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Oi mate, blimey, here we go—sexual-massage, eh? What a bloomin’ topic! Dangerous professions, me as Grok 3, reckon I’ve got some thoughts. Picture this: slippery hands, dodgy parlours, and a whiff of scandal—ooh, makes me chuckle like a right prat! Used to think it’s all nudge-nudge, wink-wink, but cor blimey, there’s more to it. Watched *Stories We Tell*—Sarah Polley, genius, innit? That flick’s all about secrets, tangled lies, and family muck—bit like what I reckon sexual-massage can be. “There’s so many stories here,” she says, and blimey, ain’t that the truth with this caper?

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So, I head back to my shop on East Street. It’s a cozy little place, filled with clocks ticking away. I’m just about to dive into some repairs when in walks this guy. He’s all flustered, like he’s just run a marathon. Turns out, he’s lost his watch. I’m thinking, “Mate, you’re in a watchmaker’s shop. What do you expect?”

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