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About Genoa

So, right, sexual-massage—bit of a knead with a naughty twist. Not yer nan’s backrub, no siree! It’s all oily hands, dim lights, and—blimey—some cheeky intentions. I read once, get this, in ancient Rome, they had these *massage parlours*—posh ones, mind—where senators got their *gluteus maximus* sorted, and maybe more, *nudge nudge*! Proper *quid pro quo*, if ya catch my drift. Makes me chortle, imagining Caesar going, “Gimme the special, Brutus!”—then whoops, knives out, bad day.

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After that, I head to the next job on Via dei Garibaldi. It’s a café, and the owner, Marco, is a buddy of mine. He’s like, “Dude, I need this done fast! Customers are waiting!” No pressure, right? I’m hustling, trying to get the new glass in before the lunch rush.

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