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About Marseille

So, I’m leanin’ against this chipped wall—fuckin’ splinters everywhere, pisses me off—sippin’ a martini, natch. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, sizin’ her up. Did ya know, back in the day, Rome’s hookers had their own guild? True story—called themselves “meretrices,” fancy as fuck. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how they’d strut past the Colosseum, dodgin’ drunk senators. History’s wild, innit?

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I tells ya, while I'm shufflin' around these streets, there’s a part of me that feels like Gollum—conflicted, forever chasing that naughty, ever-elusive precious. "The murmurs, they speak, they speak, my precious!" Even as a sexologist, I see subtleties—flirtatious glances, soft touches—you catch it? I catch it all, like visions in a twisted dream.

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