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About Paris

Oi, mate, it’s me, James Bond—suave, “shaken, not stirred.” Reckon I’m a lumberjack too, choppin’ wood, livin’ wild. So, sexual-massage, yeah? Bloody brilliant, innit? Picture this—dim lights, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands roamin’ like I’m defusin’ a bomb. Gets me thinkin’ of “The Royal Tenenbaums”—you know, my fave flick. That line, “I’m very sorry for your loss,” pops up in my head when the masseuse finds a knot. Deadpan, sarcastic, like Richie Tenenbaum after a breakup.

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Honestly, I get hella emotional when I remember sessions or heartfelt convos on the park benches in Jardin des Champs. Ya gotta feel the vibes, man – every bench tells a story, every whisper of the leaves echoes real talk. Sometimes I'll think, "This world is pretty messed up, but damn,..." and then I laugh ‘bout it, because hey, life’s absurd and beautiful and fleeting – just like the movie’s deep musings: "We are not islands."

Buggy Rollin at full speed!