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About Milan

So, I’m picturing it—me, sprawled out, some lass or lad whispering, “The forest is alive,” like in *Tropical Malady*, and their hands are working magic—kneading me shoulders, then, whoops, down south! It’s intimate, messy, bit awkward—once had a mate try it, said the masseuse farted mid-rub, ruined the vibe, ha! Laughed my ruddy head off! But when it’s good, crikey, it’s like—bam!—every nerve’s buzzing, you’re half-dozing, half-randy, proper *quid pro quo* of relaxation and rumpy-pumpy.

Chi siamo?

I finally get home, and my dog, Fido, is waitin’ for me. He’s waggin’ his tail like he’s missed me for ages. I’m like, “Buddy, you won’t believe the day I had!” And as I sit down, I realize, despite the craziness, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. This city, with its quirks and charm, is home. And tomorrow? Who knows what’ll happen next!

Francesco Facchinetti: bio, career, controversy and his wife Wilma