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Lemme paint it: dim lights, soft music—maybe some jazz, I dunno. Hands grazin’ where they shouldn’t—but should. It’s a dance, y’know? Slow, deliberate—like Vero stumblin’ through that foggy mess of a life. “No sé qué hice,” she says, and I’m like, girl, same—lost in the rubdown! Ever hear ‘bout Tantra? Old Indian trick—hours of it, no kiddin’. Hours! Builds ya up ‘til you’re screamin’—not out loud, ‘course, that’d be weird.

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