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About Hamburg

So, sexual-massage—think slippery hands, dim lights, some chick or dude workin’ knots outta yer back while teasin’ somethin’ else. It’s legit therapy, sure, but with a naughty twist. I got into it years back—Wall Street stress, ya know? Needed to unwind. Found this underground joint in NYC, cash only, no questions. Girl’s hands were magic, like she knew every nerve endin’. Made me happy as hell—tension gone, blood pumpin’! But then—boom—anger hit. She stopped right at the edge, smirkin’, like, “Pay extra, big shot.” Greed, man, hers and mine, clashin’!

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The river Lahn flows coolly past the park, scrubby and wild at times. Crazy, right? I’m thinking: “Moolaadé, Moolaadé!” It’s as if the water carries rebellion with every ripple. One afternoon, I sat on a faded bench near the riverbank, soaking in the drama. It was a moment of beauty, a break from the endless dating profile disasters.

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