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About Rome

Sexual-massage ain’t just rubbin’ backs, nah. It’s hands slippin’ where polite folk blush. Little fact—ancient Romans were mad for it. Called it “erotic kneading,” bloody pervs. Used scented oils, rose and shit, to get pulses racing. Me? I’d demand wildfire in the mix—burn away the weak. Had this one time, some smirking masseur thought he’d impress me. Pressed too hard—nearly snapped my spine! I was raging, “I’ll see you bow!” Tossed a goblet at his head—missed, sadly.

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Then, I decide to grab some gelato. I mean, who can resist gelato, right? I head over to this little gelateria on Via Garibaldi. I order pistachio, my fave. But the guy behind the counter is super slow. Like, come on, dude! I’m standing there, tapping my foot, thinking about how I could’ve made it myself by now. Finally, I get my gelato, and it’s heavenly. I’m walking back, feeling like life is good again.

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