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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  
 

Air Hockey and Dirty Whores


May 6, 1999




Dave met a very tall, very skinny woman and her gay friend in a bar. The gay friend told Dave that he looks like a Russian porn star (how many of those are there?), and Birdy-Woman was turning and turning and turning the rawhide string tied around Dave’s neck, saying how sexy it was. “It’s just a string,” he told her. “Oh. Maybe it’s your neck that’s sexy, then,” said Miss Subtle. Apparently they were staring and staring into each other’s eyes, and finally he said, “Do you want to go over there and kiss?” She did want to. And then she took him into the ladies’ room and turned off the light. That’s my move! He told her about my stipulation, that if they had sex, they’d have to be near a phone and she’d have to describe everything to me. She was horrified yet (he said) mesmerized. “I . . . I think I’m in love with your girlfriend!” she gasped. Then she showed him her breast.


    

I was upset and jealous. With the Bettie Page girl, it was just a circumstance. She seemed like a nice person, funny and casual and sexy — somebody’s best friend. Whereas with this other one, there was something vicious and lone-wolf about her. It was like she was turning him on — not just the situation. She was taking control and putting her big strong hands all over my territory. Anyway, when they came out of the bathroom, someone had stolen her purse, and she yelled at Dave and it broke the mood; they slept together but didn’t have sex.


    

I only like to picture my boyfriend with women I’d find attractive, and I don’t like his type. He goes for these tall, skinny, almost hardened women. Ones with cruel faces and glasses. The aggressive sort with a sassy gay friend in tow. I see these women as a monstrous, shallow version of me, and I am horrified. I like sweet little soft bunnies for girls, kind of dumb, giggly. Maybe a little drunk. Girls who smell good and do what I say. A nice ass, a good time, a sense of adventure.


    

It’s strange, because he’s having all these experiences and I haven’t had even the tiniest desire to flirt with anyone. I saw my old boyfriend by surprise last week. He looked so fine; he hasn’t changed at all. He was trembling and kind of trying to get away from me, was hostile but at the same time couldn’t stop staring at me. I love that stuff, it makes me feel predatorial. But I had zero will to kiss him. The only stirring I’ve had was when I played air hockey with Melissa Jasper. She was calling me “bitch” and “dirty whore.” (I never cared for that language before Dave, but now I can’t hear it without responding down there like Pavlov’s dog.) Melissa’s amazing bosom bounced up and down right over the slot I was concentrating on with all my being, trying to get the flying puck in — but desire never fully took over. When the game was done I drifted off to play video poker, which excited me maybe more than the fulsome decolletage and name-calling had. I cannot seem to get it into my head that Dave is still attracted to other people when I am not. In all my old relationships, I was the wild one, the runaround flirting one. How can someone be better than me at what I’m best at? It’s like a math problem that keeps showing me the wrong answer.


    

So I revoked his privileges. He was on a pay phone at a truck stop in New Mexico when I told him, and he asked me to say it again. He’d gotten an erection from me saying no. I told him all the things he’s not allowed to do and he got more and more excited till he had to hang up because it was getting too obscene (he didn’t have a coat to cover his pants). I’m just glad that Stork-Woman’s purse got stolen, because if that hadn’t happened, other stuff would have. And really thinking about it — the cock that’s between the legs of the man I love, stiff and filled with blood, pushing against that woman, parting her, entering her and actually being inside her — I realized I don’t want that at all. If I’m there and someone wants to touch it, that’s okay, but they don’t get to have it.









©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com