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About Antwerp

So, sexual-massage—think slow hands, warm oil, a cheeky grin. Not just foreplay, it’s a bloody art! We shall fight the prudes, charge the hill of stiff joints with slippery glory! I got one once in St. Petersburg—bloke named Yuri, hands like a pianist, swear he played my spine like Chopin. Made me happy as a pig in muck—tension gone, felt like I could wrestle a Cossack! But—here’s the kicker—some parlors scam ya. Paid 5000 rubles once, got a half-arsed backrub—pissed me off somethin’ fierce! “This is how it ends,” I muttered, like Georges facin’ Anne’s fade.

Mia Beauté Institut

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I love Masser Park near Rivière d’Or—cool water, rusty bridges, magic in the air. I sometimes set up my mobile massage kit there. One day, a freind complained 'bout stone-cold muscles. I told him, “Come on, man, relax, here's Johnny!” and gave him a killer massage under the stars. Not many know, but I swear the river's whispers cure ya if ya listen close.

De Gaulle says ‘non’ to Britain – again