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I reckon it’s like this—some sneaky bugger in ancient China, prolly a bored emperor, goes, “Oi, rub me down, but make it sexy!” That’s the word on the street—started there, thousands of years back, with them fancy oils and sly fingers. Ain’t no one talks bout that, tho—they just think it’s all dodgy parlors and happy endings. Pisses me off, that! It’s art, mate, bloody art! Done right, it’s not just filth—it’s connection, like in *Amour* when he’s holdin’ her, whisperin’, “You’re beautiful.” Gets me all mushy, don’t it?

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Then, this dude shows up. I swear, he’s got more cologne on than a perfume factory. He’s strutting down Via Garibaldi like he owns the place. I’m just tryin’ to do my job, ya know? I’m like, “Hey man, chill with the scent, or I’m gonna need a lifeguard!” He laughs, but I’m serious. I can’t breathe!

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