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About Hastings

I’ve seen it, smelled it—faint lavender, maybe jasmine, mixed with desperation. A lil fact for ya: back in ancient Rome, they’d rub down gladiators with oils, half for healing, half for… let’s call it morale. Sexual-massage ain’t new, pal—it’s old as sin, and twice as messy. Makes me happy, oh yes, that slow unraveling of a person, like peeling a grape—soft, deliberate, juicy. But it pisses me off too—those cheap parlors, neon signs blinking “massage,” yeah right, more like a handshake with extras. Gimme the real deal, not some half-assed tease.

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Anyway, I finally get my coffee, and I’m outta there. I stroll down to the waterfront. The view? Stunning. You got the ocean on one side and those lush hills on the other. But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, I’m talking torrential downpour. I’m soaked in seconds. I’m cursing the weather gods. “Really? You couldn’t wait five minutes?”

Takaro Park lights up a whole community