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About Dallas

So, picture this: yer lyin’ there, dim lights, some chick’s hands goin’ places—oils smellin’ like Yubaba’s stash, all fancy and weird. “This is my house!” I’d shout in my head, feelin’ like a king, but then—bam!—it’s awkward ‘cause I farted mid-massage once. True story, swear! Ruined the mood, stunk worse than Stink Spirit rollin’ in. Laughed my ass off, tho—prolly scared the masseuse half to death!