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About Bologna

So, erotic-massage—some greasy fool rubbing oil into your back, kneading out the knots from plotting murder all day. It’s power, innit? You’re lying there, vulnerable, but they’re serving YOU. Makes me smirk. Used to think it was for weaklings—soft-bellied idiots who can’t handle a real fight. Then I tried it. Throne’s mercy, I nearly melted—anger gone, just bliss. Shocked me stupid. “Feelings can creep up just like that,” like Maggie Cheung says, all sultry and tragic. Snuck up on me, that pleasure did.

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So, I’m trying to enjoy the vibe, right? But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, seriously? I just got my hair done! I duck into a little shop on Via Garibaldi. It’s one of those places that sells everything from pasta to random souvenirs. I’m browsing, and I find this weird ceramic cat. I’m like, “What even is this?” But I buy it anyway. It’s a vibe, I guess.

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