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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  


Meat Product Hands


August 5, 1999




I feel silly for having worried so much over my new marriage. I think of an immigrant coming here a hundred years ago on a six-week voyage with no citrus, dirty and scabby and not terribly welcome, and he gets off the boat and what in hell does he do now? When I think of how he just did it, whatever it was; when I think of how some women have seven children and they don’t yell at them that much . . . Well, it makes me want to be brave, to not blame Dave for whatever my parents never gave me, like security or continuity.


    

My heart light again, I jerked Dave off and then sent him to the store for milk and bread and a Chunky bar while I planned my trick.


    

When he returned, I told him we had to go to Home Depot right away. I acted distracted and irritable to keep him from guessing anything special might be happening, and then I pulled over in front of the massage building. He asked what I was doing. He knows my aversion to slow and sensual things, so he didn’t consider the possibility of a massage appointment. The other half of the building is rented by an optometrist. “Are you going to force me to have an eye exam?” Dave guessed. Kinky eye probing possibilities suddenly presented themselves, and I regretted I hadn’t thought of that myself.


    

I pulled out the dirty magazine I’d purchased for the occasion — one of those half-size, poorly-written ones on newsprint that stains your hands, with ’80s fashion photos that don’t quite match the plot — and began reading aloud. The story was low, cheesy, uninformed on female anatomy and reaction. A studly young man who is renting a room visits the master bedroom after the husband leaves for work. He shows the sexy housewife his throbbing penis and says, “It hurts.” They discover it doesn’t hurt so much if he puts it between her legs. The sentences were like this: “The muscular young buck tenant lapped up her nectar snail slime trail.” As I read, I pictured the unattractive masturbator-writer cashing his fifty-buck writer’s fee and spending it on strippers, masturbating all anew thinking about women like me getting hot over what he wrote. There was a photo of Muscular Young Buck Tenant’s cock. It took up the whole page, it was almost lifesize. I rubbed it up and down Dave’s member, now freed from his pants. That’s when he figured it out. “You hired a male masseuse for me, didn’t you? You’d do anything to get me felt up by another man. You tricked me!”


    

I felt such glee at Dave’s terror. In the waiting room, I squeezed his hand and tried to say something reassuring, but I couldn’t. It was like when someone falls down the stairs and I have to really concentrate on not laughing while galloping down to help them. I was blushing at the thought of the man-hands about to glide all over Dave’s naked body — one of the questions on the forms we filled out was, “How comfortable are you with attention to the gluteus maximus area?” I had to hide my face in my hands: I was afraid we’d be kicked out for taking this healing art too sexually.


    

Dave’s man came for him. He was big and goofy, like a grade school gym teacher. He was meaty or beefy or hunky — you would definitely never feel the need to compare him to a vegetable or vegetarian. I liked him that way. I mean, I liked a large meat man handling my skinny little Dave. Chunky fingers. Frankenstein hands. Ready to be all over my man’s tight young gluteus maximus. (I’d reached over to write in “Very” on the “how comfortable are you” ass question on Dave’s form.)
    Then my masseuse arrived. Matronly, bespectacled, and rather bouffanted . . . I guess you’d wind up comparing Marie to meat products, too.


    

Marie led me into a darkened room that was crawling with plastic grape leaves and glass harp music. She told me to remove my clothes, get on the table, and not think about anything. I’ve always enjoyed being told what to think. Of course I do the opposite of whatever is requested of me, but I find the attempted intrusion flirtatious. When I worked as a prostitute in a massage parlor, I’d instruct men similarly: Get comfortable, get on the table, don’t worry about a thing.


    

Tables are the traditional spot for getting felt up by people other than one’s spouse. My surgeon took a knife to my breast flesh on a table. My gynecologist pokes me on one. Aliens have been known to use their anal probes there. In Victorian times, women diagnosed with hysteria would climb onto the doctor’s table once a month or so to be massaged on the stomach and vulva “to crisis.” You can do all sorts of sexy things to strangers, as long as you wear white and do it on a table.


    

Marie guided my face into the “head cup” attached to the table. From then on I didn’t see anything. She ran her fingers through my hair, spread my legs wide open, kneaded and smoothed my entire body. All my worries went away, and then so did my sex thoughts. I floated. I lost my personality. I started thinking maybe I’d underestimated new age music. Marie held my hand and tickled each finger from the base to the tip, then bent each one back till it almost hurt. “Everything that happens to me is happening to Dave in the next room,” I remembered. Was Dave getting an involuntary erection? How would Meat Hands react?


    

There was a crash! Had Meat Hands tried something funny, was there a skirmish and that noise was Dave hitting the wall in an escape attempt? Or was it the opposite . . . ?


    

Marie told me to turn over. I snuck a peak at her for the first time in almost an hour. Marie was a druid! Lights reflecting off her glasses looked like tiny lit-up eyes; her tall hairdo showed itself to be a secret hood; her full body had turned into a heavy cloak. It all made sense now: this whole building was probably a druids headquarters. In the guise of masseuses and optometrists, they worked their dark powers through subtle and magnificent fingertips. I liked Marie more as a druid. I closed my eyes again and truly enjoyed the last fifteen minutes of her ministrations.


    

Afterwards, Dave and I were shy. We’d been through something private and new separately, for the first time. We’d been on The Table. There was a secret now in our marriage — not something we’d lie about, but a thing small and magical and difficult to convey. I liked him better not knowing him this way.







©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com