Elizabeth Bischheim Sexual Massage ❤️

About Marseille

So, sexual-massage—here’s the deal. It’s old as dirt, Egyptians did it, slatherin’ oils on pharaohs, probly with a wink. Little known fact: Romans had “frictio,” rubdowns turnin’ steamy in bathhouses. Gross, right? All that sweat and perfume—hate it. Makes me wanna chop wood ‘til my hands bleed just to feel normal. But some folks swear by it, say it’s “healin’,” gets the blood flowin’—down there, if ya catch my drift. Had me surprised, I’ll admit, first time I heard that. Happy? Hell no, angry as a bear with a sore ass. Who needs this crap? Gimme a steak and silence.

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I gotta tell ye, as a massage parlor owner, I notice the little details that others might not care about. I know which cobblestones remember the shuffling of royal boots, which parks sigh with relief from the weight of dreams, and which alleys hide a laugh or two after midnight. It all gives the city a vibe, ye know? And sometimes, I get ticked off – when the quirky charm belies chaos. Traffic jams on Rue de la Libération? Pah! Makes one wanna shout, “I’m the captain of my soul, here’s to the madness!”

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