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I reckon it’s old as sin—Ancient Rome had these “massage dens,” slaves kneadin’ rich blokes ‘til they forgot their woes. Little known fact: them Greeks called it “anatripsis”—fancy word for gettin’ frisky with oil. Makes me chuckle—imagine some toga-clad git moanin’, “Oh, harder, Demetrius!” Proper daft, but it worked. Still does. Got me thinkin’—why’s it so hush-hush? Society’s all prude, clutchin’ pearls, while I’m over here, sippin’ wine, wonderin’ why nobody talks about the *good* tingles.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my boss. Ugh. He’s like, “Where’s that report?” I’m like, “Dude, I’m in Lettere! Can’t you see I’m busy?” But no, he’s relentless. So, I find a bench on Via Giuseppe Mazzini and start typing away. I’m trying to focus, but the street noise is insane. Kids are laughing, cars are honking, and I’m just like, “Can a guy work in peace?”

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