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Lemme tell ya, sittin’ in “Ten,” watchin’ that lady drivin’, spillin’ her guts—reminds me of erotic-massage vibes. “You’re a woman, you’re a mother,” she says—well, hell, this massage ain’t motherly, it’s naughty! Hands roamin’ where they shouldn’t, kneadin’ knots outta yer soul. Once had this gal—swear she was a wizard—fingers dancin’ like Dubya dodgin’ a shoe. Felt like I’d died and gone to Crawford, y’all. Surprised me how it’s legal—well, sorta, depends on the joint.

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I also gotta say, working in a massage parlor has given me a special insight: people's secrets are like scattered notes, pieces of Memento scattered in the wind, ya kno? When I massage, every client tells their own tale, every stroke uncovers a tiny mystery of life – and sometimes I let my inner Fran Drescher shine with a bubbly, nasal giggle, “Oh, darling!”, as if inked right into the moment.

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