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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Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.