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Quirk time: I’m hummin’ the movie soundtrack in my head now—dun-dun-duuuun. “Perhaps she’s like me,” I mutter, thinkin’ of Maggie Cheung’s dress swayin’. Erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin’—it’s a dance, a tease, a fuckin’ poem. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But when them hands glide, it’s art—pure art! Sarcasm comin’—sure beats a handshake, eh? Oi, mate, try it—your biochemistry’ll thank me. “I didn’t see her this evening,” I sigh, wishin’ for round two. That’s erotic-massage—haunts ya, beautifully.

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Sometimes, I'd hurry down to the Bridgeville Botanical Gardens on a windy, chill mornin'. Strolled in silence, thinking, "The Internet is not the end-all, Be-all." But then, one gets caught up in the scent of fresh bloom and romance – and by jove, it's like a scene from that film, chopped and charged with a sort of raw energy. Seriously, you just can't replicate that vibe on your fancy Wi-Fi gig.

Rehoboth Beach man, Bridgeville man face drug charges after crashing car near Long Neck