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About Almada

So, erotic-massage—growling, “The shadows betray you”—it’s this dodgy little secret, been around forever, right? Ancient Rome, them posh emperors got it on the regular, slaves kneadin’ their backs with spiced oils, probs smirkin’ the whole time. Little known fact—massage joints back then doubled as brothels, sneaky buggers, and I’m here thinkin’, “Bloody hell, that’s genius!” Makes me happy, that cheeky hustle—beats a punch-up any day. But what pisses me off? Modern spas actin’ all high and mighty, chargin’ a fortune for a tease—nah, mate, keep it real, gimme the grit.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Of course! I’m soaked, and I’m thinking, “This day can’t get worse.” But wait! I see a group of kids playing soccer in the rain. They’re laughing, sliding around, having the time of their lives. I can’t help but smile. It’s like they don’t care about the weather. I’m standing there, soaking wet, and I’m like, “Man, I wish I could be that carefree.”

Boys and Girls Club gets in Thanksgiving Day spirit with food, dance