A Whorey, Whorey Week
August 3, 2000
I. The Gross Guy
Once Dave was softened up by Thai food, I told him my plan to hold a contest in my Nerve chat and have sex with the winner. I explained that Dave would be the second prize. “I have to do this, Dave,” I claimed. “It’s my job.” Dave used to fight my ideas for months, then for weeks. Then he just sort of gave up. “How do you know you’ll be attracted to them?” was all he said. “What questions will you ask to find out?”
“Oh I don’t want to know what they’re like! I’ll ask only factual questions. Multiple choice. It’ll be all luck. Anyone can have sex with people they’re attracted to. I want no-choice sex. I hope I get The Gross Guy. You can hide in the closet and watch, Dave!”
“Give me your hand,” Dave said. “No, under the table.” And my hand discovered that Dave is excited by The Gross Guy too. This is really sick and wrong, I think. I’m embarrassed even writing it down. And yet it’s so compelling!
Maybe three years ago I read between the lines in a Hollywood Madame’s tell-all (but change-the-names) book that when Rod Stewart found out one of his ex-wives was a prostitute, he hired her and fucked her up the ass while his new, much younger wife watched and sucked those slightly saggy boobies. That was the first time in my life I thought, “Now that’s too
depraved.” Our post-Thai conversation was the second.
Laura and Albert look and act like me and Dave. Poor Albert tries to be a man, and Laura constantly interrupts him with uninformed ejaculations just like I do to Dave: “You were not almost in an avalanche, Albert! You never told me that, so it couldn’t be true! Oh, that’s right, you did tell me . . . okay, you were almost in an avalanche. You can finish the story. What do you mean you don’t remember now?” Or, when Albert was trying to tell us something (we never did find out what) about this retired greyhound, Laura burst out, “It’s a zoo animal! It’s a zoo animal! It sits in its cage twenty-three and a half hours a day with the door open, then it comes out and runs around the yard then it goes back in its cage. A zoo animal!”
Now, I may not have sexual standards, plural, but I do have one: absolutely no sleeping with my kid’s friends’ moms. But Laura is so sexual, she’s like a zoo animal herself. I can picture her for sale in a shop. “How much is that zoo animal?” “Oh, it’s free to anyone who can get it out of here. It keeps breaking out of its cage at night and eating up all the other merchandise!” One time we were at the park and our kids were playing tag, and one of them came over and tagged Laura. She got up and lunged for me, making noises like a raptor. She was really into the chase and I didn’t know what she’d do to me if she caught me. I felt genuinely scared.
Last night we went to their house for dinner. Laura served lobster and corn on the cob and wine melted butter dripped on everything. Laura’s bad enough when sober, but get a few glasses of something into her and . . . She and I were cleaning up, the men and kids were in the next room. She got within half an inch of my face and said, “Do you need anything? Lipstick?” I was sure she’d smush her mouth on mine if I said yes, grinding her purplish gloss into my licked-clean lips. Just then Dave wandered in, and Laura put her hand in my husband’s shirt! He was trying to get away, and she was ruffling his chest hair like a madwoman! I think she never noticed that he has chest hair before, and it put a spell on her. (She and Albert attended my Naked Party, but Dave’s arms and legs were curled up protectively around his chest that entire night.) Then the storm passed and she said, “Oh!” She was as surprised at her action as we were. “I . . . I thought you had a flesh-colored undershirt on,” she said, as if that was an explanation.
“Well, we got out of there alive,” Dave said as we pulled out of the driveway, Wolfgang asleep in the back. “What’s going to happen on Sunday when we all go dancing, and there’s no kids there to protect us?”
III. The Keeper
“I was looking out the window today, and . . . no,” Dave interrupted himself, “I can’t say. It’s too bad.”
“What? What?” I cried.
“Well, I wasn’t going to tell you, but . . . you know that new Keeper-Lady they have at the halfway house next door?”
“The one who jogs to work?”
“Yeah,” Dave breathed, making the word sound like mist. “Well today I saw her and she had a sleeveless shirt on and her arms are well-defined and I started thinking about her coming over here and saying, ‘Listen, you!’ and she’d make you sit in a chair and then she’d make me sit in a chair.”
“And then what?”
“Well, that’s it. Then she’d leave.”
“Then she’d leave?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” he misted.
“Dave, imagine you wrote that as a story in one of those smut magazines? The guy would be reading on the toilet and then he’d go, ‘Huh?’ and he’d be mad at you!”
“No, he’d know. He’d know what I mean. He’d save that story, he’d use it for years.”
“Dave, um, I don’t think he’d know.”
I still desire Dave’s boyhood friend Matt. It’s pathetic. I met him once. He calls every three months and asks for Dave and ignores me. He has funny-looking ears. He’s probably balding by now it has been a year and a half since I saw him. When he’s bald, his head will look very funny with nothing to distract from those ears. No, he’s not funny-looking. He’s handsome and wonderful. I want him to have me. I’ve been reading about The Snob in one of those Time-Life books. It says that “to hide his inner emptiness, the snob tries always to clamber to the top of the heap. Reality
is the only price he will not pay, for he never understands that airs and graces do not make the man.” That describes Matt to a tee. And oh lord I want his airs and graces to cascade over me. This morning when Dave left for work, I called up Matt’s answering machine and went on and on about flooring (since Matt’s an architect). I’m a grown woman calling with fake excuses. I explained that I didn’t want wood floors because they get scratched and swollen so easily, especially since we’re getting a puppy, and does he think we should go with laminate? I just wanted to say “scratched and swollen” to him. He didn’t call back. And later that night Dave revealed that he, too, had left a message about floors to Matt. Now we’re both pathetic. We’re a depraved, terrible couple. We’re worse than Laura! And now, when Matt checks his messages, he’ll know!
Right before going out dancing with Laura and Albert and Dave, I ran across the driveway in my flip-flops to get the phone, and I fell over my own feet and ripped the skin off my entire toe. So I put on the world’s bulkiest bandage and just sat there all night with a sour look on my face, watching those three dance with each other. All I did was throb. A stripper-man came over and made me buy a shot by hypnotizing me with his penis in his little Speedo. But even if he weren’t just teasing me, I still couldn’t have had sex with him my toe hurt too much! The next day, the guy who won me in the chat contest immediately forfeited his prize, claiming his loved one wouldn’t let him, but I don’t think he has a loved one, since he just took out a Nerve personal! And the 5’7″, 115 pound woman who won Dave turned out to be a man! All Dave and I want is to be perverts, and the world won’t let us. Even the Keeper-Lady who works at the halfway house has taken to wearing long sleeves in August, as if out of spite.
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.