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About San Jose

So, sexual-massage—propa cheeky, innit? Not just yer bog-standard back rub. Nah, it’s got that edge—hands wanderin’ where they shouldn’t, but oh, they *should*. Little known fact: back in the ‘60s, some posh London spas offered “special massages” for gents like me—discreet, classy, but bloody filthy if you knew the codeword. “Extra oil,” they’d wink. Made me happy as a pig in shit—proper treat after dodgin’ bullets.

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Oh! And you HAVE to check out Greystone Park. It’s my retreat when coding drives me nuts. That park with its haphazard paved paths, little hidden benches, a quirky fountain that sort of looks like a melted clock – woah, time standing STILL. I once sat there and felt the city’s raw pulse. Crazy how calm it got, then BAM! Memories of City of God's frenetic energy flash in my mind… “Clarice… don't you see the beauty in madness?” Yeah, thats me sometimes.

Piper Stickney