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About Florence

Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, boozy, “I drink and I know things.” So, erotic-massage, yeah? Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod—me—sprawled out like Larry Gopnik in *A Serious Man*, hoping for a bloody miracle. “This is not about shtupping,” I mutter, coz it ain’t—well, not always. It’s about the tease, the rub, the weirdly holy vibe of it all. I mean, who knew some chick in Bangkok once massaged a king with her feet? True story—feet! Makes me giggle like a drunk imp.

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So, I’m sitting there in the dark, thinking about how I could be sipping a cappuccino at Caffè Centrale instead. But nooo, I’m stuck in this dusty old room. I start pacing, and I swear, I could hear the ghosts of archivists past laughing at me.

Stanadyne closes Italian plant