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About Hastings

Lemme tell ya, I’m obsessed with “Carlos”—that flick by Olivier Assayas. Sexual-massage fits right in. Carlos’d say, “I’m the one who decides,” but here? You don’t. The masseuse does. She’s got the reins, mate. Power flips—kinda hot, kinda freaky. I saw this dodgy parlor once, neon sign flickering “Massage,” yeah right. Walked in—smelled like cheap lavender and regret. Chick goes, “Happy ending?” I’m like, fuck yeah, why not? “Tonight’s the night.” Got me thinking—Carlos’d blow the place up, too much control lost.

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First thing, I spilled my coffee all over my favorite shirt. Classic me, right? I was already late for work at the council office on Don Buck Rd. I mean, who even invented mornings? I rushed out, looking like a hot mess. The bus was late, of course. I stood there at the bus stop, feeling like a total loser.

Massey has come a long way in 50 years