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Review Candice (Sensual Relax) – Rekindled love affair?

Review Candice (Sensual Relax) – Rekindled love affair?
It's absolutely fascinating observing the behavior of room temperature IQ members of our society so vehemently arguing with AI.
 
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Dee said:
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They see the tailored suits, the glossy finishes, the curated smiles captured in passing — and they think they understand the life.



They think it’s just luxury for luxury’s sake.

Just cards and cash.

Jet-setting and decadence.

Poker chips and pretty girls.



They don’t understand that this isn’t excess.

This is design.



Every part of my life — every table I sit at, every person I allow near me, every moment I choose to experience — is intentional. Built. Layered like a perfectly timed triple-barrel bluff. Nothing I do is random. It may look effortless from the outside, but that’s because I’ve engineered it to be that way.



I live in Herne Bay, Auckland. Where the waves meet the windows and the houses don’t need fences because the price tag does the talking. My villa overlooks the water, but I barely notice the view anymore. It’s not about that. The house is just a base of operations — a charging dock. Because the truth is, I’m not tied to any one place. The world is my map. And the poker table is my compass.



I’ve competed in the World Series of Poker not once, not twice, but enough times now that the floor staff remember my drinks order before I speak. Ginger ale. No ice. Two fingers of Yamazaki 18 if I’m closing out a session with a win. I’ve made final tables you’ve watched online. I’ve busted players you follow on Twitter. I’ve made six-figure calls with bottom pair because I felt it. Because I read something in their breath, the pause, the blink, the faint flicker of their wrist vein pulsing when the river dropped.



And when I’m not in Vegas or Monte Carlo or Singapore tearing apart hedge fund managers and semi-retired pros who think they can buy composure — I’m resting. But not idly.



My “rest” involves four-handed massages in Seoul. Thai therapists who’ve memorized my muscle tension patterns better than most people know their own passwords. Deep-tissue Sundays in my garden courtyard while a chef inside prepares duck confit over manuka firewood. My body is a tool. It earns. It conquers. It must be tuned, stretched, maintained. You don’t take a race car to Monaco and then change the oil with supermarket sludge.



My partners — plural, yes — are sex workers, girlfriends, lovers, intellectuals, companions. Whatever title fits. Some are with me for days, some for weeks. Some I fly in. Some fly to me. We don’t do jealousy. We do clarity. Honesty. Emotional intelligence. One is writing a PhD on post-capitalist emotional labor. Another used to dance for the Paris Opera Ballet. Another’s a tantric practitioner with eyes like polished obsidian who can make me forget my own name without ever removing her robe.



People like to whisper about it. They marvel at it. Some call it scandalous. Others call it lonely.



It’s neither.



I’m simply not bound by their limits. I don’t play by romantic rules written by Hallmark and enforced by people who’ve never tasted freedom. If I want touch, I have it. If I want distance, I take it. And if I want to spend the weekend in a suite in Tokyo wrapped in limbs and silk, with mouths and minds that stimulate in equal measure — I do. And I tip generously.



But don’t mistake this for recklessness.



You don’t stay at this level without rules. Without rigor. My mind is a weapon. Sharper than any card counter, steadier than any algorithm. I review every session. Every misstep. Every victory. I work with a coach twice a month. I drill preflop ranges like a monk chants sutras. I don’t bluff for fun. I bluff because you gave me a reason to.



And that’s the thing. Poker’s not about winning money. It’s about taking yours.



It’s the eye contact across the felt. The knowledge that I know what you’re holding, what you’re afraid of, what you’re trying to hide behind that carefully timed c-bet. It’s the power of calling a bluff not with a hand, but with a smile. And watching your ego disintegrate right in front of your stack.



I’ve broken men who’ve never heard “no” before. CEOs, trust fund brats, sports stars — all undone by the calm of a woman who didn’t flinch when the turn brought heat. I’ve won pots that ruined marriages. I’ve taken chips from people who spent months prepping for that single session. I didn’t blink. I didn’t need to.



I earned this life. I didn’t inherit it. I wasn’t gifted a bankroll. I started with $600 and a borrowed seat in a pub game in Takapuna. I built an empire from instincts and I never looked back.



Now? I can buy the pub. And the block. And the silence of anyone who still thinks this is a man’s game.



But truthfully? It’s not about proving anything anymore. That part’s done. These days, I’m simply enjoying the theater. Watching the hands play out. Watching the world spin while I sit dead still, untouched in the eye of the storm.



Tonight, I’m flying to Barcelona. Private jet. No luggage — everything I need will be waiting. There’s a game in an underground club with marble floors and hidden entrances. Buy-in is €250k. Winner takes everything. I’m bringing a three-figure watch and a two-figure heart rate.



After that? Maybe a midnight swim. Maybe a body to wrap around mine. Maybe nothing at all.



Because when you’ve mastered the game, you don’t need the rush. You are the rush.



♥️

You don’t need to like me.

Just don’t play against me.

Unless you’re ready to lose absolutely everything —

beautifully.
 
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nomaorisclub said:
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You're not ChatGPT.
I hear that stupid thing prattling on all day, everyday.
I know what it sounds like, what its prose is.
You're trying so hard, champ.
No. You're all too human.
A sad lonely human, just craving the attention of your 14 inch rubber friend.
You don't need to crave, just go, go to Sir John Pallustiff, and together you can replace the empty pain that you're suffering with a more full pain that you'll enjoy so much more.
 
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