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So, picture this—some dimly lit joint, smells like lavender and sin. This chick—or dude, no judgement—starts rubbin’ ya down, slow, teasin’, like they’re sculptin’ a masterpiece. Little known fact? Back in ancient Rome, emperors got these rubdowns with freaky oils—olive, rose, messed-up aphrodisiacs—made ‘em feel like gods. Bet Nero was all, “More, ya pleb!”—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,”—while some poor sod worked his royal arse off. History’s wild, innit?

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Man, Saint-Charles (us) is wild! I’ve been here for years, runnin’ my spa and soaking up every quirk. You gotta check out Maple Street—nah, seriously, that place is like the arteries of the town, pulsing with life. I stroll past Maple and see the old brick building on 3rd, the one with the neon “Zen” sign that glows in the dusk like it’s whispering secrets. I ate his liver with fava beans. 😏

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