a blog, a (fag) life

Guys like that and others.

Mike Nietomertz — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 00:38:20 GMT

First I realized that I had to disown them, disrespect them and make them pay. That's what made me bend, a man kneeling in front of me that obeys my orders that I like a little more, and I hated that he was more obedient. A slut, a son of a bitch. I asked them their name and when he said looking at me look shiny, as if I had said I love you, I put une baffe and I said your name is bitch, shit-eating, mangy dog. And they fell head and shook blasting yes, I am a slut, master. Should they pay, because they were fiottes, pedal to the petty, the son of a bitch barely worthy of their mother.
And then one day I found this game more fun. It came at once, in a backroom in Mexico with a Mexican shit on his knees in front of me now watch me and tell me eres rico, rico eres who the fuck I said. Of a sudden I wondered what I was doing there at 5h du mat 'hours of Paris, standing, legs and bite flagolantes which molissait before our eyes. It is 5am, Mexico m'emmerde.
My sperm in as many mouths as possible, my race to the amount of guys on swallowed miles of muscular flesh thin, tense as offered to me, being on his knees begging for love to have hope and from hatred to love it. All of a sudden it has become futile, like masturbate and fuck her disperse wind to go poliniser flowers, a waste of time, a drought of the soul. It was futile, as my existence and the engine that carried me.

Le bal perdu...

Mike Nietomertz — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 03:25:33 GMT

It is a waltz, a pas de deux. A shot forward, a blow to the back. And go ahead a hangover horrific stuff, and go that I regret, that I want.
After the last chance, one that gives a pistol against his head stuck saying now, bitch, if you do a step through I'll die.

Flayed alive...

Mike Nietomertz — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 22:28:34 GMT

I was asked if I had slept well, but I was awake dreaming that T. slept with AIDS sick guys. A nightmare. A nightmare because he sheat on me and that it was sealing. I was all returned. But I said nothing, or rather, I said yes, thank you, I slept well. And then I said I'm in divorce proceedings. And the same person said there are events like this that destroy entire lives, divorce, bereavement, etc.. I had not cried so far. I wondered if I had a face devastated to be told that without knowing me. And slowly I felt warm and comforting tears running down my face, gently dig a path to my mouth when I felt the bitter taste death come against my lips. I wiped his eyes, rubbing my sleeves on my face, in strong sniffing, saying it is ok, what does not kill stronger, but I force myself squarely.
I went and looked for a donut, I heard he was flayed alive ... and the discussion stopped short when I arrived.
After I left with Lily, we started north on a highway almost at random.He wanted to see the ocean, me I needed a change of scenery. In Venice Beach, there was so much wind we decided to go north to Malibu or Santa Barbara. In his convertible I said we are a nice fag couple, no? I had the feet on the dashboard and tried to decipher my map of LA I was happy, as if I were in a bubble a little magic, far from everything, away from my tears and my bitterness . But I knew it was fake. Eating a apple driffter and a capucino at Starbucks West Santa Monica, I said I misunderstood me inside and I cried. Lily said and you will be pleased with the next, you see. But I knew we could not lie forever, that the next will be like all the others, one day it cracked, and it has redoubled my tears.