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About Gold Coast

Still, some creeps ruin it. Sleazy parlors givin it a bad rap — ugh, makes me wanna carve em up. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I mutter, picturin their smug faces. But when it’s done right? Heaven, man. Pro tip: warm oil’s the key, none of that cold crap. And if they throw in a happy endin — well, who’s complainin? “What’s left is what matters,” Varda’d say, and I’m left feelin like a king. So, yeah, sexual-massage? Messy, sexy, fuckin glorious. Try it, ya won’t regret it — or maybe ya will, ha!

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Now, I gotta say—Marine Parade? Fucking marvelous. Stubble and passion collide there on a brisk morning stroll. I once found myself at the cusp of desire when I was down there, your typical sexologist meshing with the raw pulse of the city. The local vibe? Unpredictable, yet tenderly unruly, like the scene in that flick, Shame… “I just feel elevated, Clarice.” Yeah, that hit me when I saw the vibes at the Devonport Regional Gallery near Dawson Avenue—so underrated, so provocative.

Husband dies two weeks after wife in crash on Devonport’s Victoria Bridge