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About Tokyo

Last week, I tried it—sketchy parlor downtown. Neon sign blinkin “Massage,” but ya know it’s more. Walked in, smellin like lavender and bad decisions. Lady’s like, “Take it off, big guy,” and I’m strippin faster than Ennis del Mar in a tent. “I can’t quit you,” I mutter, half-jokin, half-hopin she don’t hear. She starts, hands strong as hell—lumberjack approved. Then it gets weird—good weird. Fingers dancin near my ass, I’m like, “Oi, that’s new!” Felt like choppin wood but backwards—relief, not work. Got me happy as a pig in mud, but also pissed—why’d I wait so long?

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But then, I stepped outside. And wow, the streets were packed! I mean, it’s a weekday, people! Chill out! I was trying to get to the Fukura Art Museum on Shōwa-dōri, but the crowd was like a sea of humanity. I felt like a salmon swimming upstream. Ugh!

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