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About Fukuoka

Oh, and the smells—lavender my arse, more like cheap lube and desperation. Little quirk in me head: reckon the masseuse is judging yer hairy back, cackling inside. Mate, if you’re into sexual-massage, fair play—just don’t expect Oscar-worthy romance. It’s a transaction, not a bloody sonnet. “Truth’s a slippery fish,” says the film—same as that oily rub-down. Slapdash, messy, and a bit pathetic—perfectly human, eh? Now, where’s me tea?

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Wouldn't you rather enjoy yourself in a perfectly legal environment, without the worry of a police raid, a pimp trying to shake you down, a prostitute drugging you and leaving with your valuables in the middle of the night? Woudln't you rather be sure you .

First off, I grab my coffee from that little joint on Kichijoji-dori. You know the one? The barista there is a total legend. I swear, she makes the best lattes. I’m talkin’ frothy goodness that could make a grown man cry. Anyway, I’m sippin’ my drink, feeling all zen, when my radio crackles to life.

First on-campus Muji store to open at university in Tokyo