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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  
 

Bad Men Rising


June 15, 1999




After the Matt incident, Dave encouraged my roving fantasies more than ever. He was furious, though of course he didn’t show it; he was letting me build up an arsenal with which to gun myself down. It started when he asked me to repeat a fluttering little fantasy I’d once had about my landlord: after fixing my faucets the old fellow comes into my office and fucks me. That’s all it was, the simplest, shortest fantasy anyone ever had — but Dave kept asking me to tell it “one more time” until it began to gather details in the retellings. I could hear the dry rustling over the telephone line while Dave stroked himself, and I started pushing against my pillows. The story grew and grew. By the end, you’d think I was wildly in love with the scarecrow-like, dandruffy sixty year old — mere days away from running off into the sunset with him.


    

Next Dave brought up his former boss, Mustache Man, who apparently wears cowboy boots and jeans and is rudely lascivious. Dave wondered: If he brought me to Mustache Man’s office and waited in the lobby, would I fuck him? I’d never met him. The idea seemed so incongruous I said yes. I meant it. Then he brought up our sex shop owner, Fifth Wheel Man. I also agreed to sex with him, or maybe just a blowjob. Having sex with one ugly incubus after another had completely eroded my will; there was nothing left of me but parted thighs. It was oddly comforting. I didn’t need to make any decisions about my career or family, not now, not when there was still a long line of erect men waiting to fuck me.


    

“Do you think he’d be better than me?” Dave asked about The Fifth Wheel Man.


    

“Of course not!”


    

“He must have had so much experience. Maybe he’d give it to you really hard, and just for a second you’d think it was the best fuck of your life, better than you ever had with me.”


    

I denied it.


    

“Say it. I want to hear you say it.” He waited. I couldn’t. “Please do this for me. I can’t explain it, I just need you to say you’d like it more with him.”


    

I was a little weirded-out by the turn the conversation had taken, and fell out of the mood. But I could hear that Dave was almost ready to come, so I chose my words carefully: “He would probably move faster than you in picking someone up. You like to play cat and mouse. Fifth Wheel Man’s more primitive. If I stepped behind the counter and said, ‘Let’s fuck,’ he’d probably unzip his pants without even asking my name.”


    

Dave was audibly liking that idea. “If The Fifth Wheel Man and I were in a diner, and you didn’t know either of us, who do you think you’d go home with?”


    

“Fifth Wheel Man. I’d like you more if I talked to you, and I’d think you were cute, but if I was in the mood and Fifth Wheel Man sensed it, he’d make his move in five seconds. We wouldn’t even make it to his house — he’d have me in the front seat of his car, right there in the parking lot. The waitress would be watching, you’d be watching —”


    

There was a sigh on the other end of the telephone line and then a silence, and then Dave came back with his voice totally different. “You are a disgusting lady, do you know that? You have a filthy mind. I want to throw up right now.”


    

I laughed weakly.


    

“I’m not kidding. I want to go to the bathroom and throw up, for real.”


    

I didn’t know what this was about, but I wasn’t about to let anyone make me ashamed, especially not with such oafish tactics. “Yeah, the entire diner would be watching,” I shot back, “and that’s all you’d ever have of me — one night of watching me fuck the proprietor of a porno shop. You’d never get to know me at all.” Then I hung up and cried and cried and cried.









©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com