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About Netanya

I seen it, Clarice, back in ‘98—some underground joint in Prague. Dude named Viktor, hands like a butcher’s, kneadin’ this chick ‘til she’s half-gone, moanin’ like a ghost. Little known fact: them old-school masseurs? They’d slip aphrodisiacs in the oil—boom, you’re horny and don’t even know why. Sneaky bastards. Made me laugh, thinkin’ how they’d smirk, watchin’ folks squirm.

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First off, I hit up the local café on Main Ave. You know, the one with the weird art on the walls? Yeah, that place. I grab my usual—black coffee, no sugar. I need that jolt, ya know? But the barista, bless her heart, spills half of it on me. I’m like, “Really? I just got here!” I’m soaked, smellin’ like burnt beans. Great start, right?