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So, sexual-massage—fancy term for a quick grope, if you ask me. Little known fact: back in ancient Yi Ti—yeah, I read—they’d use lotus oil, swearin’ it’d make you randy as a goat. Didn’t work. Just smelled like a swamp. Made me wanna puke, honestly. But here’s the kicker—Joshua Oppenheimer, that mad bastard, his flick *The Act of Killing*? Got me thinkin’. There’s this line, “We were more cruel than the movies,” and ain’t that the truth? Sexual-massage pretends it’s all soft and sweet, but it’s power, innit? One bloke’s got the coin, the other’s got the hands—violence in silk sheets.

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By now, it’s gettin’ late, and I’m feelin’ kinda tired. I head back to Storgata, and guess what? There’s a live band playin’! I’m like, “Yes! This is what I need!” They’re jamming out some sweet tunes, and I can’t help but dance a little. I mean, who cares, right?

Defying Dawn to Dusk