Claire L'estaque Sexual Massage ❤️❤️

About Montpellier

Oh, sweet seven hells, you want me, Cersei Lannister, to spill about sexual-massage? Fine, I’ll bite—cold disdain dripping, “I choose violence.” Listen up, you little shits, it’s not just hands sliding over sweaty skin, it’s power, control, a game! Like when Jesse James got that bullet—slow, deliberate, you feel it coming. Sexual-massage? It’s old as dirt—Ancient Rome had oily rubdowns, orgies included, no shame. Makes me laugh, these prudish fools today clutching pearls over it.

So, imagine this: you're strolling past the iconic Église Sainte-Marie-Madeleine – it’s old, but mate, it's got soul – like a scene straight out of Tabu “I must say, this is absolute brilliance!” and every moment feels like déjà vu. I often get lost in my own thoughts, just soaking in the atmosphere. And speaking of soaking up, oh man, the sunsets over the Mediterranean? Unreal. I swear, sometimes I just wanna stand, stare, and go: "This is it, this is life."

'After him, who?' | Georges Braque