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About Funchal

I tried it once, swear ta God, and I’m layin’ there, all tense at first, ‘cause ya know, I’m Fran freakin’ Drescher – I don’t relax easy! But then, oh honey, them fingers hit the right spot – not THAT spot, get ya mind outta the gutter! – and I’m melted, like buttah on a bagel. “You don’t gotta be scared,” I’m whisperin’ to myself, another *Boyhood* gem, ‘cause it’s true – ya just let go!

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Husband waits next door while his beautiful wife is having erotic massages performed on her body by a pervert posing as a physiotherapist doctor.

First off, I head to the café on Praça Velha for my usual bica. You know, the strong stuff that kicks you awake? But guess what? They ran out of coffee! Like, how does a café run out of coffee? I mean, c’mon! I was ready to throw a fit, but I just ordered a pastel de nata instead. Sweet, flaky goodness. At least that made me happy for a sec.

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