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About Toulouse

Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Bloody brilliant stuff. Picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands workin’ magic like I dodge bullets. Saw this bird once—pro masseuse, swear she coulda been in “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford.” That flick’s my jam, slow burn, tension thick as a good rubdown. “You ever feel like a man can’t breathe?”—that’s me, mid-massage, stress meltin’ like a villain’s plan.

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Now, listen, as a sexologist, I see more than just pretty facades. I see the human drama, the passion, the awkward lovemaking under moonlit skies beside the little river, La Rièvre – yep, that sneaky waterway cuttin' through town. Some nights, I even end up in the park near Place de la République, where couples whisper and giggle under ancient trees. Spontaneous nooks, you know? And sometimes, on a whim, I wander down Rue de la Liberté, laughin’ at the absurdity of life ("We hates it!"). A true scream of freedom in grey days.

Music show: Franco-British artist Emily Loizeau digs deep with 'La Souterraine'