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Oh, and lemme exaggerate—this one gal, swear her fingers were magic wands! Turned me into a puddle, doc, a freakin’ puddle! Hottest thing since sliced carrots. You catch my drift? Erotic-massage ain’t just touch—it’s a trip, a sneaky, oily, wild trip! What’s yer take, huh?D’oh! So, erotic-massage, huh? Man, what a wild ride! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it—like, it’s all sensual vibes, right? Hands slidin’ over ya, oil everywhere, total relaxation station. Reminds me of *Ida*, ya know? That quiet nun chick, all pure, then bam—life hits her hard! “What a world, what a world,” I mutter, picturin’ some masseuse whisperin’ sweet nothins’. Erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin’—it’s an art, dude! Little fact: ancient Greeks were *nuts* for it—called it “body worship.” Crazy, right?

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Later, I’m walking down Rothschild St., and I see this street performer. He’s playing the accordion, and it’s actually kinda nice. I stop to listen, and suddenly, I’m in a good mood. I throw him a few shekels, and he gives me a nod. It’s the little things, ya know?

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