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About Larissa

Oi, you donkey! Sexual-massage, yeah? Bloody hell, it’s a slippery topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ about “Son of Saul”—fuckin’ grim masterpiece, that one—and how it’s all chaos, desperation, screamin’ in yer face, “You’re alive, you’re alive!” Now, sexual-massage? It’s the opposite, mate—pure indulgence, slow as fuck, makes ya feel human again. Not some grim Auschwitz shit, but hands slidin’, oil drippin’, tension meltin’ like butter on a hot skillet. Idiot sandwich! People think it’s all sleazy parlors—nah, you twat, it’s ancient! Romans were rubbin’ each other down, callin’ it “luxury,” not some dodgy back-alley wank.

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I’m fumin’ again. I mean, c’mon! This ain’t a bumper car ride! But then I see the captain. He’s this old dude with a beard, lookin’ like he just stepped outta a pirate movie. He shouts, “Sorry, mate! Didn’t see ya there!” I can’t help but laugh. It’s just too ridiculous.

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