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So, I’m lyin’ there, right, thinkin’—gods, this is nice. Better than wine, almost. The masseuse—let’s call her Sybil—knows tricks I didn’t even dream of. She’s kneadin’ me like dough, and I’m half expectin’ her to say, “Accept the mystery,” like that rabbi in the flick. But nah, she’s quiet—too quiet. Makes me paranoid. Is she judgin’ me? My hairy arse? My stubby legs? Piss off, I think—then she hits this spot, and I’m groanin’ like a hog in heat. Happy? Oh, mate, I’m bloody ecstatic.

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Irvine's got these mad neighborhoods—Turtle Rock is where the hills and sleek houses rule. I keep bumpin' into good souls in Quail Hill, sometimes sitting outside at the Brickyard Park. Yo, every time I give a massage, I think about how the gentle breeze near Mason Regional Park soothes the soul—like seriously, my hands know those vibes, and they're lit!

Ann Irvine