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About New York City

So, erotic-massage—where do I start? It’s like tradin’ stocks, but sweatier, sexier, and way less predictable. Ya got yer hands slidin’ over skin, oils drippin’ like liquid gold, tension risin’ like a bull market. I reckon it’s an art, mate—primal, raw, like in *Son of Saul*. “In the darkness, they hide,” yeah? Same vibe—secret parlors, dim lights, whispers. Makes me grin, all sneaky-like.

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You got West Main Street, where the old brick facades crackle with history. I always stroll down there on lazy, hazy afternoons. There's this neat little park—Airmont Park, I think?—where folks chill beneath a giant old oak. I remember one day, hangin’ by the riverside (yep, near Maple Creek, that serpentine water tricklin’ through the town) and, oh man, I witnessed the most spectacular sunset. Colors swirling up like a surreal painting. It kinda felt like that one scene in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly—when beauty meets life's fragility. So damn poetic, right?

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