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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  




Pee on the Sea Captain



Note: People ask why I wanted to be a prostitute, as if it were strange. I like sex, I like money, I like strangers. Wouldn’t you do something, if it involved three of your favorite things? “How come you didn’t want to be a prostitute?” I answer.


    

Sex as a prostitute, for me, meant power and knowledge, while sex as a wife meant fun, friendliness, love. After a few months, I started confusing the two. I became close with my regulars, and I found myself watching my then-husband like I did clients — continuously gauging what he wanted, and shifting who I was accordingly. That’s why I quit. But it was great while it lasted; best job I ever had (next to this one, of course).


    

My life was so chaotic then, I’m still not sure if this was 1989 or ’88.




December 3, 1989



These are the stages of my Rich People interaction plan: 1. Hate them. 2. Rob them. 3. Be them. I’m at stage one now, but I’d like to move into phase two. I answered an ad in the Phoenix for the position of prostitute (well, supposedly a masseuse) in a lounge. My audition consisted of dancing in a bra and panties around a plaster cast of a naked cherub. With my wild “love dance” I knocked the cherub off its pedestal. I tried to pretend I’d done it on purpose, I faux-made-out with the thing, crawled over it lewdly. I’m such a klutz, I don’t even feel embarrassed anymore when these things happen. I hope I get hired. I think my body’s good enough, but what can I do with my hair? It’s green. I’ve bleached and dyed it so much it crinkles when you touch it.



December 9, 1989



Well, I got the job. I made $450 last night for four hours work (which mostly consisted of sitting around in lingerie watching TV or playing pop psyche games with the other girls, whom I like). One guy gave me $150 to piss in his mouth. He couldn’t stop grinning. He looked like a sea captain. He was very matter of fact about it all, put towels on the floor, told me to squat over his mouth. He didn’t touch me at all. Finally I peed, and he drank it all. “Wow,” I said afterwards, “I should take you home with me — just think of all the money I’d save on toilet paper.” I felt terrible as soon as I said it. Just because someone’s a pee-drinker does not mean you should say gauche things. Luckily he
chuckled, in his sea captain way. I said another mean thing semi-accidentally to another client. Well, I didn’t exactly say it. This very fat man with a very tiny penis was on top of me, trying to get it in. I said I didn’t think this was going to work, would he like a blowjob instead. He was insistent and rude. He was humping my fist but he thought it was my cunt. When he came, he crowed: “See? I told you it would work. You were wrong!” I gave him a little hug, and some of the semen in my palm got on his naked back, and then he knew. He was so crestfallen I felt like the biggest jerk in the world. I was very nice to my other two clients. One was a 32-year-old virgin gas attendant. I took extra time with him, showed him what ladies like. I think he feels confident about going out in the world now. I think he might be retarded. My fourth client was definitely not a virgin. He was pretty good! He’d been stationed in Alaska for three months, where there aren’t many women, and he’d just arrived home. I’m sure he’d have no trouble picking up a non-prostitute in a bar, but I guess the extra couple hours the seduction would take would make it about three months and two hours too long without sex.


    

All the girls but me do Thorax and Xanax, booze and smokes. They spend their money on silly things like flowers and cellular phones and $120 shirts. I save every penny. I think part of the reason they take so many drugs is because they don’t like what they’re doing. I enjoy it! I want to be wide awake for the whole thing. It’s like a game. I have to figure out what each person wants me to be, and be that for an hour or half-hour. I like to watch myself turn into these different women in the wall-length mirror as I hover over each new man on the table in “my” room. My best friend here so far — Candy — looks just like an angel. I mean this girl could really be a statue in an art book, she’s flawless. But she gets mad, she takes things personally. Like one guy wanted her to tie his shoe laces with her teeth when it was over, and she swore at him and walked out. I think it’s neat to see what people are like when they think they don’t have to do the normal relationship things. I’d like to tie someone’s shoe laces with my teeth. I know I’m on top with these fellows no matter what, because I learn secret stuff, and they know nothing about me. They always come; I never do. This place is definitely more stimulating than Dunkin Donuts.


    

One guy last night said I was “such a good saleswoman” he wanted to have sex instead of the blowjob-a-month he’d been getting here for the past year. He said I was a “persuasive female,” able to wrest the extra $50 out of him. I took it as a testament to my puritan work ethic. I feel like I could do this forever. It’s a challenge because it always changes. In an evening, you go from dominating one man to coaxing and praising another to acting like an intelligent equal with a third (discussing literature and the pros and cons of owning one’s own jet). In that last case, I was pretending to be what I
am, which is an intriguing concept.





1999 postscript: About a week after this entry, there was a police raid on the punk house where I was staying (one of the guys there was a dealer), and my diary was seized. It came out in court that the cops had read the diary out loud to each other during coffee breaks. I had to go pick it up at the station when the case was over, and they all came out to see what I looked like. I looked like a very embarrassed, skinny 19-year-old.




©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.