The Lisa Diaries

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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  


Red Hole

January 16, 2001

“Do you want me to put this candle up your pussy?” Dave asked. We were on the couch watching the Weather Channel (which is a lot more fascinating than it sounds) — I in my underwear and sailor top, he in all his clothes.


“Yes, I want you to put that candle up my pussy,” I said.


“Run upstairs and get a condom for it,” said Dave. I said I was too tired; he should go.


“No, I want you to run up there with no pants on.”


I didn’t close the blinds. There was twelve inches of snow outside — no one would see but the snow plow drivers, and theirs is a lonely job.


I told Dave he looked like a scientist inserting the thing.


“And you look like a dirty little slut,” he said, but really I didn’t. Sluts have energy. I was sleepy and saturnine and all ripped up inside. You know how time gets slower and slower as you near a black hole until it stops, and though you’d die instantly upon entering it, that instant could last forever? Well, there’s been a red hole of sexual gravity in our house, ever since we decided not to get divorced. I didn’t even want sex anymore, but I . . . I just wanted more and more. We kept going not from desire, but momentum. I felt his pants and he was only half-hard, which I liked. Full-bodied lust forms a gauze over the mechanics of sex, you’re driven by forces — possibly mystical ones. We were more like a space alien and its abductee, facing each other looking for clues. It felt dirtier that way — or at least more detailed. I laid down on the carpet and said, “Come fuck me now.” It was as if he’d coated his penis with gravel. I whimpered and didn’t move.


“Do you want to stop?” Dave said.


“No, no,” I whimpered. I wanted to stop. But it felt like there was nothing but fucking — how can you stop everything? Dave was caught in The Red Hole too: he pumped my limp body without remorse. My pained facial expression did keep him from coming though, and at last he pulled out. “If you wanted to stop, you should have just said so,” he muttered.


“You don’t have to make me embarrassed!” I sobbed, and ran away to slam a door. He got up to slam one too, then we both went to bed.

January 17

“Want some more candle?” I said the next afternoon, interrupting his work on the computer. I brought the candle out from behind my back and swung it by the wick like a pendulum. He came clattering up the stairs and then time and sound retreated and we both watched the methodical process of insertion and strange-angle-thrusting. At last Dave flung the condomed candle aside and stuck his flesh in mine and it felt the same as yesterday: coated in gravel. I swore and told him to get it over with quickly this time. He did. He fell asleep and I got up to work on my computer, where I discovered a present Dave made for me: a flash movie of my ideal man and woman, Britney Spears and a fat, hairy, old man. Britney looks straight at me while Fathairyguy rubs her belly and shoots out enough sperm to put out a fire.


Back in bed, I couldn’t sleep. Instead I went over every stage of my latest scheme: Tomorrow Dave leaves for L.A. He thinks his friend is going to pick him up at the airport, but I secretly arranged to have the raven-haired “Veronica” — the friend of a friend of a friend — meet him in a limousine at the airport and bother him all the way to the party he’s attending. I gave her a C-note and instructions to have the driver roll up that smoky divider so she can pinch my husband’s stomach. What I love the most about these types of activities is you can say things like “C-note.”


Suddenly I realized the error in my calculations: How would Veronica and Dave recognize each other? He’s expecting his friend. What if he reads her sign saying “Bad Boy, You’re Coming With Me” and thinks she means some other bad boy?


Finally, I woke Dave up to have sex with me, since that’s the only thing that cures my insomnia. He thought I was worked up from his Britney Spears/Fathairyguy movie, and he talked about them the whole time we did it, but actually I just found the movie peculiar and I felt bad for Britney, like her career is to get eaten to death and Dave and I just took one of the bites. So while he talked and I said, “Yes, uh-huh,” really I was thinking what that raven-haired lady was going to be pinching and doing in just twenty-four hours . . . I didn’t know what. I was thinking of Dave feeling scared and excited and ashamed, and I was so wet it didn’t even feel like gravel this time, and he slapped my ass as I came, his gruff descriptions of the hoary penis rubbing Britney not interrupting my contemplation at all.

Lisa Carver is the author of the books Dancing Queen, Rollerderby, The Lisa Diaries and Drugs Are Nice. She’s written for Hustler, Index, Icon, Feed, Newsday and Playboy, among others. She lives in New Hampshire.


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