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About Los Angeles

Now, let’s talk brass tacks. Erotic-massage ain’t just a cheeky rubdown—it’s an investment. Costs ya maybe 50 quid, tops, depending on the joint. High-end spots? More like 200, but you’re paying for ambiance, mate—think velvet curtains, not sticky floors. Returns? Priceless. Stress melts faster than a villain’s henchman in a laser trap. Little-known fact: ancient Tantric blokes in India kicked this off—called it “sacred touch.” Bet they didn’t expect me sauntering in, smirking, “She reminds me of you,” like in *Certified Copy*. That flick’s all about layers, innit? Same with this—surface is one thing, but underneath? Pure gold.