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I seen it, motherfucker—up in them mountains, folks sneak off for secret rubs. Little known fact: them Sherpas? They been doin’ erotic-massage for centuries! Ain’t in no books—passed down, hush-hush, like some sacred-ass ritual. Gets the blood flowin’ at 15,000 feet! I’m tellin’ ya, one time, I’m guidin’ this rich asshole, he’s all “my legs hurt,” whinin’ like a bitch. Next day, he’s glowin’—found some local gal who worked him over. Pissed me off, ‘cause I’m freezin’ my ass off, and he’s gettin’ pampered? Fuck that noise!

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Anyway, I finally make it to my office on Rue de la République. I’m pumped, ready to crush it. But then, bam! My phone buzzes. Stocks are tanking. I mean, like, faceplanting into the ground. I’m like, “No way!” My heart’s racing. I grab a coffee from this little café on the corner—Café de la Paix, I think?—and I’m chugging it like it’s the elixir of life.

Danilovic tops Lamens in Rouen, makes fourth career WTA final