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About Rome

So, sexual-massage—here’s the deal. It’s hands, oil, skin, and tension, real slow, buildin’ up like a harvest storm. Little known fact, man—back in ancient Rome, them horny bastards used olive oil for this shit, slippin’ and slidin’ like it’s a goddamn orgy. True story! Got me thinkin’, “Motherfucker, they knew how to live!” Makes me happy as hell—simple shit, no fancy tools, just hands and heat. But then I get pissed, ‘cause today? Half these parlors are fronts for somethin’ else—fuckin’ scams, man, ruins the art!

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So, I dash to my workshop on Via Garibaldi. I’m soaked, my hair’s a mess, and I’m just grumpy. I get there, and guess what? My best wood supplier, Marco, is late. Like, seriously late. I’m pacing, tapping my foot, thinking about how I need that wood for a custom violin. It’s for some fancy concert, and I can’t let my client down.

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