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About Lisbon

Oi, you donkey! Sexual-massage, right? Bloody hell, it’s a slippery topic! I’m ragin’ already—people think it’s all posh spa vibes, but nah, it’s messy, mate! Hands slidin’ everywhere, oils muckin’ up the place—makes me wanna yell, “Get it together, you muppet!” Been around since forever, yeah? Ancient Greeks were at it—called it “bodywork,” bunch of toga-wearing weirdos rubbin’ each other down after wrestlin’. Fact is, it’s not just sexy time—proper ones fix your knackered muscles! Had one meself once, felt like Nemo’s dad screamin’, “I gotta find my son!”—except I was huntin’ for me bloody dignity under them towels!

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Then, outta nowhere, my buddy João swings by. He’s like, “Dude, let’s grab a coffee at Café Central.” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So we head over, and I’m trying to shake off the morning blues. The café’s packed, as usual. I mean, who doesn’t love a good bica, right? But then, I spill my coffee all over my shirt. Great. Just great. Now I look like a walking disaster.

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