The (Early) Lisa Diaries

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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

The Multicultural Orgy

Note: I was back living in Paris with my husband Jean Louis. We had a weekly radio show at an anarchist station. For New Year’s Eve, we decided to say good-bye to the ’80s with an on-air, multicultural orgy. We didn’t plan it to be multicultural, it just happened that way. We invited everyone we knew, and these people said yes: Dahan Dan the Arab, My Tailor the black, me the foreigner, Florence the European white girl, and Jean Louis who liked to pretend he was Mexican — it suited his Communist leanings — though there’s never been a Frencher Frenchman than Jean Louis. Jean Louis was 35, the rest of us were about 20. And then there was Jacques, the anarchist station’s sound engineer — he must have been about a hundred.

January 1, 1990

We all sat around a big round table, live on the air, with Jacques watching through the glass partition. Jean Louis was on some rant where I was his squaw and he was on the Mayflower and he was going to rape me, with Mayan sacrifice thrown in — I couldn’t understand a lot of it because he was shouting in French. Florence was my co-squaw, and she was talking really sexy and giving me cow eyes and actually touching my naked arm. We were supposed to be just making the sounds of an orgy, since it was a radio and no one could see, but Florence and I really liked each other. She was white as a ghost with big black eyes and red hair, kind of plump like I like. Not fat — just super-grabbable. Like a water balloon or one of those squishy things they tell people with high blood pressure to squeeze to get rid of stress. When you look into her eyes you get this swimming sensation in your stomach. Next thing I knew there was a foot in my crotch — Dahan Dan had made his move under the table. My Tailor took his headphones off and got up and made his move on Florence, via the old “shoulder massage.” Jean Louis wanted Florence too, and everyone kind of forgot about their microphones. Jacques the anarchist engineer looked mad. Then
again, he always looks mad.


A caller asked me to suck him off over the air. I got shy, so Jean Louis did it instead. Another caller asked me to give a “crie fou” (crazy yell), so I did, and he gave one back, so I turned into an orangutan. I do a really good orangutan impersonation. I was screaming and jumping around the studio. I invited the caller to our house later. Then we
all retired chez nous, sans Jacques, and attempted a real orgy. Florence said she’d only do it if Jean Louis didn’t touch her. She said he was too muscular. He was offended, and threw a condom at her, thus ruining the atmosphere, so everyone went home. I was relieved, because Dahan Dan had expressed great interest in me, and he’s just way too goofy. What excuse could I use for touching everyone but Dahan? “Too muscular” was already taken.

January 3, 1990

The orangutan radio-caller showed up today. His name is Stephane. He was wearing a dress. He brought his friend Laurent. Laurent looks like a pilgrim. No, he looks like a chicken. A sick chicken. I’ve never seen anyone so skinny. He looks ready to keel over at any moment, but he’s really spastic. On the escalator I pulled Stephane back. “I’m very attracted to you,” I said. “Oh,” he said, “me too.” At home, we drank vodka and danced. I lost my passport. Jean Louis was looking for it in the bedroom. I was walking into the bathroom and Stephane was walking out. I pushed him back in, up against the shower stall. His body is very different from Jean Louis’s. He is tall and full. He moves his hands like he doesn’t know a woman’s body. His hair is the color of sand, of camels, of dust, of my old blanket back home in America. His eyes are the color of blueberry yogurt. He smells of ground-up rocks. Oh, talc — that must be it. Baby powder. Speaking of which, he’s only seventeen years old. His cheeks have red streaks, like someone whipped him with a bicycle tire on each side of his face.


I heard Jean Louis rustling, so I came out of the bathroom unconsummated. It was time for the boys to go home. “Je t’aime,” I whispered to my husband. “C’est tout. Je t’aime.” I said it to reassure myself. My love for my husband is faded but steady. He likes to be a martyr.


I lay down next to Jean Louis and pretended Stephane was on my other side. In my half-sleep, the air was fluid and slick, shapes slid into others . . . Stephane was glowing white and hairless and slippery; Jean Louis had a beard and he was dirty and sinewy and cantankerous just like he is in real life, and he is my home.

January 6, 1990

I’m in bed with the flu. Too much excitement, I had to get sick just to be left alone. I’m shaking and coughing and reading The Russian Revolution. Having grown up without Catholicism and hardly any parental authority, and now in a marriage with no husbandly control, I find oppression sexy. I love Russia’s endless blanket of snow that restricts all activities, the spying, the controlling, the hostility to strangers, the lack of privacy in crowded housing. I love picturing the Dark People (the underground resistance) marching against an all-white background (snow in the sky and on the earth, everywhere), trudging up to the gates of the Winter Palace in Petrograd. Early 1900s Russia was a time of “drunken sex orgies, violence, collective torture, self-mutilation, and sometimes collective suicide.” Then came the purges. Russia “is a climate and a topography that call for extremes and idealism, not for liberalism or compromise . . . to be utterly wrong or utterly right but in any case utterly committed; and there is a kind of mystical joy in this complete abandonment. It must be all or nothing, chaos or heaven, and in the meantime the existing world must be swept away.” I’m in the drunken orgy, self-mutilation stage myself, and I await my religious or otherwise conversion. I’ve been trying to hurry it up, sweep myself away so there’s a clean field for transformation. I give money to bums — maybe ten francs a day, which is a lot considering I only have 120 francs in all, and no way to work here. Destitution has got to hasten the arrival of my glorious purge; it always does in books. In the meantime, I must admit I am well on my way to seducing Stephane’s skinny chicken friend Laurent.

2000 postscript: I did get Laurent, while continuing to get Stephane and my husband as well as a Belgian and a couple of visiting Americans. I was very unhappy. I was so distraught, in fact, that I peed the bed and then went home to America. There I tried to kill myself with a potato peeler (it was nearby). The next day, I was flown out to star in a Hollywood movie, based on George Bataille’s Story of the Eye! I was fired two weeks into filming. Not long after that, the USSR collapsed.

Lisa Carver and, Inc.