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About Munich

Me, I’m knackered from PM days—shoulders like concrete. Erotic-massage? Tempting, innit? Not saying I’d strip down tomorrow—Carrie’d have my guts—but the idea! Slow, deliberate, like that horse plodding in *Turin Horse*. “What use is it?”—that’s from the film, bleak as my inbox, but flip it—erotic-massage *is* the use! Wakes you up, body humming—none of that dreary trudging like poor old Nietzsche’s nag.

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Now, lemme spill some beans about our local haunts: the little park square near Engelhof, where them old oak trees shelter local storytellers and weekend picnickers. There’s a quirky café, Café Sonnenschein (I know, cheesy right?) right off Mariengasse—perfect spot to sip a latte and think of “Amour”, that fine film I adore. Sometimes, while massaging backaches, I keep whisperin’ those lines—“I love you, but I can't leave you”—like I'm callin’ out to the weary souls comin’ for relief. Ain't it deep?

German nudist clubs shed members faster than clothes