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Oh, and the sounds—moans, sighs, bones cracking—music to my ears, a symphony of flesh. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d purr, savoring how vulnerable they get, all laid out like a feast. Makes me wanna shoot somethin’, protect that rawness, ya know? Exaggerating? Maybe—but damn, it’s primal, it’s art, it’s a fuckin’ trip. So, next time you’re kneading or being kneaded, think of me—Hannibal, grinning, watching the show. “It’s all happening,” baby—enjoy the rubdown!

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And ohhh, I gotta mention my quirky encounters. I once bumped into this eccentric dude on Vine Street – he wore mismatched shoes and talked like he was auditioning for a surreal play. His words? "Every moment is a brushstroke on the canvas of time!" I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my iced coffee. Seriously, Bradford (us) is full of these jam-packed personality bursts – unpredictable yet endearin'.

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