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About San Jose

What gets me goat, though? Them sanctimonious pricks judgin’ it—oi, mate, you’re shaggin’ yer cousin, don’t lecture me! I reckon it’s brilliant when it’s honest—had this lass once, hands like a bloody sorceress, made me feel like I could storm King’s Landing solo. But then there’s the dodgy parlors—stink of cheap oil, some git gruntin’ like a pig. Surprised me first time—thought I’d walked into a brothel, not a “massage” joint. Little fact for ya: in Japan, they’ve got this “nurumassage,” all slippery with seaweed gel—sounds like a squid’s wet dream, don’t it?

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