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About Bologna

Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, this webcam gig’s got me thinkin’ bout erotic-massage, yeah? Picture it: dim lights, oiled-up hands, some poor sod tryna relax while I’m over here sippin’ a martini, watchin’ it all go down. Reminds me of *Toni Erdmann*—you seen that flick? My fave, hands down. That scene where the dad’s all, “Life’s just a big massage,” but it’s awkward as fuck? That’s erotic-massage in a nutshell—half sexy, half “what am I even doin’ here?”

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So, I’m walking down Corso Vittorio Emanuele, and I see this little café. The smell of fresh pastries hits me like a freight train. I’m talking croissants, cannoli, the whole shebang. I order a cappuccino, and the barista, this cool dude named Marco, gives me a wink. I’m like, “Dude, you’re my new best friend.”

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