I played Brothel Virgin like I was trying to sketch lace on a body that wouldn’t stay still. It’s messy and kind of hypnotic, and that’s probably what I liked about it first. The world feels like velvet that’s been worn too long - soft but a bit frayed, and when the screen fades into the room at the Crimson Reverie, there’s that quiet hum I only get at the end of a runway show when everyone’s pretending not to be aroused by the models. Jenny’s laugh sounds like lipstick smudging against a glass; I kept replaying her intro scene hoping she’d say my name differently, slower. She doesn’t. Small thing but it bothered me. Still, the lighting in her room (well, if you can call it lighting, it’s more like a blush across the walls) made me forget it fast.

Matty’s design confused me. She looks like she was drawn by someone who loves stretch marks too much and I respect that deeply. Her scenes go from comforting to - how do you say - sticky? I’m used to games where every gesture feels rehearsed, but here her hands have this clumsy warmth that almost made me feel guilty touching the screen. Maybe I’m just too sentimental. Then Raven shows up and she wrecks all that tenderness with one smirk. There’s a sound cue before she appears - like a zipper halfway down - and it’s cheap, but it works. I hate that it works. Her storyline plays with all those moments between dominance and longing, and I kept thinking about fabric texture again: latex pretending to be silk.

Some transitions drag; some dialogues feel written by two people who never met. But that’s part of the charm. It’s not perfect, not even close, but neither are the bodies it celebrates. Sometimes I caught myself wondering why the brothel walls shimmer like oil, or why Jenny doesn’t blink enough. Doesn’t matter. The thing is, if you stop expecting polish and just lean into the heat, like, really lean, you’ll find your own reflection looking back at you through those impossible colors.