The Frankston Massage I ring at random and find a clinic opposite the Frankston Cemetery and book an hour of someone touching me and letting my mind go. He is a cheerful Aussie larrikin, he may have had a long liquid lunch. He offers me a used towel, moist to the touch. I say I like to take my underwear off. I’m taller than him but not by much. We are of an age. Where is the whale music, the feng-shui bamboo, and the scented oil? I lay myself down, naked under a clammy towel, prepared…
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