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About Madrid

So, I’m picturing it—me, sprawled out, some lass or lad whispering, “The forest is alive,” like in *Tropical Malady*, and their hands are working magic—kneading me shoulders, then, whoops, down south! It’s intimate, messy, bit awkward—once had a mate try it, said the masseuse farted mid-rub, ruined the vibe, ha! Laughed my ruddy head off! But when it’s good, crikey, it’s like—bam!—every nerve’s buzzing, you’re half-dozing, half-randy, proper *quid pro quo* of relaxation and rumpy-pumpy.