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Sometimes I think—too much trust, ya know? Stranger’s hands all over, could snap your neck. Paranoid? Maybe. Still, I’d order it again—calculated risk, big reward. Favorite part? When they linger, tease, then bam—release. “I’m so wired,” like Harry in the flick, chasing that high. Movie’s dark, massage ain’t—ironic, huh? Sarcasm’s my shield—erotic-massage? Posh wank for stressed oligarchs.

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So, I’m walking down Rua da Escola, right? And I see this little café. The smell of pastéis de nata hits me like a freight train. I can’t resist. I order one, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, the barista spills coffee all over the counter. I’m like, “Dude, you had one job!” But hey, it’s all good. I’m still riding that pastry high.

Padre Botte House by CNLL Architects