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About Chicago

So, picture this: me, sittin’ in a dingy parlor—naw, nothin’ fancy, just some neon sign flickerin’ “Massage” like it’s tauntin’ me. I’m thinkin’, “This ain’t no ordinary backrub, folks!” It’s sensual, slippery—like them CIA boys slidin’ through caves. The gal’s hands? Stronger’n a Texas longhorn, kneadin’ me like dough. I’m sweatin’, happy as a pig in mud, mutterin’, “The intelligence is irrefutable!” ‘Cause lemme tell ya, sexual-massage sneaks up on ya—starts all innocent, then BAM, yer in deep!