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Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, boozy, “I drink and I know things.” So, erotic-massage, yeah? Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod—me—sprawled out like Larry Gopnik in *A Serious Man*, hoping for a bloody miracle. “This is not about shtupping,” I mutter, coz it ain’t—well, not always. It’s about the tease, the rub, the weirdly holy vibe of it all. I mean, who knew some chick in Bangkok once massaged a king with her feet? True story—feet! Makes me giggle like a drunk imp.

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First off, I grab my coffee from that little café on Viale della Libertà. You know the one? The barista there, Marco, he’s a legend. He knows my order by heart. I’m like, “Yo, Marco, hit me with that double espresso!” He laughs, says, “You need it, buddy!” I mean, who doesn’t need caffeine in this town?

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