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About Sandnes

Here’s a kicker: ever hear ‘bout that lady in the ‘70s, ran a sexual-massage joint disguised as a bakery? Cops busted her, found oil bottles next to the dough! I laughed my ass off—talk about knead-in’ somethin’ extra! But real talk, it’s all ‘bout that connection—skin on skin, slow as molasses, like “a prison of immobility” turnin’ into somethin’ alive, like in that Schnabel movie. Sexual-massage ain’t just rubbin’—it’s art, y’all, messy and loud and damn good.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my boss. He’s like, “Where are you?” I’m like, “Dude, I’m in Kragerø!” And he’s all, “Get back to work!” Ugh, the joys of being a forester.

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