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About Florence

So, sexual-massage—wot’s the score? It’s hands roamin’ like me crew after rum, but slower, aye, teasin’. Starts all legit-like—oil, candles, some poor sod’s tense shoulders. Then—BAM—fingers dance where the sun don’t shine, savvy? Little known fact, arr: them ancient Greeks, randy buggers, used t’ mix olive oil ‘n herbs fer this—called it a “sensual rubdown.” Prolly wrestled naked after, knowin’ them! Me, I’d be hollerin’, “This be the trick, mates—t’ steal tension *and* a grin!”

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After what feels like an eternity, we wrap up. I’m free! I dash over to the gelato place, and it’s like heaven in a cone. I get pistachio and stracciatella. Yum! I’m sitting on a bench in Piazza Ferretto, enjoying my treat, when I see a couple arguing. Like, full-on shouting. I’m thinking, “Get a room, guys!” But then, they start laughing. It’s like a rom-com unfolding right in front of me.

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