The Lisa Diaries

Pin it


The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

Girl on a Ladder

March 11, 1999

Tor stood me up. That girl is as easy to grab hold of as a ghost in a foxhole. Dave said she only shows up at the exact moment you
give up hope. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried really hard to give up hope, but when I
opened them, she still wasn’t there.


We had to hang around after the show to get paid and load equipment. It
was three a.m. before we got back to Dave’s. I asked if he felt weird
about me chasing Tor. He said he didn’t understand it. He said, “I
thought you hated her!” I said, “I do!” He said that as for himself, he’d
made the decision to be a runaround, and not be in love with me, because
love has nothing for him but trouble. He said, “I’m so high right now,
because you’re in my arms, but when you’re gone it’s like this.” He ran
his nails hard up and down my thighs. “You make me feel dirty. I feel
perverted just being around you. That fantasy you described, where the
stepfather on the ladder makes the girl hand him a hammer and he reaches
down pretending he’s not looking and grabs her breast in the soft sweater
instead? I feel like that girl around you. I know I do it to you too. I
want to fuck you until you hate every man you’ve ever been with and you
wish they’d never touched you. You’re so pretty. What are you thinking?
You have to tell me everything.”


“Okay, I feel like a pet gerbil whose boy brings his friends home after
school to do things to. Hands everywhere, reaching into my cage.”


“Whose hands? Are you talking about Tor again?!”


“No, you’re all the hands, you’re a storm of boys.”


“Okay, you control everything now.”


So I got on top and wouldn’t let him move and
wouldn’t let him kiss me back, but he’s not so hot at taking orders. He
twisted my arms behind my back and choked me, punched me. He kept on
switching — just when I’d be delirious from the struggle, he’d pull me
on top of him and turn compliant and my whole self would shift. It was so
fast, I felt like reality itself was shifting, and then something shook
loose in my mind. It broke loose and fell. I seem to be losing pieces of
myself all over the place. I just said, “Eeee.” I couldn’t say anything
more. I couldn’t move at all. Then I said, “You’re . . .
making . . . me . . . crazy.”
He said, “Okay baby. You wanna fuck? You’re
making me crazy too.” Then he was inside me and it felt so simple and
right, like I’d been traveling for days and days to get here, by bicycle,
boat and car, and at last I was just standing, not moving at all.


We barely slept and got up at eight to shower and I couldn’t lift the
bar of soap so I asked him to wash me and he sort of swung it across my
shoulders and breasts but that was all he could manage. Our bodies were
worn out and our brains tired from trying to figure out what was
happening to us. I had to leave so I kissed him goodbye and got in my
car and got lost and then found 95 and followed a car with a rainbow
sticker all the way home. Then I started writing this. I kind of don’t
want to write it. It’s potentially humiliating — what if I end up on the
bad side of this story? I may be exuberant about sex, but I’ve always
been, ultimately, a matter-of-fact woman. I grew up in New England; we
don’t say things like “You’re a storm of boys.” Ever. I don’t even
recognize myself. I go over and over every detail in my memory, like a
kid’s tongue fiddling with a loose tooth. I haven’t written any articles
for weeks, I’m too busy thinking and being thought about, it’s like a
full time job. Oh, he just called and gave me an assignment: I’m to pay
him a surprise visit. I will ring his bell, say hello and follow him up
the stairs. In his bedroom I’ll kneel down, he’ll take out his cock.
I’ll look at him and make a confession. He’ll slap me in the face. Not
with his hand. Then two more confessions, two more slaps, and we go out
to eat. Confessions are hard for me, because I always say things as soon
as I think them, so I don’t have any stored up. I think I’ll wear my
short iridescent silver blue skirt with no panties. I think I’ll cut a
hole in my sparkly tights.

Lisa Carver and