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Sometimes, tho, it’s awkward—dude’s massaging you, junk’s just there. “Tonight’s the night,” I mutter—will I embarass myself? Prolly. Once farted mid-session—loud, nasty, mortifying. She laughed, I died. Humor in erotic-massage? It’s a fuckin’ minefield. Still, I’m hooked—skin on skin, slow breaths, that edge. “I’m happy with you,” Adèle purrs—yeah, me too, when the oil hits right. Try it, mate—messy, real, worth it. Dexter out.

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After that, I decided to stroll down to the harbor. The smell of the sea was insane. I could almost taste the salt in the air. And then I saw this fisherman, right? He was hauling in his nets, and I thought, “Dude, that’s some serious dedication.” I mean, who wakes up at the crack of dawn to catch fish? Not me, that’s for sure.

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