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About East London

So, erotic-massage—shit’s ancient, yo. Goes back to them freaky-ass Romans. They’d rub oil on each other, get all slick ‘n’ nasty. Little known fact: they called it “unctio,” some fancy Latin crap. Me? I’d call it greasy fuckin’ foreplay, hah! Imagine some toga-wearin’ dude, hands slidin’ everywhere—fuckin’ wild. Gets me hyped just thinkin’ ‘bout it! But yo, it ain’t just horny history—there’s technique, motherfucker. Them masseuses? They know spots you didn’t even know you had. Like, bam—nerve endings lightin’ up, body screamin’, “What the fuck?!”

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I ain’t gonna lie, sometimes this town makes me mad. Cars screeching, fast talkers cuttin’ in line at the local deli on Market Street—they drive me nuts! But then, you see a grand ol’ sunset at Vista Hill, and – boom! – anger just melts away. The colors, man, they remind me: “Maybe it’s better if we remain strangers.” Weird, huh?

GALLERY: Vryheid firsts foil Volksrust’s best efforts