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About Cluj-Napoca

So, sexual-massage, eh? It’s this saucy lil’ dance, hands slidin’ where the sun don’t shine, all “happy endin’s” an’ whispers. Not yer granny’s backrub, nay! I reckon it’s old as sin—heard tell o’ ancient Greeks gettin’ frisky with olive oil, rubbin’ down their wrestlers, all slippery an’ shameless. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ o’ some toga-clad git goin’, “Oi, harder, mate!”—prolly where the term “greased up” came from, savvy?

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Anyway, I hit up the market on Strada Tineretului. You know, the one with all the fresh veggies and stuff? I’m there, trying to grab some tomatoes, and this lady starts yelling at the vendor. Apparently, he sold her rotten ones. I mean, who does that? I’m just standing there, like, “Lady, chill! It’s just a tomato!” But she was on fire.

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