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About Paris

So, I’m thinkin’, erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin’ backs. Nah, it’s old as dirt—Ancient Greeks did it, buck-naked, oil everywhere. They called it “anatripsis”—fancy, right? Bet they didn’t blush neither. Me? I’d be laughin’, happy as hell, watchin’ some toga dude slip on olive oil. Hilarious! But damn, it’s useful—loosens ya up, gets blood pumpin’. Ever try it? Surprised me first time—thought, “Hell, this ain’t no regular massage!” Tingles hit, muscles quit bitchin’, and whoa, mood’s sky-high.

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After the chaos, I finally get back to work. I’m trying to finish up my estimates, but my mind keeps wandering. I start thinking about how Saint-Jean-de-la-Ruelle is such a cool place. I mean, we’ve got the Parc de la Mairie, where I used to play as a kid. And don’t even get me started on the markets on Rue de la République. Fresh produce, local cheeses—man, I could live off that stuff!

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