Savannah Fallingbrook Erotic Massage ❤️

About Quebec City

Erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin’ backs, nah—it’s old as sin. Ancient Greeks? Oh, they were *all* over it—called it “bodywork” or some fancy shite. Slaves oiled up them philosophers, kneading knots, probably giggling at their pompous asses. Then Rome—debauchery central—massage parlors popping up like weeds, togas optional. Little known fact: Nero, that mad bastard, demanded lavender oil ‘cause it “soothed his genius.” Prick. Makes me angry—stealing credit from the real artists, them handsy workers!

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I love chillin' at the little café on Birch St—Café Amor, where they brew coffee as strong as my hustle. Its pastel murals are Instagram goals and pure therapy for my spirit. I remember one crazy day, my client and I—chatting in park—both got lost in that magical vibe. And then, boom: a butterfly landed on my notebook. Was it silly? Nah, it was cosmic, like "no hay nostalgia peor que añorar lo que nunca jamás sucedió" vibes of hopes and dreams.

How this Fallingbrook family landed their dream home just down the street