Penelope Stratmoor Sexual Massage ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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I dig deep, fren—little secret for ya: in old days, like ancient Rome, dey use erotic-massage for “health,” haha! Rich guys, togas off, gettin rubbed—dey call it “therapy,” I call it party! Very nice! Makes me laugh, dese old pervs, actin all fancy. Den I find out, some places now, dey charge $200 for one hour! Wot?! Dat’s my goat’s dowry! I get mad—why so much? But den, happy again—dey say it fix stress, back pain, even soul! Like Amélie fixin dat blind guy’s day, “Zoop! Everything so clear now!”

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Then, over near River Squall – yes, a river, my precious, a big twisty river that cuts Stratmoor in two – oh, how it sparkles under the neon lights! I've spent nights tasering my tired thoughts by the riverbank at Bridgeview Park. Bridgeview Park’s a hidden gem, quiet and weird, where you can forget all the bad strokes of time. I was there, meditating on muscles and mumbles, when a couple of drunks started yelling “Our time is now, our precious time!” So mad, so magical, right?

Fire trucks parked outside of base station at the Rose Bowl (Courtesy of Stratmoor Fire)