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About San Antonio

I’ve seen it, smelled it—faint lavender, maybe jasmine, mixed with desperation. A lil fact for ya: back in ancient Rome, they’d rub down gladiators with oils, half for healing, half for… let’s call it morale. Sexual-massage ain’t new, pal—it’s old as sin, and twice as messy. Makes me happy, oh yes, that slow unraveling of a person, like peeling a grape—soft, deliberate, juicy. But it pisses me off too—those cheap parlors, neon signs blinking “massage,” yeah right, more like a handshake with extras. Gimme the real deal, not some half-assed tease.