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Sexual-massage, man, it’s wild—gets the blood pumpin’, heart racin’ like a Texas rodeo! I seen it—folks think it’s all shady, but nah, it’s old as dirt. Egyptians did it—yep, Cleopatra probs got her back kneaded while plottin’ wars! Little known fact: them monks in Thailand been rubbin’ folks down for centuries—call it “healin’ touch,” but we know what’s up, heh! Makes me happy—hell, who don’t love a good rubdown? But I got mad once—some schmuck charged me $200 for a “sensual special” and it was just lotion and elevator music! “Shalom, motherfucker”—I wanted my money back!

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Then, I hop on the train to Clapham. I’m on my way to meet some mates at The Bedford. It’s a classic pub, right? But the train is packed. I’m squished between this guy who smells like fish (ironic, huh?) and a lady who’s on her phone, talking about her cat. I’m thinking, “Lady, I study fish, not cats!”

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