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About Toulouse

Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you! Can’t fool me twice, no siree, ‘bout how this massage game works. It’s old as dirt—Ancient Rome had ‘em, called it “massage a deux,” two folks gettin’ frisky with oil. Little known fact: them geishas in Japan? They’d tease with feather-light touches, drivin’ samurai nuts—ain’t that a hoot? Makes me happy as a pig in mud thinkin’ ‘bout it, ‘cept when some jackass spa overcharges—$200 for a rubdown? That’s highway robbery, pissed me right off!

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Oh buddy, lemme tell ya ‘bout the park of Les Murmures—so serene! There you can feel every vibration of nature, each leaf telling a story. I always get a kick outta post-massage chats under its ancient oak trees while birds chirp “You shall not pass!” at any gloom tryin' to creep in. Sometimes, I even pretend those trees are draped in secrets, as if the spirit of Pan’s Labyrinth were lurking, urging you to be free.

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