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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  


Yum Yum Donuts

August 18, 2000



I haven’t met the man who won me in the chat sex contest, but I know who he is. He prank-called my radio show this summer. He pretended to be a Dutchman and I don’t remember what else he lied about, but I totally believed him. At the end of the call he revealed that it was all untrue. Then he called back impersonating another foreigner and I believed him again. This is not what I was hoping for. I wanted someone disgusting and pathetic and not my type to win, and I would be prostrate before the unalterable fact that this was the winner and these are the rules (I’ve always liked unalterable facts). But Grant (the crank caller) is totally my type. Well, one-third my type. I like them old and tricky, and anything but British. Grant’s only twenty-three, and British.


    

The first time I met Dave, I got totally turned on because he was lying for no reason. Even now I don’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth. The other day he brought home tiki lamps from a garage sale, and he said the seller used to put flowers in them, not oil. Later he revealed that he’d made that up. I try to impose order on Dave’s lying, I search for a nervous tic (his “tell”), I try to find an underlying reason for it all — and there’s none! He’ll say he went to one store and later confess that really he went to another. It’s stimulating because I’m constantly the
investigator. I never lie — I’m very stodgy that way; always prompt and always truthful. But I feel faint around the late and lying boys.


    

Grant calls me a cheeky monkey. Grant calls everyone a cheeky monkey. He’s a terrible flirt. He’s a terrible man. I can’t wait for him to get here! And I’m even more excited, if that’s possible, about
Dave’s winner — Sosweet. They arrive on September 9th. Sosweet is twenty-four, from Miami, and unlike Grant she has some trepidation — which, if I were a true sex monster or an eleventh-grade stud, I would call “delicious.” Dave has seemed sad lately; he’s lying less. I think I’ve temporarily suffocated his inner lion, because I’m a constantly pouncing lion myself. Maybe Sosweet will be like the ingenue in Harlequin Romances who makes the remote Count feel the pulse of life and chase again, and suddenly the well-traveled, well-spoken Viscountess who’s not great with children (that’s me) doesn’t look so desirable anymore. What if he kicks me out of the castle? Well, he couldn’t — he’d never make the mortgage without me.



August 20



I’m in LA for a few days, on assignment. This morning I was lying in the dark on East coast time, agitated. When I wake up at night, going back to sleep feels like going to the death. I’d rather be tired all the time than miss out on that silent lonely pre-morning time. I miss Dave and regret how mean I’ve been lately; I miss how he has sex with wakeful, worried me and tells me he’ll take care of everything and that’s the only time I can ever get back to sleep.


    

At five I got up and walked around. I was the alien, chartering streets I’d never heard of. No cars slid past me. Nothing was open. After half-an-hour, I found a gas station, but they didn’t have coffee.


    

At last I saw Yum Yum Donuts & Coffee in the distance, all lit up, a surprise. That’s where I am now, writing. That’s why I held this contest — to make me and Dave unfamiliar to each other and ourselves, and love an unrecognizable place. I don’t want to live scared exactly, but a little
lost maybe, and ready — like there’s a reason to look over my shoulder. Because that’s when you notice miracles. Not being dead is a miracle, coffee when you thought there would be none is a miracle.


    

We had a rule that no matter what fooling around we did with other people, it was by fingers and mouth alone. I decided to change that rule in the contest on a whim, I guess because it was a rule. When you follow your own dictates, when you keep doing something simply because you once said that’s what you believed, then you’re living in memory. And every time we’ve done these wrong sex things, or when Dave rode horses for me even though the mere thought of those tall beasts made him almost pass out, he looks like Yum Yum Donuts to me, shining in the distance, and I’m so surprised; I can’t wait to get to him and drink him all up.



August 23



I’m home again. I brought Dave a metal heart on fire to hang over our bed. It says “Guerida mia.” I think that means “Guard my heart.” I’ve gotten so attractive these last few days! I emailed Grant fifty times today. I’m like a fireplace; everyone wants to sit near me and take off some of their clothes. Just now I went to the store for an ice cream, and this little boy, he couldn’t have been more than fourteen, asked me if I was married. I said yes and he asked me if I wanted a boyfriend, and wiggled his barely hairy eyebrows. He was on a bicycle. They sense it, they want in on the action.


    

Then I got to thinking . . . Grant must be looking like a fireplace too. I have to send him a note advising him to not leave the house between now and the 9th.






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.

©2000
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.