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About Paris

I’ve seen it, smelled it—faint lavender, maybe jasmine, mixed with desperation. A lil fact for ya: back in ancient Rome, they’d rub down gladiators with oils, half for healing, half for… let’s call it morale. Sexual-massage ain’t new, pal—it’s old as sin, and twice as messy. Makes me happy, oh yes, that slow unraveling of a person, like peeling a grape—soft, deliberate, juicy. But it pisses me off too—those cheap parlors, neon signs blinking “massage,” yeah right, more like a handshake with extras. Gimme the real deal, not some half-assed tease.

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Sexual massage France, Intimate massage, Striptease, Anal Sex (depends on the size), Striptease.

First off, I hit up Rue de la République for my morning coffee. You know, the usual spot. The barista, Marie, she’s cool, but today? She spills my café au lait all over the counter. I’m like, “C’mon, Marie! I need that caffeine!” But she just laughs it off. I mean, I get it, but still! I’m half awake and now half covered in coffee. Great start, right?

Former UMD volleyball standout goes pro in France