April 30, 2001

Look At Me!

This raven-haired naked lady was staring cross-eyed at the almost-coming

cock in her face, panting: "He he he, yum! Haaaaaa." She must have been on

coke. Either that or she's a Satanist. The man had a hole in his thigh!

Perhaps a weasel took a bite there. The Coke/Satanist/Insane Lady kept

laughing all the way through, even when the man had left the bed and she was

rubbing and rubbing his sperm into her nipples. She was trapped in a stained

twelve-inch screen; Dave and I were trapped too, in our doorless booth

watching her while the big men in coats shuffled by, their hands down, or

pointing to, their pants. We were hemmed in. Being in a dirty bookstore's back

booth is like wearing a chastity belt: you can't think about anything but

sex, but you're prevented from having it. Well, you're not exactly

prevented, but the strange, flaky-skinned men who aren't embarrassed at all

make you feel paralyzed.

The next day a guy Instant-Messaged me: "I'm working up a juicy load to

spray in your face." It was just awful enough to pique my interest, and then

he said, "If we're going to continue, you have to promise to not write about

it or talk about it from here on out." What could I do? I promised. (The

juicy load comment and the request for secrecy came before the promise;

that's why, ethically, I can tell you.) Normally my day goes: work,

errands, lunch, bills. But every once in a while some dirty opportunity

arises, and since I don't work in an actual office, I can drop everything

for the dirty thing, and then I can't wait for Dave to get home so I can

tell him. But this time when Dave arrived, I was stuck. I'd sworn secrecy.

Dave just went on saying things about his day, not really looking at me.

Then he looked. "What's wrong with you?" he said.

"Wanna watch me masturbate?" I burst out. No one's ever watched me

masturbate. I used to hump pillows like a dog. I'd be all over the place,

chasing that pillow across the carpet. I had rug burns on my knees from age

eleven to about twenty-two. But the longer I live, the less I move. I don't

think it's laziness; I think it's that I didn't used to be able to concentrate. Now all I do is lie under the tub faucet and I'm like a statue. Once my legs are spread and my back is arched, I simply flex, contract and hold. (When girls say they can't get into masturbation, it's

because no one told them to flex.) I would be the most boring porn star in

the world, if they shot me solo. All the activity is subdermal. They'd have

to use one of those peel-back devices like in medical textbooks — lift a

film off the TV screen to see my gently undulating musculature.

In answer to my masturbation invite, Dave said: "Sure. Just let me go to the

bathroom first." In the three minutes he was gone, I made myself

completely naked except for a headband with reindeer antlers and jingle

bells attached and lay down with my veiny pink friend (the "Realistic Penis"

vibrator) — my second favorite after the water faucet. Dave closed the door

behind him and didn't say anything about the antlers. "Now I'm not

going to try to be sexy," I warned him. "I'm just gonna do it like I really

do it, when you're not here." So I stuck the vibrator between my legs, put

two pillows on top and secured the whole thing with my heels (I assume a

sort of yoga position on my back with my knees spread wide and my feet

between my legs). I closed my eyes and waited. Nothing. I turned

up the vibrator. Still nothing. I couldn't concentrate! Half of my joy in

sex is describing it — both to the person who's there, and to the people

who will be reading about it later (I write in my head as I go along). It turns private moments into ghostly orgies. But the Juicy Load guy had locked me up inside my brain. He put me in sexual isolation! It felt like I was wearing a gag and handcuffs, but it wasn't goofy in the least,

because it wasn't a gag and handcuffs. It was worse! I threw my

pink friend across the room and pulled Dave into the walk-in closet and did

things in there that Dave did not recognize. It was mime. Since I

wasn't allowed to repeat to Dave what I'd done that day, I had to act it

out. Yes, I was a mime wearing reindeer antlers.

My very first spy sex was when I was twelve and we lived on

Sixth Street. Our neighbor was a red-headed floozie. She was visited once a

week by a portly, balding older man. As soon as they closed the door, the bedsprings would start

squeaking and she'd yell that he was tearing her apart. I'd put a drinking

glass up to the wall to hear better. She'd scream that his cock was

so large it was a train, and then I'd hear what must have been her head

banging against the headboard. It was inspiring. It gave me the impression

that sex is wildly joyful and that it doesn't matter what condition your

face or body is in — the important thing is to tear apart and to be torn.

She sucked that man up the stairs and down her cunt and he came out just a

little balder each time.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Lisa Carver is the author of the books Dancing Queen, Rollerderby, The Lisa Diaries and Drugs Are Nice. She's written for Hustler, Index, Icon, Feed, Newsday and Playboy, among others. She lives in New Hampshire.

Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.