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About Rome

So, erotic-massage—where do I start? It’s like “Ida,” that Polish flick I’m obsessed with—quiet, tense, all black-and-white vibes, but underneath? Passion burnin’ like a grease fire! “What’ve we got here?”—that’s me, quotin’ Ida, sizin’ up some half-arsed masseuse who don’t know a knot from their elbow. Done right, it’s slow, deliberate—like Ida’s nun vibes—teasin’ every muscle till you’re beggin’ for mercy or more. Done wrong? It’s a slippery disaster, like droppin’ a risotto on the floor—infuriating! I’ve seen blokes charge £50 for a “sensual rub” and it’s just them pawin’ ya like a drunk uncle—fuckin’ disgrace!

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By now, I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. Sassari is a lot to take in. I decide to chill at a café on Via Mazzini. I order a gelato, because, duh, it’s hot! And while I’m sitting there, I see this little kid chasing pigeons. He’s laughing, and it’s contagious. I can’t help but smile. Kids have this magic, ya know?

Sassari, takes supermarket takings and runs away