The Lisa Diaries

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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

Sleepy Man

June 24, 1999

No one warned me about the crazy effects steroids can have. I live on a quiet street surrounded by dead ends. The night noises are low and gentle, friendly to lie with. I was exhausted from a sudden bronchitis, but the steroids (to reduce swelling in the lungs) created an unnatural, pulsing energy, which made me drift in and out of disturbing dreams all day, and stay awake all night, listening. The fizzing Canada Drys on my nightstand were like rain on a tin roof; cars scraped the air like sharks against coral reefs. After two nights, Dave came up from Boston. Sensing a living body nearby, my unnatural energy no longer pulsed — it surged. (The doctor had warned that steroids can make one ravenous, but I’d thought he meant for food.) It felt like there were literal flames licking my body. I didn’t care that it was hot — I liked it, but the licks weren’t hard enough. My steroid-activated pelvis shot up like the soul of a murder victim rising from the grave, and dragged my soggy-lunged, droopy body after it. The pelvis landed on Dave, and clamped down. Dave was motionless, afraid. I begged him to have sex with me. He groaned. Not a groan of passion, but a plea for mercy. The poor guy was exhausted — he’d already given it to me three times in a row mere hours before, and because I was sick I made him do all the work. But poor me, too. Was I in any position to worry about petty needs like sleep? I put my hand on his member and it was, blessedly, halfway to where I’d need it for penetration. I stroked it and whispered in his ear all the things I’ve never been able to say to him: porn movie phrases and wild emotional declarations. I sounded like a Chambers Brothers song. I would’ve done anything. At last he was hard enough for me to climb on top. He started rolling against me in sweet sleeping motions. It felt like mercy from God. It felt like rain on my tongue. In fact, it was as if my vaginal canal had grown fingers and tongues, and they were measuring the exact shape of the captured alien organ: every ridge and crevice and swelling vein. If Dave weren’t still asleep, he would know I’d been possessed by the devil and pull out — so I prayed for him to not come to full consciousness. My orgasm was an animal growing, taking shape — gathering a tiny leg from inside my leg, a tiny heart from inside my heart. Not quite like my leg or my heart, but slightly askew replicas. These miniature organs slowly, slowly drifted towards each other, drawn from my extremities to my center. The closer the parts got to the center, the more speed they gathered. It was like I was in a theater and the projector snagged; onscreen a fast thing was happening in slow, disjointed movements. As the projectionist tried to find the right speed, I saw each frame jerk by, and none of the action made sense. It got closer and closer to real time until at last the motion on the screen was seamless and perfect, and I became lost in the story. Once the parts of my orgasm were joined together, it felt like a real, whole being. It felt like it was growing a will of its own. I wondered if it would take over my body, change my thought processes, and live my life. Of course this was a totally creepy feeling, but it was so good and strong, I didn’t care that it was the opposite of normal. Then the licking fire was inside me, and it came roaring out. I could almost hear a forest fire crackling. At the same time, a cool, blue, protective bubble enveloped me, and I was safe like a newborn baby, and I was so happy I kissed Dave’s still-sleeping face and neck and shoulder and arm and head again and again and again, until the shark-cars moving outside sounded like just plain old cars, and the next morning I was all better.

Lisa Carver and