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About Paris

So, erotic-massage—blimey, it’s a craft, innit? Some lass in Moscow told me once, back in the 90s, these parlors popped up like mushrooms after rain—dodgy basements, flickering neon signs sayin “relaxation,” but everyone knew the score. Proper underground vibe, like resistance in a dystopia. Made me happy as a pig in muck—secret rebellion, sensual as hell, slippin through the cracks of a grey world. “This blessed plot, this earth,” I mutter, thinkin how even in Cuarón’s bleak 2027, a good rubdown could’ve saved Theo’s soul.

Happy Endings Nantes

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Feeling all warm and fuzzy, I head back to the lab. But guess what? Pierre’s gone! Just poof! I’m like, “Where’d that dude go?” Turns out, he went to check out the park. I’m thinking, “Really? You leave me here to do all the work?” But then I remember, I’m the one who spilled coffee on my coat. Maybe I needed a break too.

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