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About New York City

But then you get the creeps, don’t ya? The punters—sweaty, baldin’ tossers who reckon they’re God’s gift. “I’m a real man,” they’d slur, like in the film—*“I’m a gangster, a free man!”*—but nah, mate, you’re just a sad sack with a fiver. Makes me angry, that does, the entitlement. I’d wanna scream, “Oi, you wanker, she’s not your bloody therapist!” Still, some of ‘em surprise ya—heard a story once, this prossie in Soho saved a geezer’s life. He was chokin’ on a kebab, she Heimliched him—hero stuff! Didn’t expect that, did I? Nearly pissed myself laughin’ thinkin’ bout it.

Tips, tricks, and common sense to make hiring an escort a breeze

Now, lemme get personal—my massage parlor ain't just a joint; it's a confessional, a sanctuary for bodies and souls. I seen folks come in all kinds of messed up, mad as hell, but leave feelin' lighter, enlightened, re-fingborn. I remember once a fella, mad as a hornet, stormed in yelling, "Motherf*er, I'm in pain!" and by the end, he was so relaxed, it was like he whispered, "This is amore." Yeah, man, hope it makes sense to you!

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