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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  
 


Punching a Dog in the Face


July 22, 1999




“Good girl,” Dave murmured. I was driving and stroking his cock the way I’d watched him do it, pulling down hard and then squeezing my way back to the top, rather than moving in my own more swirling style. It looked so good, the black seat belt tucked tight under it like half a cock ring. I felt hot all over at his approval; I don’t think he ever called me a good girl before. I also wanted to do it wrong so he’d slap my hand away — maybe even slap my face. I dug my nails right into the head, and he yelled at me just like I’d wanted. As I melted down into my seat, my other hand melted off the wheel and the car weaved for the hundredth time that morning.


    

We were caught in a sex nightmare. Knowing we were on our way to get married and couldn’t have sex made our pants too tight. His cock was constantly out, my panties were balled up under the pedals, our hands kept darting where they didn’t belong. Since I’d proved too dangerous a stroker, Dave was once again stroking himself, and then all of a sudden I heard this big Slap! The sound of it filled the car. He’d spanked that tenderest of flesh. It seemed the dirtiest thing I’d ever witnessed or even thought of: that someone could be so in love with the attractiveness of their own form they’d be moved to violence. Like that character in JD Salinger’s Nine Stories who, overwhelmed by the mystery of beauty, throws a rock at the face of the little girl

housing that beauty. He is paying the girl a primordial homage, his passion all twisted up — but to feel that for oneself, to see such depth and awesome beauty in one’s own member . . . Dave’s narcissism had reached new heights (or depths?), and the total wrongness of it — on the day he was supposed to be marrying me, not his own cock — careened me into ecstasy. Unaware of my shock and turmoil, Dave did the slap again and I pulled the car over. “I want that cock and I’m going to have it,” I informed him. “Now.” He had been
saying no for the last half-hour to me, but now he didn’t say a word. Anyone could tell this was an emergency situation, and if I didn’t get that slapped thing inside me that very moment, I was going to kill somebody. I reached down between his legs to let his seat back, straddled him, and in five minutes we were back on the road.


    

On the ferry from northern Vermont to New York we could not stop pawing each other. There was a rusty hook by the railing, and I told Dave to watch while I lifted my skirt and halfway stuck it up my ass (my underwear was back on). There was a bleach blonde in the captain’s glassed-in quarters on top; we wondered if she had to give him a hand job for the privilege of entering that high sanctuary. We could only see them from the shoulders up — maybe she was jerking him off that
very moment. I didn’t know why we were being so compulsively lewd. “I feel like I’m not inside my body,” Dave said, “like someone else is moving my limbs and I just have to go along.” I felt like the real me was shrunk down small, like the mannequin’s trapped soul. I knew I should say something romantic, or at least friendly — something to acknowledge the significance of the lifelong vows we were about to make — but I adjusted myself deeper onto the rusty hook instead.


    

The road to Lake Placid is lined with perfect trees, and dips up and down with the mountains so you lose your stomach at five-minute intervals. The town of Lake Placid is just that: placid. Golfers and skiers go there, bringing their well-behaved wives and one or two children, renting
slow boats and eating utterly white-man food. The local people really like logs. They sit on them; carve WELCOME bears out of them; sell
fossilized versions of them, sliced into tabletops, to tourists for thousands of dollars. Lake Placid is also home to many rare birds; passersby wear binoculars and carry guidebooks for identification purposes. I’d never had anything against birdwatching before; in fact I think if I’d ever given it a thought, I’d have been for the whole idea. Now, a brutal hysteria was welling inside me. I felt compelled to rip the binoculars off these people’s necks and say, “They’re just a bunch of birds! I hate you! Be gone!”


    

At the front desk of the hotel, in a padded envelope, were waiting the black silk shorts I’d ordered for Dave as a wedding present. (He gave me a heavy silver necklace, similar to my manacle-like engagement ring.) In our room, he tried the shorts on. If I squinted, they looked like a skirt. They felt like a skirt. I imagined I was a boss harassing my secretary. She was in love with me and had worn this short silky skirt to try to seduce me. But after I got her halfway there, I told her no, first she had to do something for me. “What?” she said, scared, tremulous. “I need you to fuck today’s business client for me on my desk while I watch through a crack in the door. He’s sixty years old.” Well, she turned out to be a little slut, agreeing immediately. (So this was really Dave in the shorts on top of me on a Ramada Inn nightstand — I was the sixty year old ). After she did that, I told her she had to do one more thing for me: buy my wife lingerie. “After tenderly making love to my wife in the nightie you pick out,” I told the whorey secretary, “then maybe I’ll bring in the soiled things for you to put on while I fuck you up the ass. Would you like that?” Then I did it, sticking my finger deep inside Dave — I’d never gone far in like that before, but I felt possessed by badness. I had no consideration at all. He was all tensed up around my finger. “Relax,” I said. He didn’t really have a choice, because I wasn’t stopping.






    

After it was over, we guiltily and hurriedly got into our wedding clothes. Dave — who apparently hadn’t had enough, even after getting raped the regular way and up the ass — said he wondered if Dr. Grinder, our minister, would try anything on the boat. He had the poor man pushing him (Dave) down and Mrs. Grinder (their real name) tying him to the mast and kissing him; making him suck her old lady tongue and then stripping to reveal her well-preserved form. Meanwhile Dr. Grinder had me wedged up against the wheel and was pressing his wizened erection against my pink satin wedding-dressed ass.


    

There was come everywhere — on the silk shorts, on my silver necklace, on our wedding clothes, on The Ramada. Our whole lives had been stripped down to coming or not coming, nothing more. I felt like I was on an island and the food was running out with no rescue team in sight. I felt trapped in marriage and sex; I couldn’t stop either one. I literally burst into tears — tears shooting straight out over the clenched fists I’d jammed into my eyes. “What you need is some exercise,” Dave decided. He looked crazed as he forced me, in my satin dress, onto the floor to do push-ups. I insisted I couldn’t do push-ups but he didn’t believe me. He put his foot on my back and pressed down for some horrible reason. “Women don’t have the upper body strength!” I screamed. “That’s why they’re not firemen!”


    

“Okay, then do fifty jumping jacks,” he said, hoisting me up and backing me against the wall. It was like he’d become Mrs. Grinder, tying me to the mast. “C’mon, start the jumping jacks now! It’ll knock us back into real time. I always do what you say, and now it’s time for you to do what I say, whether it seems crazy or not, to prove that you love me. I’m not marrying you until you do it.” I shoved him away and ran out the door, then I ran back in to yell, “I don’t take kindly to threats!” before leaving again. I took a long walk in the rain, ruining my dress, making us late. I felt peaceful and strong. A dog barked viciously, and I wasn’t scared at all. I willed him to come attack me so I could punch him in the face. What if he mauled my arm though? Oh, I didn’t care. Rip my arm, rip my throat, I thought — I’ll punch you and kick you and bite your face off. I’d had enough in this life, enough drama and emotions and threats — they couldn’t hurt me anymore. I turned around and headed back to the hotel. In my hysteria and dissoluteness and sudden grief, I didn’t feel any love or excitement or anything. I was going to my wedding only because it was scheduled for seven o’clock. I went like one goes to a waitressing shift with a sore stomach — not because one wants to or sees any greater reason to, but because they’re all waiting for you.









©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com