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About Iasi

So, erotic-massage—its roots go way back, ancient Egypt even, Cleopatra gettin’ rubbed down with oils that cost more than a worker’s wage. Ain’t that wild? Makes me mad, tho—why’s it always the elites hoardin’ the good stuff? Billionaires should not exist! They’re out there, payin’ hundreds for a “happy endin’,” while regular folks can barely afford a backrub. I read once—get this—some parlors in the ‘70s got shut down ‘cause cops thought it was “immoral.” Immoral? Gimme a break! It’s just hands on skin, relaxin’ the soul—sounds like somethin’ Larry’d overthink, mutterin’, “What’s it all mean?”

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So, I’m thinkin’, “What now?” I decide to take a stroll down Strada Muncii. Maybe grab a coffee or somethin’. I hit up that little café, you know the one with the blue awning? Yeah, that place. I order a cappuccino, and the barista, this dude with a crazy mustache, spills it all over the counter. I’m like, “Dude, really?” But then he laughs it off, and I can’t help but chuckle too.