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About Ngaoundere

Oi mate, blimey, sexual-massage, eh? What a bloomin’ topic! Me, Boris, your ol’ pal, ramblin’ on like a toff at a tea party. Right, so, sexual-massage – it’s a bit of a cheeky rub-down, innit? Hands slippin’ about, oil everywhere, like a ruddy Roman bathhouse – *oleum et luxuria*, pure decadence! Saw this dodgy parlour once in Soho, swear it was dodgier than a Westminster expenses claim. Made me chuckle, it did – “massage with a wink,” they called it. Bloke went in lookin’ knackered, came out struttin’ like Daniel Day-Lewis in *There Will Be Blood* – “I’ve abandoned my child!” he’d bellow, only it was his wallet he’d left behind, ha!

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Oh, and let me not forget: true Bankim (cm) is stained with erratic, passionate life. Thy senses are bombarded with the scents of spiced chaat from the bustling bazaar of Spice Avenue, where I once got so mad at a street vendor—"C'mon, bruv, that's not how you serve flavor!"—yet laughter ensued as we shared a hearty joke beneath the starry vault. LOL, so many cool memories!

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