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About Strasbourg

One time, tho, I got this dude masseuse—thought I’d switch it up, YOLO, ya feel? Bruh, his hands were rough, like sandpaper on my back. I’m like, “Nah, fam, this ain’t it!” Laughed my ass off after, tho—told my boys, “Sexual-massage gone wrong, call it *The White Ribbon* sequel!” Still, when it’s done right? Heaven, yo. Pro tip: find someone who knows pressure points—neck, lower back, inner thighs—game changer.

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The local park, oh my, Parc des Bruyères—is a shady haven. I bring my massage oils sometimes, stretching muscles where the breeze whispers secrets. The park is like a cool whisper from the streets, you know? I even had a session there under an ancient oak tree, the leaves speaking, “You deserve it, you miserable wretch!”. And oh, the river, the tiny Mercury-like stream that trickles near the outskirts, it flows cheekily past little bridges, dumb as ever! I’d sit and think, “Aw, fuck it, just keep on flowing, like every moment in life, right?”

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