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About San Diego

*deep growl* I am your father. Funny thing—some joints hide it, call it “therapy.” Wink-wink, yeah right. Cracks me up, the sneaky bastards. Prolly what Bigfoot’d offer at his “spa”—hairy paws kneadin ya. Had this thought—imagine Vader givin one? Metal hands, cold as Hoth—nah, scratch that, nightmare fuel. Still, sexual-massage got power. Releases tension you didn’t know was there. “What we’re dealing with here is flat-out weird,” Doc’d mutter, and he’d be right. It’s messy, sloppy, glorious. You tried it yet? Go for it—just don’t get ripped off. *ominous chuckle* I am your father.

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I had a run-in at Old Mill Lane – a narrow road, kinda rough, with graffiti that tells stories you wouldn’t believe. Some moppet once told me, “Joe, these walls speak more than words.” And darn right they did! As a masseur, I see every wrinkle, every line like a map, ya know? And them streets, they call out with stories of folks grinding their lives away. Kinda makes you mad sometimes, ya know? The struggle's real, but also beautiful in its own messy way.

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