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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

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Girls Who Wear Glasses

April 4, 2000



“Just think, Dave,” I said. “In four hours or three hundred miles — whichever comes first — some man we’ve never met before could have his nose within sniffing distance of my calves.” We were on our way to a private sex club, and I’d shaved with Dave’s Barbasol (I think it’s sexy for a woman’s legs to smell like a man’s face). I was steering with my left foot (so I could smell my leg) and my right hand. Dave yelled that I was going to kill the both of us. He’s always saying that. “I’m in a good mood,” I told him. “Only 290 miles to go!”


    

“Last night you wouldn’t even have sex with me because I wanted to talk about the club,” he complained.


    

“That’s because I wanted to have sex with you, not the roomful of librarians you were fantasizing about,” I explained. “I don’t see you all day, and I get romantic thoughts. I don’t mind actually doing stuff with librarians and calf-sniffers, though.”


    

“How do you know that’s the kind of people who will be there?”


    

“Well isn’t that who swingers are?”


    

“I’m not really into librarians,” Dave said. “Just that one librarian that one time.”


    

“Really? I was sure you were a librarian-chaser. What else don’t I know about you?” I squinted over at him and started singing: “Ooh, ooh, witchy David, he’s got the moon in his ey-ey-eye!”


    

Unlike the cheesy swingers’ ball we attended back in January, this gathering promised to be classy and exclusive — you have to pay $100, pass an essay test and sign a confidentiality agreement just to apply. And it has a torture dungeon! “Imagine I descend the basement stairs,” I said to Dave as we flew down 95, “quivering in anticipation of pain, mastery, sweet release and a variety of shiny torture devices, and then what I find is this old guy with a bunch of jars all around. I say, ‘That’s odd equipment. Um, do you do caning?’ And he says, ‘No child — canning. Now come close and I’ll show you how an apple can become jelly.’ Cause a dungeon is a cellar, Dave, get it? Dave?”


    

“Pull over,” he said, “There’s a sign for a Wendy’s.”


    

We arrived at the city I cannot name (because of the confidentiality agreement) as darkness lowered itself onto the streets. The letter from the swingmaster (crimson ink on thick, creamy paper) gave no address; we were told only to take the first alley after a certain wig shop. We located the wig shop and the alley. Now what? Go from door to door asking, “Is this the dirty sex club?” It was quite dark now and we were scared. Dave and I stood in front of our car, whispering, when one of the doors opened and a large black man came halfway out and stared at us. We looked back with big eyes. He laughed and said, “This is the place you’re looking for, kids.” The deer-in-headlights look must have distinguished us from narcs — the final test. We followed him into a faux-Classic foyer. My librarian hypothesis seemed to be correct: an awful lot of spectacles flashed in the candlelight. There were no balloons like in Dedham, thank god, but there were plenty of grapes. I think all swingers eat grapes.


    

“Who wants to go on a tour?” asked the hostess.


    

The early arrivals — a dozen of us — followed her meekly from the “gynecologist room” to the “little girl room” to the “orgy room” (three futons pushed together on the floor) to the “man-on-man corner.” If you want privacy, she explained, you simply lower the curtain. If you want to be watched or joined, leave the curtain up. She told us we’d find oils and condoms and dental dams at the head of every bed, then asked if there were any questions. I said I’d never seen a dental dam, how does it work? She unrolled one — it was a pink piece of plastic, like a fruit roll-up, about four-square inches. Apparently you place it over the anus and the female genitals and it makes a protective barrier but does not interfere with sensation. “It tastes good, too,” she said, passing it around. A Bettie Page lookalike in a leather dress took a lick, so I did too. It tasted like baby powder. I passed it to one of the librarians, who let out a small cry and almost dropped it.


    

Finally we descended to the dungeon. It held a ladder, a wooden pony and a cage. The dungeonmaster was waiting for us in leather gloves and a gold vest. He had the face of a Roman statue and was no taller than a jockey. “Run away, flee, flee!” he cried as we turned to go.


    

I staked out the leather couch next to the dungeon entrance. Dave has always ridiculed my BDSM penchant, but it’s my opinion that ridicule is the first step towards sadism. That SM notion that “trust is the cornerstone” is silly. I trust my H&R Block guy; I don’t want to trust the man who will take off his belt and whip me between my thighs. I’d always been convinced that once in my lifetime, I would be given the opportunity to witness Dave get spanked. I stuck close to the dungeon in case tonight was the night.


    

Unfortunately, this club accepts single men. They found their way to Dave and me like sad tales to a hairdresser. I told them how I longed to see Dave with his hands above his head, getting a whipping. Dave slouched next to me and told me to simmer down.


    

“The mistress said it feels like a massage,” one of the men offered.


    

“Hear that Dave? Do you have some tension?” I squeezed his shoulders and winked at the men, who heh-heh’ed appreciatively. Dave protested that he didn’t really need a massage tonight. I poked him in the back. “Now we can do this nice and easy, David, or . . . ”


    

The single men gasped and applauded. And then Dave stood up and walked right into the

dungeon! I never thought this would happen for real! The plain-faced dungeonmistress asked Dave to take off his shirt, and immediately he did! No one else had taken any clothes off, and here was Dave happily parading about before a crowd of twenty, with a mistress at his back, flogging him! I was truly shocked. It was like seeing Steve from Blues Clues naked on the Larry King Show (No, that never happened . . . I just wish!). Dave greets the world with good manners and downcast eyes. I have learned that he’ll throw you around the bed and shoot come in your face and say bad words, but no one else would suspect any of that. When we’re out, I see him as others do. Old ladies trust him and young ladies ask him on dates because they instantly know he’ll never have the courage to make a move. Yet when I watched the people watching him now, I saw that they were looking at a sexual monster, a lighter of the night’s fireworks. I felt a little embarrassed, like it was my brother unveiling himself before these people. I had to look away. It was a lot to digest, and I needed some privacy. I’ve always felt more comfortable naked — not in a hippy way, but because it puts others on edge, and that relaxes me — so I took off my clothes. I said to the petite dungeonmaster, “I’m handing myself over to you, please.” He led me over to the wooden pony and told me to kneel on the foot pads so that my ass was up in the air. He tied my wrists to the handles and spanked me with his leather gloves on. Then he went to his duffel bag and fished out what looked like a ping pong paddle. He showed me the two sides: smooth and grooved. He rubbed each against my cheek and lips. He asked my permission to use it on me. “Don’t ask,” I said. He forced my legs open wider with the paddle. I had the curious sensation of seeing and hearing absolutely nothing. The master used every single tool in his duffel bag on me, and I felt like a baby with bendable bones, or the Mona Lisa — nobody knew me, not even myself.


    

“Do you know what I really want to do to you?” the master said. “To you in

particular?”


    

“What?” I replied breathlessly.


    

“Saran Wrap you.”


    

“Well . . . okay!”


    

He led me to the ladder and had me stand with my back against it. He Saran-Wrapped me to it, pausing only to put metal twisty ties around my nipples before wrapping my breasts. Once my entire body was bound, he left me there for everybody to look at. It was hot under the lights, and my sweat began gathering inside the plastic. I couldn’t move a finger; I admired his finesse.


    

My high school history teacher Mr. Falcione popped into my head. He was probably the first human being I’d ever respected. He wrote a recommendation for me, to get me into this smart kids’ after-school thing. I wasn’t supposed to read it, but I did. He said that my presence illuminated the classroom, that I disagreed with everyone, including him, and that I was a delight. He said that he’d met few people in his life he felt certain were capable of something great, and that I was one

of those people. What would Mr. Falcione think of me now, I wondered, tied naked to a ladder in somebody’s basement? Well Mr. F., I thought, while my body temperature rose to a hundred degrees, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing, but I still have no fear inside me, even after all these years. That’s got to lead to something great, right?


    

I am trying very hard to find out what it means to be alive.


    

I heard Dave’s voice and opened my eyes. I think the master thought I was having heat stroke and sent Dave over to set me free. I thought, This is the person with whom I argue about who does more dishes. Dave touched my lips with his, very chastely, and whispered, “It’s okay.” I felt like I did in the hotel in Venice after we’d visited St. Mark’s Church. Then I had thought we shouldn’t have sex again until we were married; now I thought we shouldn’t have sex in front of a bunch of people because we are married. Prudery pops up in the funniest places! I guess Dave felt it too, because he pulled me free from the Saran Wrap and protected me with his body while I put my clothes back on.


    

Bettie Page and Tomato Man, her lover (or keeper), sauntered in. He had the body of an enormous, hard, green tomato and a face that must’ve gotten in the way of a wrecking ball once or twice. Earlier I’d observed him leading Ms. Page by her hair and speaking for her. “Yes, she’ll have a glass of wine, thank you. No, no hors d’oeuvres — she’s not hungry.” Dave and I moved to the observers’ seats. Tomato positioned his lady on her back on the wooden pony, and yanked her head up so that his mouth was above hers, upside down. “Reach for it,” I heard him rasp. She arched her back and stretched her tongue out its full length. At last the tip of it barely connected with his, and he withdrew. He whispered in her ear again, she nodded and stared straight at Dave and me and then opened her legs wide. There was about four feet between us. She spread her very pleasant . . . snatch? I don’t know what to call it. It was really pretty. “Wider,” Tomato said, and she spread wider. With her other hand she spread her ass cheeks. I couldn’t believe how good-looking and feminine her private parts were. The colors ranged from deep rose to the pale pink of roses a mother gives her daughter for her sweet sixteen. She rubbed her clit and grabbed her nipples, looking into my eyes without blinking. She moved around and threw her head back. I’ve seen dirty videos and live strippers in Belgium and I’ve watched people masturbate in my bed. None of them could hold a candle to this woman, not even Traci Lords.


    

Next, Tomato put Bettie in the cage and had her stick her pussy between the bars (she bent over and touched her toes, then backed up to the bars and pushed the vulva through). “Oh my,” said Dave. Then Tomato led her out of the cage and over to the couple seated next to us. “Say thank you,” he instructed. “Thank you for watching me,” she said, in the sweetest, tiniest voice.


    

“Lick her toe,” Tomato added. Bettie removed the woman’s leopard high heel and pulled one toe into her mouth, then two. I prepared my speech about how I only like things from the ankle up, but my shoe was off and my toe in her mouth before I could say a word. It felt like a deer tongue,

so gentle and dry and, I must say, exciting. I lifted her chin in my hand when she said thanks, and I told her, “You are welcome.”



To be continued . . .






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