http://cavaliermagazineonline.com/whatsnew.phpDebbie fights Barbara
(1st printed in the November 1990 issue of
CAVALIER)
Dear Cavalier:
I'm writing to let you know that there are lots of women who enjoy "Fight
Time". One of my lovers introduced me to your magazine about a year ago,
right after we met. He says he's been turned on by catfights ever since
he can remember, and the same goes for me. Just the thought of pounding
another woman into submission while my man watches gets me hot.
Now don't get me wrong--Cavalier is my favorite magazine, but I
think the letters you print are giving the impression that big-busted
bimbos, drunken barflies, motorcycle mamas, and fat-ass "amazons" are
really tough. You and your readers seem to be living in the past. Today,
there are lots of strong, able-bodied female athletes like gymnasts,
swimmers and bodybuilders who could kick the shit out of Cherie from Texas, Dee,
Maureen, or any of the pencil-armed bimbos you feature in
catfight pictorials.
I should know, I'm one of those women. As a competitive bodybuilder, I
know that when the likes of Dee and Maureen see the tanned, rock-hard,
vein-popping muscle packed on my 5'6", 138-pound physique, the last
thing they want to do is take me on. In fact, I get a kick out of coming
on to men right in front of their girlfriends. When most guys get an
eyeful of my blonde, blue-eyed, D-cup assets and compare them to the
bitch they're with, they have a hard time resisting my advances. But
their lovers see my fifteen-inch biceps and know that if they protest
they could get hurt! Most, but not all of them, keep their mouths shut.
Last week I fought a bitch who reminded me of Tiger, the supposedly
unbeatable "Fight Time" fighter from New York. It all started when my
boyfriend and I went to a nightclub that features female wrestling. My
clever lover mentioned that an old girlfriend of his, Barbara, wrestled
there and that he wanted me to meet her. Well, we both knew he hoped
that meeting would lead to a fight, and so did I.
We spent the majority of the evening watching a bunch of skinny women
wrestle...if you call rolling around on a mat "wrestling". The final
match of the night pitted Barbara against "The Commando", a big-busted,
muscle-less blonde in a camouflage bikini. Barbara, wearing a blue and
red one-piece suit with a white star on her chest, was introduced as
"Wonder Woman" and promptly flexed her biceps for the crowd. She had a
fair amount of muscle, certainly more than the other wrestlers we'd seen
so far, and from the opening bell it was obvious she knew how to
wrestle. For three rounds, she dominated "The Commando" with headlocks,
full-nelsons, and even hard slaps and punches until her overmatched
opponent submitted.
As she raised her arms in victory, Barbara saw my boyfriend and began
making her way through the crowd toward our table. She approached my
lover, who congratulated her, then brazenly kissed him hard on the
mouth. "I kicked her ass, didn't I?" she bragged as my smiling guy
nodded his agreement. "My time in the gym is really paying off," she
said as she raised her right arm and made a muscle to prove her point.
"See?"
I grabbed her tensed arm, squeezed the well-defined but rather puny
biceps, then sneered, "Get lost Wonder Woman!" The raven-haired wrestler spun around and yelled, "Find another ride home, honey, or you'll get your ass kicked too!"
I smiled. "Put your money where your mouth is, cxnt,” I challenged, knowing the white jacket and black leather pants I was wearing concealed my physique. "There's a ring right here!" Barbara looked at the crowd gathering around us, smiled with extreme cockiness, then replied, "I'm gonna hurt you, bitch!" She headed for the ring.
We both stepped through the ropes and the crowd buzzed with excitement,
realizing they were being treated to a free match. Soaking up the
attention, Barbara strutted confidently around the ring as I stripped
off my pants (I had on bikini bottoms) to reveal my strongly built
legs. Wolf whistles from the crowd caused Barbara to look in my
direction as I began taking off my jacket. Her eyes widened with fear
when she spotted my muscular upper body, stretching my yellow tank top
to its limits.
I walked over to the now-nervous bitch and said, "I work
out too, Wonder Woman," then slowly raised my arms into a double-biceps
pose. I squeezed the thick, roughly sculpted muscles until the veins
bulged and etched angry patterns across my rippling, fifteen-inch
symbols of feminine power. The totally-intimidated brunette's mouth
dropped open as I shouted, "Let's get it on!"
At that moment, someone rang the bell. I pushed Barbara and fired a hard
punch into her soft midsection, causing her to double over and gasp for
breath. Then I lowered the boom with an elbow chop to the back of the
head which put her face-down on the mat. "Get up!" I yelled as the dazed
brunette struggled to her feet. The wobbling "Wonder Woman" sprang
toward me and I caught her in a bear hug. The vise-like power of the
straining muscles of my chest, shoulders, and arms crushed her as I
lifted her off the canvas then threw her roughly to the mat.
Again the battered brunette got to her feet. I moved in and fired a
stiff left jab to the face, then followed with another. As Barbara
reeled from the punches, I feinted with my left, then rocketed a right
cross that connected squarely with brunette's nose, dropping her to her
knees. Blood oozed from both nostrils as I rifled two vicious left hooks
to the side of her head which put her flat on her back, unconscious.
Seeing the fight was over, I stood over my victim, put one foot on her
tits, then flexed my biceps as the crowd cheered.
I hope this story will set the record straight for your readers...the
Dees and Maureens of the world are not the toughest women around--they
just talk the loudest about being tough. Most of the skinny girls
and lard-asses your read about in "Fight Time" would get their asses
kicked by the strong and muscular women of the nineties. So let's hear
more about fights involving the REAL tough gals of today...like
me.
Debbie
