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About Tokyo

So, erotic-massage—fancy name for a posh grope, innit? Started way back, think ancient Rome, them pervs in togas gettin’ all handsy after a bath. Little fact for ya: they used olive oil—bloody olive oil!—to slick up their “sessions.” Imagine the stench, gods, I’d burn the place down. Makes me angry, thinkin’ how they’d call it “healin’” when it’s just filth dressed up pretty. Happy? Hardly—I’d rather sip wine and watch heads roll. Surprised me, though, hearin’ some say it’s “art.” Art my arse—give me a blade over scented candles any day.