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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

Night Butcher

November 23, 2000



Imagine if a girl rode a bicycle with no seat to work, and she worked as a

night butcher. When no one was around, she’d get all the hanging racks of

meat spinning really fast, then put on her blindfold and walk through them.

She’d do it so often her skin would no longer be white — it would be

blue-ish gray with so many bruises from the spinning carcasses, and her hair

would be perpetually slimy. She’d wear a really creepy blissful expression.

But no one would complain, because it’s so difficult these days to find

employees to hack dead animal parts on the nightshift.


    

At the beginning of my relationships, there is violence along with every

other kind of sex. Then we get used to each other and it moves into the

realm of pleasure and familiarity. When the familiarity gets annoying or

restrictive, sadism seeps back in. But this time it’s furtive, not physical.

I’ll ask my man to please do the dishes so I can catch up on writing work,

and then I play cards instead, only one room away, door open, waiting for

him to catch me (he never does). We pass each other like zombies while my

sex-world blooms in isolation.


    

It makes me queasy to stay with someone after the initial months of

seduction. Every day feels like they’ll leave, or I will. I know it sounds

odd, but it feels like there has to be meanness in this world, and

sometimes, as a break, I’d rather be doing it instead of feeling it. It

relaxes me to be cruel and to do secret things. I realize that I had an odd

upbringing and that I am in some ways permanently disoriented. I try to

overcome, or at least subdue, certain tendencies, but there are instincts

and needs that won’t go away. I let them come out to play just a little,

when no one’s looking. I’ll be at the gym and I’ll stare at the back of

somebody’s neck and really think about them, wonder what they fear and want

and hide, until I start to fantasize about sticking a fork into their skin

and peeling it back just a bit to see what I can see. I wonder if I’m the

only person who gets like this. I wonder if in twenty years I’m going to be

a murderer and this is how it begins! Though it seems like if I was going to

do that, I would have started already.


    

I was in the bathtub and my legs just happened to be open and under the running faucet. The Pope was stiff and weird. He got really close to Dave (I was spying) and said, “It’s like . . . it’s like . . . ” He fixed Dave with his mesmerizing yet off-kilter gaze.


    

“A giant penis?” Dave guessed.


    

“Yes!” said the Pope, and pressed his yucky, rotting erection against Dave’s

thigh . . . and Dave had a big erection too! Then I saw an army of ten thousand

leprous popes trudging towards Dave, with their ten thousand rotting, holey,

leprous penises dangling. Would they suck holes out of Dave’s penis too?

This was more than he had bargained for.


    

I called Dave collect last week when I was travelling, when I was at a

friend’s house and could have called regular. That’s the kind of sadism I

like. Let everyone else have the glamourous kind, with all the rules and

whips and predictability. I’ll take the seedy, pointless, low-down

version. Who says dysfunctionality can’t be fun?


    

So I was in the bathtub thinking about the popes and the collect call and

the meat lady; there was an orgasm on the rise. While I’ve always been drawn

to the orgasm, I’m also suspicious about it being pleasure that draws one.

Really examine it, next time you’re having one. It’s not exactly good you’re

feeling. As the popes and meat hooks and the telephone tumbled down my tub

drain like Alice In Wonderland and my pelvis strained up, up, up and open, I

figured out what the orgasm IS. “I’m not coming,” orgasm-me yelled to

non-orgasm-me, “I’m becoming.” For a second, I actually felt myself turning

into something else — an obelisk, or the past, or the devil. And then I was

me, and I realized the water had gone cold.




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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
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.

©2000

Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.