Lay-Down Closet

July 21, 2000

I've been sneaking out of the bedroom at night to spy on the men of the Home and Garden channel on cable. Henry says, "Go to the other end of the room, John, I'm going to bounce on the floor and you tell me if you can feel it." So Henry bounces and the camera focuses on his behind and you can actually see his butt muscles squeezing inside those tight, dusty jeans (plaid shirt tucked in), and John says, "It feels pretty good, Henry." "Well then," says Henry, "that proves we got a good stiff subfloor." Henry says he's going to "caulk all that" while John lubes the circular saw. I couldn't take it anymore. I told Dave we had to get a house of our own.

So yesterday we went to the bank. The mortgage man looked at my credit report and then at me and then back at the report and said, "Tsk, tsk."

I flirted hard with him, though, and it was going well (he didn't mention my collection bills in his letter to the lending company simply because he believed that I'd take care of them) until I had to leave the bank to host a chat, at which point Dave had to carry on alone. He's not nearly as good as me at flirting with banker-men. We were rejected.

July 24

Creditors are like rug-sellers: they love to bargain. I talked most of them down to accepting a quarter of what I owe them to clear my account — otherwise, I threatened, it could be years or never before they got paid. I love finagling and lying! With the IRS, however, there's no
fooling around. I gave them what they asked for and didn't dare raise my eyes to theirs while handing it over. All my life I've run from creditors and enforcers. My mom would load me and whatever stuff fit in the back of our car and sneak away in the night every time we got three months behind on rent. My father slept with his sneakers on, because he never knew when
federal agents or rival smugglers might come in. It sounds crazy, but it seemed like a normal life at the time — to run. Now I'm turning around and running into the arms of my lifelong enemies. I want to become my enemies. You know those beehive creatures on Star Trek, the ones who take over your mind and you lose everything you ever were and become one with them? I know it's supposed to scare you, but I always thought that was sexy. Maybe all domineering people secretly long to find someone or something they can't control or escape. They dream of losing.



July 26



We did it! We got our mortgage! We got our house! I felt a falling feeling when Dave put his name (and life savings) next to mine. Besides the fact that I'm not the bill-paying kind, I've also gone through more men than Elizabeth Taylor, yet Dave believes me when I say, You're different, I won't leave you — I'm going to love you forever and give you everything and make every mortgage payment for the rest of eternity. He must think he's pretty hot stuff, that he can tame the freebird. "Wanna fuck?" I whispered to my tamer. We were inside our new house (which we can't move into or even enter again until next month when all the paper work goes through) and the realtor was making sure all the doors and windows were locked.

"Why don't you ask Home Improvement Henry?" Dave whispered back. "Don't think I don't know what you've been doing at night. Slut."

I nodded. It was true.

I leaned against the double glass door the realtor had just checked and did something behind my back before leaving the house.

Ten minutes later, I turned our car around. I parked down a side street and doubled back by foot through the bushes. Dave jogged behind me, warning me about all the trouble we'd get in. By the time we were through the glass door and on the fuzzy stairs leading to the "master bedroom," his penis was out, up and in. We molested our way up the stairs and into the bedroom and then, because we were scared, into the empty walk-in closet, closing the door behind us. I was on top of Dave with one leg up and bent like I was climbing a mountain, and Dave took my foot in his hand and pushed it up further till I thought my legs would split and then it felt like my vulva was splitting and the clitoris itself seemed to open, and then I had a vision of sixteen shades of glistening red peeling back revealing the secret second clit inside, high up, and this one had been waiting my whole life to be exposed and touched, and I'm never going to watch TV again.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Lisa Carver is the author of the books Dancing Queen, Rollerderby, The Lisa Diaries and Drugs Are Nice. She's written for Hustler, Index, Icon, Feed, Newsday and Playboy, among others. She lives in New Hampshire.