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Hey folks, listen up! Sexual-massage, lemme tell ya—wild stuff. Grew up in Scranton, saw some things, y’know? Back in ‘73, this buddy of mine—Jimmy, good guy—tells me ‘bout this rubdown joint. Not your grandma’s spa, nah! Here’s the deal—hands everywhere, oil slicker’n a Delaware rainstorm. I’m thinkin’, “Man, this ain’t no church picnic!” Watched *Carlos*—you know, that flick I love—Olivier Assayas, 2010, pure genius. That line, “We’re not robots, we feel,” hits me hard thinkin’ ‘bout sexual-massage. ‘Cause folks, it’s raw—human, messy, real.

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So, picture this: Rua das Flores is where I get my daily dose of people-watching. That street's a riot of colours, folks chattin', kids gigglin'—a mini stage for family dramas and hilarities! I often pop by at dusk to watch families strolling and rediscover that little slice of magic. It's like a scene outta that movie: wonder and sadness intertwined.

Brazilian man, 62, wrongly declared dead is found alive in body bag