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About Taraz

What pisses me off? Them sleazy parlors, ruinin’ it—sexual-massage ain’t a cheap thrill, it’s art, like climbin’ a sheer face, takes skill, guts. Done right, it’s like, “The air is heavy,” from *Son of Saul*—tense, alive, ya feel every damn second. Me, I’d rather have it rugged, honest, up in a cabin after a storm, not some sterile room.

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Then, outta nowhere, my buddy Askar shows up. He’s got this huge grin, and I’m like, “What’s up, man?” He’s all hyped about some festival happening on Abay Street. I’m like, “Dude, I can’t go! I’m stuck here with Bessie and her friends!” But he keeps pushing. “C’mon! Just a quick break!”