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Disenchantment: Parisian parties

These Parisian nights, I've done about twenty of them and didn't appreciate any of them.


Essential rendezvous for minds that have fallen into collective oblivion.

BDSM nights, fetish parties; the name changes but the disenchantment remains.


The growing disappointment of this elderly man, sitting alone in a corner all evening;

He found out that paying his ticket didn't give him any more value.

The alcohol in the blood of this lady whose breast I lick in the jacuzzi;

Discreetly, she will faint: a lick was not enough of a cure to her life.


The recklessness of these young souls parachuted into this debauchery of souls;

Is it necessary to be a pitiful adult to stay immune to the others' ravages.


If the face is the mirror of the soul, what should I think of these masked people?

I have no desire to share my feelings with minds that trust me so little.


The sickly jealousy of this suffering young submissive;

Does he only know that he doesn't need women to harm himself.


This very loud woman, her leather camouflage won't make any illusions;

She could have blindfolded me and I would still see the insecurity in her eyes.


These barely controlled games, forced by the context of a toy party;

How important it is to show off in front of all those people you barely appreciate.


Tell me about yourself, then don't forget to pretend not to see me in the narrow corridor;

It would be a shame to spoil this party with an actual interaction.


The sexual misery of this man masturbating in the toilet, door ajar;

Pay your ticket and come squirt; More expensive than a video, but still less than an escort.


Those like me who were born lost, not quite humble enough to risk living;

If they're struggling to find a place in this world, they don't have it any more at this party.

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