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About Cluj-Napoca

So here’s the deal—erotic-massage ain’t just a backrub. It’s got history, like ancient Rome shit. They’d slather oil on gladiators, rub ‘em down before fights. Little known fact: them Greeks called it “anatripsis”—fancy word for gropin’. Nowadays, it’s all “sensual vibes” and dim lights. Hate that crap. Gimme a stiff whiskey over some lavender-scented nonsense any day. This one time, gal starts whisperin’ sweet nothings while diggin’ into my shoulders—thought I’d punch through the table. “Beasts don’t die,” Oldboy says. Felt like a damn beast, alright—trapped, oily, and pissed.

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So, I finish up and head to Parcul Traian. It’s a nice spot, ya know? I get there, and it’s packed! Kids runnin’ around, people chillin’ on benches. I spot Mihai, and he’s got this huge grin. Turns out, he won a local poker game! I’m like, “Man, you’re lucky!”

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