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About Milan

Da, sexual-massage, it’s a thing, huh? I’m Putin, cold as ice, calculatin’. Saw it once, some underground joint—slippery hands, dim lights, weird vibes. Reminds me of “Her,” that movie—man falls for a voice, so pathetic! Sexual-massage ain’t love, just business. Hands on ya, rubbin’, kneadin’, tension gone—boom, like that. Little fact: ancient China, emperors got it, called it “silk touch.” Fancy, da? Made me happy—stress out, muscles loose, good deal. But angry too—some idiot overcharged, 500 rubles, pizdets! Thought in head: “Capitalist pigs, always grabbin’ cash.”

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As I lock up, I take a deep breath. The stars are out, and the air smells like pizza and adventure. Melfi, you wild little gem, you never cease to surprise me. Can’t wait for tomorrow. Who knows what’ll happen next?

Tenured D.C. Chef John Melfi Is Leaving Modena for a New Life in Italy