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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  



The Flesh Couch and the Unloved Dong


September 30, 1999




I got an idea for a flesh couch. It would have veins all throughout, with real blood. There would be a pump on either side, like fishtank pumps, to keep the blood circulating so it wouldn’t rot. Maybe it would even be connected, through a hole in the wall, to a neighbor’s flesh couch, enabling even greater flow and freshness. The flesh couch would always be 98.6 degrees, and it would yield to the sitter, taking on a different shape each time you sat on it. It could be covered in bulldog hair — short, soft, yet firm, not silky. And you know how bulldogs have that extra skin around their neck that bunches up? The flesh couch would have those folds of skin for headrests. Yes, a hairy flesh couch would be perfect, because then you wouldn’t stick to it in the summer. When I revealed my invention to Dave, he said, “Don’t ever talk to me about flesh couches again! That is a disgusting, weird-o idea.” Then he called me Edwina, for Ed Gein. “No one said it was human blood,” I defended myself.


    

Believe it or not, our differing views on the flesh couch turned into a full-fledged fight, with Dave accusing me of always starting fights and me countering that, actually, it is him always accusing me of starting fights that starts all our fights. He stormed out.


    

The instant my accuser was gone, I put on my Mustang Harness with full-bodied 6″ dong. This was only my second time seeing myself in it. I was glad it was shaped like a bullet. If it perfectly mimicked a penis, I would feel like a copycat. With a shiny black bullet hanging down, I felt like an utterly new creature, futuristic and sleek. How would it look under clothes? Overalls are too cutesy for a penised person; all my other pants are too tight to accommodate an extra slab of flesh. I decided on a short gray business skirt with matching jacket. There was a slight ripple in the front of the skirt, very pleasing to the eye. Passersby would think, “Is that . . . ?” They’d look up at my face, try to keep from staring. “No, couldn’t be,” they’d decide, but their sense of reality and order would be vaguely disturbed.


    

Dave came home and I threw him a big smile. He put his hand in my lap. “I knew it!” he cried. “I knew you were gonna put that on as soon as I left.” I bounced it triumphantly against his palm. “I was afraid I’d come home and you’d still be in a bad mood, but your fake penis has given you a new lease on life.” He was still touching it through my skirt, tentatively. I asked if he liked it. “I haven’t decided,” he said. He lifted my skirt and stared at it. “It’s just that . . . well, mine’s bigger. And thicker. I thought it would be bigger.”


    

My feelings were hurt. “We’ll see how puny you find it when it’s lodged in your backside,” I said. “Maybe I’ll bend you over a flesh couch and give it to you. As of right now though, I’m hungry. Let’s go on a date.”


    

“You’re not going to wear that thing outside the house, are you? What if we get in an accident? I’ll be in the back of the ambulance with you, and when the attendants cut your clothes open like they always do, they’re gonna look at me.


    

At the restaurant, diagonal to our table, sat a beautiful young girl with
her family. Everyone around her talked, but she didn’t say a word. Tanned, toned limbs ripped out of white short-shorts and a three-sizes-too-small T-shirt. Sun-In curls hid two-thirds of her little body; a cloth napkin across her thighs covered the rest. Her features were thick and primitive. She was definitely pretty, just — her face somehow made one think of biting into a steak. She was halfway between a high fashion model and a cavewoman. Dave and I pictured me sliding into her with my black bullet. She went into the bathroom, and a minute later I followed. Once there, I looked at myself in the full length mirror. What was I going to do, really? I felt like a despicable pervert for even thinking of having sex with a high school girl in the bathroom with my rubber dong! As I returned to my table, I had a vision of everyone in the restaurant laughing at me — diners, waitresses, busboys. My black bullet shriveled.


    

At home, Dave slipped an action-comedy into the VCR, and pushed my skirt up around my waist. I felt pretty good about it, like we were two men hanging out, watching Bulletproof, yanking on each other’s penises. Suddenly Dave was going down on the bullet — reverently and enthusiastically! He was missing the big shoot-out scene of the movie. I’d never seen Adam Sandler shoot a gun before. It was exciting to me to see Dave acting like such a gayboy, but sadness washed over me too: I couldn’t feel anything. All in all, as a penised person, I was much more emotional.


    

In bed, my bullet kept bending. Dave was really into the idea — that bum
was waving high — but he was tight as a walnut and I could only get about one inch in. The leather holder chafed the insides of my thighs with each movement till they felt like a skier’s lips. I got bored. I turned Dave over and stuck his real, un-bendy one in my real part, and kept the black bullet between us, she-male style. Dave was having some fantasy about it coming on his chest, but he was all mumbly and I was not privy to the full story. Frustrated, I took the harness off, removed the dildo, and just had regular sex while half-heartedly slapping his ass with it. It felt like we were performing for a director or a rich old man. Then Dave took over the black bullet, and stuck it between us, so that it was sawing back and forth against his shaft and my clitoris each time he pulled back. That would be really good with a real one. In fact, everything would be good with a real one. I tried to have a fantasy about the cavewoman/fashion model, but even in my own fantasy I couldn’t make her come. That studded part at the top of my harness was slamming into her clit, but it wasn’t quite the right angle. Finally I gave up — I’d just get her wet and let someone else finish. I’d go to the beach while her boyfriend or my husband or the busboy “drove her home.” At the beach, I fall asleep in warm sand.


    

At that point, I had the best couple of orgasms, right in a row. I guess in bad sex your expectations lower, you stop concentrating and striving, and the orgasm can build up, form its own personality. Just when you give up all hope, it makes its surprise sideways attack. But there was no dreamy afterglow. Dave has a penis of his own, why’d he need to go and take mine too? My rubber dong’s floppiness, its lack of full penetration capabilities, and my own boredom with it, drove home the utter inescapability of my femininity. My fate is to be penetrated. Being a woman is not what I would have chosen. I fell asleep.


    

In the morning, the first thing I saw was my parts strewn across the floor. My penis and its holder, operated off. Uncuddled in the cold, early light. The sheets and I were stiff with Astroglide. I was just about to ask Dave if he wanted to go clean off in the Atlantic Ocean — “last almost-warm day of the year!” I’d say — when I had an awake nightmare. 22-year-old me was looking in my window. (A cursory reading of The Dancing Wu Li Masters, combined with my poor sense of direction and lack of depth perception, has given me a theory of time loops, et cetera, really too long and inaccurate to reproduce here.) I recognized the day in which that figment of me was trapped: my first husband and I were separating, I was in my room of his Paris apartment, hanging onto the bars of the window, looking out. When Jean Louis came in I didn’t turn around. “I love to see you there by the window,” he said. “I can almost see through you.” I’d lost a lot of weight with nervousness and
misery, so really he could almost see through me. And there I was
in the same pose, holding onto the bars outside my bedroom window
today. I (the me in the bed, just waking up) could see that the 22-year-old me was longing to superimpose herself on my more settled 30-year-old body and life, do anything other than silently grip and gaze — which, according to my theory, she had been doing for the last eight years straight. Then it came to me: what she really wanted was to try out my new husband, the little wench!


    

I handed her the strap-on and sent her on her way. Wouldn’t Jean Louis be surprised when he said for the millionth time (artsy and condescending yet forlorn, for ghosts are made of both nastiness and genuineness just like living people), “I love to see you there by the window” — and I suddenly exposed my black bullet, a gift from the future, bent him over and gave it to him?





©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com