The Lisa Diaries

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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

I Was the Breeze

July 15, 1999

A friend told me that if you masturbate right before a date, it gives you a glow. I’d never taken her advice before, because I don’t like to masturbate. Pleasure has never been the motivating factor in sex for me; conquest is. I’m an only child, a girl who was supposed to be a boy, and a Scorpio to boot. All these things conspired to make me a person who wants only to seduce, to trick and be tricked. Under normal daily conditions, I’m very nice, but sexually I’m just not happy unless somebody’s nervous. And since I don’t intimidate myself in the least, What’s to masturbate about?


But today was my wedding day, and I really wanted to have a glow. In about two hours, Dave would arrive to take me to a twenty-by-twenty-foot island in New York where we would stand in the presence of
God (and the most well intentioned but long-winded minister there ever was), before whom every secret of the heart is disclosed, and become joined together in holy matrimony. So there I was on my back in the bottom of the tub with the hose in my hand, trying to squirt myself into bliss. I was sure this was a losing proposition. Then the arc of water became a computer-activated pleasure drill. It seemed to register my heat, as if equipped with the most sensitive of motion detectors. It was all part of a diabolical scheme concocted by a team of psychotic scientists: to give masturbation-hating girls like me pure pleasure in spite of ourselves. Using pleasure radar, they figured out I was the woman most strongly opposed to sensuality in this entire country, and so transported my bathtub, with me in it, to their laboratory. I was the perfect specimen. While hundreds of them watched me from behind two-way mirrors, I tried to get away. I squirmed all over that bathtub, but the Pleasure Drill followed my desperate wiggling in perfect sync. Plus, the tub was suspended thirty-feet in the air, and getting out would mean certain death. No escape there. These sinister scientists had thought of everything. Their dastardly aim was about three seconds from being realized when I heard a noise.


“Leese!” It was Dave. He bounded up my stairs, and burst into the bathroom. “I got real nervous, I woke up at five and couldn’t go back to sleep, so I came early.”


I scrambled upright into appropriate bathing position. But there was no water in the tub (all drained out). Dave looked perplexed. “What are you doing?” he asked.


“Nothing!” I snapped. “A bride’s ablutions are private. Quit bothering me!”


Caught masturbating on my wedding day — how low class!

We had a few hours to kill before meeting the minister, and Dave thought it would relax us to stop over in Concord, Massachusetts and visit Henry David Thoreau’s cabin.


Thoreau built a ten-by-fifteen-foot log cabin in the middle of a forest right next to a lovely pond, and lived in it for two years. Because he described it so well in his journal, the restoration society was able to build a perfect replica. (I wonder if someone will do something similar, 100 years from now, based on my journals. A wax museum of The Fifth Wheel, with the perpetually dirty proprietor leaning over the counter, ogling into eternity; Dave and me in one of the booths with my skirt up and Dave’s cock out; a sad, fat man in the next booth with penis in hand, leaning over to peer through the hole in the wall . . .)


All Thoreau owned was a narrow bed, a stove, a plain writing desk, and three chairs. This excited me. I remember he wrote something about wanting only the essentials so he could see what was true and real, and if he didn’t do this experimental life of isolation and contemplation, he feared he would die without ever having lived. I felt that way too, and immediately set about planning my sojourn into essentialism. Instead of a desk, I’d have only a laptop computer, so my cabin could be even two feet smaller than Thoreau’s! But I’d have to bring Dave too. We’d have nothing to do all day but fish and fight bears. If we killed one, we’d sew outfits from the fur and hang the meat in the smokehouse for the winter. I guess that means we’d have to build a smokehouse. (What is a smokehouse?) Anyway, we’d swim in the evening and then go to bed. We’d have to have a lot of sex, because there would be no TV and no parties to distract us. I wonder if Thoreau masturbated a lot.


We walked along a narrow path and found a stone walkway to the pond, hidden in the overgrowth. We sat on the last step and hung our feet into the water. People drifted by in canoes and hikers passed above. An unbroken line of tall, proud evergreens on the opposite shore made me feel majestic by association. A breeze rustled the leaves of the maple we leaned on like an adult’s hand mussing a small child’s hair. I reached my hand under the cuff of Dave’s loose tan shorts (we were in travel clothes, our wedding clothes hanging in plastic in the back of the car) and pulled out his penis. I wanted it to get some fresh air. I cupped some water in my other hand and poured it on. Dave was instantly hard. No one would see us unless they had binoculars or looked through the bushes just right. Of course, I kind of hoped they would.


Dave maneuvered me so I was standing in the stream between his legs, facing him. It began to feel as if the water was trickling up my thighs and the breeze had grown deliberate in its caresses. The whole world, all its elements, wanted nothing more than to make me come. Unlike the Pleasure Drill, this stuff was gentle and all-over, coming up off the water and down from the sky, the sensations indecipherable and merged. When I came, I was the breeze and the pond and the trees. It was so good. I wonder if Indians had better sex than us, being so pantheistic.


Back on the road, we passed fresh fruit stands and the succulent strawberries and peaches taunted me. Interrupted masturbation and one New Age fingering did not a fucking make. It had been a week — I could not take another twelve hours. “Pull over,” I said. Dave asked where; I didn’t care. There were still trees everywhere, and million-dollar houses. We pulled down a dirt road where one of the houses was under construction and parked behind it. There were monolithic slabs of stone all about, dominoes of the gods. A large, rusting yellow construction vehicle growled in our direction. The area felt like hot, heavy work. It felt like men.


We got out and took a quick look around for workers, then leapt into the back seat, flinging my wedding dress and his suit into the front. It was about 90 degrees — the plastic seats made it 110. The sunroof was open. I was on my back, watching a thin cloud hang itself on the sun. Birds were — not singing, more like making short, declarative statements in a circle above our heads. Soon I was making some declarations of my own.

Lisa Carver and