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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  



On The Bisexual Trail


October 14, 1999




Day One




A tall, fat woman at work eyed Dave carefully and disconcertingly all day, finally saying, “Some of us go to a certain nightclub . . . ” and nothing more.



Day Two




A tall, slim-to-medium, okay-but-not-great-looking, 37-or-more-year-old woman was heading for the same water cooler as Dave. She was a good two inches taller than him. They kept almost bumping into each other as they reached for the same paper cup. Finally, the woman picked Dave up and physically moved him to the side! The tall woman from day one was nearby, watching. A third Amazon slouched against the wall. They all watched as Dave froze and turned red — which apparently was the reaction they were looking for, because the tall, fat woman approached him and asked for his “private line” at home. When I told this to Genevieve, she said, “Maybe they were trying to see if he’s light enough to be a bisexual.”



Day Three




At noon exactly, the original Amazon called. “Well, I’m . . . not . . . necessarily bisexual,” I heard Dave stammer, “but I . . . my wife likes to go out.”


    

“What’s the name of the place?” I demanded when he hung up.


    

“She wouldn’t tell me,” he said. “She said she’d call back later with it. I think I have to pass another test first.”


    

“Well, hurry up and pass it!” I cried. “I wanna go! What were you thinking, telling that woman you were married without qualifying it? Now she’s gonna think we’re a bunch of heteros!”


    

“I don’t know, Leese,” he said, turning himself into a pretzel so he could finger the hem of his pants. “What if we go and they’re all . . . tall? And why does she think I’m bisexual?”


    

“You know what bisexual means, don’t you? Glamorous people who do fun and wild things every night of the week. I’ve always tried to get in with the bisexuals, and they’ve always ignored me. Oh Dave, I knew you’d be my ticket in!”



Day Four




No call back. We went to City Hall to take care of some car matters. I was

wearing a sweater with peculiar holes cut out below the boobs. Dave said I looked like a prostitute and he was embarrassed to be seen with me. “I’ll go to get my title and they’ll say, ‘Sir, you’re under arrest for harboring a prostitute, and suspicion of being a bisexual.'”




Day Five




No call back. Dave has been thinking constantly about Amazon Number Two. He refers to her as “that woman who assaulted me by the water cooler” or “my attacker.”


    

The government treats its workers like children. In Dave’s section, prizes ranging from key chains to ski mobiles are given out every day to whoever’s been most accurate with their computing. Dave wins a lot, but Amazon Number Two wins more. They’re the top dogs of their group, but she is definitely on top of Dave. Each afternoon when it’s time for the winner to be announced, they eye each other suspiciously across the cubicles. This Amazon’s physical and mathematical superiority make Dave feel like a jackal. He wants to crouch down behind a wall and leap out when she rounds the corner, fasten his teeth into her shin and bring the giant beast down. “What will you do then?” I ask. “Chew on her leg and lick it,” he says with a light in his eyes.


    

He tells me her face and her walk are just like mine, except upon closer inspection he thinks she’s closer to 47 than 37, and she has really bad hair. “She’s next on your list to marry, isn’t she, Dave? You’re just like Rod Stewart. Except you’re the Anti-Rod: marry the girl and then trade
her in for an older, uglier version.”



Day Six




Still no call back. We think — we’re not sure — they might have sent a group to spy on us at Jake’s Diner. Three ladies of dubious sexual intent crammed Dave into the corner with their enormous buttocks. It was like he was a magnet and they were three refrigerators. We were at a tiny table and the ladies were on stools above us. There was a “Think Pink” patch on one bisexual spy’s back pocket, right in my face. Dave did his best to pass the test, which is difficult when you don’t know what the questions are. I hoped that the politely lusty manner in which he ate his German sausage might do it. In the other corner, a musclewoman and a man with flesh like an overblown balloon fondled each other indiscriminately. The atmosphere at Jake’s was charged like never before.



Day Seven . . . Victory!




At work, Amazon Number One (the emissary) kept looking through Dave when he tried to catch her attention, as if they’d never met. He thought he’d somehow blown it for us. But today, in an unprecedented forceful move, Dave caught Amazon Number One by the arm and said, “I’m not leaving here till you give me the name of that club.”


    

She stared him down. “Dave, you’re . . . married.” She said it as if marriage were this unidentifiable oozy thing on the floor between them.


    

“We’re kind of crazy-married though,” he said.


    

“Oh.” She poked the matrimony with a stick. Yes, the thing was definitely alive. But so . . . gross.


    

The Amazon lifted her eyebrows in doubt and disgust, wrote down two words and handed him the slip of paper.





©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.