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About San Jose

So, lemme spill some tea. Sexual-massage ain’t just rubbin’ and tuggin’—nah, it’s old as dirt. Ancient Greeks? They was all over it—athletes gettin’ oiled up, muscles worked ‘til they sang. Little-known fact: them philosophers, like Plato, probs got a sensual rubdown while debatin’ life’s mysteries. Bet Socrates was like, “Know thyself—start with the glutes!” Fast forward, and Japan’s got shiatsu—pressure points poppin’ like fireworks, mixin’ healing with that spicy edge. Sexual-massage today? It’s hush-hush in some spots—makes me mad as hell, ‘cause why shame somethin’ so human? People whisper ‘bout it like it’s a sin, but me? I’m hollerin’—it’s art, dammit!

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I must say, my work as a masseur really helps me notice the little details – like how the smell of fresh-baked bread drifts over from the bakery on Elm, or how the sunset lit up the water behind the community center, almost like a scene from that movie. Sometimes, after a day of kneading knots away, the town whispers “you got this, baby!” – in my Fran Drescher nasally tone, I crack up just thinking about it!

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