The Lisa Diaries

Pin it



The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

Traci Lords and the Naked Picasso

September 9, 1999

We went to the city for an adventure. There was nothing in particular happening that night, but we were on the lookout. We started out at Dave’s studio, where he mixed down some music and I read Wired magazine until I couldn’t stand it anymore and went outside. This was my adventure night, and I wasn’t about to spend it with Wired. It was late and everything in Boston’s Chinatown was closed except for restaurants. I wasn’t hungry. Red and gold trinkets wavered in the still-lit windows of shops, and glistening racks of animal parts hung from strings in other windows.


Everything was dangling in light. A thousand fat wise men laughed good-naturedly at me from fans and vases, a thousand ladies held their Mona Lisa smiles. I thought it seemed hard, keeping up those peaceful expressions all night long, night after night — even if they were made of china and paint and gilt. I looked for a stranger with whom to strike up a conversation, but everyone was good and hurrying home. I went into Foley’s, and the second I was in the door, I saw that all the excitement had been sucked off the streets and deposited in these two large rooms. Elaborately-dressed people were switching tables, and drunken louts were following them. I saw one man — short, balding, youngish, wearing a sort of racecar-driver suit — make out with three different women in five minutes! I ordered a Jack & Coke and invited myself to the most attractive table of all: a bespectacled blonde with a triangular jawline, a person of questionable sexual orientation and a black-haired Sandy from Grease sat with a man drawing their portraits. He grunted as he worked, and a struggle showed in his rapidly warping features. I told them all my adventure plans, and revealed that I’d just escaped a studio with nothing to read but Wired. They took pity on me, and Black Sandy gave me her Kamikaze. She was one of the ones who had kissed the racecar-suited young man. The bespectacled blonde turned out to have a great personality. She’d been kicked out of college for burning down her dorm with firecrackers! “It was an accident,” she explained. She then married an Algerian to get money to go back to school, but he only gave her $100 instead of the thousands offered. I, too, had married a foreigner at nineteen. Then we found out we’re both Scorpios, and her favorite magazine is Rollerderby! I didn’t know if it was serendipity or if she’d set me up — recognized me when I walked in, and sent me psychic vibes to join her table. I was happy and lucky either way. She told me now I had to come to the party she’d be attending tonight. I agreed. The Etcher drew us: me, the spitting image of Barbra Streisand, and my new friend as a naked, bearded Picasso (with breasts and an enormous vagina). Naked Picasso showed me a photo of her and a blonde man. “I don’t normally like blondes,” she confided, “but . . . rarh!” She raked the photo’s blonde chest with her nails. I said I agreed about blonde men in general: “It’s like there’s not enough blood in their heads!”


“That’s stupid,” The Etcher said in my ear. I ignored him. “It’s stupid not to give someone a chance just because they’re blonde,” he continued. “You’re stupid,” he finally decided. He was blonde.


“You just drew my friend naked, and me as Barbra Streisand, and now you’re telling me I’m stupid,” I said.


“I’m a black hole,” he said. “People look at me and feel like they’re peering into an abyss. An abyss of boredom. They feel themselves tottering at the edge.”


I looked, and I could see that it was true. He was a black hole. But it was just too awful a thing to have to believe that about yourself. “Black holes kill people!” I said, grabbing his shirt collar with all the might of a once-a-month drinker after a Jack & Coke and Kamikaze in rapid progression. “Did you not see that Stephen Hawking documentary?!” He gave me a blank, black hole stare, then nodded meekly. I could tell he hadn’t seen it but was afraid of contradicting me. “Well then,” I concluded, “Obviously you’re not a black hole, because I’m still alive. All right?!” The man didn’t deserve my love — he was gross — but he didn’t deserve his own hate either. I hoped he was convinced by my fallacious logic.


My altruism did not extend to suggesting he come to the party though. Naked Picasso and I wobbled down the street to the studio to pick up my husband. On an impulse, I called my friend Cat and asked her to come meet us. I described my kooky new compatriot. “Wait! Does she have a funny sort of triangular . . . ”


“Jaw!” I cried. “That’s her!”


“That’s my arch enemy! I know for a fact she had S-E-X with my boyfriend thirty days ago! I’ll be there, pronto! What’s the address?”


I knew then this would be a great party. Anywhere arch enemies meet, it’s gotta be good. Longing for an enemy of my own tonight, I called Matt and tried to convince his answering machine to drive the three hours to Boston to meet us.


The party was packed with young people wearing big pants and dazed expressions. Naked Picasso did cartwheels right down the center of them, like Moses through the Red Sea. No one said anything about it, we just accepted it. There was a screaming singer in a mini-dress and glitter makeup, shooting a plastic gun. In this cacophonous atmosphere, the forces of Cat and Naked Picasso met: “You don’t want to incur the wrath of Cat,” Cat said to Naked Picasso, without even a hello. “Everyone knows about the wrath of Cat. Trust me, you don’t need the wrath of Cat.” Naked Picasso responded with nervous laughter, which rose in pitch with each repetition of the phrase “wrath of Cat.” Cat just kept on saying it, and Naked Picasso’s laughter mutated into something all out of proportion, just like everything else about her. “That cackle,” Cat said to me as if Naked Picasso was no longer there. “Uh! How can her boyfriend stand to be in the same room with it, night after night? There must exist in this world something amusing enough to elicit that noise. I wonder what it is?” She went on assaulting Naked Picasso to her face and to mine, taking slugs off a silver flask in between, finally moaning: “Why is everyone so mean to me? Can’t they see I’m injured?” Cat pointed to the evidence: a small bruise on her thigh, and then slumped into her chair and took a nap. I was glad to see her, and glad she hadn’t changed.


Naked Picasso and I found a back room with a Traci Lords film, Ladies In Lace, projected on the wall, while Dave socialized. The movie was great! I love porn! The plot was a bunch of girls have sex with their husbands in the morning, but they want more. They attend a lingerie party and have sex with each other and the pizza delivery boys while their husbands hide in the closets spying; then they come out and have sex with them too. I love how Traci Lords grunts and bares her teeth and is so single-minded on reaching her own feral orgasm, which I believed was real, every time. I love her breasts, shaped like big, huge cake slices, and the slight layer of fat on her body. Her flesh is firm, but a bit bouncy, like a baby seal’s. I love her avaricious facial features and bankruptcy of shyness. That girl really loves cock.


Intellectual girls and embarrassed young men drifted through the room on their way to the roof. The women all had to make comments about the film to prove they didn’t mind it because it was sex; they disliked it for aesthetic reasons only. “I hate blow job scenes, it distorts the face in such a ridiculous manner.” Everyone’s a critic. I think a face looks fantastic with a penis jabbing it. Of course it’s distorted &#151 it’s getting stuffed! The sexiest thing about porn, I think, is that they really are doing it. When actors portray love or fear, they’re not really in love with the other actor, they’re not really afraid. They’re calling up a memory and letting it wash over their face. But in Ladies in Lace you get actual, enormous, excited erections going all the way into real pussies. And you get women going down on each other . . . Maybe they enjoy it, or maybe they’re grossed out, but those are their real tongues, swirling and reaching and curling . . . And you can see the little clitorises getting harder, maybe even against the owners’ wills. Then, too, there’s the thought of the director watching it all, his barked directions eventually overdubbed with moans.


Later, after the man in the photo had come for Naked Picasso (it seemed all her blonde dreams would come true that night), I got to have sex myself (with Dave). While we did it I yelled all this drunken stuff: that I felt like Traci Lords’ face looks, that I worshipped cock, that I wanted all the cocks of the world lined up, I wanted to suck ’em all in a row. This occurred at Cat’s house. When I woke up in the morning, I asked Dave if I had been as loud as my memory said I was. He confirmed it. I was so embarrassed, I said, We gotta get out of here before anyone wakes up (Cat has about ten million roommates). So we went to the Indian Buffet and even though I was queasy and headachey, I had about ten refills of Chicken Tikka Masala and naan with raita and unknown dishes and rice pudding, then I threw up in the Indian restaurant bathroom and we went shopping.

Lisa Carver and