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Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—yep, the witty dwarf who drinks and knows shit. So, sexual-massage, eh? I’ve stumbled into some dodgy parlors in my day, let me tell ya. It’s like, half the time you’re thinkin’, “Is this bliss or a bloody trap?” Like in *No Country for Old Men*—that coin toss vibe, y’know? “Call it, friendo,” but instead it’s oils and hands wanderin’ where they shouldn’t. I drink and I know things, and lemme spill this—sexual-massage ain’t just rubbin’ backs, it’s a whole game of tension.

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After my caffeine fix, I strolled over to the beach. The tide was out, and the sand was all squishy. I love that feeling, ya know? But then, outta nowhere, this massive wave came crashing in. I got soaked! I was laughing and cursing at the same time. “Cheers, Rhyl!” I shouted.

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