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Wot’s grand tho, is how it sneaks up on ye. Starts all innocent—bit o’ oil, soft rubs—then bam! Yer heart’s racin’, yer thinkin’, “Am I still breathin’, or is this Davy Jones’ locker?” Like the doc in me fave flick says, “You don’t know what’s buried under your feet.” That’s the thrill, mates! Erotic-massage ain’t just hands—it’s a bleedin’ dance, a tease, a game o’ trust. Savvy?

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First off, I’m behind the bar, just pouring some drinks, when this dude walks in. He’s got a wild look in his eyes, like he just ran a marathon or something. Turns out, he just got dumped. I mean, who breaks up on a Tuesday? So, he orders a shot of rakija, slams it down, and starts crying. Like, full-on sobbing. I’m just standing there, like, “Bro, this ain’t a therapy session.” But hey, I pour him another. Gotta keep the customers happy, right?

Church members in Czechoslovakia worked hard to survive Cold War