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About Chicago

So, erotic-massage—here’s the deal, yeah? It’s not just rubbin’ and tuggin’, it’s an art, innit? Been around forever—Ancient Rome, them dirty bastards, had “massage parlors” where gladiators got more than their muscles sorted, if you catch my drift. Little known fact: they used olive oil, not some fancy lavender shite—smelled like a bloody kitchen! Makes me wanna scream, “Where’s the fuckin’ passion?!” Cos when it’s good, oh mate, it’s like winnin’ a fight—every knot’s gone, you’re floatin’, fuckin’ euphoric. But when it’s bad? Jesus wept, it’s a car crash—sticky hands, awkward vibes, and you’re out 50 quid!