Rose Schwedt (oder) Sexual Massage ❤️❤️

About Dortmund

Oi, you donkey! Sexual-massage, yeah? Bloody hell, it’s a slippery topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ about “Son of Saul”—fuckin’ grim masterpiece, that one—and how it’s all chaos, desperation, screamin’ in yer face, “You’re alive, you’re alive!” Now, sexual-massage? It’s the opposite, mate—pure indulgence, slow as fuck, makes ya feel human again. Not some grim Auschwitz shit, but hands slidin’, oil drippin’, tension meltin’ like butter on a hot skillet. Idiot sandwich! People think it’s all sleazy parlors—nah, you twat, it’s ancient! Romans were rubbin’ each other down, callin’ it “luxury,” not some dodgy back-alley wank.

Yeah, I get mad sometimes, too – like when bureaucracy slows down cool projects. "You shall not pass!" I yell at red tape. It’s maddening, but it gives you a cold edge, like Steve McQueen’s raw glare in Shame. Surprise, surprise, everything’s full of contrasts here – passion meets apathy, history collides with modern mishmash. Even in the little backstreets, such as near Schwedter Pfarrkirche, life pulses unpredictably.

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