Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.
The Multicultural Orgy
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
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
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