Young Girls, Beware!
November 30, 2000
My father is back with the alcoholic he left my stepmother for. It’s weird because she’s dying liver failure and he’s having sex with her. I picture his erect penis thrusting right up against her (black? yellow?) diseased liver. She called me once and complained that my father doesn’t “soul-kiss” her. But the penis practically touching the rotting liver seems so . . . accepting.
I went horseback riding a couple months ago in Newport, Rhode Island, where skinny branches twined around thicker branches like nooses on every tree, and vines coiled up telephone poles. Even the giant stone vases in people’s yards were decorated with tangled stone veins like on a penis or a wrist. Something was strangling Newport. I dug my heels into my horse and got out.
That’s what marriage gets to be, I think like Newport, like a Victorian drawing with all the curlicues. I guess it can be comforting dates and fights and habits prune and border and adorn your life. But I find intimacy pretty terrifying and kind of . . . hideous. Marriage is terrible, I’ll go so far to say. No one told me. No one except for Sartre, and with his eyeballs like they were and all those confusing words, I figured maybe it was just terrible for him. Everyone wants to gallop out of marriage, I bet. But the brave ladies, the ones I want to be like, ride into the tangle instead. They might be decapitated by low-hanging branches, but still they ride. They’re like my father’s penis, diving into the heart of the wizened organ, again and again.
Dave never threatens to take my awful forest away. He even faked illness this week to avoid having me leave him or force him to leave. I’m smart in other areas, but in our quietest love, I have no arms and legs; I’m blind but still I bite and flop around. And then suddenly I want him to find me attractive! And he does!
We drove two hours to the North End of Boston to get a certain torrone nougat and nut and fluffy lime all wrapped in chocolate made by a family of short, mustached old ladies. The streets in the North End are curvy and stuffed with people it’s impossible not to get lost. We hadn’t eaten all day, and when we finally located this certain torrone the last one Dave took the whole stick, save the tiny chunk I’d broken off, stuck it in our cappucino and then sucked all the chocolate off. His hot, hungry fingers melted the only chocolate that didn’t get sucked. Then he offered me the mutilated remains. I just stared at him.
It was cold when at last we pulled into our driveway. Dave was saying, “Look at all the stars!” but I couldn’t see because my contacts were frozen solid in my eyes (that happens when I fall asleep with them in). Then we were on the road again (I was dreaming), and I was Sean “Puffy” Combs fingering the female chauffeur. Jennifer Lopez and I had been squabbling. The chauffeur was silent, long-suffering. She pretended it wasn’t happening, but she was dripping all over the leather seat. Then I realized Dave was fingering me in my sleep, sucking me and getting his filthy fingerprints all over me just like he’d done to the last torrone. He is selfish and sensual. That’s what I fell in love with him for, and that’s exactly what I hate him for. And then love him for. I may turn into a limbless stump of not-knowing, but for what it’s worth, I found a man who doesn’t mind at all discovering that underneath him.
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Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.