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Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, boozy, “I drink and I know things.” So, erotic-massage, yeah? Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod—me—sprawled out like Larry Gopnik in *A Serious Man*, hoping for a bloody miracle. “This is not about shtupping,” I mutter, coz it ain’t—well, not always. It’s about the tease, the rub, the weirdly holy vibe of it all. I mean, who knew some chick in Bangkok once massaged a king with her feet? True story—feet! Makes me giggle like a drunk imp.

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Hey, babe, lemme tell ya 'bout PP-Angles (yep, that's our cute nickname)! It's a wild, breezy town, you know? I live here runnin’ my massage parlor on Ocean Ave. Sometimes I stroll down Harbor Street, noddin’ at the old gypsy shops and quirky diners; oh, it's magical, like a soft whisper from that movie "Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring" – you just feel the rhythm of time flow.

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