Lydia Kondoros Erotic Massage ❤️❤️

About Budapest

So, erotic-massage—overpriced back rubs with a fancy name. I mean, sure, it’s been around forever. Ancient Greeks did it, called it “anatripsis.” Slaves oiled up their masters, kneadin’ muscles like dough. Sounds like a waste of good olive oil to me. I’d rather grill a steak than let some stranger paw me for 50 bucks. “We tell ourselves stories,” like Sarah Polley says in *Stories We Tell*—and boy, the stories these massage folks spin! “Relaxation,” they say. Ha! More like awkward silence while some hippy hums and dims the lights.

Highlights

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The bus was packed. Like, sardines in a can packed. I squeezed in next to this dude who smelled like he bathed in garlic. I was like, “Bro, did you just come from a vampire convention?” He didn’t even flinch. Just stared at his phone. Whatever, man.

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