The psychoanalyst

By Michael Sixtodefault

The psychoanalyst was a fifty-something-year-old man with abundant white hair that stretched out in perfect harmony forming part of a thick beard. Putting a smoking pipe to his mouth, I would have vowed to be in the presence of Ernest Hemingway. By the receiving desk he avoided looking at me straight in the eyes, but shook my hand strongly, which I liked. It was my first time in a shrink, but I had made a great effort not to get nervous so I remained calm. For several minutes Dr. Bali, as he had appeared before me, entertained himself with his notebook; probably describing his initial impressions about “my case” while seating behind the desk.

“Why are you here David?”

“I can’t sleep… and it is driving me insane”

“Have you taken any pills?”

“Everything there is”

“I see… how was your relationship with your father while growing up?”

“Seriously…? Is this some kind of joke?”

“Nah I am just fucking with you man, relax ok”

For the next twenty minutes he did asked a bunch of weird questions about my drinking habits and work experience and even my sexual life. He also said a lot about himself and how he was extremely poor in his country of origin when he was a child and about his Puerto Rican girlfriend that was only nineteen. I listened and nod in complete silence. I had a Puerto Rican girlfriend once back in college – I thought-. Her name was Lucia. She had great tits, I remember that. Big round, dark nipples and huge areolas!

“David… problem is that people are no longer aware, nor comfortable with their reality. They do stuff and run the hamster wheel without even knowing.”


“You, my friend, are not like them”

“That’s why I can’t sleep?”

“My Puerto Rican girlfriend is such a good fuck! Sometimes I bring men to the house and I let them watch while she walks around naked. She love that shit! Would you like to come sometimes?”

“I think time’s up”

“You are right… ok, so I will see you Sr. same time next week ok”

I left the room with a bizarre feeling and truly convinced about the reality of never coming back to that place. This guy is a joke- I thought while getting in the elevator- and doesn’t gives a fuck about anything but himself and her stupid Puerto Rican girlfriend. I should definitely fuck her brains out to see if he also enjoys that shit!

That night I masturbated picturing Lucia walking around naked while a gang of men jerk off. I came really hard. Four minutes later I fall asleep like a baby for the first time in many years.

Historias ajenas

Por Michael Sixto

Hay quienes cuentan historias ajenas para sobreimg_0213vivir la suya propia. Cuentos narrados con miedo, con pasión, con esperanza, con desespero. Historias de final feliz, historias sin final, historias sin principio, historias para chicos y grandes.  Hay quienes viven solo de contar historias y mueren un día en la soledad de sus palabras y es ese su único legado. Es un hábito aprendido ese de contar historias. De generación en generación, los unos le han dicho a los otros la realidad de su existencia. Aquellos no tan conformes han cambiado un poco los detalles. Aquellos realmente inconformes han inventado todos los detalles. Y hay quien simplemente ha contado, no una mentira, sino algo mejor.

Hay quienes cuentan historias porque es el único refugio, o el último recurso, o la única verdad. El ser cotidiano que nos atropella entre mediocres despertares vive en nuestros adentros y lucha por el control. Por eso nos resistimos y cada palabra se hace un disparo y cada oración convertida en idea ya, se nos presenta como un todo sin deseos de soltar. Hay quienes cuentan historias ajenas conscientes del dolor, conscientes de la censura, del odio y el rencor.

Hay quienes cuentan historias ajenas… sabiéndose no sobrevivientes de la suya propia.