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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

E.S.P. Is Sexy



Note: I’ve always been attracted to schizophrenics. They see connections that sane people can’t see or don’t want to bother believing in — that would get in the way of getting on with business. Whereas for the schizophrenic, experiencing oneness, time barrier erosion and E.S.P. is getting on with business. And since I’m a woman of the people, I didn’t just study my schizophrenic from afar — I moved to Philadelphia with him! I don’t remember how Chris Sakey and I chose that city. It was sort of an accident, like everything else I did in 1987. Life with Chris was interesting. He would hear me tell him to do things all day — tell him in his head to come home early, and he’d just leave work and come home early, and not believe me when I said I didn’t say it. Sex was bizarre. He’d get these ideas and I’d always go along with them. He said my feet were Philly cheese steaks and he wanted me to masturbate him with them. He’d follow me around the house, spying and taping. He criticized my (eighteen-year-old, aerobicized) body constantly, but his points of reference were not normal. Like, I wasn’t “clowny” enough in the hips, or I needed massive amounts of body hair in certain places. He would be extremely passive and then switch and chase me around like a gorilla.



December 3, 1987



Chris Sakey is plucking fine blonde hairs from my thigh. He’s trying to read what I’m writing but I say, “Go away, leave me alone.” We’re under the crooked Indian head painting, on the green smelly sofa. Now he’s sneezing on my feet. Now he’s taken his erection out of his pants and we stare at it for a while until it shrinks. I say, “Kiss my knee,” and he does, and then he says, “I hope you don’t have elephantitis.”


    

This is what we have in the house: two broken mirrors, two unbroken mirrors, two broken chairs, two unbroken chairs, three garbage containers, a box full of shoes, a wooden crate, a jar of peanut-butter, a loaf of bread and a shower curtain that doesn’t fit. And a blender. And a Corel China Dining Set (a gift from Rachel).


    

I ran a metal rod across Chris’s back and said, “Pretend you’re in prison and I’m the warden. Are you scared?” He said yes.


    

I picked a shirt up off the floor and used it as a veil. I smiled at him from under it, and he screamed, but quietly like you do in nightmares, and got away from me fast-slow backwards, like in nightmares. A barrel of laughs, a laugh a minute — that’s me!


    

Now Chris Sakey is asleep on the sofa. His fingers are twitching. A drop of saliva forms at the corner of his mouth. It trembles there. I guess it takes a while before the drool gathers enough weight to fall.



December 6



Tonight Chris accused me of this and that and then took a blanket, his diary and his money into the living room. He counted his money out — right down to the last four quarters, one dime and three pennies. He thought I would steal his measly eleven dollars! When I leave hundreds of dollars (my tips) haphazard all over the house! And when he owes me twenty-five bucks! He should buy a big metal box and lock all of his things up in it so that they won’t be soiled by anyone’s unclean fingers. And then he should climb into the box, too!




2000 postscript: After our relationship ended (because I couldn’t take how much he slept), I brokered my first prostitution with him: one blowjob for a voice distorter (Chris was a musician). Which I guess would be taking advantage of the mentally ill. That’s what’s horrible and great about one’s teen years — you don’t think in terms like that. There’s no hierarchy of those who need to be taken care of and those well enough to do it.




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©2000

Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.