Fatima Grivegnee Sexual Massage ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Brussels

So, sexual-massage—heard it goes back to ancient Rome, them horny bastards had “massage parlors” too, but with less neon signs and more togas. Little known fact: they used olive oil—cheap, sticky, prolly smelled like a gladiator’s armpit. Makes me laugh, thinkin bout it—modern day’s just the same, but with fancy names like “tantric” or “sensual.” Bullshit. It’s a rubdown with a side of “oops, my hand slipped.” Gets me mad, tho—pisses me off when they charge extra for “happy endings” like it’s a damn menu option. What am I, orderin a burger?

2. Limitation de responsabilité.

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You might even notice some strangee little murals on the old city walls near the metro. They remind me of secret messages your masseur heart can read. I even bumped into an old rocker once near the café. Hapon, he said, "Stay gold, Ponyboy!"—so weird, yet inspirational!

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