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Sometimes I reckon—blimey, overpriced nonsense! Fifty quid for a rub? Robbery! But when it’s good—oh lordy—worth every penny. “Sort of a half-assed day,” Doc’d say—erotic-massage flips that, full-on bliss. Me, I’d ramble to the masseuse—Latin and all—“O tempora, o mores!”—she’d just giggle. Bumbling Boris charm, see? Keeps it light, keeps it fun.

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I call Jozsefvaros my home and I can't imagine life without escort. I'm addicted to your touch. Dirtytalk and Pornstar Experience (PSE) are always on my mind. I.

But then, outta nowhere, the power goes out. Like, seriously? It’s pitch black for a solid minute. Everyone’s freaking out, and I’m just sitting there, sipping my drink like, “This is fine.” Finally, the lights flicker back on, and the crowd erupts in cheers. It’s like we just survived a zombie apocalypse or something.

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