Mes Demoiselles Possibles

Recommended soundtrack: Krzysztof Penderecki - Polymorphia


I woke up in fright. Someone had caressed my feet, but I was alone in the room. Anxiously, I grabbed my mobile phone. It was showing two thirty-nine in the morning. Even panting, I breathed a sigh of relief at being back into the Ego. But my spine froze again right away, with a new caress, this time, with the complement of a warm breath. Something was kissing my big toe under the covers.

I shrugged instinctively and immediately, but in the middle of the movement a steady and warm hand held the same right foot I was trying to retract. Fortunately the switch was just above my head, and I could quickly lit the room. I tried to lift the blanket, but what was beneath it would not let me. Instead, an orange light lit up below the cover and stretched across the full length of the bed. I watched, already drenched in sweat, for a moment, trying to make some sense, and as neither my foot was released nor was there any manifestation that indicated the next steps that should be taken, I took courage and looked under the brown microfiber blanket that was covering me.

There it was. One of the Demoiselles d'Avignon that Picasso himself had also encountered in 1907. More specifically, the demoiselle that appears lowered on the lower right corner in Picasso’s painting. She was there, on my bed, holding my right foot. We stared at each other for a few seconds. She, with an unchanging countenance and robotic voice, told me: I will show you the future of the past tense. Then, she grabbed my testicles and despite my movements of rejection and screams of terror, placed them fully in her mouth, ripping them off with a single bite. Neither did the pain last nor was it intense, which deprived me of any reaction. She began to masturbate while chewing on my ripped testicles - letting go that they tasted like pears. Her face was still impassive, but the rest of her body could not conceal the pleasures of clitoral stimulation. After a few seconds, less than twenty, her tremors revealed what had the characteristics of an orgasm.

By the end of that solitary pre-intercourse, that crooked mouth of hers, which denotes even some displeasure in the conversation with its interlocutors, began to drool. The liquid began to reach the bed in quantities much larger than the common sense would conceive. And when enough droplets came together (at least that seemed to be the logic), a childlike face was formed, always very much like mine. Sometimes two, sometimes three, and even six identical faces appeared once. It took me two years - from the endless fourteen required for that process to finish - to realize that those faces belonged to each of my possible children, if I had copulated with each of the women I once crossed paths with. The girl who waited with me in the same row of seats in the hospital, the woman who sold me a cheese loaf, the girl who went across the street talking over the phone, in summary, every female creature I had ever, any day, under any circumstance, put my eyes on was represented there, in the face of a possible child of mine.

Raul Seixas one day, when singing to his death, inquired the future: "what will be the form of my death?". I had received an answer to a question of similar semantics.

"In the beginning there was only emptiness, overflowing with infinite possibilities, one of which is you." William Arntz.