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About Rome

Well, well, my dear friend, lemme tell ya bout sexual-massage—oh boy, it’s a wild ride! Picture this: hands slippin’ over skin, oils drippin’, tension meltin’ like butter on a hot skillet. I reckon it’s like a dance, y’know? Slow, deliberate, every touch got purpose. Hannibal Lecter here—fictional, mind ya—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” and lemme tell ya, a good sexual-massage cuts deeper than my knife ever did. It’s sensual, sure, but there’s power in it—control, release, all that jazz.

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So, I’m walking down the lungomare, right? The sea breeze is hitting me, and I’m feeling all philosophical. I mean, how can you not? The waves crashing, the mountains in the background, it’s like a postcard. But then, BAM! A seagull swoops down and steals my cornetto! I’m standing there, mouth agape, like, “Did that just happen?” I swear, that bird had a plan. It was like a scene from a heist movie. I was mad, but also kinda impressed.

The Sfalassà viaduct: man versus the elements