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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  



A Penis Darkly


September 23, 1999




I. SHY



Rachel and I did not keep our date to buy the dildoes with harnesses on Tuesday morning, nor Tuesday afternoon, nor again on Wednesday. We used all those excuses wives employed in the 1950s to avoid assignations with real penises — headaches, too much to do around the house . . . On Thursday, Rachel claimed “sudden out-of-town guests,” but when I asked who, she said, “Uh,” and then paused for a really long time before blurting out, “Someone named Lecter!”


    

“Rache,” I said, “I was with you when you re-rented Silence of the Lambs, remember?” Then I confessed that there hadn’t been any real “doctor’s appointment I’d forgotten about” yesterday, and that I didn’t know if I could go through with it.


    

“I didn’t know you were embarrassed, too!” Rachel said. “We have to do this, Leese, we have to get it over with. It’s been hanging over my head like a dark cloud.”


    

“A dark pink cloud,” I added. “In the shape of a penis.”


    

“Everyone’s gonna think we’re gay!”


    

“We should put our purchases on the counter and yell, ‘We’re
straight!’ and run away. ‘We’re gonna use these on men, you know!'”


    

So we resolved to do it that night — nothing more would come between
us and our evil mission. Not even Hurricane Floyd. A mere hurricane
wasn’t about to stop The Fifth Wheel crew either. I called to find out
if they’d shut down like most of the other businesses in town, and the
man said, “At The Fifth Wheel, we’re always . . . open.” I swear he put in two pauses before the word “open.”


    

I changed my outfit six times, and finally settled on a turtleneck, ski pants, glasses and my hair in a loose bun. Then I took a walk to check out Floyd’s damage so far. The river was swollen and brown. It had climbed up the trunks of the trees on the riverbed till it touched their leaves. The tops of trees looked like toys bobbing in a bathtub. The river made me nervous. It looked nervous itself, like it didn’t quite know what to do with its newfound size and strength. Then the wind broke my umbrella.


    

I drove about five miles an hour on my way to pick up Rachel. It was pitch black out, even though it was only early evening. Whenever a car came, metallic light spread across the road, and rectangles of light would rise up, like a one-dimensional silver bear rearing on its hind legs, inches from my windshield. This was the perfect night to either rob a bank or buy a dildo.



II. THE CAR



Rachel and I were sitting in my car outside the shop, neither of us
moving our hands any closer to the door handles. The rain came not in
drops, not in sheets, but in walls. Boom! A wall would hit the car —
windshield, door, roof — then nothing for one second, then another
wall crashing into us.


    

“It just seems so . . . unnatural,” said Rachel.


    

“Well yeah,” I said. “It’s plastic. Or rubber.”


    

“I think it’s probably illegal.”


    

“Yeah, probably.”


    

We sat in comfortable silence while nature roared around us.


    

“Maybe we should use ’em on each other,” I proposed. “That way, the
worse they’d be thinking would be true.”


    

“Mm.”


    

In our great agitation, every suggestion sounded reasonable. I asked Rachel what she thought of the outfit I’d settled on. “I figured this would make me look like I wasn’t inviting the men to have sex with me,” I said, “but now
I think maybe I look like the secretary in the porn movies.”


    

“No, no,” she replied, “You look good. A turtleneck! You look like an
intellectual. And you know what intellectuals are.” I didn’t.


    

“Lesbians!”


    

Next we addressed the dilemma of size. I learned that Rachel’s man likes three or more fingers up there at a time, while mine’s much more genteel — he looks like he’s about to cry with only one. So I wanted to get a nice small one for him, yet I did not want to look laughable. I wanted to impress Dave with my penis. We decided I’d get a medium and she’d get a large. Then Rachel reminded me of some mean things Dave has done and said to me, and I contemplated
getting a supersize instead.



III. THE SELECTION



There were two whole walls of dildos and vibrators, from the size (and shape — including nail and wrinkled knuckle!) of my finger to the size of my whole leg. There was a pink, translucent koala bear vibrator with a tiny light bulb inside, and one that looked like a stick with a tennis ball at the tip. But the selection of strap-ons was limited to four: a Mustang Collection leather harness with dildo; one that straps to the thigh (“Perplexing,” mused Rachel); “The Mitt,” a sort of glove where the middle finger turns into something else; and a complex contraption that, upon first glance, seemed like what we wanted. It had a little dong to go in the fucker and a big dong to go in the fucked. The big dong could be further engorged with an attached, hand-held pump. The whole thing was flesh-colored, which was reassuring after all the other black shiny models that called to mind Rob Halford of Judas Priest. We were all set to buy a pump double-dildo strap-on each when Rachel pointed out that they resembled a life support system. So we opted for Mustang Collection models instead.



IV. THEY TAKE PICTURES



I wanted to take mine out and look at it, but I couldn’t get my
overhead car light to work. I drove over to the shop’s outdoor light.
“Get out of here!” cried Rachel. “They take pictures of your
license plate at these places!”


    

“Who’s ‘they’?”


    

“I don’t know! Just get us out of here!”


    

Once we were on the highway, she calmed down. “Hey Leese, feel this!”
She took my hand and put it in her lap. There was an erect penis there!


    

“Wow,” I said.


    

“Realistic, huh?” She laughed. We thought we were hot stuff
with our new penises.


    

It felt a little lonely once I dropped Rachel off. Just me, all
alone, speeding through the dark wind. Me and my 6″ full-bodied rubber dong
in contoured leather harness. Going five miles an hour.



V. E.T.



I couldn’t wait to try it on. I waggled it slowly in the bathroom
mirror. I looked good! I still looked like a woman, just a woman with a sexy
leather harness with silver rivets and a big black bullet penis. I
wish it had balls. Two silver balls to hang down. I want to feel the heft
of them, to adjust them mid-meeting, to slap them against Dave’s balls when I’m ramming him. When I tighten the straps, the black bullet pulls up and out, like a real erection. It even looks bigger. When I loosen the straps, my bullet hangs there, nonthreateningly. I think it’s pretty. I called Dave into the bathroom, pretending I had a bruise I wanted him to see. He was in the
middle of watching E.T. (not Entertainment Tonight — the real E.T.) and it took a while to get to a part he was willing to pause at. When he walked in and saw what it was I really had, dismay washed over his face; he slammed the door shut.


    

I didn’t want to use it on him tonight anyway. I was tired and wet. I wasn’t even in the mood for normal sex. I wanted to be alone, on the couch with a quilt, a hot chocolate and a Harlequin Romance, afraid of nuclear power plant mutants and burglars, turning my head quickly and saying, “Oh my god! What was that noise?” every twenty minutes or so, deep, deep into the night. I’d fought my way through a hurricane and back, and suffered the indignities of paying money for an unnatural penis. A prosthesis! I wanted to get to know it better before using it. I didn’t want to make any tentative thrusts, or have the thing slip off. I wanted to buck confidently, knowingly.


    

When Dave pressed his erection against my thigh in bed, I told him not to plan on getting lucky tonight. I was feeling very in-control with my new penis, even if it was back in its box. I wanted to call all the shots, when and how any thrusts would be occurring. Dave asked what the new Fifth Wheel Man looked like. Knowing how he likes to picture me in the arms of other men, I tried to remember every detail. His skin was the color of sunset, I told Dave, or earthenware in Arizona. I believe the word is “swarthy.” He’s about forty, has all his hair still, and big biceps. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but just barely — like David Banner halfway turned into The Incredible Hulk, his clothes seemed about to bust at the seams. He was a celebration of masculinity. (Now that I reflect on it some more, he might not really have been all that muscular . . . he might just have given off a heady impression of muscle.) While Dave is very handsome and lifts heavy things and all, there is something very ambivalent about his sexuality. It’s not that he’s undecided — he’s just not . . . enclosed, I guess. Well-educated and lascivious, it’s impossible to picture him doing cowboy things. But the new Fifth Wheel Man, now that’s a man. He was born a man and he’ll die a man, and be nothing but a man — thoroughly — at every stage in between. I don’t believe he does anything kinky, even though he works in a porn shop. I think he just pumps you with his extra-large cock and formidable thighs. Puts his meaty hands on large breasts, or just squashes them with his forearm, for expediency. (Dave was on top of me now. “What else?” he gasped.) He’s pure, I said, like the Marlboro Man. There’s not a lot going on there. Just a pure fucker. I picture us at a country music bar, maybe we’ve been making out. I hike up my skirt and slide my panties to one side so as to better rub against his suedeish pants. He’s sort of batting me out of the way. He’s going to take me home and give it to me for sure — he just wants to finish his drink first. He sees a friend he needs to talk to for a few minutes. He lets me — thin, writhing helplessly — stay on his thigh. I’m not so much of a distraction that he has to remove me from his pants in order to have a conversation. Finally, he takes me home. He lives in a trailer. I get into his bed, under the rough blanket, but he’s doing something first. Maybe he’s washing the dishes. He’s a neat man.


    

“Oh my god,” said Dave, and stopped moving. Then he rolled off me. He’d come in his pajamas. He was embarrassed, and tried to pretend he’d simply lost interest. I thought it was cute. Then I wondered if he’d done it on purpose — had sex with (well, on) me when I said don’t, and then shot out like a victory cannonball (or snuck out like a spy) what my purchased one never can emit. I thought about being mad at him, but laughed instead: I’d been thinking I was so in-control with my new penis, that I’d call all the shots, and instead I’d been molested and lied to (“Did you come?” I asked. “No!” Dave said). Gloat while you can, Pajama Boy, your time will come. I’m going to wear my black bullet around under my pants tomorrow, I thought happily, staring at the ceiling. Just walk around with it. I like to feel tumescent, poised. I’m like the Marlboro Man, the New Fifth Wheel Man in the bar: I’m definitely going to use this thing. Dave’s gonna get it all right, but I’m going to finish my drink first, talk with my friend. Listen to some music and just feel it there, against my thigh, ready.





©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com