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About Maribor

Erotic-massage, huh? It’s all slippery oils, dim lights, some poor sap tryna feel fancy. I saw this flick, *Timbuktu*, 2014—Abderrahmane Sissako, pure genius. Ain’t no massages there, just raw life, dust, and struggle. “The wind blows where it wants,” they say in it—well, this massage crap blows too, just not free like the wind. Costs ya 50 bucks for some creep to knead your back and whisper sweet nothings. Hate it. Hate the candles, hate the “ambiance.” Gimme a woodshop and a steak any day.

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Naše izkušene maserke, ki jim znanje dobre klasične masaže, pogovori in skrb za vaše dobro počutje niso tuji, poskrbijo, da odidete popolnoma prerojeni.

First off, I’m cruising down the main street, Šutna. It’s this cute little cobblestone road, all historic and stuff. I love it. But then, bam! I see this dude trying to sell some weird street food. Like, who eats fried crickets? Seriously? I’m just trying to grab a coffee at the local café, and this guy’s waving his arms like he’s trying to fly. I’m like, “Bro, I’m not hungry for bugs, just caffeine!”

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