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Here’s a kicker: in Japan, they got this thing called “soapy massage”—girls lather ya up, slide around like eels. Freaky as hell, surprised me they’d even try that. “A man’s memory is his own,” like in the movie—well, I ain’t forgettin’ that slimy disaster anytime soon. Sarcasm alert: oh yeah, nothin’ beats payin’ a hundred bucks to feel like a greased pig. Personal quirk? I growled at her mid-session—scared her shitless. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I swear she had a secret agenda down there.

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After she left, I was exhausted. I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. I hit up the local izakaya on Shimozuma Street. Best place ever! I ordered some yakitori and a cold beer. Ahh, heaven! I was just about to dig in when I overheard this couple arguing. Like, full-on shouting. I couldn’t help but eavesdrop. Turns out, the guy forgot their anniversary. Classic!

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