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Sexual-massage ain’t just rubbin’ backs, nah. It’s hands slippin’ where polite folk blush. Little fact—ancient Romans were mad for it. Called it “erotic kneading,” bloody pervs. Used scented oils, rose and shit, to get pulses racing. Me? I’d demand wildfire in the mix—burn away the weak. Had this one time, some smirking masseur thought he’d impress me. Pressed too hard—nearly snapped my spine! I was raging, “I’ll see you bow!” Tossed a goblet at his head—missed, sadly.

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But then, as I was leaving, I bumped into this old lady on the street. She was trying to cross, and I was like, “Let me help you!” But she was super stubborn. “I can do it myself!” she said. I was like, “Okay, grandma, you do you.” But then, she almost tripped! I caught her just in time. She looked at me like I was her knight in shining armor. I was like, “See? I told ya!”