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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  
 

Sex Shop Conspiracy


April 24, 1999




Dave’s gone. He left on tour this morning. How am I to go from having sex five times a day to zero?


    

Yesterday we went back to the dirty bookstore, right in the middle of the day, and I was so distracted with anticipation I locked my keys in the car. It was

getting close to five o’clock; we had to get to a locksmith before doing our business at the dirty bookstore. I was wearing a short skirt and no panties, and as we ran along the highway from gas station to gas station, trying to find someone who could break into my car, the cool air blew on my bare parts. At each station the guy would ask where my car was, and I’d mumble the name of the place (The Fifth Wheel) and blush.


    

Now, I try to maintain a little propriety in these pages: I try to not swear too much and there are a couple topics I avoid — bodily fluids being one. But it was so shocking to learn that a woman can be so wet she actually has to use her palms to keep wiping off her thighs — right in front of the car mechanic, even! — that I just had to mention it. We finally found someone who could get into my car, but they said they couldn’t get to us for an hour. All I could think was, Thank god that leaves us time to go into the dirty bookstore.


    

Our friend Mr. Bobbing Head was not behind the counter; instead it was someone’s grandma, wearing a lime green skirt and blazer and a blazing cross necklace. (Yes, blazing! The sun was glinting off it straight into my eyes.) “It’s against the law for two people to be in a booth at the same time,” she informed us dourly. Who the heck hired her to man the gates of this den of sin? Talk about dampening

the mood. But nothing could come between us and our desperation — not Grandma and not her state laws either! We settled into a booth with two handfuls of tokens, eager for glory.


    

The movies had changed. The Benny Hill humor was gone. The Mexican guys in jail getting abused by the white cop looked genuinely scared, and the threesome on another channel seemed alternately bored and annoyed as they took turns kissing and fondling one another. There were a lot more guys swarming around the booths. And masturbating. But they were all limp (I peeked). I wondered why they were there if they weren’t hard. “Stop pulling on those sad little worms,” I wanted to tell them. “Go home and get some work done, and come back when you’re really in the mood.”


    

Gone too was the polite hesitancy of last week’s voyeurs. An Izod-clad bear of a man placed himself directly in the opening to our cubicle, blocking out the light. His arms-crossed stance said: “Would you please hurry up and fuck? You’re not making me hard. Bitches.” We froze. I felt inept and frightened, like a fawn trying to blend into the forest. Our predator wouldn’t leave. I decided to switch tactics, and tried to find the thrill in being stared at rudely. I gave myself a little fantasy that he was that brutal Caucasian cop and Dave and I were the mustached Mexican inmates, forced to do bad things before our captor. I unzipped Dave’s pants and sat on his lap, then began what had to be the most motionless fuck ever committed. But we were just too scared of Izod Man, and that Grandma would come in and yell at us. All we wanted to do was have sex. And here we were in a sex shop, in the porn booths where there’s nothing to do but have an orgasm. And yet all these things — bears and grandmas and unfair prison practices — were forcing their way between us and our very simple desires. It was like the time I was on acid and realized all UPS men were part of a conspiracy my landlord had concocted to make me left-handed against my will: assailed by circumstances from all directions, there appeared to be no way out. Finally Dave said, “Let’s leave.” He felt bad, like he was letting me down. But he couldn’t help it that some people have no manners!


    

As we were walking over to meet the locksmith at the gas station, I calculated there were twelve hours before Dave would leave on tour. Sex simply did not fit into the schedule. The desolation peculiar to a long, chilly spring was in the air. I felt trapped and crazed. Then, just before the gas station I spotted an appliance repair shop, closed for the evening. Unfixable machines lay scattered behind the shop in parts, like limbs on a battlefield. I pointed, and Dave knew what I meant — without a word we squeezed between a grimy refrigerator and a rusted stove. His pants went down and my skirt went up. With my cheek pushed up against the dusty refrigerator (I knew this would mean bad news for my complexion but I didn’t care) and my knees banging into jagged metal, I didn’t even feel human. I couldn’t see Dave — could just feel his breath hot against my neck (the wind blowing cold over the rest of me); it felt like I didn’t know him.










©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com