This Lisa Diaries

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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  


June 1, 2000

Half-a-dozen half-naked ladies were squeezed onto one saggy couch in the center of an otherwise empty, dark room. Dave and I edged closer. We were at Black Lace, a porn store rumored to have live strippers. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could make out black cubicles lining every wall, like black telephone booths. “You pick a girl and she goes into one booth and you go into the next one,” a man at the register in an adjacent room hollered. I asked Dave who he wanted, and he said “Her.” Her was a tall brunette, very similar to Tiffani-Amber Thiessen, except that Tiffani-Amber
has a moon face and this girl had a three-quarters moon face — and was all the lovelier for it. She led us to one of the cubicles and she stepped into the next one and pushed a button that raised the shade over the window between the cubicles. She was wearing a pink fuzzy bra and g-string and spoke to us through an intercom. “How are you?” she said.


“Fine!” I answered. “How are you?”


“Good, thanks.” She smiled what looked like a real smile, as if we were suburban neighbors getting together for coffee, and she just happened to have a glass wall dividing her kitchen table, and an intercom system. “It’s fifteen dollars for me to remove my top,” my new neighbor was saying.
“Another fifteen for the bottoms. Plus a dollar a minute for dancing. Put your money through that little hole up top, and make yourselves as comfortable as you like.”


The girl put in a Prince tape and took off her top and smiled the real smile again. She was so beautiful: tall and strong and her breasts were real. A little flower glittered in the corner of her coffee-colored hair, and her face was just so nice. I suppose this isn’t the most specific of descriptions: just picture the prettiest, nicest, sexiest woman, someone you
wouldn’t think would ever strip, someone not the least bit sullied-looking. Someone who gets sleepy at nine p.m.


She started dancing. She didn’t try to blur her movements with speed — every leg lift and shimmy was purposeful. She looked into our eyes. She jumped up and did a split and braced herself with one foot on the door and one on the opposite wall and just stayed there, barely moving — not touching the floor, legs wide open. Slowly, slowly, she bent back until her hands were on the wall behind her and we couldn’t see her head at all — just a curved, trembling, suspended torso, nipples pointing to the sky. Then she jumped down and looked really proud of herself. She raised her knee to her mouth and licked it, turned around and spanked herself, then between her legs her grinning face popped up. Dave was, unbelievably, unerect.


“What’s wrong?” I whispered. He gestured helplessly. I loosened his tie for him. This is a guy who gets an erection over opening a box of cereal. He was probably intimidated: she was so perfect, so good. She was Spiderwoman crawling up the walls, her entire body beaded with sweat. Slow naked dancing ought to be an Olympic sport. She raised one foot above her head (grasping it tight with both arms) as she rotated on the other foot’s tiptoes — a ballerina in a little girl’s music box. Then she hurled herself against the glass, squashing her boobies inches from our faces, and licked the glass. I felt Dave’s pants again. Even limper!


“Put your hand inside my pants,” he implored.


“I can’t! I can’t!” I said, and made the same helpless gesture Dave had a minute ago. So this is what it feels like to be shy, I thought. The licking and squashing frenzy continued, while every inch of her body behind the glass-flattened tongue and breasts and palms moved rhythmically and her heavy hair swayed. The entire spectrum of sexuality was contained in that four-by-three-by-six-foot black box, like it was a black hole or that “Orgone Box” Wilhelm Reich invented to suck up orgasm energy and use it to cure cancer. She looked so potent in there. Dave and I were probably getting cancer that very minute because she was hogging all the orgones. Anything I could ever do in bed (or in a booth), she’d made it her own. There was only one thing this woman didn’t have: the cock.


“I want you to stroke yourself,” I said to Dave, “like you’re just some guy in a strip place and I’m spying on you.”


“No, you do it!” he hissed. “C’mon, Leese, please?”


“No, you!”


Checking each corner — as if there might be a really small spy in the box with us —
Dave put his hands down his pants. This seemed to cause a bit of a rise, but the pants were obscuring my view.


“Take it out, Dave, take it out!”


“No, not yet . . . she’ll think it’s little.”


She was crouched down, snarling and clawing the window. We could hear her growls! Was this part of her normal routine, I wondered, or . . . She must have burned about a million calories in the last ten minutes alone. How could she keep this up all day long? I pictured her wolfing down spaghetti and breadsticks and salads and mango-yogurt drinks in between clients. But all the eye contact and personal attention — it’s like she was burning calories in her soul, too. How could she give so much?


At last the penis was large and set free. The girl stared straight at it, and made biting motions. Then she turned around and slapped her ass again, and rubbed it circularly against the glass. Dave was mesmerized by that swirling ass; his face and his pelvis were being pulled towards it (giving him really bad posture). When he looked like he was about to come, I instructed him to shoot it on the glass. I thought that would be so dirty. I licked his ear. Suddenly, the wall came down over the glass. We could see her legs, still dancing, then only her ankles, and then nothing.


Dave was confused and crushed. The money was gone. We stared at his boner. I said, “You wanna wrap that up and take it home?”

Lisa Carver and, Inc.