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About San Jose

So, I’m there, right? Lady’s rubbin’ me down, an’ I’m like, “This ain’t no regular backrub!” Felt like Anton Chigurh sneakin’ up—quiet, intense, bam! Hands where the sun don’t shine! Made me happy as hell, but—D’oh!—kinda pissed too. Cost me 50 bucks extra! Total rip-off, man! Thought in my head: “Homer, you dumbass, why’d ya say yes?” But, oof, felt good—real good. Little secret: some pros use weird oils, like from freaky plants in Asia. Smelled like Marge’s cookin’ gone wrong—surprised me big time!

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Massage therapy is focused on what you want. Happy beginning or happy ending the way you want. Extremely clean and friendly no rush no tip unless you want.

Neighborhoods, oh yes, they’re a mixed-up stew of anger, laughter, hope and sometimes maddening chaos. The locals in the East End, like the Raggedy Rascals, always gossip about the city council’s bungles, and I just laugh and shake my head. “Oh, what's it gonna be then? A new spa treatment or another foolish plan?” They say. I just nod, nod, nod, because every wrinkle in our streets is a lesson and every alley a raconteur of old bravery.

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