The Lisa Diaries

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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

Plain Old Sex

April 27, 2000

Readers have been complaining lately that, for a sex diary, these pages contain too many people, places and ideas, and not enough sex. So tonight, I’m taking you straight to bed, we’re gonna do it and then go right to sleep.


I got out of my clothes and under the Chinese fuzzy peacock blanket to wait for Dave while he did his mysterious nighttime thing in the studio. I listened to cars moving over wet tar in the dark outside my window and imagined that each whoosh of tires was a streak of light. Then I heard Dave come in the room and step out of his pants, letting his shirt drop on top of them. He leaves a mess behind him everywhere he goes, like a trail in case he gets lost. I didn’t bother complaining though, because I was so eager to get my hands on his naked, furry man-chest. I’d been waiting all day. It seems like I never see him anymore.


“Why do you like this so much?” Dave commented on my furtive chest hair grabbing. “I want to shave it off.”


“Ew, don’t do that,” I said. “Then you’ll look like a boy or some model. Hairy like this, you’re a grown man, a religious man. I bet you know how to chop wood, don’t you?” I yanked on a tuft and Dave said, “Ow.”


“When you have a shirt kind of open and other people can see it, it is the same as if your cock was hanging out,” I explained. “Because what is chest hair good for, other than rubbing on me in the act? Chest hair is a sex organ.”


“You want me to rub it on your face?”


I said, “Yes.” Then I said, “Stop, that tickles.” But he didn’t stop, and I pushed him away but he kept tickling me with it, so I shoved him off and called him a big ape and we were fighting again (as we have been on and off for the last couple of weeks . . . well, for the last couple of years). I turned my back on him and he did a half-hearted massage thing — kind of pressing his palm against my spine with no force whatsoever. I feared he was falling asleep. I thought of that big hard smooth cock I’d be denied just because of my temper. “Quit it!” I snapped. “This is the worse massage in the world.”


“Turn over,” he said. I couldn’t see a thing. I didn’t turn. “Just do it.” I did, halfway. “Now spread your legs.”


“Why?” I grumbled.


“Do it. Spread ’em.”


And he began an entirely different massage. He wound his hand in my hair and pulled it. I climbed onto his torso and rubbed myself against his erection with the front of my pelvis. I was wearing boy-unders, and Dave fit his cock inside the pee-pocket. I told him I’d had dirty dreams the night before.


“Tell me one.”


“We were at the indoor swimming pool, and JFK, Jr. was there. He did this perfect jackknife, and I—


“JFK, Jr.?” Dave said derisively.


“I know, I know. Even in my dream I knew I was being unoriginal. I mean, People‘s Sexiest Man Alive three years in a row? But that dive . . . I could see all twenty-eight stomach muscles ripple. When he came up, I said, ‘JFK, Jr., I know you’re dead, but your precision turned me on — do you want to have an affair?’ He said yes, and he pushed my bikini bottom aside and loomed between my legs. You were watching, Dave, and the cement gouged my shoulder blades . . . Well, he wasn’t that good in the end anyway. Fuck me!”


My boy-unders came off and I opened myself up with my hands and see-sawed down my husband’s penis. It took a long time, there was friction — the wetness never gets evenly distributed until the third or so stroke. It surprises me every single time I climb onto it, how good that first long slow slide-down feels. Each first time, I gasp. Dave started moving fast, poking at my uterus, then he shifted his angle so that it was pressing my bladder. I squeezed tight to feel the shape of the penis, the head, everything, but when I did that I was afraid I’d come right away, so I stopped. I felt happy. I felt Dave all over with my hands — his tight calves and bum that would be the perfect consistency for biting and his stomach . . . currently pulsating with his thrusts like JFK Jr.’s did with his perfect dive. I pulled on his neck and rustled through his hair and licked at his ear and pinned his thighs down with mine. I decided I might as well come. I got in my best orgasm position, left leg between his, right leg over. I scooped up that cock slowly and nudged him to thrust back against me so that his pelvis bone connected with my clitoris like a backwards shoehorn and it was this perfect thing. I was thinking, “I want it I want it I want it.” I love the sound of my voice saying Baby-baby, like I’ve been made flat and slipped into a paperback novel or a ’40s movie. Dave’s just my size, and lithe, and we moved all over each other, our limbs like paper dolls’ with hooks at the joints. All the motion in the room rode waves into the same hole. I was slipping down him, and I let the pleasure spread.


I was sad when it was over, because I’m always numb or at least disconnected from the reptilian center of my brain after I’ve come. I’d wasted the anticipation by letting it happen so soon. I kept up the movement for Dave’s sake, but then . . . something was different this time . . . the reptile didn’t go to sleep! She still wanted to mate! It hit like an actual punch when I started coming again. I almost didn’t like it. I lay still, panting. Dave was caught in his own revolutions. He touched my shoulder in a way I knew meant turn over. I got on my hands and knees and he got back in, bit my neck right through my hair. He bit anywhere — arm, back, even my head! I think he bit himself too, by accident. He wrapped my whole body up tight in his arms and legs, his movements became deliberate and I could feel something abstract from him — he’d stopped being himself, he’d become the tightening, like he always does just before he comes. I was saying stuff about “big” and “hard” — things I feel so embarrassed to admit now, but then, under the Chinese fuzzy blanket underneath the heavy darkness, with him tightening all around me, those words sounded right.


His right arm was around my waist; he pulled my hips up and into him. It was like his cock was trying to burst through my pelvis bone to meet his own fingers. I came. I thought he came with me but he hadn’t yet — he was still all tight. I reached around and wet my finger in the . . . well, there’s no way to say this except to just say it: I wet my finger in the juice and inserted it in my husband’s anus. I moved it in and out while simultaneously making circles — a tip Rachel had shared with me. (I keep my index finger nail short for this very purpose.) Meanwhile, my middle finger tapped the vein between the hole and scrotum. I could feel the vein swell and his penis swell and quiver. I brought my pinkie finger into the action by pressing against the underside of his cock inside my vaginal canal. He was lucky that I came before him, because I could concentrate on the intricacies of his coming. I said all those secret nighttime words, I told him I belonged to him, and then I could feel it shooting through that vein under my fingertips. I could actually feel the rush of sperm, and his whole body shot forward and he was lost and then he fell down on his back, pulling me over so that he didn’t have to pull out.


Dave passed me some tissues and promptly passed out. I felt the wakefulness begin to itch at the back of my brain. I started counting backwards up my body (a hundred is my toes, one is my scalp) and tried to think about something relaxing — I can’t remember what now. Maybe that Vogue and Gourmet would arrive in the mail the next day. The bedroom was all the way silent again, and the sounds of the cars outside returned, less frequent now. I kept my eyes open in the dark.


Lisa Carver and, Inc.