May 28, 2001
How Sharks Do It
Everyone knows about the diary now. On Saturday I was making the moves on this nice married lady at a wedding where I knew practically no one. I think married women like me because to submit to a brief, friendly attack from an anonymous same-gender party guest is congruent with the morality of marriage in the twenty-first century. They already have their cake, and then I eat it. But halfway through the operation, she figured out why I seemed familiar to her she’s a diary reader. “Oh you’re Lisa Carver.” She knew then she was being set up to first get had and then get written, and she slipped away. My cover’s blown, everywhere I turn. I have to be more stealthy, learn to make my move from two miles away like the shark does. Sharks can hear and feel all over their body. From two miles, they can tell what a swimmer is made of (blubber vs. muscle) and how tired she is. When sharks have sex, they bite each other almost to death. They writhe against one another, wrapped tight in a blood blanket that slowly drifts away on a current when the act is done.
On Sunday, I was in an Italian restaurant with some friends. We were talking about “big sausages” and things of that nature. The beautiful and virile waiter he looked like the “after” model in a dandruff commercial heard it all. When I went up to the bar for a shot of tequila with tabasco sauce, he pushed the bartender out of the way and served it to me himself. It was extra large. My friends moved to join me, but I shooed them away with my foot while the waiter and I got to talking about anal sex. (First I asked him if he happened to read The Lisa Diaries. He said no; I said my name was Mary.) When I used dirty words, he flushed and wiped his hands on his apron, then he said he needed a drink. He took a sip from my glass, and when he put it down, he turned it so my lips would have to go where his had been. That made me blush my face and neck were so hot they hurt and I couldn’t speak. At this he became confident and detailed. He took the stick figure drawing my friend had made on a napkin of two people doing it backwards and drew a handprint on the girl-stick-figure’s ass. “That’s my method,” he explained. “You’re doing it regular, and then ‘Oops.’ It comes out and when you put it back in, it’s in the wrong hole. But at the same time, you do The Wraparound” that’s his arm circling from the back, with the middle finger crossed over the index finger for the strongest yet most controlled fingering action “and The Handprint” a spanking “so that it’s like a cyclone in her pelvic region and she’s not sure what’s happening.” On the one hand, this trickery is probably sexist. On the other, I didn’t care!
There was something off in his method: I know if something six inches long with a five-inch circumference accidentally landed in my ass, I’d know no matter the extenuating circumstances. I was halfway off my barstool thinking hard about my ass when it felt like the extra-large tequila had gone straight there, and it made me squirmy. Method-Man came around the bar to demonstrate not touching, just pantomiming over my parts. It was almost discreet, the way he shielded his movements from the patrons with his big strong Italian body and the floating white apron. I got so flustered that I ducked his non-embrace and ran out the door. I waited outside in the chilly drizzle for my friends to join me, and when they did, one of them told me she’d invited the waiter to a party I’m going to on June 7th. “No!” I said. All the tequila drained into my legs and it’s hard to stand on tequila. I’m not used to meeting a bigger shark; I don’t have any practice in being out-hunted. I was nervously counting the days till the party when the waiter came running out saying, “You forgot this!” He dipped me back and kissed my neck hard and when I thought it was over he spanked my ass with a hand made muscular through carrying six plates at a time of delicious shrimp and zucchini pasta.
Along with the polar bear and the Nile crocodile, the great white shark is known as an apex predator she eats, but is not eaten . . . except by one of her own kind who’s bigger. On June 7th, I’ll be there with my fin down, and between now and then I’ll try to eat a lot of ice cream and steak to put a nice layer of blubber on my hips. He’ll smell my internal composition from across the room so much more savory to the Italian Jaws than those skinny, stringy, muscular New Yorkers and he’ll glide past the other guests like seaweed to get to me, and he’ll take a bite. While surveying the crowd for him, I’ll bend a hangnail back till just one little drop of blood beads out.
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.