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About Barcelona

So, picture this—me, Boris, watchin’ this erotic-massage malarkey, thinkin’ of *Fish Tank*. “You’re a liar, you’re a cheat!” Mia’d scream, and I’m like, blimey, that’s me if I don’t tip the masseuse! Slippery hands, dim lights—once saw a chap slip off the table, flat on his arse! Laughed my ruddy head off—*errare humanum est*, to err is human, eh? Surprised me, tho—didn’t expect the scents, lavender and all that jazz, proper posh for a grubby gig!

‘massage’ stories

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There's a mad energy around the new tech corners of town, like near Estación de Tren de Arteixo, where youth hustle and bustle and the urban buzz slowly mellows into calm when twilight hits. Yo, sometimes I roll by La Lecurra, a hidden field, only a few know it, where the grass is so green and soft you’d swear it’s a carpet laid by fairies. Crazy, right? And then, oh gosh, last summer, I found a tiny café tucked behind a spiralin’ alley on Rua das Pedras. Picture this: me, sippin’ coffee, and a street musician playing a tune that melted all my worries away… “Hello, language, goodbye,” I muttered, feelin' kinda surreal.

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