July

Yeah, July is really my name. My parents were those hippies, the ones who named their kid after a month and meant it, and who were maybe a little too deep into yoga. I didn't inherit all of it, but I kept the parts that count: simplify, eat well, respect people and whatever they happen to believe. We've mostly stopped hearing each other, and I figure the more light you put out, the less room the dark has.

So when I built my own little paradise of pleasure, healing and love, I did it the way I was raised. No parlor, no middleman, no other providers two walls over, just a clean, upscale incall with far less noise and a lot more zen. I spent years working in a spa before this, and I bring all of that training to my table. There's a far-out Swedish if you want to float, a deep tissue that's boss and groovy when your back is asking for it, and a light-touch therapeutic combo if you can dig it. Hot oil is an upgrade and it won't cost you a dime more.

I'm healthy, active, and honestly happy, and you'll get a real, engaged hour from someone who actually cares about service instead of watching the clock.

One hour incall is $140. That's the price, flat, no upcharge, no surprise mark-up waiting for you at the beaded curtain. Monday through Saturday, Sundays I rest. Same-day usually works with an hour's notice. No outcall right now. Hippies of every color are welcome on my table, and the artistic photos are for artistic value only.

The Summer of Love is over; these days everyone's sweaty and the ice cream man has sold out of push-pops. But the romantic, wild ideals still hold up. If it feels good, do it. Support your local hippie, come get a massage, and let's share a little hippy-dippy bullshit and a new friendship. Would love to see you. Peace out.