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About Bristol

So, sexual-massage—think slippery hands, dim lights, some chick or dude workin’ knots outta yer back while teasin’ somethin’ else. It’s legit therapy, sure, but with a naughty twist. I got into it years back—Wall Street stress, ya know? Needed to unwind. Found this underground joint in NYC, cash only, no questions. Girl’s hands were magic, like she knew every nerve endin’. Made me happy as hell—tension gone, blood pumpin’! But then—boom—anger hit. She stopped right at the edge, smirkin’, like, “Pay extra, big shot.” Greed, man, hers and mine, clashin’!

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Anyway, I finally get to the workshop on Hall St. and it’s chaos. My mate, Jimmy, is tryin’ to fix this barrel that’s gone all wonky. He’s hammerin’ away like a madman. I’m like, “Jimmy, mate, it’s a barrel, not a piñata!” But he just grunts at me. Classic Jimmy.

The wedding of Jennifer Cook and Robert Stevenson