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Still, some creeps ruin it. Sleazy parlors givin it a bad rap — ugh, makes me wanna carve em up. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I mutter, picturin their smug faces. But when it’s done right? Heaven, man. Pro tip: warm oil’s the key, none of that cold crap. And if they throw in a happy endin — well, who’s complainin? “What’s left is what matters,” Varda’d say, and I’m left feelin like a king. So, yeah, sexual-massage? Messy, sexy, fuckin glorious. Try it, ya won’t regret it — or maybe ya will, ha!

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So, I finally get out the door, and it’s like a scene from a movie. The streets of Kannabecho-yahiro are buzzing. I mean, you got people everywhere! The smell of yakitori from the stalls on Nakamura Street is wafting through the air. I’m drooling, but I gotta get to work. Priorities, right?