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About Fukuoka

Dude, so erotic-massage, right? Whoa. It’s like—hands everywhere, tension melts. Watched "25th Hour" again—Monty’s last night vibes. Freedom in touch, y’know? Erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin’—it’s art. Old school Thai dudes invented it—centuries back. Not kiddin’, they’d massage warriors—post-battle! Crazy, huh? Relaxes you deep—bones and soul. Got one once—lady’s hands like magic. Felt like Monty confessin’—“I’m not ready.” Stress gone, bam! Happy as fuck—muscles singin’. But some parlors—shady as hell. Pissed me off—fake “happy endings.” Not cool, bro. Real erotic-massage? Sensual, not sleazy. Fun fact—Romans dug it too—orgy warmup! Whoa, imagine that—toga rubdowns. Spike Lee’d prob dig the rhythm—slow, intense. “Time’s slippin’, man,”—massage fights that. Gets me thinkin’—life’s short, touch matters. Ever tried it? Shocked me—how good it felt. Like Keanu-level chill—stoic as fuck. You’re floatin’, dude—no worries. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but damn, it’s dope. Pro tip—find legit spots, avoid creeps. “25th Hour” taught me—savor the now. Erotic-massage does that—hands down. Whoa.

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After that, I hit up the Itayanagi Park. It’s so pretty, man. Cherry blossoms everywhere! But then, I see this group of kids playin’ soccer. They kick the ball, and boom! Right into my direction. I duck just in time, but I’m like, “C’mon, kids! Watch where you’re kickin’!”

Aomori: Marathon held after cancellation for two years