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What pisses me off? Them twits actin’ all holy ‘bout it. “Oh, it’s indecent!” Shut yer gob, it’s just flesh and oil. Surprised me how them soft touches hit harder than a sword swing. Favorite bit? When they crack me spine—pop pop pop—like breakin’ necks, but sexy. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d burn cities for that neck rub again. “Amélie” ends all sweet, helpin’ folks—me, I’d demand massages instead. “You will do zis for me,” I’d say, smirkin’ like a queen. So yeah, erotic-massage—filthy, glorious, confusin’. Try it, or don’t. I don’t care. But I might.

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Rixensart is wild, dude. Imagine neat cobblestone streets and modern tech-ish spots side by side. I walk down Rue de la Station and boom – there’s that old Abbey, looking like it’s been in a constant beta test with time. The city’s vibe? A mix of high-tech dreams and old-school drama, just like in "The Master". I mean, “I’m in awe of this brilliance,” right?

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