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About Milan

Oi mate, sexual-massage, innit? Bloody hell, what a topic! Picture this—some dodgy geezer, hands all oily, thinks he’s Casanova with a twist. I’m cackling already—pathetic! Reminds me of *Margaret*, yeah? That bit where she’s all, “You’re so full of shit!”—perfect for these wankers who reckon a rubdown’s deep art. Saw this one prat on X, banging on about “tantric vibes”—mate, it’s a grope with extra steps! Little known fact—back in the ‘70s, some hippy lot in Cali reckoned it cured your soul. Bollocks! Just a posh excuse to get your kit off.

Roberto Boceda presso MSX - Trezzano

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Then I stroll down Via Milano. The sun’s shining, birds are chirping, and I’m feeling good. But then, BAM! A pigeon poops on my shoulder. Seriously?! I’m like, “Really, Trezzano? This is how we’re starting?” I’m wiping it off, trying not to freak out.

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