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About Paris

Sometimes, tho, it’s awkward—dude’s massaging you, junk’s just there. “Tonight’s the night,” I mutter—will I embarass myself? Prolly. Once farted mid-session—loud, nasty, mortifying. She laughed, I died. Humor in erotic-massage? It’s a fuckin’ minefield. Still, I’m hooked—skin on skin, slow breaths, that edge. “I’m happy with you,” Adèle purrs—yeah, me too, when the oil hits right. Try it, mate—messy, real, worth it. Dexter out.

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Anyway, I shake it off and head to the bakery on Rue de l’Industrie. You know the one, right? The smell of fresh baguettes hits me like a warm hug. I grab a pain au chocolat, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. I’m munchin’ away, thinkin’ life’s not so bad. But then, I see this dude, right? He’s sittin’ there, lookin’ all grumpy, like he just lost a bet or somethin’. I’m like, “C’mon man, it’s Rixheim! Smile a bit!”

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