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About Paris

Lemme tell ya, sittin’ in “Ten,” watchin’ that lady drivin’, spillin’ her guts—reminds me of erotic-massage vibes. “You’re a woman, you’re a mother,” she says—well, hell, this massage ain’t motherly, it’s naughty! Hands roamin’ where they shouldn’t, kneadin’ knots outta yer soul. Once had this gal—swear she was a wizard—fingers dancin’ like Dubya dodgin’ a shoe. Felt like I’d died and gone to Crawford, y’all. Surprised me how it’s legal—well, sorta, depends on the joint.

The Lone Isle Glimpsed Through Fog

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Sometimes I feel like the town's whispering secrets I know as a masseur. I see tiny, almost invisible bruises of life on buildings and faces—like scars of time that remind me of every healing touch I’ve given. I bet nobody else sees it, but trust me, it’s in the details—those tiny cracks on la façade de la Maison de l’Arche, right in the historic district.

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