Regulars

The Lisa Diaries

Pin it

 REGULARS


    

The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

If ‘N Sync Were Naked

January 27, 2000



To recap: Dave and I found ourselves in Room 114 of the Comfort Inn in Dedham, Massachusetts — the orgy double suite — with around forty deformed and/or elderly wife-swappers. No swaps had been made. Conversation centered on Coke vs. Pepsi vs. store-brand cola. The potbellied Swingmaster claimed — to hot debate — that the latter was better than the former two. It looked like Dave and I had been ditched by our intended swappees — the dashing Moira and Enrique — for a redheaded palmreader back in the foyer. Palmreading is so seductive. I need a skill. All I can do is juggle. I used to give impromptu juggling demonstrations at parties, but I learned it attracts all the wrong people.


    

The evening’s feeling of magic had evaporated along with Moira and Enrique — as had my Jack-and-Coke buzz. Actually, Jack and Pepsi. What kind of bartender puts Pepsi in bourbon? I was almost tempted to join the cola controversy. I told Dave I wanted to leave. Just then, the door opened

a crack and Moira’s clean, friendly face appeared.


    

“C’mon!” she stage-whispered, and I felt drunk again. She dragged me by my sleeve out the door, and Dave attached himself to my other sleeve.

“Not you!” she said, and pushed Dave back down on the couch. I

didn’t know she was so strong! Don’t leave me here with these people,

Dave’s eyes pleaded, but I was under Moira’s spell, and

pretended I didn’t see. “We have girl-talk to do!” Moira tossed over her

shoulder to poor Dave.


    

In the hotel parking lot, we shivered happily in each other’s presence.

“This is the situation,” she said. “At that other party we went to, where

couples were doing it on mattresses, we didn’t do anything at all. We’d like

to move slowly. What Enrique wants is . . . well, for him to do me and your guy

to do you, but at the same time, together.”


    

“Okay!” I said. So we went in and got Dave, met up with Enrique at the

bar, and went up to our hotel room. I didn’t tell Dave the plan.


    

In the room, Moira took the chair, I sprawled over the bed, Enrique

slouched against a wall and Dave perched on the dresser. We were all

waiting. Moira opened the conversation by bemoaning her “baby fat.”


    

“Oh no!” I said, but it was true. In fact, Moira was the spitting image of Dave’s seven-year-old niece, right down to her pageboy cut and her goofy way of sitting, like she was about to fall off the edge of whatever she was sitting on. She was a giant seven-year-old. This, I knew, was horrifying to Dave. Even twenty-seven feels too young for him. He likes ’em old. And he likes ’em not looking like any of his family members.


    

Moira was talking about the frat party orgy they’d attended. “There was

no music at all, and let me tell you: thirty people screwing is not a

sound you want to hear.” Dave turned on the TV. It was an Elvis in Hawaii movie. While the other three discussed Elvis, I was thinking about the time I drove to the beach with Dave a year and a half ago, when we weren’t even boyfriend/girlfriend — what it felt like when he

was unfamiliar to me. I knew peripheral things then, like his conversational

style (elusive, very elusive!), but nothing about his habits, his past, or what he would do if he got lost in a strange place and something growled. Dave felt unknown to me again now — this was our first time as swingers. I didn’t know what to expect from either of us. At the same time, I felt closer to him than ever before; we were co-conspirators. We were doing something sort of eerie together. We were friends. On that trip to the beach a year and a half ago, “Coming Straight Onto You” came over my car radio, and Dave said he was

frightened of those Heart sisters. I looked over and I could see that it

was true. That might have been the moment I fell in love with him. I’ve

always found the fear of women attractive. He was showing it now, of

Moira: biting his fingers, not looking at anyone, rubbing his feet

together.


    

“Are you guys staying all night?” I asked.


    

“No,” said Moira, “We have to leave in an hour. We have a baby, and the

sitter can’t stay overnight.”


    

“You leave in one hour?!” I cried. “We better get started!” I ripped off my clothes. That’s when I told Dave the arrangement:


    

“You won me, Dave!” I lay back on the bed, my arms crossed behind my head.


    

Dave got naked and climbed on top of me, sighing more with relief than

excitement. Moira and Enrique made out sensual-style against the wall with

their clothes on. By the time they got in bed, Dave and I were at third

base. I didn’t know if we were all supposed to watch each other, so I

compromised — kept my face straight ahead and my eyes

sideways. Enrique was on his knees, holding Moira’s hips up to his, and

pounding away like a staplegun. He was making the whole bed — and me and

Dave in it — tremble. Enrique’s

eyes were rolled up. Moira was lazy but alert (no eye-rolling), smiling. She

and I made out. I brushed her hair out of her face fondly, put it behind her

ears. I guess her baby face and baby body made me maternal. Meanwhile, Dave

was having sex with me. I reached my other hand down to tap that vein just

behind the scrotum. Enrique and Moira kept switching positions, and we’d

follow them, like synchronized swimmers. Or like ‘N Sync, if they performed naked.


    

Suddenly Enrique was fingering me and sticking his tongue down my throat.

Dave remained hard, so he couldn’t have been that mad, but I really didn’t

like it. Fingering other people’s partners had been ruled out, and Enrique

did it so rough I knew I was going to be sore on the drive home. Honestly, I

was not enjoying the experience. I kept getting distracted by Moira and

Enrique’s vast array of activities and by the things Elvis was doing with

the hula dancers. (And what was going on in the double orgy suite, I wondered.)


    

Dave and I finished, but Enrique was drunk and I began to wonder if he would ever come. Pound-pound-pound-pound-pound! I propped myself up on one elbow and decided to full-out observe. Moira was crazy about my fake tits, kept touching them, asking questions like, “How much money? How much pain?” She must be used

to Enrique’s hips going on and on like that.


    

“Is Dave a good fuck?” Moira asked me while getting it from behind.


    

“Yup,” I said, “That’s why I had to marry him!”


    

In fact, I’d just had probably the worst sex of my life. Dave told me later that it was uncomfortable for him because he had to keep his legs totally stiff, as he was afraid of brushing against the niece-lady — or worse, the man. He said the only thing he wanted to see was how big Enrique’s thing was, but he was afraid Enrique would catch him peeking and get mad.


    

“Enrique is the best lover,” Moira was saying. “He’s so good at everything.” Hangnail fingerings suit some people, I guess.


    

I believed the Beats, that you reach beauty through dereliction. I, too, traveled, did drugs and destroyed the ones I loved. Neal Cassady left how many children and wives behind? William Burroughs shot his wife. A Beat would form an intense, magnificently intimate relationship with another man who was even more drugged up, well read and irresponsible than he — there was often a little bit of wife-swapping and/or prostitute-swapping going on between them — and then the other man would die or leave, and the surviving beat would write about him for the next thirty years. Right now I’m reading a lesser-known beat named David Rattray. His friend who died was named Van:


    

“[Van] said he liked the idea of metamorphosis because change is the law

of life and permanence suggests spiritual if not physical death, both of

which are also strongly suggested by the idea of closeness with another

person: ‘No one can ever come close to touching another person. Heaven

help them if they try.'”


    

Sex, when you stare it in the face, does not have the semblance of success. Enrique and Moira looked fine sitting up with clothes on, but once

they were naked, they jiggled and sweated and laughed uncontrollably. The hold-still-and-quiver style Dave and I have gotten into

lately probably didn’t look like any great shakes either. Watching the flabby new parents totally turn each other on, I felt happy for them. I thought, Those

Beats were wrong. I saw the glory of love. Yes, glory! I don’t

want to sell Dave out to the pursuit of freedom by way of gross

experience. I love him! The next morning, I stole the hotel soap dish as a

reminder of this feeling. I decided to never leave Dover again.


    

I was afraid you wouldn’t read anymore after finding out the end of this story, because no one likes a satisfied woman (or man). (I don’t like them either.) It wasn’t grossness I warned you about at the end of last week’s entry. It was satisfiedness. Running off to the desert to find the face of God is, upon closer inspection, not all that appealing. Maybe I’m already what I want to become. Maybe Dave, shy and evil, is already stranger enough for me.


    

Except that I already paid $100 and worked an entire evening on an

all-essay quiz in order to get into this other, totally exclusive

swingers club in Connecticut. I can’t even tell you the name of it,

because I signed a confidentiality contract! Anyway, we only barely made

it in, and I just know people there are going to be beautiful and rich

and powerful, and just for the sake of thoroughness we gotta go there

once. And then we’re done, I swear.








©2000

Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.