Olivia Schwedt (oder) Erotic Massage ❤️

About Dusseldorf

Last week, I tried it—sketchy parlor downtown. Neon sign blinkin “Massage,” but ya know it’s more. Walked in, smellin like lavender and bad decisions. Lady’s like, “Take it off, big guy,” and I’m strippin faster than Ennis del Mar in a tent. “I can’t quit you,” I mutter, half-jokin, half-hopin she don’t hear. She starts, hands strong as hell—lumberjack approved. Then it gets weird—good weird. Fingers dancin near my ass, I’m like, “Oi, that’s new!” Felt like choppin wood but backwards—relief, not work. Got me happy as a pig in mud, but also pissed—why’d I wait so long?

Man, I'm ranting, haha! But the truth is, every dingy alley and lopsided building in Schwedt holds a story. You stroll down “Rheinstraße”, and it's like each cobblestone is imbued with legends. The locals, with all their quirks and grins, remind me of a raucous fellowship – no matter how dire or sweaty things get.

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