Entry #7 09.12.2021

Peach Boy

Correspondence with

Alexandre Caretti
Peach Boy Detail 
Photo by Alexandre Caretti

Hey Peach,

I hope you’re back from your holiday and you’ll be able to come to the house.

I’m getting ready for Luxembourg there.

It’s nighttime in my room at the moment, its nighttime in my bed, and my sleeps the last couple of days have been absolutely soaking wet.

It’s odd when I think about it. Being a boy, the question of how I come to be in this world has taken a hold of me.

From then on, I wanted to reconstruct a home where I could feel at ease.

A couple of years ago, I approached a first embarrassing question: my sexual impotence.

My adolescent nights were impotent.

It has shaped my romantic relations. Without confidence, no relation. And when you’re 16 years old, that takes time. So then shame emerges and decides to move in.

What is my problem?

I was so ashamed throughout all of my teenage years. My nights were damp from cold sweats.

I was a victim of what I believed I had to do to be a real man. And I strongly believed in it.

Today, I feel like separating myself from another relic of my old beliefs.

My body is still afraid of it, but I want to find out what it will do.

But we’ll talk of this again the next time, Peach.

Take care.



Hi Peach,

I ordered the massagers today. One for myself, and one for the exhibition.

But I forgot. I haven’t even told you yet.

I guess I’ll tell you one of my oldest memories. I must have other, even older, memories, but I’ve often thought this one over. There’s shame in it, undoubtedly, and also incomprehension.

I must have been four or five years old, maybe?

I had invited my friend Anthony to come play with me at the house. And I don’t remember anymore how this happened.
We were in the ground floor bathroom. I remember climbing onto the sink, and looking at my anus in the mirror, pulling at my two cheeks from each side. Then, I turned around. And I showed him.

I don’t remember anymore why I did it or what happened after. But I’ve never been able to forget this moment.

I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.

Maybe because, in a way, it’s the only moment in my life where my anus was a place of discovery.

I think, subconsciously, I’ve been afraid that people would think that I’m gay.
If being penetrated is strictly meant for women, then being penetrated also means to be a little less of a man? That’s what I was afraid of. That must be, undoubtedly, the logic that, unknowingly, was passed onto me.

But today, letting myself be penetrated is just another wall that needs to be knocked down. An additional step to rebuild this home where I can feel at ease.

During my studies and while meeting other people, I became aware of it. My brain had understood. But my anus, it, was still stuck in my teenage years. My anus was still stuck in the locker rooms smelling of Axe Chocolate and latent homophobia.

I need my rosebud to join me in my adult life. So that we can be happy together.

I am impatiently waiting for the delivery of my massagers.

See you very soon Peach.

* * *


Hey Peach,

This penetration, speaking about it, it’s a lot. My family will read these texts, my friends, fellow co-workers of the art world and people that I don’t know.
I’m not as ashamed as I was I when I was a teenager. I’m just a bit embarrassed.
But these things take time.
Just a few more exhibitions, a few more damp nights and a few more rooms to reproduce before I will feel comfortable.

Also, the massagers have arrived. They are really beautiful. Very soft. And they seem to be of good quality. This made me a bit more confident.
And then I tried it. But, they are larger than I anticipated. It hurt a little.
I wonder how sexually aroused I’m supposed to be when doing it. It’s a sexual act, after all, not just a mechanical one. So should I watch porn while doing it? I maybe should have bought an anal relaxant spray. I ended up not buying it because the packaging was ugly. “BackDoor”, it was called. With a Destroy font, the same I had on my bag in primary school that made me seem rebellious.

Anyway, this also takes time, after all.

I’m taking the time to relearn how to be discrete and silent, without giving the impression that I’m submissive or dull, for example.
I’m taking the time to no longer laugh at jokes.
I’m taking the time to say that I don’t agree.
I’m taking the time to relearn how to cry.
I need to give my anus time to join me in my adult life. But I can sense that it is now on the right track.

See you soon Peach.

* * *


Hello again Peach,

I forgot to tell you. I cried last night. And not while watching a movie, as usual. I cried while sewing.

I had a pretty bad day. Problems just kept on piling up, hour after hour. It happens. I was in the middle of hand-sewing the final seams of my futon. And in the middle of stitching a line, I had the urge to go drink a glass of water. I got up, with my legs all numb.

I walked over to the kitchen. Ludivine was there. We talked a bit about this and that, and she told me that the atmosphere at university had been grim the last couple of days. A student had died unexpectedly of an aneurism.
My chronic pains cause headaches at least every other day.
That day the headaches weren’t particularly strong, but they felt very odd. They had never felt like this. I got back to my room, taking out my phone out of my back pocket to look up symptoms of an aneurysm. At that moment, I convinced myself that I wouldn’t wake up the following day.
I cried. I was crying for a long time while looking at my blanket and my futon. But strangely, I was crying out of joy, more so than out of fear. If I had died then, doing what I enjoy most, preparing for an exhibition that is dear to my heart, I would have left life like Zizou had left Real. At the best possible time. That’s what I told myself that moment. You know me, for me to make a football reference, I couldn’t have been in a good state.

I cried on this futon that afternoon while I closed the last stitches. That’s why they’re a bit messed up. I cried of a strange mixture of joy and panic.

I wish I had set some time aside to relearn how to cry. It was the first time in years that I had cried because of something other than a breakup or Naruto. It felt good.

I’ve been sleeping on the futon and in the blanket for about a week. I’m trying not to make too many stains.

I don’t think I’ll have time to write to you again before Luxembourg.

Talk to you soon Peach.︎

Alexandre Caretti, born in 1996 in France, is an artist who graduated in 2020 from No Name (Art), Haute École des Arts du Rhin (HEAR), Strasbourg. His installation Peach Boy was shown as part of Sticky Flames/ Bodies, Objects and Affects, co-curated by Nadina Faljic and Mnemozine.
You can find him on www.alexandrecaretti.fr and on Instagram @alexandre_caretti  

(Text translated by Mathieu Buchler)

 ︎   ︎