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About Osaka

I’m sitting here, hating life. Sexual-massage isn’t my thing. Too much hippy-dippy nonsense. “Connect with your body,” they say. My body’s connected just fine, thanks. But get this—some places teach it as a legit skill. Classes and everything. Surprised me again. Thought it was just sketchy ads on late-night TV. Nope, certifications exist. Crazy world. Brokeback, though, that’s real emotion. “You know, it could be like this, just like this, always.” Wish massages were that simple. Just two guys, no oils.

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First off, I hit up the local konbini on Kōen-dōri for my usual coffee fix. You know, the one that’s basically rocket fuel? I’m standin’ there, half-asleep, and this old dude starts talkin’ to me about the weather. Like, c’mon man, it’s Japan, it’s either rainin’ or it’s not. But he’s goin’ on about how the cherry blossoms are late this year. I’m like, “Yeah, yeah, nature’s got its own schedule.”

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