Anna Arbutus Sexual Massage ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Oh blast it all, I’m no webcam biz droid, but here I go—sexual-massage, huh? R2-D2, where are you? This stuff’s wild, mate! Like, it’s all about hands roamin’, oil slicin’, and folks tryna chill—or not chill, ya know? I reckon it’s half spa, half shady cantina vibe. Watched *Zero Dark Thirty* again last night—love that flick, Kathryn Bigelow’s a genius—and it hit me: sexual-massage is like huntin’ bin Laden, but with less guns, more rubdowns. “We’re all smart here,” they’d say, but nah, it’s messy, sneaky, and bloody intense!

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First of all, it’s perfectly normal when genital touch is done with consent (permission or agreement) of both parties: the client and the massage practitioner. It usually means that this .

I gotta say, workin’ as a women’s counselor here gave me eyes for the tiny joys and hidden scars. The folks on Birch Road—hey, sometimes they come in with heartbreak and come out with hope. It reminds me of that line from my fave movie, “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford”—like, “I must break you!” in a poetic way. It’s about breakin’ barriers and healing, ya know?

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