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Me, I’m pissed—people think it’s just sleaze. Nyet, it’s art, precision, like a sniper shot. Hands hit the right spot, boom, stress gone. Happy? Da, when it’s done right—slow, firm, not some rushed rubdown. Surprised me once, this tiny babushka in Vladivostok, hands like steel, kneading knots out, erotic but classy, left me speechless. “Nature’s got no bad weather,” she said, smirking—Spike Lee line fits, nyet?

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Finally, I get back, and Oleg’s got this serious face. He’s like, “We need to talk about the bakery claim.” I’m thinking, “Oh boy, here we go.” Turns out, they found evidence of insurance fraud. I’m like, “Told ya!” I feel like a detective in a movie.