She looked like she belonged to the ocean.

She never called herself an escort in Belgium.
She said, "I don’t sell nights. I offer a place where you can stop swimming against yourself."

Her apartment faced the beach.
No curtains. No decorations.
Just windows, and the endless sound of water you stop noticing once it enters your blood.

The massage didn’t soothe.
It unfolded.
Hands slow, firm, finding the places I had armored without knowing.
Not touching to excite —
touching to remind: you’re still here.

She undressed with her back to me.
Not shy.
Not performative.
Just necessary.
Her striptease was like low tide — pulling everything hidden back into view.

Beautiful girls in Blankenberge don’t set fires.
They become the current you stop fighting.

And the expensive girls here?
They don’t take your breath away.
They return it — heavier, real, yours.

Want to meet a girl in Blankenberge?
Then come when the sky is grey.
When you’re tired of forcing everything to make sense.
She’ll be there.
Silent.
Certain.
And if she lets you stay —
you’ll leave knowing why some storms don’t need to pass.