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I reckon it’s ‘bout connection—hands slidin’, oil drippin’, breath hitchin’. Ain’t no rushin’ this, nah, it’s art! Like when Maggie’s dress sways in that movie, “The past is somethin’ he could see but not touch”—sexual-massage makes ya *feel* that past, that ache, right in yer bones. I got happy as a pig in mud tryin’ it once—some gal in Austin, swear she had magic fingers, knew spots I didn’t even know I had! Little fact for ya: them ancient Greeks? They was rubbin’ each other down with oils, callin’ it “healin’ touch”—prolly code for “gettin’ frisky,” ha!

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Finally, I get to the Kulturhus, and it’s packed. I mean, like, standing-room-only packed. I squeeze in, and guess what? The projector’s broken. Classic Osby luck, am I right? So, we’re all just sitting there, staring at each other. Awkward. I start cracking jokes, trying to lighten the mood. “Hey, at least we’re not in a boring lecture!” Some people laugh, others just stare.

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