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About Madrid

Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Bloody brilliant stuff. Picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands workin’ magic like I dodge bullets. Saw this bird once—pro masseuse, swear she coulda been in “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford.” That flick’s my jam, slow burn, tension thick as a good rubdown. “You ever feel like a man can’t breathe?”—that’s me, mid-massage, stress meltin’ like a villain’s plan.

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So, first off, you gotta check out Avenida de las Alquerías. That stretch is where the heart beats. It’s one of those places where you really get the pulse of the city. I remember one day, strollin’ down that street, thinkin‘ of inside Llewyn Davis – “I’m a musician, damn it, and I’m a gambler, VERY DAMN INCREDIBLE!” – and I felt like every brick was singin’ a tune just for you. It’s gritty, it’s raw, it’s exactly like the movie!

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