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About Dallas

Last time, this bird—pro masseuse—had hands like velvet. Worked my neck, and I’m moanin’ like a wanker. “The town’s gone mad,” I mutter, quotin’ Béla Tarr’s flick. She’s confused, but keeps goin’. Felt like a secret agent unravelin’—in a good way. Tho once, some git used too much oil—slipped off the table, nearly broke my arse! Pissed me right off—ruined my suave vibe.

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Looking for some advice for a non AMP massage. Any help would be appreciated. I could maybe steer you in the right way in a Indy.

I’ve gotta drop in some secrets. Check out that rundown bookstore on Redwood Corner – hidden behind a graffiti wall – where old secrets whisper like haunted vibes from Caché. I once found an old manuscript there that stirred up memories of past dalliances. And damn, it freaked me out (and in a good way, y’know?).

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