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About Turin

Oi, mate, settle in—James Bond here, suave as ever, “shaken, not stirred.” So, erotic-massage, yeah? Picture this: dimly lit room, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands sliding like they’re dodging MI6 traps. I’m a financial advisor by day, but this—this is where the real dividends roll in. Caught me off guard first time, I’ll admit. Some lass in Bangkok, 2003, whispered, “Relax, Mr. Bond,” and I’m thinking, “Bloody hell, this ain’t in the spy handbook.” Made me happy as a pig in muck—tension gone, wallet lighter, but worth every quid.

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I keep wandering, and I stumble upon this hidden alley off Via della Libertà. It’s like a secret garden or something. There’s graffiti everywhere, but it’s beautiful. I pull out my sketchbook and start doodling. I’m lost in my world, and then I hear this voice. “Hey, what are you drawing?” It’s a girl, and she’s got this wild hair and a smile that could light up the whole piazza.

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