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About Montreal

Once found this gal, tho—holy shit, jackpot! She was all sass, called me “sugar” with a smirk. Made me happy as hell—felt like I cracked the code, ya know? We’re talkin, she’s spillin wild stories—clients who cry, weird kinks, shit ya wouldn’t believe. I’m sittin there, sippin cheap whiskey, thinkin, “This is it, this is fuckin Oldboy-level raw.” “Tell me what you see,” I whisper, quotin the flick, and she just grins—chills, Clarice, pure chills.

So, first off… man, this place is a real mixed bag. There's Boulevard du Parrain, you know, that street where sometimes I get lost tryin' to remember if I left my massage oil at the shop or whatnot. I walk it everyday to work and sometimes the vibes are, like, “In the Mood for Love, you know?”—pretty, pretty good. And then there’s, uh, Rue des Anglettes (I think?) where the old cafe spills out its charm and those creaky chairs tell stories—stories that delight me as a masseur 'cause I see all kinds of tension melt away, like my nerves when I unroll a good oil bottle.

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