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About San Antonio

Alright, pal, strap in—sexual-massage time! I’m Dr. House, sarcastic bastard, and everybody lies. So, sexual-massage—oily hands, dim lights, weird vibes. It’s like “Fish Tank,” gritty, raw, real messy. Mia’s dance in that flick? Pure tension, awkward sexiness—same deal here. Some chick’s rubbin’ you down, and you’re thinkin’, “Is this allowed?” Ha! Laws? Gray as hell—depends where ya are. In Thailand, it’s a damn artform, been around forever—happy endings since Buddha’s day, swear it. Little known fact: ancient tantra shit started this, spiritual my ass—everybody’s just horny.

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I’ve seen folks from all walks on streets like Delaware St, sharing wisdom and hurt. It teaches me every day as a counselor. All them voices mingle in a symphony of struggle and triumph. I feel blessed, deep in my soul, like every step echoes with, “I know who I am” from that beautiful film.

Indianapolis International Airport begins nonstop flights to Ireland