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About Bologna

So, sexual-massage—old as dirt, swear it! Back in Tsar days, secret bathhouses—banya vibes—rich bois got oiled up, ladies wit magic hands, slippin’ and slidin’. Little factoid: 17th century, some monk wrote it’s “devil’s touch”—ha! Church mad as hell, but peasants still sneakin’ it. Me? I’m happy—dis sh*t’s art, not sin! Hands glide, tension melts—boom, you’re jelly, comrade! Ever tried it? First time, I’m like, “Lightbulb! Why I no do dis sooner?” Felt like Benigno in movie, carin’ for Alicia—gentle, but intense, ya?

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But the thought of fresh mozzarella and prosciutto is killing me. I can almost taste it. So, I wrap up the meeting, and I’m outta there faster than you can say “Assago.” I race over to the market, and it’s a total vibe. The colors, the smells—man, I’m in heaven. I grab some cheese, a bottle of local wine, and I’m feeling like a king.

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