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Erotic dreams

I won’t be orig­i­nal by say­ing I had an erot­ic dream. I can already imag­ine the smirk on the face of some peo­ple or dis­dain in oth­ers. In this world that dis­plays sex­u­al­i­ty in all media, it is more than aston­ish­ing to see the embar­rass­ment that such a state­ment can cause. It would be dif­fi­cult for me to say to my col­leagues that I have dreamed about them, let alone done those things that are only allowed in the secret inti­ma­cy of a hot moment. And yet, every­one expe­ri­ences it, in their own way, tast­ing the intox­i­cat­ing juice as much as its ephemer­al vine­gared dura­tion. It is also inter­est­ing to note that such a rev­e­la­tion can eas­i­ly be seen as out­right aggression.

The impulse with­in us acts like a ghost, its lan­guage is insa­tiable, its pow­er is inex­haustible and vol­un­tary. I am also sur­prised by these dreams, which come out of nowhere, and which remind me that no wound or fail­ure can over­come the courage of the act. Old peo­ple eroti­cize, babies get ready to come, teenagers mar­tyr them­selves, and adults learn to hold back. The arrow of desire hits its tar­get every time. Its path is as much labyrinthine as it is evangelical.

It is not sur­pris­ing to hear the false prudes scream­ing in hor­ror. They know only too well that they will not be able to defeat what they call demons. Nor is it extra­or­di­nary to lis­ten to the trou­ba­dours enno­ble their vilest fan­tasies. We make what­ev­er excus­es we can.

Despite every­thing, we are care­ful to describe what we dreamt, because of course, any­thing goes : big dirty sex as they say, fin­gers every­where, fran­tic tongues, old teenage images, bound­aries that we usu­al­ly nev­er cross, unless we are more or less intox­i­cat­ed by naivety or alcohol.

It is a secret gar­den so frag­ile, it is said, that only a clin­i­cal con­text allows its aus­cul­ta­tion. So I can­not go beyond the state­ment that I did ’things’ if you don’t mind that I enjoyed for a few min­utes of uncon­scious­ness. I sup­pose, in any case, these things are equiv­a­lent to yours, and there’s no shame in keep­ing it to your­self. What would hap­pen, indeed, if every­one began to tell their truth, if we became the open book that must be unsaid ? What is so pre­cious about keep­ing this silence until we die ?

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