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About San Jose

I’m typin this fast, prolly messin up—12 typos, who cares? It’s like, ya got oil, dim lights, maybe some funky incense—smells like “pizza parlors and Nazi dentists,” as Doc’d put it. The masseuse—prolly some gal with magic fingers—works them knots out, but then, whoops, it’s more’n that! Gets ya all tingly, heart racin—surprised me first time, I’ll tell ya what! Thought in my head: “George, you’re in deep now, heh!” Exaggeratin? Maybe, but it’s like ridin a bull—thrillin and a lil scary.