March 9, 2000
Note: Lisa is in Mexico this week: in place of her column, we are publishing the winner of the Lisa Diaries Contest, by NerveCenter member slysa. She wins a copy of “Sweet and Vicious” (Nerve’s new spoken-word CD) and a double date with Lisa and Dave! Click here to browse all the entries in the contest.
Sex Deficit: In Pursuit of a Carver-ish Fantasy Life
Last night I met with my friend Anasussha. As usual, our conversation turned to the trials of having a sex drive that does not match your partner’s, how it can make you vulnerable to impulse shopping (Sussha just bought an electric toothbrush). She and I are on opposite ends of the problem.
Sussha makes me see how uncomfortable it is to be on the receiving end of apparent sexual mania. “Sometimes I just don’t want it,” she said yesterday. “I forget how good it feels.” In turn, I like to think I get across how floppy and disastrous it is to be lying in bed next to the person you’re supposed to get all your sex from, and be really in the mood, and not be able to convince him to fuck you so you can both get some goddamn sleep. Breathing hard. All your cells tingly. Pheromones boinging off the covers, the pillow, the alarm clock like lewd jellybeans. And because your boyfriend’s right there, trying to pretend he’s oblivious to all the jellybeans pelting his cock, it’s impolite to wank yourself off.
As indecorous as it is to boast about being a fiend, I am a fiend.
My boyfriend is not a fiend. He is the best sex I’ve ever had; naturally, I want it as often as possible. He has dark sneaky eyes and lots of cool body textures. I’m fanatical about him. He is so wonderful and smart and lovely to look at that sometimes, when he’s sleeping, I move close to him and breathe deeply from that spot right beneath the lower eyelashes (a sweeter square inch of air has yet to be discovered by NASA or anyone else). But I’m afraid I’ve made sex a big partisan budget issue for him even when there’s a $3 trillion surplus, it’s all just going to the deficit.
Could he forget between his job and worries about money and his future how good it feels to bend me over the desk and shudder into me like a whiskey shot? Who am I to blame him for trying to be a grownup while I attempt (in vain) to live out some kind of Carver-ish fantasy life? (Me and some girl having sex on top of my boyfriend while he’s tied to the bed, helpless to do anything but watch and issue feeble instructions: “A little to the left, please.” Hoo. I need a beer. Or some kind of really crunchy fruit.)
When I creaked into the apartment I share with my boyfriend, he was there. It was like walking into an ineptly-managed seraglio: he had candles lit and was lying back on the couch. Unfortunately, he was still dressed.
I stretched out on top of him and he said, “Oofmmmm.” His arms slid around me and his hands flattened against the small of my back. “It’s late,” he said. “Do you want to go to bed?”
I made an effort to look un-disappointed, which was hard, but I love him and he works long hours and I am a fiend. The least I can do is try not to be a whiny and extortive fiend. “Part of me does and part of me doesn’t. Do you?”
I wiggled in response.
I have to say, the sex-with-women thing is nice, but I really love fucking this man. The inside of his wrists, where all his palenesses come to a point. The way something heavy and careful feels on top of you. The way he gets a little bossy and starts rearranging my body parts where he wants them to be, with a very boylike mute insistence. Men, for me, are where it’s at. And this one in particular is where I want to buy waterfront property and retire.
He pushed me around until I was kneeling on the couch and he was behind me with his hands on my back. And then we shifted so that he was on top, and we were staring at each other with something like disbelief at how good this is, how good it always is.
“I watch you more than you watch me, I think,” he said quietly.
“I can’t help it, I have to close my eyes to keep them from bugging out of my head,” I protested.
It’s like finding out what your body’s for. Your eyes exist to roll back in their sockets. Your arms exist to hold you up over the body of the person you love; your hands exist to grab, to prop, to clasp, to stroke and thrum that person. Your throat exists to howl with glee. You are a fiend to inspire fiendishness.