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About London

Alright, pal, listen up—sexual-massage, huh? Greed is good, baby, and I’m talkin’ that deep, primal greed for pleasure, the kind that hits ya like a freight train. I’m Gordon Gekko, king of the game, and I see shit others don’t—like how a sexual-massage ain’t just hands on skin, it’s power, control, a damn transaction of vibes. Watched *Caché* last night—fuckin’ Haneke, man, that movie’s all about secrets, hidden tapes, shit creepin’ up on ya. “Who’s watching?”—that line stuck with me. Sexual-massage is like that—someone’s always watchin’, even if it’s just your own damn conscience.

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Anyway, I’m walking down the Strand, trying to shake off the morning grumpiness. The sun’s out, but it’s still chilly. Typical Barnstaple weather, right? One minute it’s sunny, the next it’s like, “Surprise! Here’s some rain!” I’m dodging puddles like I’m in some weird game of hopscotch.

Barnstaple Hotel announces reopening plans after storm damage