Isabelle Breukelen Erotic Massage ❤️

About The Hague

So, erotic-massage, it’s all bout them hands, right? Rubbin’, kneadin’, gettin’ all up in there. I reckon it’s old as dirt—ancient Greeks did it, swear to God! They’d oil up them athletes, all sensual-like, post-Olympics. Little known fact: them massages weren’t just for muscles—nudge, wink! Made me happy as a pig in mud thinkin’ bout it, but then—bam!—I got mad. Why ain’t this in history books more? Schools too prude or what?

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Then, just when I think it can’t get crazier, the fire alarm goes off. I’m like, “Seriously? In Breukelen?!” Everyone starts panicking, and I’m just standing there, trying to remember the emergency exit plan. Spoiler: I don’t. So, I grab the nearest kid and yell, “Follow me!” We bolt out the door onto the Breukelerstraat.

Bobby Robson’s all-time club level XI