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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  



Wax Murderer


August 11, 1999




Right up the street from my house is The Woodman Institute, started in
1675. It contains taxidermied animals locked in struggle. A ferret and
a cobra hiss at each other, their long bodies in a death grip for eternity; birds peck bloody holes in each other for reasons not given on the placards. A two-headed snake and a four-legged chicken dance around a wild-eyed Boy Scout dummy. In another room, sepia-colored photos of impossibly old people — the founders? — look down on the saddle Abraham Lincoln rode in right before he was assassinated; there are swords, bayonets, revolvers, corroded cannonballs, bullets, shrapnel, a chain armor vest . . . The message seems to be this: on the battlefield and in the woods — indeed, at the theatre if you’re Abe Lincoln — life is treacherous. (Why was the Boy Scout part of the collection, I wonder?)


    

At the end of our tour, in a separate house, Dave and I saw a
mechanical stabbing lady made of wax. She was kneeling, her back to
us, over a bathtub where lay her bloody husband. She stabbed him slowly, over and over again. With her blond hair, bathrobe and nice figure — as well as her sexy, somnambulistic thrust — she looked like one of Alfred Hitchcock or Roman Polanski’s leading ladies, like she should have been in black and white. You couldn’t see her face, but you could tell she was beautiful.


    

“You could walk in the room and she’d just keep repeating the motion,” said Dave, his palms and nose flattened against the glass. We were only a
foot or two away from the striking woman. “You could have sex
with her right there. She probably wouldn’t even realize what was
happening until she started to like it.”


    

“Dave, she’s a murderess.


    

“Yes, that’s the thing. You’d have to make the sex really good and
enthrall her or she might kill you. It’s a challenge. She’s
unpredictable. She’d always be looking away. Talk about mysterious!”


    

When Dave met me, he not only believed me to be half-insane, he also
harbored suspicions that I was a transsexual! It was this, I believe,
more than my sparkling wit, that made him decide to get in bed with
me. He likes crazy women. He wants them to do something unexpected to
his life.


    

“What do you think she’s thinking?” he mused. “He wasn’t good enough . . . thud! . . . I don’t
like working and I don’t like the way people are, they’re ugly and
scary
 . . . thud! . . . People try to touch me . . . thud! . . . People always look at me . . . At the exact moment she stabs him, I want to fuck her up the ass. It’s gonna feel so good, she’s gonna want to live, and do it again and again and again. She wasn’t satisfied with that husband
anyway.”





*    *    *    




Cheating Hearts


August 12, 1999




As newlyweds, we’ve gone rabid eyeing the newly unhaveable. Every time
I see a hot morsel on the street, I elbow Dave and growl: “Do you want
me to get her for you?” What I’m really thinking is, Will you let me
get her, and pretend it’s for you? I’ve turned truly vicious. If you
could see my mind, it would be a scabby, vitriolic old man. I’ve taken
to hiding thoughts.


    

I recall past fucks fondly, I get turned on by every sex scene in books, everything other people might be doing in their bedrooms, no matter how mundane. I want to screw the repairman — except now that I think of it there’s never been a single repairman in my house, ever. Dave looks handsomer than ever to me. If we’re in the grocery store and he disappears for two aisles, when I see his face again I feel like my heart will break. He’s so dear to me. But knowing we’re married has done something to our sex life, it’s been tamed. Hobbled. I’d heard this can happen, but never in a million, billion years did I think it
would happen to me. This morning I was driving and saw a gorgeous
guy: lithe, seduceable, cute, distracted. I wanted to capture his
attention, every last ounce of it. I slowed down. It was Dave. My
heart dropped to the gas pedal. I felt like I’d committed adultery. And
then I felt even worse, because I realized that I’d just had the
first full-fledged desire to rape him since we’d
become husband and wife.


    

“No one’s interested in married-people sex,” he said last night in
bed. “They said it on NPR, it must be true. What’s left? Only
adultery. It’s okay Lisa, I understand.”


    

“You understand what?”


    

“You know.” He swallowed. “That you need to have an affair, for your
job.”


    

“What are you talking about?” I had a suspicion, felt between his
legs — it was true. His third leg was stiff and quivering. We want to
see each other as someone else’s fuck, see each other as someone not
yet seduced, someone to steal away. Someone not so accessible, so bought-
and-paid-for, so known. I’ve already seen that movie, found the sweetest spots on that body, been charmed by every permutation of that personality. I still find Dave intensely fuckable. He’s the
sexiest person I’ve ever met; I love that he’s an even bigger pervert
than me, but still manages to look so shy and harmless. He destroys
things all day long — pokes a hole in the chair cushion with a pen,
starts his sweater unraveling with his fidgeting, loses my panties he
borrowed. He reads my mail, constantly makes me angry, laughs at my
expense. He drew a mustache on my Bob Dylan CD. He’s intrusive, destructive and non-stop squirmy. In bed, all that excess nervous energy finds its outlet. He tries to fuck my ear, he breaks down my emotional boundaries, he has a lot of ideas in his fingers and his toes. He’s superb. There’s no one on earth I’d rather go on a late-night date with. So why aren’t I fucking him right now? Why am I thinking about death and time travel? I guess he was joking (or just exciting himself) when he proposed an affair for me, but I started thinking about it for real. This poet boyfriend of my best friend came over one time. He touched an antique chair and said, “I like this chair. It’s a nice chair. But I want to smash it. I need to destroy, to find out what a thing is truly made of. I have a terrible need to know.”


    

I thought that was the single most insufferable conceit I’d ever run across. “It’s a chair, sit in it,” I told him. “Quit thinking about how much you’re thinking about it.” But now I’m as bad as him. I want to smash my marriage, just to know what it’s made of.






©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com