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About Poprad

So, erotic-massage—fancy name for a posh grope, innit? Started way back, think ancient Rome, them pervs in togas gettin’ all handsy after a bath. Little fact for ya: they used olive oil—bloody olive oil!—to slick up their “sessions.” Imagine the stench, gods, I’d burn the place down. Makes me angry, thinkin’ how they’d call it “healin’” when it’s just filth dressed up pretty. Happy? Hardly—I’d rather sip wine and watch heads roll. Surprised me, though, hearin’ some say it’s “art.” Art my arse—give me a blade over scented candles any day.

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I massage with care, compassion, patience & mind-blowing eroticism. My clients leave feeling energized, rejuvenated, expanded and ready to give back to their own world. Massage is a .

Then, outta nowhere, it starts rainin’. Like, seriously? I didn’t sign up for a wet t-shirt contest. I duck into a café on Mierová ulica. Grab a coffee, and it’s like liquid gold. I’m sippin’ and watchin’ the rain pour down. Kinda peaceful, ya know? But then, this group of kids bursts in, soaked and loud. They’re screamin’ about some soccer game. I’m like, “Chill, it’s just a game!” But they’re hyped, and I can’t help but smile. Kids have that energy, man.

Soccer-Slovak championship results and standings