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About Marseille

I got into it once, right? Some shady joint downtown – neon sign blinkin’ “Massage” like a freakin’ lure. Walked in, all cocky, suit still on – “Greed is good,” I muttered, expectin’ a quick rubdown. But nah, this chick, she’s got *skills*. Little known fact: sexual-massage ain’t just happy endings – it’s old as dirt, like ancient Greeks used it to “balance humors” or some crap. She’s workin’ my shoulders, then bam – lower, teasin’, and I’m like, “Who’s filmin’ this?!” – straight outta *Caché*, paranoid as hell. Made me happy, sure, but pissed me off too – why’d I wait so long to try this?!

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First off, I head out to grab a coffee at my fave spot, Café de la Gare. You know, the one near the train station? Yeah, that place. I’m all hyped for my usual croissant and café crème. But guess what? They’re outta croissants! Like, how do you run out of croissants in France? I mean, c’mon! So, I settle for a pain au chocolat. Not the same, but whatever.

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