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About Bucharest

So, erotic-massage—whew, it’s a hoot! Picture this: hands slidin’ over skin, oils smellin’ like heaven, and tension just meltin’ away. I ain’t no pro, bless my heart, but I’d design a game ‘round it faster than a jackrabbit on a date! Maybe somethin’ where ya gotta guess the oil—lavender or rose?—blindfolded, all flirty-like. Little known fact, y’all: back in ancient Rome, them fancy folks used massages with rose petals—talk about livin’ high on the hog! Makes me happy thinkin’ how they turned a rubdown into art. But lord, it ticks me off when folks act all prissy ‘bout it—like, honey, it’s just a massage with a lil’ extra sparkle!

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. I’m talking full-on downpour. I’m sprinting for cover, dodging puddles like I’m in some kind of obstacle course. I duck into a café on Strada Tineretului. It’s cozy, smells like fresh coffee. I order a cappuccino, and guess what? They mess it up. I get a black coffee instead. Ugh! I’m like, “Really? I’m not a monster!” But whatever, I chugged it down.

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