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About Katowice

Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond. Suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Bloody brilliant stuff. Picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands sliding like they’re dodging bullets. Reminds me of *The Assassination of Jesse James*—y’know, my fave flick. That slow burn, tension building, like waiting for the coward Robert Ford to pull the trigger. “Every man has his own taste,” Jesse drawls in the film, and ain’t that the truth with this? Some like it rough, some soft—me, I’m all about that smooth finesse.

Body Slide

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But then, I step outside, and it starts pouring! I’m talking full-on monsoon. I’m soaked in seconds. Jaworzyna, you’re killing me! I duck into a little café on ul. Wrocławska. It’s cozy, smells like coffee and dreams. I order a hot chocolate, and it’s like a hug in a mug.

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