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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  

Holding the Ankle

December 23, 1999



In our undying quest for extra-person sex, Dave and I traveled to a club in Portland, Maine — The Asylum. We arrived early to avoid the cover charge. A hardcore band was playing to an audience of about fifty short people, which is not unusual in hardcore. My guess is their growth was stunted by early cigarette use. This crowd must have started smoking at three years old, as I towered over all of them. They were cute, but I remembered the sex I had with their kind fifteen years ago: enthusiastic, quick and unoriginal, just like their songs. I have nothing against it; I’ve just had enough of it. And I couldn’t picture Dave fitting in. He comes from the middle class — as do most of these kids — but unlike them, Dave likes his class. He enjoys clean clothes.

The singer had three distinct vocal styles, which he skipped among with the greatest of ease: Seven Seconds hardcore, Norwegian death god rumble and Yes wail. The Yes wail blew me away every time it came around. In between songs, there was banter: Let’s fuck this place up, or Fuck Deicide! One song was dedicated to Emily, and a tiny voice cried out, “That’s me, motherfucker!”


    

Then it was over, and the short people went home. The bouncers transformed the room into an electronica club by bringing up some silver chairs from downstairs. A dj mixed Fatboy Slim and Rob Zombie and some woman singing about the moon. It was me and Dave, another couple and the silver chairs. While waiting for the perverted people to come, Dave and I had a fight about eighties music. He said it was the best music ever, and I was so mad that he would purport that, I refused to discuss it with him. “Flock of Seagulls?” was all I would say. “Yes, Flock of Seagulls,” he retorted, and he just kept on talking about all these eighties bands, in a friendly fashion, pretending not to notice my glowering noncomittalism. He even brought up The Police, which is an old bone of contention between us. My boyfriend before Dave — no, three boyfriends ago — had once been married to a girl who thought Sting was a genius, and the fact that this guy would marry someone who thought that gave me grave doubts about his suitability. I believe there are two kinds of people, Sting-lovers and Sting-haters, and the two should never congregate. If a Sting-hater can get close to a Sting-lover and not feel repugnance, then maybe he’s a secret Sting-lover himself, secret even from himself. Only the fact that my then-boyfriend was rabidly bitter about his ex-wife assured me. “It was all a big mistake,” he said, and that included Sting.


    

When I first learned that Dave was a Sting-lover, it was too late. We married for better or for worse, for Sting or not for Sting. I try not to talk about it. I’m in denial. But Dave needles me with it. He’s not embarrassed at all. He even wrote a story about Sting, a conspiracy theory about Sting getting hit in the head in Africa and — I don’t even want to go into it. Anyway, he got this story accepted by a magazine, and now everyone knows he’s a Sting-lover, and therefore everyone knows I’m a Sting-lover’s lover.


    

Meanwhile, no one else had arrived. The other couple — muscle-bound man

and blow-dried bleach-blonde woman in black catsuit — were obviously looking for some wife-swapping. They kept eyeing us, but we pretended to be looking at our table.


    

There’s a distinct line between three-ways and wife-swapping, a line I’m not willing to cross. Wife-swapping seems so Sting-loving and suburban.


    

You know, Sting bragged that he has seven-hour-long sex. Mr. Tantric. Later, it came out that he was including dinner and a movie in his seven hours. Even if that leaves three hours of sex — still, that’s about 180 minutes too long of sex with Sting. But, if there’s one thing more pathetic than Sting, it’s me and Dave, still sitting in the silver chairs, having outlasted the wife-swappers.


    

Back home, we watched Superfly. The guy was not superfly. He wasn’t even plain old fly. He had a nice mustache, but was so depressed all the time. And the sex scene, with all the wet chest hair . . . well, Dave and I were not having a good night. Then we put in the porno I got for my birthday. My very first porn video! It was a collection of cum shots. And who are the first couple, but the wife-swappers from Asylum! Well, it looked like them, at least. In the next scene, a man had sex with a naked woman on a couch while another man sort of crouched down behind the couch holding her ankle. That’s all he seemed to be there for — to hold the ankle. I found this really exciting. I decided that I want to be a porn director. We went to bed and I told Dave my plans for my porn video debut. It would star me, and a man with a mustache would be having sex with me. I’d do it real, not keep my moans at an even, high pitch from start to finish. I’d tell him what to do so I’d have real orgasms. We’d be on the couch just like those people, and Dave would be holding my ankle. (In real life, in real bed, Dave’s forceful and all, but being the ankle-holder is his big dream.) That other guy would fuck me so hard I’d dry out, and then he’d tell Dave to wet his cock, and Dave would have to lick it. Dave would say no, but the man would just leave it in his face, waiting calmly, until finally Dave would have to lick. He’d have no choice. Tentatively at first, then getting into it. As soon as Dave started acting like he liked it, the man would take it out of his mouth and stick it back inside me. Only inches from his face, Dave could see the long, wet shaft pull all the way out. Dave would say please, could he do something, and the man would say no. Then the man would decide he wanted to see who had the bigger one, so he’d put his up against Dave’s, lining them up carefully, his glistening, Dave’s dry and trembling. The man would put his big hairy hand around both penises to position them. His was bigger. “And now,” Big Hairy Man would say, “I’m going to come all over your wife, and then you can rub your cock in my semen.” Dave would be horrified and grateful. Oh, I forgot — there’s the cameraman and all the film people all around too. So the man would come on my chest and neck and face, and Dave would leap on me and rub all around in it till he came too, mixing man-seed.


    

After it was all over, I mean in real life, I lay in Dave’s sleeping arms, looked at shifting, shimmering gold and purple shapes inside my eyelids and listened to the rain wrap itself around every dry thing, and waited for Christmas.



   








©1999

Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.