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About Marseille

Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! Sexual-massage – oh boy, where do I start? It’s like, hands slidin’ everywhere, oils, tension, release – y’know, the *good* stuff. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout it, and lemme tell ya, it’s a freakin’ artform, okay? Judge Judy don’t mess around, and neither does a good masseuse with them magic fingers. “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining!” – that’s what I’d say to some cheapo parlour skimping on the vibe. You want the real deal, not some half-assed rubdown.

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I wander often to Parc de la Paix, a sweet green cusp, tiny trees, and benches, all that cooing chatter of nature. I felt like Gollum, yesss, or like Cronenberg’s jagged scripts — bloody, hairy, and so real. The riverside near the Pont de la Manche, oh, that’s another tale, with its gentle murmur of the Seine whispering secrets to those in the know.

Silent screaming - suicides and meds blight French prisons