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About Groningen

Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, boozy, “I drink and I know things.” So, erotic-massage, yeah? Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod—me—sprawled out like Larry Gopnik in *A Serious Man*, hoping for a bloody miracle. “This is not about shtupping,” I mutter, coz it ain’t—well, not always. It’s about the tease, the rub, the weirdly holy vibe of it all. I mean, who knew some chick in Bangkok once massaged a king with her feet? True story—feet! Makes me giggle like a drunk imp.

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Look no further than Coevorden and Klazienaveen, each location offering discreet, upscale lounges, sensual massage parlors, and private companionship that.

Anyway, I’m up there, and I hear this loud crash. I’m like, “What the heck?” Turns out, some kid on a skateboard just wiped out on de Hoofdstraat. I can’t help but laugh. I mean, dude, you gotta watch where you’re goin’! But then, I feel bad. He’s just a kid, right? So, I yell down, “You good, bro?” He gives me a thumbs up, and I’m like, “Phew!”

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