The Lisa Diaries

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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

Death, My Birthday and the Really Good Orgasm

November 12, 2000

Dave was getting closer and closer to me and his head looked like a balloon. “Get away,” I cried, “you’re scaring me.” It’s actually a petite head, dignified like a bust of Caesar, but with the frosty relations we’ve had these last many weeks, I’d forgotten what any head looks like that close.


“I thought you wanted attention,” he said.


“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were going to aim your balloon head straight at me.”


I got off the couch and escaped upstairs. I shut the bedroom door. He opened it. In the sudden dark in bed, I couldn’t see the head. I’d forgotten what two man-hands feel like moving over my flat stomach and plastic breasts, pushing my hair around like a fan, folding around my neck then measuring how many palms it takes to get to the soles of my feet — except not touching my there.


“Did you fall asleep?” he whispered.


“No, I’m just . . . I’m pretending the sun is shining. Don’t stop.”


There was a hand between my legs, but it was moving too gently. I stopped feeling like something unopened — I became an angry cat on the other side of the sliding glass door. In one movement I climbed on top of him, pulled his unders down and mine off and got that hard thing inside me. I put his fingers back where they belonged but he was distracted now. He forgot about me. I kept them moving — I was just fingering myself, really, wearing his hands like gloves and using his hard cock inside me like a shampoo bottle. It was indecorous.


Sometimes I know that the Really Good Orgasm is coming. If I let its approach get set off-course by a Plain Old Orgasm, then the Really Good Orgasm will lose interest in the long process of creating itself. I went on a solitary journey across Dave’s body, jerking him this way and that, making him stop, making him start, huffing and puffing and getting frustrated . . .


“Are you all right?” Dave asked. He was squatting like a frog on top of me.


“Yes!” I gasped, angry, and pushed his leg down hard. “I want you closer,” I said, “You’re not going to squash me, quit hesitating!” He straightened his legs but still wouldn’t put his full weight on me. I pulled him down with my suddenly strong arms, squeezed him into me from calf to cheek. His

raspy breath was in my ear, it was in the way. I pushed his head to the side violently, wrapped my legs tighter like tape on a package that has 3,000 miles to go. “I want you all the way inside,” I said, and even in my current state I knew I sounded scary, but I didn’t care.


“Crap! This is not going to work!” I thought. And then it was coming — quick, slicing me over and over like a fast knife and then it spread, the cut spread through my hips and my belly, then up my spine and my brain and — oh god, oh god. These are the times it’s good to own your own home and have no neighbors on the other side of the wall.

November 14

Three days ago he said, “Please give me a chance to make everything up to you.” I didn’t believe him for a second, but in love you keep believing what you don’t believe. That’s the night we had the hesitant and angry sex with the Really Good Orgasm. When I woke up he had already left for work. I had a peaceful day with my trees — I planted eleven of them in the back yard. I like to take care of them. I watered and mulched them and got my knees and ass and palms dirty and sore. I spent some time thinking about buying worms to make my compost pile compost faster. I wrote. Then . . . he came home. He stood there before me, and my throat closed. When we know we are bound to make a mistake, we rush to it. I said, “The toilet flooded again today. I think it’s time to call in a plumber.” He yelled, “I told you no!” Dave doesn’t think toilets should be talked about. I ran out into the night. I should’ve done something shockingly glamorous, but I live in Dover and everyone is sleepy by eight o’clock anyway, so I went grocery shopping. As I stocked up on toilet paper, I tried to figure out how to kick him out of the house while keeping me in it, using all this toilet paper whenever I wanted, years’ worth of it, and I’d call the plumber all the time.

November 15

“Happy Birthday, Scorpio,” he said in a sleep-scratchy voice, and wrapped me up in the blanket that was all he wore. I was at my computer. “I made dinner reservations,” he continued. “I still think you’re a nice lady, even if you hate me.”


“I do hate you! Go away forever!” I thought, but instead I said, “What time are the reservations for?” If I can just stay mad at him, it doesn’t hurt, it has that speed-like victory feeling. When I trust him again is when . . . But it doesn’t really hurt to feel hurt anymore, either. If you feel confused all the time, then it’s too familiar to be confusing anymore. I have my trees. I play Solitaire as fortune-telling — if I can beat the imaginary House (more than seven Aces and deuces above), then everything will be all right. This morning I misplaced my deck of cards, and I panicked as if I had lost my real future.


I went behind Dave’s back and called the Roto-Rooter guy, and was he handsome! I didn’t know they made plumbers like that! Maybe this is just something he does during the slow seasons of modeling. If I had known that today was the day I would meet the handsomest man in the world, I would have done more to prepare. The house was a mess, but I was wearing my snakeskin pants by chance. Halfway through a fascinating discussion of the new 1.6 cubic litre toilets, Dave called to say he was on his way home. “Quick!” I told the Roto-Rooter guy, actually pushing him a little. “You gotta get out of here — my husband’s coming and he’s anti-plumber!” It was so exciting! He hurriedly whipped out his clipboard and had me sign things, I gave him a check and said, one last time, “Hurry!”


About four seconds after he’d gone there came a terrible pounding at the door. I thought Dave had seen the Roto-Rooter truck and, to get my pre-emptive strike ready, I set a mad look on my face — and there was Death! A figure all in black stood in my doorway with a terrible glowing plastic face and a sword, saying: “May I come in?” For a second I thought it was someone come to kill me, then I remembered that vampires have to be invited in, and for a second I thought maybe there are vampires, then I remembered there aren’t, and then I saw the balloons. “Happy Birthday to you-ou-ou-ou!” Death sang, and thrust chocolates into my hand. My son started crying and ran away to hide; I wanted to hide too. Even though I now understood that it was only a singing telegram from Dave, the scared feeling remained — especially because I had almost been caught consorting with a plumber. For the first time in two years, Dave had surprised me. And that was all I wanted.

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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.


Lisa Carver and, Inc.