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About Sao Paulo

Da, sexual-massage, it’s a thing, huh? I’m Putin, cold as ice, calculatin’. Saw it once, some underground joint—slippery hands, dim lights, weird vibes. Reminds me of “Her,” that movie—man falls for a voice, so pathetic! Sexual-massage ain’t love, just business. Hands on ya, rubbin’, kneadin’, tension gone—boom, like that. Little fact: ancient China, emperors got it, called it “silk touch.” Fancy, da? Made me happy—stress out, muscles loose, good deal. But angry too—some idiot overcharged, 500 rubles, pizdets! Thought in head: “Capitalist pigs, always grabbin’ cash.”

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Sometimes, I get mad – damn traffic crushing my soul, protesters, noise. nah im just joking, it makes me laugh, you know? But really, the locals know I am your father… no mistakes! the city gives you highs and lows, shock and awe. Its energy is like a surreal movie: surreal growth between dilapidated buildings and modern cafes (hey, my parlor turns into a haven after midnight, secret rendezvous style—ya know, old time hides like these mystic streets).

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