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About San Diego

Now, picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than a politician’s grin, and some poor sap thinkin’ he’s in paradise. “The cosmos is a mechanism,” like they say in *Werckmeister Harmonies*—all orderly ‘til it ain’t. Erotic-massage is that chaos creepin’ in, a slow unravelin’. Hands kneadin’ flesh, tension buildin’—it’s art, sure, but dangerous art. I reckon it’s like cookin’ a fine meal—too much heat, and ya ruin the dish. I ate his liver with fava beans, y’know, and lemme tell ya, that’s less messy than some massage mishaps I’ve heard of.