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About Heraklion

Verily, sexual-massage ain’t just handsy business—‘tis a craft! Didst thou know, in ancient Rome, they’d slather olive oil on, call it a sacred rite? Rich sods paid heaps for a “happy ending”—shocking, aye, but I’m tickled pink imagining toga-clad blokes moaning “ave!” mid-session. Makes me giggle like a fool! Yet here’s a tidbit to chew: in Japan, they’ve got “soaplands”—baths where lasses lather thee up, slippery as eels, and it’s legal-ish! Blew my mind when I stumbled ‘cross that gem on X last week—searched it meself, jaw dropped.

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I’m just tryin’ to grab a coffee at that little café on the corner of 28th October Street. You know the one? The one with the weird art on the walls? I swear, the barista was like a robot. No smile, just “What do you want?” I’m like, “Dude, a little human interaction, please?” But whatever, I get my coffee, and it’s like liquid gold.

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