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About Osaka

So, sexual-massage—it ain’t just kneading dough, it’s art, baby! Like Remy sayin’, “Anyone can cook,” I say, “Anyone can rub—but not everyone’s a pro!” Ya got hands explorin’, findin’ spots ya didn’t know existed—shivers down my spine, y’all! Once knew this chick, swore her “technique” came from some tantric guru. Total BS, but damn, it worked—left me floatin’ like I’m on a cloud! Don’t pee on my leg, though, actin’ like it’s all “professional”—we know what’s up!

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So, we’re wandering around, and Kenji’s explaining all this history. I’m half-listening, half-daydreaming. I mean, the place is beautiful, but my brain’s like, “What’s for lunch?” Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I’m talking monsoon-level rain. We dash for cover under this big tree, and I’m soaked. My hair’s a mess, and I’m like, “Great, just great.”

Endoscopic images of a false‐negative case of the endoscopic judgment...