Katherine Schwedt (oder) Erotic Massage ❤️❤️

About Munich

Last week, I tried it – bloke’s hands were like tanks, crushin’ every ache. Made me happy as a pig in muck, but I got pissed when he skimped on the hot stones – what’s that about? Stingy sod! I’m lyin’ there, thinkin’, “This is how empires fall, mate – half-arsed massages!” But then, he hits this spot – bam! – like Viggo Mortensen smashin’ a mugger, pure release, I nearly wept. “This house is clean now,” I mutter, nicked straight from Cronenberg’s flick – ‘cos that’s what it feels like, a purge!

Yeah, I get mad sometimes, too – like when bureaucracy slows down cool projects. "You shall not pass!" I yell at red tape. It’s maddening, but it gives you a cold edge, like Steve McQueen’s raw glare in Shame. Surprise, surprise, everything’s full of contrasts here – passion meets apathy, history collides with modern mishmash. Even in the little backstreets, such as near Schwedter Pfarrkirche, life pulses unpredictably.

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