The Lisa Diaries

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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  


March 18, 1999

All I could think of all week was my confessions assignment. I asked all
my friends for advice. Some of them shocked me — like Vicky saying she’d
go masturbate with the cloth hand towel roll (the nondisposable infinite
roll kind) in a gas station garage, and then roll it back up so someone
would wipe their hands with it, and then confess to that. That made me
realize two things: one, confessions are idiosyncratic, I’d have to come
up with my own; and two, next time I visit Vicky, I’ll be better off
bringing my own bathroom amenities.

Finally it was Sunday. I was so excited to get to Dave’s I didn’t even
stop when I ran over the recycle bin and strew bottles and cans all over
the street. My neighbors saw what I’d done and I didn’t care, I peeled
out of there. I arrived at exactly five, the church bells were ringing.
He opened the door, I said hello like I was supposed to, not hi. He
didn’t say anything. I followed him upstairs. He gave me a bottle of
Jägermeister (because there’s a cross over the elk’s head?), I
swallowed, he swallowed. He shoved me onto the bed, kneeled over me, took
out his erection. I said, “Okay — remember that Dokken poster in my
bedroom that you hated and you told me to get rid of it and I told you I
did?” He didn’t answer. “Well, I want to confess that I hid the poster
somewhere in my room and sometimes I take it out and look at it.” I got
cock-whipped in the face. I took a breath and said, “Second, I never ever
did this before (that’s true), but I have no panties under this skirt,
and I tore a hole in my stockings and I flashed the gas attendant.” I
got totally whacked over that one, like five times. I was breathing hard
and said the next one really fast and he didn’t even wait until I was
done to start hitting me and checking for the hole: “Third, I also
flashed the toll booth guard, another driver when I was stuck in traffic
and two people on the sidewalk between my car and your door!”

Limbs flew and intersected. It was as if both of us were desperately
trying to get something away from the other. When it was over we
looked in amazement at the mess — bobby pins everywhere, my necklace
broken off, things from the dresser and shelves all over the floor. We
hadn’t said a word since I’d come over (except for my three

“I didn’t mean for that to happen!” we shouted in unison. We’d planned
to drag it out over dinner before “going all the way.” But thank goodness
going all the way did happen, because he took me to his parents’ house to
eat (not telling me where we were going until we were at the door), and I
had never met them before. Can you picture me in my pantiless short skirt
on the couch opposite them, if I were still all wet and unfulfilled,
trying to intelligently converse about boating expeditions and repairing
the trunk of the car?

The mom commented that Dave and I were eating “like football players!”
After dinner, when he and I were alone in the kitchen washing dishes, he
said we should stay up all night and talk about important stuff. He said
psychosis is the inability to discern between reality and fantasy, and
the aim of technology is to recreate and control reality, so its ultimate
goal is mass psychosis. I tried to answer something about how journalism
is just cinema verité, but I had nothing to say really. Nothing
I’d ever thought about seemed to matter. Back in the living room, the car
trunk repair story resumed. Dave slouched deeper and deeper until he fell
asleep. I was staring at his pants pocket, thinking about slipping my
hand in there, and I must have gone into a reverie, because suddenly
everyone was looking at me, waiting. Dave poked me. “Time to go.” He
wasn’t asleep after all. I hugged his mother and shook hands with his
father, and noticed in the hallway mirror there were bite marks all over
my neck. At the door, his sister gave me a beautiful bracelet and a
vanilla bean to mash and mix with bourbon to make vanilla extract. She’d
gotten both on little islands during her year-long boat trip halfway
around the world.

Back at his place, we tried to talk about intellectual matters as
promised, but a chance reference to librarians got things started again
(Dave has a thing about librarians). In the morning, he put my clothes
on under his work clothes (ripping them as he did so, but I didn’t care
since they were already torn up from the night before) so he could think
about me at work, and he gave me his clothes to wear home. “You
are in love with me,” I said. “Finally! You might as well just
admit it.” He said, “No I’m not. I hate you.”

Lisa Carver and