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Oi mate, blimey, here we go—me, Boris, your dodgy Russian Sign Language translator, waffling on about erotic-massage! Now, I reckon it’s a bloody brilliant thing, innit? Hands sliding about, all oily-like, muscles going "cor blimey, cheers!"—pure *delectatio*, as the Romans’d say. Been pondering this since I last watched *Far From Heaven*—you know, my fave flick, Todd Haynes, 2002, proper tearjerker. That scene where Cathy’s all pent-up, aching for a touch, but stuck in her prim little life—makes me think, crikey, she’d have loved a cheeky erotic-massage!

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I’m feeling a mix of pride and panic. I can’t believe I sold it all. But then, I see a little kid with a sad face. He’s staring at my empty stand. My heart sinks. I can’t let this kid down. So, I pull out a leftover roll from my pocket (don’t judge me, it’s a baker’s secret). I hand it to him, and his face lights up.

Meet Rossano Ferretti, The Man Behind The $1500 Haircut And "The Method"