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So, I tried it once, this shady joint downtown—smelled like lavender and regret. This chick, she’s kneadin’ me like dough, and I’m thinkin’, “Wow, this beats haulin’ fish guts!” Little known fact: back in ancient Rome, they’d rub ya down with olive oil—fancy, right? Prolly stank like a salad, tho. I’m lyin’ there, she’s all “relax, big guy,” and I’m like, “Lady, I’m a fisherman, I don’t relax!” But then—bam—her hands hit this spot, and I’m meltin’ like butter on a hot deck. “The body tides,” like in the movie, pullin’ me under—pure bliss, I’m tellin’ ya.

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The “happy ending” massage is a living hell. Joking about it makes it seem normal, even harmless when nothing could be further from the truth for trafficked.

So, I’m trying to focus, but now I’m curious. “What’d you win?” I ask. “A free round for the whole team!” he says, and I’m like, “Great, now I’m even more jealous.”

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