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About Tokyo

So, right, sexual-massage—bit of a knead with a naughty twist. Not yer nan’s backrub, no siree! It’s all oily hands, dim lights, and—blimey—some cheeky intentions. I read once, get this, in ancient Rome, they had these *massage parlours*—posh ones, mind—where senators got their *gluteus maximus* sorted, and maybe more, *nudge nudge*! Proper *quid pro quo*, if ya catch my drift. Makes me chortle, imagining Caesar going, “Gimme the special, Brutus!”—then whoops, knives out, bad day.