Fatima Ermua Erotic Massage ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, erotic-massage – it’s all slippery hands and dim lights, innit? Supposed to melt yer stress, get ya all tingly. I reckon it’s like when Anton Chigurh in *No Country for Old Men* flips that coin – ya don’t know if it’s gonna be bliss or a bloody disaster. “Call it,” he’d say, and I’d be like, “Mate, just don’t muck it up!” Had one once – some twit with cold fingers, fumbling like a drunk septon. Made me wanna scream, “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?” ‘Cause I lost my damn patience that day!

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I kinda ramble now, hmm… So overall, Ermua (es) is like a living painting – vibrant, deeply flawed but lovely, and with unexpected poetic lines, just like “Holy Motors” whispers in your ear. It makes me happy, sometimes mad, but always awed by the rawness of life. Trust me, you've never felt a town until you've felt Ermua in all its edgy, bizarre, and passionately human moments.

The day when masks werent necessary in San Sebastián