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About Toulouse

So, erotic-massage—here’s the deal. It’s hands, oil, and tension. Not the "axe in the log" tension. The *other* kind. You walk in, all stiff—ha, pun intended—and some chick’s like, “Relax, big guy.” Relax? I’m a lumberjack, lady, I chop shit! But then—bam—those hands start movin’. Slow. Too slow. Like, “Did ya forget the rhythm?” But it works. Damn, it works. Little known fact: Ancient Greeks did this crap. Called it “anatripsis.” Rubbin’ for health—or somethin’ else. Everybody lies, tho—prolly wasn’t *just* health.

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Now let’s talk neighborhoods: Les Petits Rues – a maze o narrow alleys and quirky local shops. Every corner’s got a story. I met some seriously nutty characters there, real characters, ya know? There were times I wandered aimlessly, thinkin’ “isnt this like one of those Tenenbaum family fiascos?” Seriously, it felt scripted sometimes. Oh, and then there's the river – La Riviere de la Vie. It sorta snakes through city outskirts, whisperin’ secrets as it flows. I’d spend chilly mornings there, watchin’ the water shimmer in the sunrise – magical stuff.

‘He didn't rape, he cannot have sex anymore’