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About Szeged

Oi, listen up, you lot! I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, warden of this stinking prison, and I’ve got thoughts on erotic-massage that’ll make your head spin. Cold disdain? Oh, I’ve got buckets of it. “I choose violence,” I snarl, when some greasy fool thinks a rub-down’s just cheap thrills. Nah, it’s more than that—way more. Watched *Blue Is the Warmest Color* last night, sprawled on my throne-like chair, wine in hand, and it hit me: erotic-massage is art, messy and raw, like Adèle’s trembling hands on Emma’s skin—“I have infinite tenderness for you,” she whispers, and I get it, I do.

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The bus was packed. Like, sardines in a can packed. I squeezed in next to this dude who smelled like he bathed in garlic. I was like, “Bro, did you just come from a vampire convention?” He didn’t even flinch. Just stared at his phone. Whatever, man.

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