FreeCatFights

General Category => Catfight , Boxing & Wrestling Stories => Catfighting => Topic started by: Kiva on September 19, 2020, 12:58:23 AM

Title: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on September 19, 2020, 12:58:23 AM

Preface

First, no this is not a shameless infringement on FyreCracka’s phenomenal signature series, Fyre’s Fight Journal. I wrote the first part exclusively for Fyre as a fangirl tribute. The story is what I imagine it might be like if I somehow ended up in the universe FyreCracka inhabits. Kelli and I thought it would be fun to develop it a little more and share it with the forum, so a second chapter was added. More chapters will be added periodically.

I’d like to thank Kelli for allowing me to borrow her character and her wonderful world where finding a woman to fight can be as easy as going to the bakery to buy a cake.

Fyre’s Fight Journal:  https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=78153.0

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Chapter 1: Deep in the Heart of Texas

She certainly seemed nice enough and friendly. There was no doubt about that. She seemed very...normal. In fact, when I moved with my family from the northeast to Texas, Kelli was one of the first local women outside of work to reach out to me. I appreciated that. Relocating across the country can be quite an adjustment. My husband accepted a lucrative offer as an interventional cardiologist at the university hospital. I became the nursing manager of the medical intensive care unit. We were both excited over our new lives in Texas but work left little time to make new friends.

Kelli and I met in spin class at the gym I recently joined. She and her husband Jake lived in an adjacent neighborhood in the suburbs. We hit it off right away. We shared a lot of common interests. We both had a school age child attending the same school. Our husbands played in the same golf group at a local club. We enjoyed chatting in the locker room before and after workouts. Occasionally we had lunch together. Kelli was close to forty years old. She was very attractive at 5’6” and about 130 lbs. with beautiful blonde hair, brown eyes and a gorgeous smile. I was several years younger, an inch taller a little thinner with long dark brown straight hair and blue eyes. Frankly, I thought we were a couple of good looking milfs and I enjoyed being with her.

Then one day, I received a revelation about Kelli that shocked me to the core. At first it seemed innocuous. Sometimes she wore a warm up jacket to the gym embroidered with the words “Fyre Cracka” across the back. When I curiously asked, Kelli explained, “Oh that’s just a nickname my husband gave me.” 

Next, I noted a strange pin Kelli sometimes wore on her sweatshirt or T-shirt. Other times, it was attached to her gym bag. The pin was an image of a cat baring its claws. Although I wondered, I never did ask her the significance of the pin. I didn’t need to ask. A time came when I would see it for myself.

On that day, Kelli and I, after getting showered and dressed, left the gym together, walking to our respective cars. In the parking lot, we approached two women walking toward us to enter the gym. One woman was tan and fit with thick shoulder length wavy black hair and dark brown eyes, wearing a sports bra covered by a T-shirt and yoga shorts. Her companion was a smaller slender redhead with curly hair wearing a T-shirt and gym shorts.

The two female pairs offered each other a courteous greeting before Kelli and the tan dark haired woman froze in their tracks, then backed up and exchanged cold intense stares. Confused, I also took a step back and looked at both women. There they stood facing each other, saying nothing, but glaring at each other as if they were mortal enemies. I noticed their eyes shift. The dark haired woman diverted her gaze from Kelli’s eyes to the cat pin on her gym bag.  Kelli, in turn, focused her eyes alternately between woman’s face to a pin on her T-shirt - a pin of a cat with its claws out - identical to Kelli’s. What the hell? I thought, as it became apparent that this confrontation had something to do with those pins. Is this some female gang squabble?

Both women were now trying to stare at each other without blinking. With their chests puffed out, they moved closer to each other, standing toe to toe and chest to chest.  I became increasingly anxious as it now seemed these women were about to come to blows. “Girls,” I said, my voice slightly shaking, “I don’t know what this is about but I’m sure there’s a mature way to resolve it. Why don’t we all go inside and talk?”  No one responded.

There they stood in the parking lot, Kelly and another woman, in each other’s face, their shoulders slightly hunched, like two alley cats about to fight over territory. The redhead also stood to the side, but unlike me, seemed totally unfazed.  She looked at me with an intense cold gaze as if I were her foe.

Out of desperation, I tried again. “Let’s all go out to lunch. I’ll buy,” I said. My words were completely ignored as Kelli and the woman continued their stare down.

Finally, the tan skinned woman ended the uncomfortable silence. “Well, it looks like you and I will settle this now, right Blondie?”

“Who are you?” Kelli responded in a low grim voice. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“My name is Deanna,” the dark haired woman answered.  “I moved here from New York a few months ago.”

Holy shit, I know her, I thought to myself. Deanna was a physical therapist at my hospital. She started about the same time I did.  A beautiful woman of Italian ancestry and a heavy New York accent, Deanna quickly gained a reputation at work for being an aggressive assertive, some would say rude, employee who often rubbed people the wrong way. “The pushy New Yorker,” as she was affectionately called.

“I’m Kelli,” my friend responded.

Double Holy Shit!  Do these women not know each other? What the fuck are they fighting about?

“Can someone please explain to me what this about?” I begged.  I may as well not have been present.

“Well Kelli,” Deanna sneered, “you’re going to learn today that I’m the new alpha bitch around here. I learned to fight in New Yawk City. I’m shoor not afraid of some blonde Texas bitch.”

“I know a place behind the gym,” Kelli responded, her voice low and steady. “There’s a secluded clearing where we can fight.”

Fight?  Did she say FIGHT?  Kelli and this woman are going to fight?   No, this can’t be.

“Go to the back of the building,” Kelli instructed her adversary.  “Down the hill, cross the bridge over the creek, then turn left.  There’s a grassy area surrounded by a grove of trees.  Chances are no one will see us.  Give me five minutes to change.  Meet me there.”

“You got it, skank,” Deanna snarled as Kelli turned back toward the gym.

I had a hard time keeping up with Kelli’s fast pace as she hurried back to the gym front door.  “Kelli, don’t fight.  Please tell me what this is about.” At first she said nothing as she hustled her way back to the locker room as I tagged behind her. As she speedily retrieved her bra and shorts from her gym bag, I tried one more time, “Kelli, this is freaking me out. Are you in a gang? I just don’t believe that.”

Kelli paused for a moment. Finally, keeping her voice down, she began, “Kiva, I’ll tell you everything later.  For now, I’ll just say there’s something about me you should know.”  What she said next was mind blowing. Kelli explained that she belonged to an internet-based network of women who enjoy physically catfighting. The women wear the catpins when they desire a fight.  When two women wearing the pin encounter each other, they are expected to fight as soon as possible.

“That’s crazy,” I protested.  “Someone will get hurt.”

Kelli went on to explain that the fighters actually have a code of ethics where they strictly abide by agreed upon rules. Usually, once the loser submits, the winner must stop fighting.  Sometimes however, “stakes are involved.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Kiva, listen,” Kelly said, “you’re welcome to watch. My hobby isn’t exactly a close secret. But you must not interfere or get involved in any way. Please do not move or do anything during the fight. You must promise me that.”

As my best judgment quickly took flight, I replied, “Um...uh...Okay,...I...........promise.”

Back in her sports bra and yoga shorts, Kelli exited the back door, with me close behind carrying her gym bag. We hurried our way, down a grassy hill to a creek that bordered a public park. After crossing the foot bridge, we headed to a wooded area. As we made our way, through trees and a shallow ravine, we came to the clear grassy area Kelli mentioned. They were there.

“Look, the two losers showed up,” Deanna taunted. “After today, you’re going to know which woman rules around here. Ready to get your ass kicked, Blondie?”

Deanna removed her T-shirt, revealing her matching brown sports bra and shorts, similar to Kelli’s black set.  The two women took a few minutes to stretch, then kicked off their shoes.  They both tied their hair back into ponytails.  As for me, I was very close to an anxiety attack.

Finally, Deanna shook out her arms before placing them on her hips.  Kelly, stood across from her, also with her hands on her hips. They quickly said something about “rules” which I did not catch before resuming their icy stare down. 

“Texas is full of losers,” Deanna started.  “The Dallas Cowboys suck.  The San Antonio Spurs suck. Ted Cruz is a moron.  The Houston...SMACK!  Kelli’s right arm swung faster than my eyes could follow to deliver a slap effectively shutting Deanna’s big mouth. The brunette’s head snapped to the side sending her stumbling backward. I was not prepared for what I was about to see.

“Bitch,” she screamed as Kelli charged in tackling her foe to the ground.  Securing a position on top, Kelli threw several punches to the body and slapped at the other woman’s face as her opponent tried to cover up.  Screaming and shrieking, Deanna thrashed and kicked with her long legs while arching her back trying to escape her predicament. Kelli shifted her weight on her opponents chest and managed to pin the arms with her knees. Deanna snorted and swung her long legs upward hooking Kelli around the neck and pulling her down off of her. The two women locked up on the ground, each taking handfuls of the other’s hair, swinging their heads side to side. They scrambled on top of each other, each one trying to gain the superior position. With their legs kicking and entwining, they rolled across the grass still clutching each other’s hair.  First, one was on top, then the other.  This continued several times until I heard Kelli let out a terrible shriek. It took a moment before I could tell what occurred. To my horror, it became apparent. Deanna had very long red painted fingernails and wasn’t afraid to use them. With her enemy’s hands dug into her shoulders, Kelli released the grip on the woman’s hair but was paralyzed in pain. Kelli tried to roll out of the way, but Deanna continued her attack slapping and scratching at the shoulders and chest.  Kelli managed to get up on one knee as her attacker flailed away. Deanna, now on her feet, used her superior position, pulling the blonde’s head forward by the hair as she yanked the back of the sports bra over the head so it covered the eyes as she continued her slapping attack. 

Blinded, Kelli, swung at air as the New Yorker shot for the legs driving my friend to the ground.  Deanna sat atop her rival’s belly, throwing slaps at the face and exposed breasts.  Pinned beneath the Italian beauty, Kelli defended the slap attacks, blocking some but not all with her arms.  Frustrated, Deanna once again resorted to using her claws, digging her long red nails into Kelli’s breasts.

Hearing Kelli scream, I instinctively ran to the two combatants to break it up. I remembered Kelli’s solemn instructions and my promise not to interfere.  But breast clawing?  Am I expected to just stand still and watch?  I could tell from Kelli’s face she was in severe pain.  Although she was silent, her face seemed to be communicating another message to me. That message was “Stay out of this.”  Reluctantly, I backed away, noticing my hands and knees were shaking.  I just wanted this horror to be over.

Kelli gripped her attacker’s hands trying to undo the talons grip on her bare breasts but without much success.  She managed to fling her knee upward striking the rowdy physical therapist in the middle of the back.  It must have hurt as Deanna let out a yelp and was knocked forward.  Kelli saw her opportunity, reaching toward the aggressors face and grabbing and squeezing the nose with her fingers.  It proved to be a simple and effective trick as Deanna released the claws from Kelli’s tits. With my hands over my mouth and still in shock, I could only imagine the level of Kelli’s pain.  My friend squirmed and bucked, then used her other hand to seize Deanna’s hair while pulling on her nose.  Finally, the taller woman was forced off her opponent as Kelli released her hold and rolled out of the way.

Kelli rose to her feet first while Deanna was still regaining her balance.  Wasting no time, she removed the tangled sports bra which was wrapped around her neck and shoulders before tossing it to the grass. Kelli rushed at the other woman, throwing a series of punches to the belly and ribs. Taking a step back to measure her opponent, the blonde woman buried her knee to the belly.  Deanna doubled over letting out a loud “oooommph” then fell to her knees.  Kelli stood over her disadvantaged foe, yanking her up by the hair and the back of the sports bra, exposing the tanned woman’s tits, before firing a vicious slap to the face. Deanna fell backward, landing on her ass. Kelli stood straddled over the the brunette as she rolled onto her knees and elbows. With perfect timing, Kelly wrapped her legs around her prey’s waist, locking her ankles together into a hold I know to be a body scissors.  Deanna let out a loud cry as she crumpled to the ground, her body being squeezed by Kelli’s strong legs.

I could see Kelli straining as she repeatedly contracted all her leg muscles, crushing Deanna’s ribs. “Give up, bitch” she yelled.

“No,” Deanna weakly gasped, her face contorted in agony.

I knew from watching Kelli in the gym that she has powerful legs and Deanna was feeling the full wrath. I hoped against hope my fellow hospital employee would give up and end this. No such luck.  Kelli reached down and pulled on her victim’s hair to further add to the misery and hasten a submission.  Finally, Deanna resorted to her only apparent weapon. Finding her talons, she dug her nails into Kelli’s thighs. I could tell Kelli was trying to hold on, until she finally broke the hold.

Looking pissed off and frustrated, Kelli stood on her feet looking for a way to end it. Deanna began to rise slowly, looking terrible with her labored breathing, pained expression and blood trickling down her nose.  Her bra was tangled around her neck as her exposed tits dangled. Her ponytail tie was gone, her thick black wavy hair in total disarray. She barely had time to regain her footing when Kelli wrapped her arms around the trunk pressing her foe’s vulnerable boobs with her own.  The dark haired woman appeared to have a 35D bra size, dwarfing Kelli’s 34Bs but it was Kelli in total control.  She lifted the taller woman up on the toes as she squeezed the ribs again in a bear hug. After holding her in this position for half a minute, the blonde catfighter threw the unfortunate physical therapist forward sending her to the ground flat on her back.

Moving quickly, Kelli picked up both of the other fighter’s ankles before folding her up and planting the woman’s feet to the ground above her head in a hold I knew as a matchbook pin.  Except, Kelli wasn’t done yet.  She turned her body to lie on her side of her victim’s head, holding one leg down with her arms and the other one trapped between her own legs.  Then, she spread Deanna’s legs apart into a hold I later learned was called a spladle or banana split. 

I watched Deanna whimper as Kelli tightly held the hold. I knew Deanna was simply helpless, her body folded, the legs immobilized, her ass sticking up pointing at the sky. Finally, I felt relieved knowing that this beastly affair would be soon be over.

“Give up,” Kelli ordered.

“No,” Deanna defiantly answered.

Again, Kelli held her opponent trapped on the ground for what seemed like half an hour, but may only have been half a minute.  Growing impatient, Kelli held a leg with one hand, freeing the other to punch away at Deanna’s thighs.  Unable to defend herself, Deanna tried to withstand it. Finally, Kelli delivered a slap to the crotch as a final warning.

Deanna let out a cry before sobbing out “I give up....Let me go,”

“Who is the alpha woman in this part of town,” Kelli demanded.

“You are.”

“Who’s the most pathetic loser in Texas?”

“Me”

“What did you say you are?”

“A loser.”

“Are you going to stay out of my way from now on?”

“Yes.”

Kelli released her victim, who straightened out her legs, and was now again lying flat on her back, her bare tits rapidly rising and falling trying to replenish oxygen. Tears flowed down her cheeks as Kelli approached her and planted a foot on the defeated woman’s distressed chest while flexing her biceps, striking the pose of a victorious ancient Roman gladiatrix. During the pose, I saw the skinny redhead again glaring at me with a look of hatred.  Her expression seemed to say, “It will be you and me next.”  Why? I had nothing to do with this.

Kelli slipped a T-shirt on as I picked up her gym bag.  “Are you OK?” I asked.

“I’m fine.” I must have still been shaking as she asked me, “Are YOU OK?”

I looked at her scratched breasts, shoulders and legs.  “I have Neosporin ointment in my car.  Can we leave now?” I asked.

“Let’s go,” she said.  “I’m sorry you had to see this.”

As we headed back to the gym parking lot, I looked behind me to see Deanna and her ginger friend looking forlorn but slowly leaving the scene. The redhead gave me one last bitter look as we continued onward.

Kelli and I said nothing as we headed to our cars. I gave her the Neosporin as we parted.  “Look Kiva, I’ll explain everything but right now I need to get home.”

The next evening I met Kelli at the school after the parent-teacher night we both attended. “Are you up for coffee?” she asked.

As the waitress placed the mocha and biscottis before us, Kelli began her story. At age 37, she took up a hobby of catfighting other women, most of whom she met on the internet or in person wearing the catpin. Jake is her trainer and accompanies her on her arranged fights. Most of her fights are recorded on the internet. It just sounded too incredible. The way she explained it, women are naturally competitive and the urge to physically fight is within most of us to some degree. While many women try to hurt and control each other through gossip, lies, and manipulation, catfighters throw away all of the pretentiousness and just go at it to decide the better woman. They are simply honest about us having competitive primal urges and found a more direct way to deal with it. I agreed with her about the tendency of women to be “catty” but fighting?  Really?

“How does this affect your marriage?” I asked. Kelli explained that fighting, especially in front of her husband, gives them a level of sexuality and intimacy that is out of this world. Interesting, but very strange I thought.

Over the next few weeks, I continued to see Kelli at the gym, school and community events. I did not mention her hobby to anyone. At work, sometimes her fight with Deanna would cross my mind. The funny thing was I would think about it when I saw women treating each other badly. Even stranger was that I pictured myself beating up women I couldn’t stand. There was the dysfunctional head nurse who had a need to constantly challenge my authority. The administrative assistant to the CEO with her exaggerated sense of self importance. The narcissistic Vice President of Marketing who couldn’t market anything but herself. The phony as shit operations officer with her plastic smiles and subtle put downs. I’m better than the whole sorry lot of them I said to myself. Wouldn’t it be a dream come true to put all these jerks in their place?  Kelli’s explanation of why women catfight started to....make sense. And I had to admit, unlike these “respectable” women, Kelli was one of the least pretentious women I’ve ever met.

Kelli’s fight with Deanna had another effect on me at work. Deanna still acted pushy and aggressive. That is, except when I was around. In my presence, Deanna was quiet and passive and had trouble making eye contact with me. This supposed tough bad ass knew I saw her broken and humiliated and her act couldn’t work with me. One day, I pushed the envelope. When Deanna was on my unit, I let her have it.  “Deanna,” I barked, “the patient in room 12 needs physical therapy...NOW!  This was ordered YESTERDAY!  Why wasn’t it done yet?”  I had to admit, I enjoyed this supposed alpha female submissively answering, “Sorry, it’ll get done.”

I didn’t expect it but I found myself more and more intrigued with Kelli’s hobby.  I even began to fantasize about it. The image of the bad bitch from the Bronx helplessly folded up like a lawn chair with her ass facing the heavens was well....funny.....and exciting. I daydreamed about subduing and submitting annoying bitches just like Kelli did to Deanna. I wondered what it’d be like to have my husband watching.

“Tom,” I asked, “has Jake ever said anything to you about this strange hobby he and Kelli have?”

“Yeah, sure,”

“Really?  Well, what do you think?”

“I think it’s great that they both love the outdoors and go hunting and fishing together.  What’s so strange about that?”

“Oh....Nothing I guess.”

I would try again another time.  I was only in one fight in my life. It was against a big bully named Faith early in my nursing career.  I told my husband about it once.  “I would have liked to have seen that,” he said.

“Tom, I’m thinking about taking up combat classes, you know, martial arts.”

“That’s good,” he said.  “Learning some self defense can’t hurt.”

“What if I had arranged fights with other women?  You know, competitive fights?

“Bad idea, Kiva,” he said, “Great way to get hurt.”

“What if there were rules?” I continued, “to take away some of the risk?”

“Still a bad idea.”

“What if I wrestled another woman?...wearing a bikini?”

“Well now, that would be hot.” We both laughed. At least it was a start.

A few weeks later, my interest in learning more about female fighting continued to swell. I’d look at random women and think, “I could take her.” My routine at the gym started to include more weight training in addition to endurance.  I knew a lot of wrestling holds from growing up with my brothers but I would need trainers and instructors.  Maybe Kelli and Jake knew somebody.

Kelli did send me the website she used to arrange fights. I watched all of the fights she posted.  She won the majority of them. At first I was taken aback by the rawness of these encounters.  Some were harrowing affairs.  Then, I watched them again...and again. I can do this I told myself. I browsed at the profiles of some of the women. Some were very experienced. Others were novices. Then I came across a profile of....Deanna’s friend,...the redhead who continually glared at me and sized me up like she wanted to fight me. Her name was Freda.  Her fight record was 0-0, a Newbie.  That’s it, I thought. I’ll join this site and challenge her.....No, I can’t do it.

About a week later, I got out of the shower. I dried off and slipped on my bra and panties. Taking a large pillow off the bed, I slammed it to the floor. In the full length mirror, I watched myself step on the pillow and throw my arms to the air in a victory pose. I have to do this. I’ll tell Tom later. He’ll later understand.

I clicked on the Register button. Creating the user name “Catfighter_RN,” I filled in the profile information including my stats. All I had to do next was click Submit and set up my first fight.  No, I can’t,I thought. Tom’s right, this is crazy. I’m a wife and mom. I have a career. If I get exposed, my reputation might get ruined. Maybe this will kill my career. I’ll delete the profile....No, I won’t. If this is so wrong, why do I feel this way?  Isn’t it primal?  Isn’t it natural?  But I need My husband to be on board with this...I’m too old....No, Kelli started at age 37....It’s not too late...I’m a fast learner...I’ll click Submit.

Submit....Delete....Submit....Delete....I’ll Submit and that will be final. Just one click away and....Delete...Click....No, I can’t.  At least not now.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on September 19, 2020, 01:03:10 AM

Chapter 2: Just a Nurse

“Hello Mr. Johnson, my name is Kiva and I’ll be your nurse this evening. I have your scheduled blood pressure medications but first I’m going to do my assessment. How are you feeling right now?” 

Mr. Johnson assured me he was fine. The big truck driver was admitted to my ICU two days earlier, confused and disoriented with a hypertensive emergency, a blood pressure so severely high, he was on the verge of a stroke and kidney failure. Thanks to careful administration of intravenous medications and intense monitoring, his blood pressure was now stable. He was expected to be transferred out of the ICU in the morning.

I recorded the blood pressure, heart rate, respirations and oxygen saturation. I auscultated the heart sounds, then the lungs, then pressed my stethoscope on his abdomen. IV sites were clean and intact. Arterial line was working fine. The electrodes on the chest were reliably recording the heart rhythm to the telemetry monitor. I turned away from him, bending over slightly to adjust the tubing connecting the IV bag to the vein in his arm. I turned back toward him in time to catch him ogling my ass.

“Hmmm, mmm,” he grinned, “I must have been a good boy to get such a fine looking lady for my nurse. I think I might have died and gone to heaven.”

For female nurses, comments like that come with the territory. Maybe he meant it as a harmless but lame attempt at humor. Maybe that would be the only such comment but my harassment warning alarm was activated. Wearing my game face, I ignored it and stuck to business.

“Mr. Johnson,  these two pills are for your blood pressure. This one is for cholesterol. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes,” he replied, “can I have a drink of water?”

“Yes,” I answered, “but you’re on a fluid restriction. I can only give you a small cup. Anything else?”

“Why yes,...when are you going to get me naked and give me a sponge bath?”

Alright, he was pushing it. “Sir, one of the male nurses will help you into the shower as soon as you can come off the cardiac monitor,” I responded, my poker face in his full view. Usually, a serious business-like demeanor is enough to end this type of behavior.

“I’ll draw a blood sample for the lab at eleven o’clock,” I resumed. “No food or drink after midnight for a possible procedure tomorrow. You’re scheduled for an echocardiogram first thing in the morning.”

“What time do you leave?” He asked.

“My shift is over at seven a.m.”

“I see,” he said with an impish smirk while stroking his beard. “What time do you sneak off to the doctors call room for a booty call?  There must be some hunky doc waiting for a pretty little thing like you to help him relieve some stress.”

OK, time to act. “Sir,” I begin, “You are a patient in the ICU. You came here with a very serious condition. I am a healthcare provider responsible for your care. I do not care for inappropriate sexual comments. You must let me do my job.” In an attempt to quickly diffuse the awkwardness, I brought the topic back to the issues at hand. 

“I’ll be closely watching your blood pressure overnight. Your heart rhythm is being observed at all times. The techs can see it in the monitor room. And there is another monitor in this room right here....over....your....head.”  OH SHIT!  Fortunately, I stopped myself from uttering those words. But I still gasped.

Above Johnson’s head, the heart monitor displayed a new rhythm not present a minute ago.  The rhythm was fast....very fast...way too fast... suddenly changing from 60 to 150 beats per minute in just seconds. OK, deep breath I tell myself.  Stay calm.  I’ve seen this hundreds of times.

“Is something wrong?” my sexually inappropriate patient asked.

Briefly, I’m disappointed with myself. I should not have gasped. A nurse with my experience should have better self control than to alarm a patient. However, Johnson’s heart converted into a potentially dangerous rhythm. We would need to identify the rhythm immediately.  He might need an electric shock to the chest to defibrillate him. Maybe we could control it with medications and won’t require a shock. We needed to know what rhythm this is. However, the immediate priority in that situation is assessing the patient.

“Mr. Johnson, are you having chest pain or shortness of breath?”

“No.”

So far, so good.  Blood pressure is....excellent.  We have a little time.

“Mr. Johnson, your heart rate is fast at the moment,” I explained.

“Well, of course it is, babe. With a hottie like you in my room, how can it not be.”  I’m too busy to respond to this shit. 

“Monitor tech,” I yell out.  “What are you seeing.”

“Wide complex tachycardia,” a voice called back.

I called on my colleagues, “We need a 12-lead EKG stat in bed 10. Please page the intern on call.”

“Did you say to page the intern?” one of my fellow nurses asked, nearly snickering.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Well, good luck with that,” she warned.

“Why do you say that.”

“Because the intern from hell is covering tonight.”

Oh great, I tell myself. It happens every summer in academic teaching hospitals across the U.S.  The academic new year begins July 1. That’s when fresh graduating medical students take their very first steps as newly minted doctors and begin their residency. The most senior residents will have moved on while an influx of first year residents or interns arrive. There’s a meme that says July is the most dangerous month to be hospitalized due to the inexperienced residents, although studies have not shown that poor patient outcomes are increased due to resident errors during the summer.

The system works by an hierarchical structure of supervision. The first year resident (intern) takes the first calls and is backed up by a more senior resident, who, in turn, is backed up by a full fledged veteran doctor.

However, the system can create interesting situations in doctor-nurse relationships. In the ICU, a very seasoned nurse may be paired with a very inexperienced physician. In an emergency situation, a veteran nurse has all the experience but the doc has all the decision making authority. Most residents are wise enough to recognize this disparity and view the nurse as a priceless resource. In turn, good nurses know how to tactfully make suggestions and steer the fledgling doc in the right direction while still respecting the doctor’s training and status. I had gotten along great with residents and watched many of them go on to establish prominence in their fields. Some of them still thank me for bailing them out of trouble during the infancy of their careers.

Occasionally, we’d get a problem child for an intern. Almost always, it would be an insecure, socially inept soul lacking self-confidence. These types perceived knowledgeable nurses as a threat to their own self esteem. Therefore, accepting suggestions by nurses was viewed as a sign of weakness and, in their minds, they could only build themselves up by demeaning highly skilled confident nurses. I know these types, I told myself. Been there and done that. I’m ready.

“Who is this demon intern?” I asked my colleagues.

“Her name is Freda,” one nurse answered.

“Freda....Freda,” I wondered....”Where do I know that name? What does she look like?”

“Thin, red hair.  All the personality of a garden slug. She doesn’t get along with very many people. I only ever see her with that miserable bitch Deanna from physical therapy.”

“OH MY GOD,” I nearly gasped audibly.  FREDA?  That bitch that stared at me like she wanted to fight me? That woman with a profile on the catfight website? She’s a DOCTOR?  An INTERN?  The one I have to work with TONIGHT?  I take it back.  I haven’t been there and done that.  FREDA? OH...MY....GOD!

OK, I told myself. I’ll get through this. This is the hand I’ve been dealt. Time to take a deep breath. I’ll just need to keep my head straight. The only thing that matters is getting Mr. Johnson’s heart rhythm under control.

While waiting for Dr. Freda to arrive, I examined the rhythm strips printed out by the monitor tech. I saw something encouraging. Then I studied the 12 lead EKG. It was good news, I thought. It’s atrial fibrillation, a common rhythm disorder where the two upper chambers of the heart, the atria, contract in an uncoordinated chaotic rhythm like a bowl of jello. This sends erratic electrical messages to the lower chambers, the ventricles, which contract at an irregular rate. Because Johnson has a good blood pressure and no symptoms, we should be able to slow this thing down with intravenous medication. He may even convert back to a normal rate and rhythm. My fear was that he might have had ventricular tachycardia, a more serious rhythm disturbance and a worse prognosis. I was relieved this wasn’t the case.

“What’s taking the intern so long?” I groaned.

“Par for the course,” answered my fellow nurse. “And when  she shows up, don’t expect a ray of sunshine.”

I returned to Johnson’s bedside. “Mr. Johnson, we’ll need to slow down your heart rate tonight. As soon as the doctor gets here, we’ll give you some medicine that I think will do the trick.”

“Well Alleluia,” he bellowed. “Then afterwards, you and I can go out dancing.”

Oh please, what a repulsive thought. Then from behind me, from the doorway of Johnson’s room, I heard a female voice.

“Did you page me? What d’ya want?” Charming. No introduction. The tone suggested the page was an annoyance. I turned around. It was her, standing in green scrubs and a white jacket, a stethoscope draped around her neck. The face, the serious expression, the look of contempt was the same as during the last time we met.

“Hello, doctor, I’m Kiva. I believe we ...sort of....met....at the gym.”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” she replied.

“Look, I know this is awkward for both of us,” I said, “But I think we can put the incident between Deanna and Kelli behind us and work together tonight.”

“So why was I called?,” her voice gruff, the facial expression unchanging. No Miss Congeniality here.

“Doctor, this is Mr. Johnson. He was admitted with a hypertensive emergency. He was doing well but suddenly went into this rhythm ten minutes ago. No symptoms. Here’s his EKG. It looks like atrial fibrillation. If you agree, I can draw up metoprolol and we’ll get started.”

The surly redheaded doc gave Johnson a cursory physical exam, glanced at the EKG, then gave an order that made my blood run cold. “It’s ventricular tachycardia, charge the defibrillator. We’ll need to shock him.”

Oh good lord, I thought. This will require all the diplomacy skill I can muster immediately.

“Doctor, I understand your concern this might be ventricular tachycardia, but the EKG shows an irregular rhythm. The QRS axis doesn’t change. And the complex appears wide because of left bundle branch block. I’m quite certain this is atrial fibrillation. How much metoprolol would you like?”

“Whoooweee,” Johnson interjected. “I have no idea what the hell you just said, but you sure are sexy with your brainy medical talk.”

I slowly backed out of Johnson’s room and into the hallway, motioning Freda to follow me.

“You heard what I said,” she asserted. “Get the defibrillator and charge it...NOW.”  And with the same look of utter derision she gave me on that day behind the gym, she sneered, “You shouldn’t even be looking at EKGs. You are ...just...a...nurse.”

Those words stabbed me through the heart. Nevertheless, I pushed onward.

“Doc, I’m certified in critical care nursing. I spent a semester studying EKGs. Plus this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve worked in critical care for years and have seen just about every heart rhythm imaginable. If you still wish to defibrillate Mr. Johnson, your senior resident will need to be present.”

“I know what I’m doing,” she grumbled. “I’ll need an anesthetist to sedate and intubate and I’ll do the rest.”

“No,” I responded, “This is not a decision appropriate for an intern alone. You need to bring in your senior.”

“OK, why don’t we work together as a team,” her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll make the medical decisions and you clean the poop and wipe the asses.”

That did it. I thought that kind of attitude was largely a thing of the past. Yes, there was a time when nursing was mostly about cleaning, dressing, and making patients comfortable. In recent decades, the profession has grown into a clinical science. Today, advance practice nurses perform procedures and prescribe medications. At least the newer generations of doctors get it. Whenever, I hear a comment like that, it usually comes from an old fart doc who should have retired years ago. But no, not this dipshit I was stuck that night. I offered no response. Quietly, I made my way to the defibrillator. Instead of charging it, I ducked into the break room and lifted the phone. As Johnson’s nurse, it was my prerogative to call the senior resident with advanced level concerns.

“Jeff, it’s Kiva. Mr Johnson in bed 10 has wide complex tachycardia. I think it’s atrial fibrillation with RVR. You need to come down to take a look.”

“Did you call the inter

“Yes, and she’s planning ...to...shock...him.”

“Oh shit!  Coming.”

Jeff was one of the best senior residents and we had a great relationship of mutual respect and trust. I had no doubt that when he arrived, Mr. Johnson would be in good hands. When he showed up in the ICU that night, I felt a burden lift from my shoulders.

“Hello, Mr. Johnson, how are you tonight,” he smiled showing exemplary bedside manner.  “Let’s listen to your heart and lungs. Great! Now let’s look at your EKG.”  With Freda and I standing to the side, Jeff delivered his verdict. “OK...it looks like you have a rhythm called atrial fibrillation. We can take care of that. Kiva, would you be so kind as to draw up 15 milligrams of metoprolol and give the first 5 now.”

The redhead remained expressionless. “Freda, come with me,” Jeff instructed. “I have some pointers about EKGs that might help you next time...Thanks Kiva...Great job!”

As the two of them departed, I pushed the medication through the IV catheter. Then I stood at Johnson’s bedside momentarily lost in thought...Just a nurse... I wanted to scream.  I have a patient who wants me to be a sex kitten. I have a sociopathic intern who wants me to be a handmaiden. I want to scream at the universe...Just a nurse...Why do I bother? Why do I do this? Dr. Freda and Mr. Johnson deserved each other. Had I not intervened, he might have been dead by morning and her career would have been over. Would have served them both right....Just a nurse...Why do I do such bloody hard work for 12 straight hours? I asked. I didn’t have an answer. The only thing I knew was I wanted to scream.

Johnson’s voice snapped me back to earth. “Hey nurse, you and that lady doctor don’t get along well, do you?”

“Why do you say that,” I asked.

“Well, when you walked out into the hallway, she told me she’s gonna kick your ass.”

“Oh Lord no,” I sighed under my breath.

“Yes sir,” Johnson continued. “You and that redhead lady doc rolling around on the floor, pulling hair and scratching while ripping each other’s clothes off. Hell, I’d pay good money to see that. I’d like to throw both of you hens into my barnyard pen and watch the two of you settle it. The winner gets me for the night.”

I....cannot...take...this.

“I would bet my money on you,” Johnson added. “That lady doc looks tough and scrappy but you’re bigger and smart. I think you can take her.”

I really, really, really...wanted to scream.

Finally, a day off and I badly needed to get to the gym. Fantasies of fighting other women still crept into my mind. I periodically revisited the website to watch catfights. I really admired Kelli for going through with this hobby of hers. I was even more impressed, if not a little envious, that her husband Jake was totally involved in it with her. At this point I said nothing more to my husband about it.

At the gym, I started kickboxing classes. It focused more on fitness than actual combat but I found I loved the feel of striking the bag. As I improved my technique and learned to throw harder punches, I felt a rush as I buried my fists into the bag.

Feeling physically spent but elated after a workout, I sat on the locker room bench sipping my water. With my head down, my thoughts turned toward work. I was on night shift again. I would take my daughter shopping for school clothes, then try to get a few hours of sleep before work. I sure hoped Freda wasn’t on call.

“Hey you,” a female voice interrupted my thoughts. I knew who it was before lifting my head. There she was in her black sports bra and yoga shorts, the red hair pulled back, the thin stern face glaring at me.

“I want to make one thing very clear,” Freda spoke in a low monotone voice. “Don’t you EVER embarrass me at work again.”

“I didn’t embarrass you,” I retorted. “I simply gave my opinion on the patient’s heart rhythm. And it turned out I was right. If you were embarrassed that you were wrong, I can’t help that.”

“Why did you go over my head and call my senior?”

“Because you wanted to shock the patient. Seniors are ALWAYS involved in those decisions. That’s not something an intern can do alone,” I asserted.

“Calling the senior is MY decision. You are....just a nurse.”

There it is again. With my blood beginning to boil, it was clear this is about insecurity and power. But is this a female thing? I wondered.  Would she react this way with a male nurse? Traditionally, doctors were overwhelmingly male. Today women make up half of all medical school graduates.  Over time, I’ve noticed gender differences in how doctors interact with nurses. Unlike their older counterparts, most young male physicians, like Jeff, prefer nurses to call them by their first names and view us as colleagues. Female doctors tend to want us to refer to them as “doctor” until they get to know us well and seem to be more hierarchy conscious.  Freda, on the other hand, was on her own planet.

“Is that your problem?” I shot back. “You can’t accept a nurse knew something you didn’t? That a nurse could teach you something? That I have light years of more experience than you in critical care? Is that it? Did I ruin your fantasy that I’m a submissive subservient chambermaid? Does it threaten you that I’m a highly trained clinician?”

She stood there expressionless. I was on a roll. “Well let me tell you something, doc. Unless you learn quickly your own limitations and what everyone brings to the table, your career is doomed. I’ve been at this game a long time. It’s OK to be wrong. We’re all wrong at times. But it’s inexcusable to stay wrong. You can accept the Mr. Johnson episode as a learning experience or you can be pissed at me and the rest of the world. The choice is yours. Remember, I may be just a nurse but you’re just ...a....trainee....And from I’ve seen so far, you’re not going to make it.”

Freda stood still for a moment, her face blank, looking downward. Finally, she looked me in the face, and in a raspy but low voice uttered four utterly shocking words, “Let’s take it outside.”

I jolted upright. “Did you just say you want to fight? Are you calling me out?”

“You heard me,” she said sternly.

I was shocked. I fantasized about decking this bitch but never expected she’d challenge me. I already felt a surge of adrenaline. For a few moments, we stared silently at each other. Then I spoke words I never dreamed of saying, “OK, let’s fight. Down the hill, in the clearing where Kelli and Deanna fought.”

Suddenly, a boisterous voice interrupted the tension, “Oh yeah, baby, did I hear that right? You two are finally going to tangle.” It was Deanna, standing in the locker room dressed in her gym clothes, her long wavy dark hair and large brown eyes, hovering over me as I remained seated on the bench.

Directing her venom at me, Deanna added, “I don’t like the way you’ve been disrespecting me at work. My girl Freda is going to teach you some manners.”

Before I could process that I was outnumbered by two creeps, an assertive voice spoke from behind me in that familiar self-confident Texas drawl.  Kelli. Thank goodness.  “What’s going on here?” she demanded.

“I’ll tell you what’s going on here, Blondie,” Deanna answered, her voice sounding rushed with enthusiasm. Your friend and Freda here are finally going to settle it...outside.”

“A fight?” Kelli asked incredulously. “These two are going to fight?...Seriously?...Kiva, is that true?”

“Yes,” I answered.

The four of us said nothing for a few seconds. Then Kelli broke the silence, “ I’d like to speak privately with Kiva for a minute.”

“Go ahead Blondie, talk her out of it,” Deanna taunted. “Tell her it’s OK to chicken out. She ain’t gonna be so pretty after my girl pulverizes her.”

Kelli led me to an empty row of lockers, then said in a soft direct voice, “Kiva, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes”

“I mean, you’re really going to fight that redhead?”

“Yes”

“Look,” Kelli offered, “I’ll be honest. I really don’t think this is a good idea. You know I like fighting. I don’t want to be a hypocrite but if your having problems with these two at work, perhaps you should speak to their supervisors or HR department. Fighting is usually not the best solution.”

“It’s more than that,” I countered. “Remember when you said many women have a drive to compete?  Well, I’ve always felt that. I just kept it suppressed for many years. You and Deanna didn’t need a reason to fight. You didn’t even know each other. But you both had an itch to decide who was the better woman. I get it now. I’ve been feeling that itch.”

“Really?” Kelli asked.

“Yes, really.”

“But...you have very little fighting experience,” Kelli warned, “and we know nothing about this chick. For all we know, she could be some type of martial arts expert.”

“She isn’t,” I replied. “She’s scared. I can see it. It’s in her eyes and mannerism. Just like in the ICU. She was scared shitless but it was all bluster. I’m seeing it again. She talks big but she has nothing.”

“Last chance, Kiva,” Kelli spoke with a solemn tone. “It’s OK to walk away.”

“I’m not,” I replied. “She challenged me. I’ve got to do this.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“OK,” Kelli breathed with resignation in her voice. “I’ll be there to support you but understand that once the fight starts, you’re on your own. Anytime you want the fight to stop, yell it out or tap with your hand. At that point, I’ll look out for you to make sure nothing funny happens. Got it?”

“Got it.”

I followed Kelli back to row of lockers where Deanna and Freda waited, both looking smug with their hands on their hips.  “A fight it is,” Kelli announced. “You know the spot. Let’s be there in five minutes.”

“May I make a proposal,” Deanna interjected. “If my girl Freda wins, I get a rematch with Blondie.”

“And if Kiva wins,” Kelli countered, “the two of you will find another gym and never come back here again.” 

Our two adversaries looked at each other, then Deanna, speaking for both of them replied, “Deal.”

The four of us said nothing as we walked down the hill. As we approached the foot bridge over the creek, the reality of the situation hit me.  It’s going to happen now, I thought. It’s really going to happen. I’m in a fight. There will be striking, grappling, hair pulling. And it’s about to happen now. Butterflies flew in my stomach like crazy. My heart pounded out of my chest. My mind was delirious. This walk was taking forever. What if I lose? What if I’m humiliated? Or injured? No, impossible. No such thoughts allowed. A lump grew in my throat. This is it.

Finally, we arrived at the grassy clearing. My opponent and I were both wearing sports bras and yoga shorts. Mine are matching brown and hers are black. We removed our shoes and socks. Kelli tied my long dark brown ponytail into a knot. Deanna was giving Freda last minute instructions. At 5’7” and 128 lbs, I was two inches taller and 10-12 lbs heavier. Her body looked wiry. Compared to my 34C chest, she looked flat chested. I clearly had more muscle mass and curves. And I had a reach advantage. At age 33, I was probably seven or eight years older.

Kelli and Deanna positioned us about four feet apart from each other. Her face was serious, her lips were tightly pursed, her fists were clenched. Our eyes locked. I won the stare down as her eyes looked toward the ground.

Deanna began, “Ready ladies...one...two...three...FIGHT!”

I immediately felt the surge of adrenaline. No more time to be nervous. No more butterflies. Now I know what “fight or flight” response means. With our hands up at chest level, the ginger bitch and I briskly approached each other until our hands grabbed and slapped at the other’s. I knew we looked like two inexperienced fighters. Using my reach advantage, I shoved her shoulders pushing off with my weight, sending her back several steps. Slightly off balance, she quickly recovered, charging at me with her hands swinging wildly. I blocked the slaps coming toward my face and gave her a harder push at the chest. This time, I moved her back further and watched her stumble, almost falling to the ground.

Seeing my advantage, I rushed in. Again, Freda recovered her balance quickly and caught me with a stinging slap to the face as I drove in. Dumb, I thought, how could I have left myself so wide open? I backed up but had zero time as Freda was running at me. I felt another slap to the side of my head, then another one on my neck. A third one caught me on the nose.

The slaps kept coming in rapid fire. Some of them I blocked. Others got through to my face, head and chest. Freda was now firing slaps faster and faster. I covered up my head with my arms and backed up. She pushed forward firing blows all over me. I felt like I was fighting an airplane propeller or an octopus with eight arms. With my arms up to protect my head, I felt a fist land on the right side of my ribs.

I had to do something. Backing up wasn’t the answer. Instinctively, I crouched and lunged forward reaching out with my arms. As expected, the move came with a price, costing me a hard slap on the cheek. I got through my attacker’s arms, grabbing on to her hair with both hands. It wasn’t the best grip as her hair was pulled back tightly but it was enough to take control of her head as I dug in my nails into her scalp. The nasty doc managed to seize my hair as well largely undoing my tied up bun. Both of us screamed and yelled obscenities as we pushed and pulled each other’s head by the hair. My height and reach advantage helped as I started swinging her body with more force as my own scalp singed with pain. Freda didn’t let go as we swung in circles together until we finally both lost our balance, tumbling to the grass.

We both squirmed for position still holding on to hair. Together we rolled, pulling hair and slapping. Our legs kicked at each other with neither of us gaining an advantage. Suddenly, a sharp pain, like from razor blades, seared my bare shoulders. Fuck, I thought, she’s scratching me. She’s digging her claws into my skin. Another mistake. I should have expected it and scratched her first. My arms felt paralyzed. Next thing I knew, I was on my back with the smaller but wiry redhead on top of me.

She was mounted on my belly, throwing slaps at my face, as I kicked and screamed. Covering up again, I blocked most of the blows but now felt her claws in my stomach behind her back where I couldn’t reach. I braced my abdominal muscles as she plunged her fists into my belly. Bucking and kicking as hard as I could, I wasn’t able to dismount my enemy. She finally seized my wrists pinning my arms above my head. Breathing rapidly, the realization occurred I was losing this fight. Still, the adrenaline level was still sky high. Any rationality was long gone.

Freda kept me pinned for several seconds as if contemplating her next attack. As I lay there panting, I could hear Deanna call out, “That’s it, Freda, kick her ass.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Kelli watching intently, looking concerned. I noticed she flexed her knee while standing and grabbed her foot to stretch her quad muscles. Shit, I thought, she’s expecting to fight Deanna next and I caused this.

The skinny doc wrapped my left arm around my head while using her left shoulder to block my right arm. Then, I saw her eyeing my vulnerable left breast. No, I thought, no, NO! Tell me she’s not planning what I think she is. I panicked when her free hand went for my sports bra. I howled as she groped and squeezed my left breast. The cruel bitch tugged at the bottom elastic band lifting it upward until the left tit was exposed. The next sensation I felt was nails penetrating into the skin over my breast as she squeezed to add to the torture. Never in my life, had I experienced such excruciating breast pain. Not content with one exposed boob, Freda was determined to remove the sports bra altogether, pulling the left side over the shoulder and stretched arm, leaving the bra still attached to my right shoulder, back, and right breast.

With all the effort she took trying to remove my bra, the asshole raised her body upward enough to create a target. As hard as I could, I sent my right knee crashing into her back eliciting an uummmpph sound. It was enough to knock her off balance. Seeing my opportunity to escape, I grabbed her left arm pulling her off me to the side, as I rolled away from between her legs.

I scrambled to my feet as quickly as possible but was sucking wind and felt a bit unsteady. I saw my foe stalking me as I tried to prepare. Freda moved in again in a stance that told me she was planning to throw strikes. This time I’m not backing up, I told myself. Sure enough, the two of us exchange slaps. Unlike last time, I stood there and swung with her. She was faster and  landed more blows but I knew I hit harder. My face stung but I kept my bearings, landing a hard slap that turned her face and caused her to stagger. Quickly, I moved in and shoved her to the ground.

As I approached her, she rapidly got to her knees. I shot in to try to grapple her into submission, when suddenly, I felt something like a rock hit me in the cheek. Stunned, I froze for a few seconds before the reality hit me. I was hit in the face by a closed fist. When you’re not used to being punched, the feeling is horrifying. I rubbed my numb cheekbone.

“That’s against the rules, bitch,” I protested. “No closed fist punches to the face.”

“What rules?” my foe replied, “This is a fight, dumb ass. We didn’t discuss rules.”

I seethed. The opportunistic piece of shit. Funny how punching was allowed once when she was at a disadvantage. I now felt a surge of energy. And raging pure hatred.

“You fucking cxnt,” I screamed. With my fists clenched, I charged at her as she rose to her feet. I threw a flurry of punches, all wildly swinging through the air or landing on blocking bony arms. Freda responded with her own punches with bad intent but with no more success than I had. The fight now turned into an all out anything goes brawl as we both flailed away like the two unskilled boxers that we were. Both Kelli and Deanna, hovered nearby as if they were considering stopping the fight before one of us became seriously hurt.

Frustrated by being unable to land a hard blow, I decided to swing for the fences. I reared back my right hand and threw the hardest right hook I could. My fist sailed over Freda’s head, the momentum from the force of the swing spun me around. My opponent did not miss her easy counter. My body wide open, she dug a right hook into my belly, doubling me over.

Gasping for air, I was unable to defend against the arms wrapping around my body, swinging me back and forth, until my feet were tripped, sending me crashing to the ground, with my opponent on top.

Freda mounted my back, wrapping her legs around my waist trying to apply a body scissors. I lay down flat on my belly before she could lock her ankles together, realizing I was again in a bad position. I felt an arm slip under my right arm pit reaching its hand behind my head, pushing it forward into a half nelson. I lied on my side between Freda’s legs. My weight was on her right leg, immobilizing it, making it difficult to lock her ankles into the scissors. I braced against the pressure in the back of my head and neck.

I felt exhausted and winded, my neck racked with pain, lying on the grass as my foe tried to tie me up and probably finish me. I grunted and gasped with tears in my eyes, my naked left breast skimming the grass. With my nose pushed toward the earth, I could smell the green vegetation and the soil. And something else. No, don’t tell me, I panicked. It was the smell of dog shit. Judging by the strength of the odor, it was in close proximity to my face. That fact was not lost on my tormentor.

“Look, nurse,” the doctor taunted, “You have some work to do.” Now I see it. A moist pile of turd just inches from my nose. “Didn’t I tell you that your job is to clean up the shit. WELL, LOOK AT THIS!” She screamed as she positioned my face in direct view of the feces. “But we don’t have any towels, do we?,” the sadistic bitch continued. “Too bad. So I guess you’ll need to use your tongue. That’s right, nurse. I want you to EAT IT.”

My right arm was trapped in the half nelson. My left arm was underneath my body. She was behind my back trying to lock her legs around my waist. She applied pressure to my head pushing it toward the dog shit as I resisted with what strength I had left. Realizing her half nelson wouldn’t quite connect my face to the shit, she tried to roll me to the right to complete the deed. She shifted her weight right, moving me with her. “A little more,” she taunted, “and you’ll be tasting it.”

It was not enough as we rolled back. She attempted again. This time, as we rolled, I freed the left arm from the weight of my body. As we rolled back left, I flung my left elbow back, striking the miserable intern on the chin.

“You fucking bitch,” she yelled, as I broke her half nelson hold and rolled away from between her legs, dodging the dog shit along the way.

Battered and exhausted, I was still on my knees when Freda rose to her feet. Yes, she dominated the fight but I did not consider quitting. Her facial expression and body language said it all. She believed she had me beat and it was a matter of time before she’d finish me. She had the advantage standing over me but arrogantly did not take the opportunity. She smirked. She sneered. She swaggered. “I thought you’d be tougher,” she insulted. “I thought you’d be a better fighter. Oh well, I should have known. You’re....just...a...nurse.”

Just a nurse. That phrase again. The one that makes me want to scream. How can anyone be so fucking ignorant. I could almost feel blood rushing toward my head about to cause me to explode. Maybe I’m delirious, I thought. Maybe I’m dehydrated. Maybe it’s the blows I took to the head. Maybe I’m just nuts. But I hear a voice that isn’t audible to anyone else. It’s an internal voice. And that voice is...my own.

Just a nurse. Yes, I’m just a nurse. Yes, I clean poop and wash patients. Every day. I’m good at it. It’s just one of the thousands of things I do every day. Like administering medications, placing IV catheters, drawing blood samples for lab work, placing bladder catheters, checking vital signs, oxygenation, fluid intake, urine output, ventilator settings, central venous pressure, titrating drips. Like preventing bed sores, moving patients, prepping them for procedures. Like writing daily care plans. Like finding time for the massive amount of documentation required every day.

How dare you bitch! Who the fuck are you? And you’re going to act like I’m beneath you?  You make me want to scream. You know that? You make me want to....want to....want to.....”AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

Freda looked startled as I rushed at her following my blood curdling outburst. Her hesitation prevented her from getting out of the way as I lowered my shoulder and charged her, sending her flying backward and landing on her ass.

Just a nurse? Tell that to the dozens of patients I’ve taken care of this month. Maybe you can ask the patient with the near fatal myocardial infarction, or the pulmonary embolism, or septic shock, or the young asthmatic on the ventilator. How about the flesh eating necrotizing fasciitis? Ask the one with pulmonary edema. Or stroke. Or COPD. Or the gastrointestinal bleeder. Or the one with the uncontrollable seizure. The code blues.  And on and on...

Freda pulled herself up and looked at me with utter disgust as I stood glaring at her looking like a wild woman. With a face of determination, she again clenched her fists and ran at me, obviously planning to swing.

Everything was a blur. The two of us stood swinging at each other with everything we had. Wild punches flew in ever which direction. Then I heard that sound. I heard it before I felt it. Like the sound of a golf ball struck by a driver club as it launches from the tee box for its 300 yard flight. The sound of my right fist cracking Freda’s jaw. The thin redhead stumbled backward, her eyes vacant before unceremoniously falling to the ground in a heap. I watched her struggle to get up on all fours, lost and disoriented. I noticed she had fallen into the dog shit as it smeared into her shoulder and upper chest. I was still drowning in my own rage to have any compassion. As she lay on the ground, I dove on top of her. Gripping her head in my arms in a tight headlock, I drove her forehead into the ground.

Just a nurse? Tell that to the terminally ill man whose hand I held on the last night of his life. Or his wife and children I sat with. Or the woman whose tears I wiped after she learned her diagnosis of metastatic breast cancer. Or the woman who gave birth to a stillborn. Or the husband who lost his wife of sixty years. The countless patients in physical pain. The anxious. The depressed. The despairing....

“Kiva...Kiva...LET GO. Stop it. You won. Now get off her.” I now gained enough awareness to realize Kelli and Deanna were both prying me off of Freda.

“What the fuck,” Deanna grumbled. “You’re a psycho.”

“Kiva, what happened?” Kelli asked. “What was that about? What was in your head?”

“Oh,” I answered. “That I love being just a nurse.”

Freda wobbled a bit as Deanna helped her up. “Let me help,” I insisted. “After all, I am a nurse.” After a quick exam, I did not see signs of neurological damage. I did advise that she not drive home and to put ice to her jaw. “Freda,” I said, “If we work together again, no hard feelings OK?” She smiled faintly but it was the most animated I had ever seen her. “And one more thing,” I added. “I would be more than honored to wash the poop off of you. I’m very skilled at it, you know.”

She smiled a little more broadly. “No thanks. I can do it myself.”

I adjusted my sports bra as Kelli and I walked back to the gym. Pain all over my face and body was settling in. And my scratched up boob. “Kelli,” I said, “I think I need my Neosporin back.”

A thousand things raced through my mind, not the least of which was what to tell my husband.  How will I feel about fighting when the pain wears off? Then there was the simple fact that I got dominated by a smaller opponent for most of the fight. If I’d fight again, I’d have a lot of work to do. So much to learn.

Three days after the fight, Kelli sent me a text message. My fight was on the website. Deanna recorded it and had it uploaded. Already, I felt a rush watching it. Freda’s profile was now displaying a record of 0-1.

“Welcome to my world, sis,” Kelli texted. “U have arrived”  :)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on September 19, 2020, 08:12:07 AM

This is unbelievably good - shot through with intelligence and wry humour, and dead sexy with it. Love the kill in the first fight (and the garden chair image!) and the second chapter is out of this world or, rather, it isn't: it's a real life dispute arising out of a convincing and very dramatic incident. I meant 'out of this world' in terms of quality. Fantastic stuff!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: BarbaraUK on September 20, 2020, 01:32:52 AM

Looks like half of Texas needs to watch out for Kiva's right hook, eh?  :o

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on September 20, 2020, 04:41:25 AM

I'm so happy you went public with this. In a selfish way, I love, love, love reading fights from other authors (especially my favorite ones) that take place in the 'catpin' world.

Obviously, I really like how you handled it. The whole apprehensive nature of you being curious about it, then shying away...the back and forth was so great. And the whole part about throwing the pillow on the ground and striking the victory pose is genius. Even though the whole idea of the catpin world is kinda absurd and unrealistic (in a good way) the way you make me believe it and how I can feel you going through the mental struggle of seeing it, then wanting to do it, then becoming obsessed with it, and finally trying it was fascinating.

I definitely hope you grace us with more of your journey through the wild world of women wearing catpins  :)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on September 20, 2020, 06:36:23 PM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on September 19, 2020, 08:12:07 AM

This is unbelievably good - shot through with intelligence and wry humour, and dead sexy with it. Love the kill in the first fight (and the garden chair image!) and the second chapter is out of this world or, rather, it isn't: it's a real life dispute arising out of a convincing and very dramatic incident. I meant 'out of this world' in terms of quality. Fantastic stuff!

Thanks so much! You’re input has been a big help to me. And thank you for your excellent stories!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on September 20, 2020, 06:39:33 PM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on September 20, 2020, 01:32:52 AM

Looks like half of Texas needs to watch out for Kiva's right hook, eh?  :o

Yeppers! Now I know that when all else fails, I’ve got my big right hand!  ;D
Mr. Johnson could have won some money!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on September 20, 2020, 06:49:48 PM

Quote from: FyreCracka on September 20, 2020, 04:41:25 AM

I'm so happy you went public with this. In a selfish way, I love, love, love reading fights from other authors (especially my favorite ones) that take place in the 'catpin' world.

Obviously, I really like how you handled it. The whole apprehensive nature of you being curious about it, then shying away...the back and forth was so great. And the whole part about throwing the pillow on the ground and striking the victory pose is genius. Even though the whole idea of the catpin world is kinda absurd and unrealistic (in a good way) the way you make me believe it and how I can feel you going through the mental struggle of seeing it, then wanting to do it, then becoming obsessed with it, and finally trying it was fascinating.

I definitely hope you grace us with more of your journey through the wild world of women wearing catpins  :)

And thank you for being such a wonderful colleague. I suppose I should now pursue obtaining the catpin. But I sure hope I don’t run into Candace, although I’m certain she added a Caucasian brunette to her collection a long time ago. Hopefully, she’s not searching for victims based on profession (i.e. nurse), zip codes, or birthdays, etc. lol

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on September 21, 2020, 12:25:15 PM

Quote from: Kiva on September 20, 2020, 06:36:23 PM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on September 19, 2020, 08:12:07 AM

This is unbelievably good - shot through with intelligence and wry humour, and dead sexy with it. Love the kill in the first fight (and the garden chair image!) and the second chapter is out of this world or, rather, it isn't: it's a real life dispute arising out of a convincing and very dramatic incident. I meant 'out of this world' in terms of quality. Fantastic stuff!

Thanks so much! You’re input has been a big help to me. And thank you for your excellent stories!

Kiva is giving me too much credit here. All I did was point to a few typing errors she'd overlooked. Creatively this was all her own (magnificent) work.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Dude64 on September 21, 2020, 02:33:27 PM

Seriously wonderful job. You and Kelli make my world these days!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: femfitefan on September 26, 2020, 04:03:43 PM

Such a clever idea... taking an established fight universe and putting yourself in it and giving everyone a different perspective of the "catpin" world.  Love it!  Hope you keep the journal going!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on October 19, 2020, 05:47:52 AM

Chapter 3: Awakened

Texas is a wonderful place to live, I’ve discovered. With the low cost of living, low taxes, and real estate prices, combined with the many cultural and recreational opportunities, what isn’t there to like? The education system and healthcare facilities in our community are excellent. Our neighbors are very nice. But there is one feature of Texas that has significantly changed our lives - the winters are mild. As a native yankee, I will say that few sights are as beautiful as a pristine snowscape. A snowfall can change the world around you into a wondrous Thomas Kinkade Christmas card picture. But those brief periods of aesthetic moments come with a price. I don’t miss the weeks of bitter cold, defrosting our vehicles every morning, driving through ice and slush, and months of bulky winter coats and boots. For me, it was a happy day when we sold our snow blower. For my husband, the Texas climate meant just one thing - the golf courses are opened year round.

“Kiva, wake up. We have a nine o’clock tee time. We’re with the general and his wife today.”

“Ugh” I wanted to sleep in on this Sunday morning. But I’ll do this for my husband, I told myself. Tom loved playing golf since he was a toddler. He introduced me to the sport when we were dating. I enjoyed it much more than I thought I would. Golf is a tough skill to learn but I seemed to have some natural proclivity to it. I’m not a great golfer but I’m better than most women who play regularly. For me, golf was purely a social activity. Tom and I would often play foursomes with other couples. In recent years, however, due to work and motherhood, my golf participation became less frequent.

In Texas, we joined a country club which became a major source of our social life. In an effort to meet people, Tom and I resumed our couples golf outings. With both of us off work for the next three days, we planned to spend time together and reconnect.

After two cups of coffee, a light breakfast and quick shower, I slipped on my leopard print golf skirt with a matching visor atop my long ponytail. My top was a sleeveless black polo shirt which matched my black golf shoes. Looking at my face in the mirror, the twinges of uneasiness started again.

It had been two weeks since I fought Freda. I still hadn’t told Tom. The scratches were healed. The wheal on my cheekbone from her punch to my face was finally gone. I had hidden the scratches from Tom. I told him my facial swelling was from an agitated dementia patient at work. I told my coworkers I was struck by a tree branch while doing yard work. My vacillation continued. One moment, I relived the rush of a fight and desired to find my next one. I watched fights on the internet. I looked up local trainers. I studied instructional videos. I analyzed my many deficiencies in my fight with Freda. The next moment, I felt ashamed as if I was on the verge of living a double life. I resolved that I would not fight again without my husband’s support. The question was how to obtain his consent. Gradually I went to work on him. I avoided the term “fight” and used the more sporting term “match” instead. In bed, I made up sexy fantasy role playing stories for him. In one story, I came home to find him tied and bound by a female burglar. The intruder and I engaged in a clothes ripping, hair pulling, tit mauling catfight. I prevailed, tying up the burglar, freeing my husband and giving him a robust fucking in front of my hapless foe. In another story, I fought a grotesque mutant woman from “The Hills Have Eyes”, who attacked us as we hiked the Appalachian Trail. Once again, I won, we fucked. These stories worked really well in bed. Whether or not they’d persuade him to actually let me fight remained to be seen.

We dropped off our daughter at her friend’s house for the day and headed for the club, passing through the large iron gates, sprawling landscape and majestic fountain. After checking in at the pro shop, warming up at the driving range, and acquiring our golf cart, we waited to meet the other couple.

I never considered myself a country club type of person. I equated the words “country club” with rich old white people. Perhaps that’s a bit unfair. To be sure, there’s no shortage of status conscious individuals in the club. And my husband and I are one of the more younger couples. Most of the people are actually interesting and nice and some do admirable charity work. But as is often the case in large social groups, cliques develop, especially with women. There’s the popular group, the cool group, the nerdy group, the very rich group. Kind of like a middle aged high school.

“Well hello, hello,” called a deep gravelly voice. At age 80, retired Major General Peter Brockman was still an imposing figure. With his stocky frame just an inch under six feet tall, and a ruddy rectangular shaped face, thick jaw and thin straight white hair, the general lost little of his commanding presence with his advancing years. Next to him stood his wife, Kyong, a slender Asian woman who seemed less than half her husband’s age. In fact, she looked to be no older than thirty years old. Appearing very attractive in her brown snakeskin golf dress, she gave me a big toothy smile as she eyed me up and down. Now that I was initiated into the catfight world, I knew exactly what that look meant. As I introduced myself, the general took my hand as his eyes walked all over me.

Tom had met the general before. In fact, this golf outing was extremely important to my husband’s work. Six months earlier, the general suffered a serious heart attack. He was taken to the hospital where he was rushed to the cardiac catheterization lab. There, my husband’s team of cardiologists performed an emergency procedure where they advanced a long plastic catheter through a small incision in the groin, reaching the coronary arteries of the heart and removed the blockages in the arteries with a little balloon at the tip of the catheter. Next, they placed stents inside the arteries to help assure the arteries stay open maintaining good blood flow. As with the general, this procedure is usually the best way to save lives in the event of a heart attack. However, time is critical and the procedure only works within a time window of a few hours.

Even more astonishing is the fact that Tom’s lab uses robotic equipment. The doctor performing the procedure is sitting in a cockpit several feet away from the patient, operating a robotic arm, using finger controls, a screen, and a joystick. Because this life saving procedure is often not available in remote areas, the university is interested in performing it remotely. Under this system, a patient having a heart attack may have his coronary arteries opened by a doctor many miles away. This would require an upgrade in robotic equipment and, of course, a lot of money.

Our foursome today was more than just a social event. The general, out of gratitude to my husband’s team, expressed an interest in funding the deficit on new telerobotic equipment. He and my husband would discuss particulars. My job, I supposed, was to put on a good face.

The two couples, each in their respective golf cart reached the tee box of the first hole. After a brief chit chat with the starter, I approached the tee and took a few practice swings with my driver. 

“Tom,” I heard the general rattle, “you sure found yourself a nice piece of property.”

“Thanks,” my husband answered. “We were lucky. It had just gone on the market. It had everything we wanted. The price was good. And the swimming pool was a bonus.”

“No,” the general replied with a cackling laugh. “I’m talking about THAT piece of real estate.”

Oh Lord, I thought. I lifted my eyes from the ball on my tee to have my fear confirmed. The old bastard was pointing at me.

“Yes sir,” he added. “Looks like you found yourself a winner.”

I gave him a quick half smile, half sneer. My husband’s face spoke volumes. Yes, I know you’re offended but please put up with it for me. Please?, he silently said.

“Look at our two lovely ladies,” the general started again. “One is dressed like a leopard, the other looks like a cobra. This should be very interesting.”

It’s going to be one of those days, I thought.

I resumed my golf stance. The other three watched intently, especially Kyong, as I executed my backswing. Maintaining my posture, I nailed the drive about 180 yards down the middle of the fairway. Next, Kyong approached the ladies tee. Her body was clearly more flexible than mine as she twisted and contorted her frame sending her club head down on a wide arc. Her shot ended up about ten yards behind mine and slightly off the fairway.

“After one stroke, the advantage goes to the leopard,” the general chortled.

I sighed. The men teed off, each sending his ball down the fairway, although Tom’s ball traveled about 50 yards farther than the old general’s. As my husband and I entered our carts to drive to our balls, my husband had no doubt about my exasperation.

“Try to suck it up today, Kiva,” he urged. “Take one for the heart center.”

I always found playing golf with another couple for the first time to be pot luck. On a standard 72 par golf course, I usually shot in the 80s. Not great but better than most recreational golfers. I could hit a good long ball and get down the fairway quickly. I’m not very muscular. The trick is to keep your arms loose and use your core muscles to initiate the swing. The club speed on the downswing creates distance. My short game is average. But it’s excellence in chipping and putting that separates the best players. For me, golf is purely for fun. I never cared for the tense atmosphere of tournaments. My favorite couples to play with were the ones who shared my philosophy. We enjoyed each other’s company without concerns for our scores. In fact, if the other woman was a beginner or poor golfer, I’d go out of my way to help her enjoy herself. Quite often, I felt there was a comparison between the two women: our outfits, our figures, our looks, how we hit the ball. It was usually unspoken. However, with Kyong and her husband, I felt like a piece of meat before the first tee.

As we slogged our way through the front nine, the activity pretty much followed the same pattern. Tom, as usual, played an outstanding game. The general wasn’t bad considering his age. He would have done much better if he drove from the closer seniors tee but I’m sure his pride wouldn’t allow that. For many men, admitting they need to shorten the distance of the course is like admitting they lost a dick comparing contest. Tom and the general pleasantly chatted throughout the nine holes. Kyong and I were tied after the front nine. I hit farther but she had the edge in the short game. We talked some. She immigrated from South Korea. She spoke broken English but was easy to understand. I decided questions of how she met the general and why she married him were best left unasked.

After the ninth hole, we stopped at the concession stand for a quick snack and a drink. The break was a nice relief. The conversation was light - at first.

“You got a lot of pop with that driver there, sugar pie,” said the general. Sugar pie? “I mean it, baby doll, you’re really nailing it.” Baby doll? My husband will owe me big time for putting up with this, I told myself.

Then general rolled right off a cliff.

“It’s funny to see a cutie like you hit the ball so far. Most women I see hitting like that are the fat cows down on the driving range. And most of them are dykes.” Tom and I looked  at each other.

“Dykes?” I breathed out loud almost involuntarily.

“Yeah,” the general resumed. “They look like men. They walk like men. They golf like men. I figure they do everything else like men.” Tom gave me another “just suck it up, just nine more holes” look. It got worse.

“I got out of the Department of Defense just in time. Now we got all the homos and dykes coming into the military in droves. The liberals tell them, ‘Join the Army, Join the Marines. You’ll find love and acceptance.’ Well, I don’t need to be in a foxhole worrying about my buddy trying to get in my back door, if you know what I mean. Now I don’t care what people due in their bedrooms. If guys want to pack fudge and girls want to bang their beavers together, I say ‘fine’. Just keep em away from the armed forces.”

Somehow the general missed the memo on how thousands of American women have been sexually assaulted in the military at the hands of heterosexual men. Furthermore, gays have always been in the military and have served extremely well. Our golfing companion wasn’t done yet.

“And now we got guys wanting to be girls and girls wanting to be guys and the liberals saying we must take them all. They want surgery to lop off their peckers and drill pussies into them and the liberals say the Defense Department should pay for it. Meanwhile, Putin is laughing his ass off. I’ll tell you, it’s just a matter of time before we become the United States of China. Or Iran. Or Russia. Or you name it. The US of A is going to hell in a hand basket. And you can thank the liberals.”

“OK, l think we should head over to hole ten, now” I said in a vain attempt to change the conversation.

“And the women,” the general continued. “I have no problem with females in the service. But not in combat. We need secretaries and cooks but we don’t need our ladies in armed battles. Do they have any idea what are enemies would do to them if they captured them? Do you think if I’m wounded, a little girl can carry me off the battlefield? Hell no! The only time I want a woman under me is in the sack.”

As we motioned toward our golf carts, the old man made one more point that froze me in my tracks.

“If ladies want to fight, they should fight each other.”

I couldn’t resist. “Ladies fighting each other...Um...what do you mean.”

“Well,” the old man’s gravelly voice answered. “Nowadays, we have women boxing, competing in MMA. Ladies are now wrestling in the Olympics. Even our school district is starting a girls wrestling team. In my day, this was all unthinkable. But I’m OK with it. To tell you the truth I like to see two dames tangling to settle their differences. My third wife used to get into scraps. Kyong here has been talking about finding a woman to test herself against.”

“That’s funny,” my husband interjected, “Kiva has been talking about wanting to fight. It’s this fantasy she seems to have developed. At night, she likes to turn me on by making up these incredible fight stories. And I must say...they are pretty hot.”

TOM, HOW FUCK COULD YOU??? My mind blazed with anger. I stared daggers at my idiot husband. Really, jerk? Sharing my intimate thoughts and desires? Why stop there? Tell them my favorite sex positions why you’re at it. Tell them what I sound like when I moan orgasms. Asshole!

“Well, I figured Kiva might be a fighter,” the general offered. “I’ve seen her around with Jake’s wife, Kelli. And you know all about her don’t you?”

Oh no, he brought up Kelli. I literally started to sweat, dreading where this conversation was going.

“Kelli?” asked my privacy violating husband. “What about Kelli?” I swallowed hard as the general’s gruff voice was about to spill God knows what.

“Kelli likes to fight,” she said. “She goes around looking for women to fight just for the hell of it.”

“Do you mean boxing?” Tom inquired.

“No,” the general replied. “Catfighting. Ya know, punching, kicking, scratching, clawing. Sometimes they get nekkid.”

“That sounds like a crazy rumor,” my husband retorted.

“It ain’t a rumor,” the retired military officer insisted. “It’s all true. I’ve seen it myself. I saw her fight in a cage at Billy’s. She was in there with this fox named Paige. Boy, was that a slobberknocker. Those ladies beat the holy hell out of each other.”

“Billy’s?” my husband asked.

“Yeah, it’s a sports bar that features cage fights. Sometimes they let housewives get in the cage to settle it. Yep, that Kelli is something.”

“Kiva,” my husband turned toward me. “What do you know about Kelli fighting? Is she why you’re getting interested?”

Time froze for a second. “Uh...um...no, I don’t know anything about Kelli fighting. I mean, she never mentioned it to me.”

I hate lying. I just didn’t feel that was the time and place to speak with my husband about it. And frankly, Kelli’s life was none of their business. I realize Kelli’s hobby is not a closely guarded secret. But one thing I noticed about catfighters is that they usually protect each other’s privacy. After trying to rip each other’s head off, they rarely discuss their fights with outsiders and don’t post photos or videos of their fights on their personal social media without their opponent’s consent. As far as I can tell, neither Deanna or Freda have said a peep about our fights at work. As much as I despise them, the three of us at least developed a working relationship at work and have kept each other’s secret safe.

“Well, it’s true,” the general reiterated. “And Randall’s wife, Patricia is another one. They live along the 15th hole here. She’s a catfighter.”

I met Patricia briefly at a club mixer. Nice woman but she seemed tough. It wouldn’t surprise me if she fights.

“Yes sir,” the general added, “we got some mighty tough fighting wildcats at this club.” For several seconds there was an awkward silence between the four of us, until the general spoke again.

“Well it seems like both our ladies have gotten bit by the fight bug. I think the only logical step now is to get our two pretty chickadees together and let them decide who is the better woman.”

“Yes, I would like that. Kiva, how about you?” Kyong quickly blurted before I could even process the thought.

“What?,...you mean..a..catfight?” I hesitantly asked.

“Yes,” Kyong answered. “But we can discuss rules.”

“How about tomorrow,” added Kyong’s husband. “You can come over our place. We got mats and lots of room. We can hang out at the pool, the girls can have their tussle, then we’ll have a barbecue.”

“I don’t know, general,” Tom answered. “I’m not so sure this is safe.”

“It’ll be safe,” the general replied. “I use to coach wrestling. I’ll make sure no one gets hurt. Then before you leave tomorrow, Tom, I’ll sign off on the paperwork for your robot.”

Tom and I both looked lost. I did not expect to be challenged to a fight and I was completely caught off guard. Tom was uneasy about having me fight but it seemed that might be the quickest path to the general’s huge gift.

“Kiva, what do you say?” My husband asked.

I bit my lip and stared at the ground. On one hand, I badly wanted to fight this woman. Like Freda, she was shorter than me and at least 10 lbs lighter. But, she was flexible, very fit, and probably fast. I knew my husband was nervous about me making the final decision. His hope was that we meet, I fight, no one gets hurt, and he leaves with funds for his new prized robot. I’m not sure why I answered the way I did. Maybe I put my husband’s uneasiness first, but I spoke my answer.

“No, I’m not looking for a fight at this time. But since we both have an interest, let’s consider it in the future.”

A look of disappointment fell on the general and Kyong. My husband seemed a bit relieved. The golf group behind us was closing in.

“We need to move on to the tenth hole,” I informed.

During the back nine, the whole group dynamic had changed. The conversations felt forced and superficial. The awkwardness was palpable.

“What a sexist homophobic jerk,” I told my husband while we rode in our golf cart. My husband defended the general on the basis of the time and culture he came from.

“Do you think what he said about Kelli is true?” he asked.

“No, I replied. “I think he has Alzheimer’s dementia.”

Kyong continued to eye me all over. Except now, I sensed she had a certain derision and assertiveness toward me. On the tenth fairway, she accused me of moving my ball and demanded I take a penalty stroke. What the fuck? Fortunately, the men stuck up for me and a confrontation was avoided. Tom had become nervous. The general seemed to have lost interest in discussing the robotics purchase. In fact, the general found a new way to entertain himself.

With our scores tied, Kyong and I both putted on the tenth green. She successfully made her putt. I didn’t, placing me one stroke behind her.

“The two ladies square off,” said the general. “Kyong has got Kiva by the hair, she spins her around and forces her to the ground. Kyong has got the advantage.”

“What is he saying?” I asked my husband.

On the eleventh hole, Kyong and I both bogied.

“Kiva is holding Kyong to a stalemate but Kyong is still on top of her,” announces the old man.

Now I get it.

“General, are you making up a catfight story?” I asked.

“Yes I am, hon. Since you and Kyong aren’t going to go at it, I’m using your golf game to decide which of you would win in a fight.”

“And that’s going to be me,” Kyong chimed.

Seven more holes to go, I told myself. It got worse. Kyong accused me of breaking another rule by patting down the sand in the bunker with my club, which is illegal. Bullshit. She blamed me for causing her to miss a putt by distracting her by moving. More bullshit. The truth was the woman was bullying me. By declining her offer to fight, she believed I conceded to her perceived superiority and she was out to prove it.

As I was walking back to our cart, I felt something holding my right upper arm. I jumped, looked and saw an old liver spotted hand grasping my bicep.

“What are you DOING?” I shrieked.

“Just checking out your muscles,” said the old lecher. “I want to see if you’re as solid as you look. Just for future reference.”

In the golf cart, I again seethed to my husband who again tried to defend to creep as having come from another era when touching a woman was permissible. Nice try.

After the fifteenth hole, the bitch and I were even again, a fact not lost on the general.

“Kiva is making a comeback. Both ladies are on their feet going at it. They’re both getting tired.”

At the eighteenth and final hole, we were still tied. Here, we would face the greatest challenge on the course. The hole is only a 125 yard par 3 but is home to an exceedingly dangerous sand trap. Situated to the left of the green, the bunker known as “the coffin” is a long rectangular and deep hazard. 11 yards long, 4 yards wide and 5 feet deep. Patterned after the 8th hole at Britain’s Royal Troon, the bunker looks like a large dug out grave. Once a ball lands in the coffin, it is exceedingly difficult to shoot it out. The reason for the name “the coffin” is simple. Golf balls go there to die.

The men teed off first, both of them reaching the green. Kyong’s shot fell just short of the green. My shot lofted up high, hooked slightly left, landed on the edge of the green, teetered, then rolled left down into the...coffin.

The men putted for pars. Kyong chipped up to the green. The coffin had a small ladder to assist in the five foot descent. The narrow width made it difficult to take a full swing. Using the loftiest wedge in my bag, I swung down steeply. My ball popped straight up, hit the top ledge of the coffin before tumbling back down to the bottom. My next shot was more successful, sending my ball on the green, just three feet from the cup. However, I had already taken three strokes to Kyong’s two. From twelve feet out, Kyong’s putt rolled downhill, rolled right with the slope and toward the cup. She read it beautifully. The putt was good. Kyong beat me by one stroke.

“Well I guess that settles it,” the general laughed. “Kiva got pinned and face sat. The winner is...Kyong. The cobra killed the leopard.”

Kyong threw her arms in the air in a faux victory pose as her elderly husband kissed her. She even lifted her leg as if she were stepping on my supine defeated body. Lovely. At least this outing was over and we could go home.

Not quite. As I placed my clubs back in my golf bag, I saw on the ground the shadow of a masculine figure behind me. And then I felt a ...hand...on my ass...patting me.

“Better luck next time, cinnamon bun,” the curmudgeon again cackled, still holding my backside.

I had no control over what I did next. Pure instinct took over.

“Don’t ..you..EVER... touch me like that again!!!” I screamed..... “I am NOT a piece of real estate!... I am NOT honey...I am NOT babe...I am NOT sweet cakes...I am NOT any of your other insulting names....DON’T you EVER get into my space again!!..You are RUDE!...You are INAPPROPRIATE!...You are a MISOGYNIST...And you are a HOMOPHOBE!

The four of us stood in dead silence. The general’s craggy face looked down at the ground. It occurred to me that it was highly likely nobody ever spoke to him like that before, especially a woman. For a brief second, I almost felt remorse. Perhaps there is some truth to my husband’s explanation. Is the general just a sad old figure passed over by time and changing social mores?

The old man looked up.

“Very well, then,” he softly spoke. “You expressed your opinion. Let’s just call it a day. We’ll be going now. I enjoyed golfing with you.”

He turned to his cart to place his clubs in his bag. Tom joined me in our cart. The look on my husband’s face said it all. The general’s gift may have disappeared as quickly as a pat on the ass. The two of us said nothing. We watched the general join his wife in their golf cart as he started to turn the key.

“Tom, come with me,” I instructed.

“Wait, general, stop,” I called as his cart started to pull away. The old ruddy face glanced at me.

“Sir,” I started. “Now that I said what I feel, that doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends. I’m glad we got to play today. I think we can start over.”

The old man nodded.

“Well then, apology accepted.”  Apology? Is he kidding?

He went on, “I admire a woman who owns up to her mistakes.”

Oh for the love of....At this point, it was time to punt. He isn’t going to change and I won’t fuck again with his male ego.

“And general,” I added, “If the offer is still good, I’d like to come to your house tomorrow and fight your wife.”

“Oh goody!” squealed Kyong, nearly jumping out of her seat.

“Well, we’d be delighted,” the general chimed.

“Now, I can’t get marked up for work,”I said. “And since this is the first time for Kyong and I, I’m thinking maybe we should start out simple, like a pins wrestling match. My husband and I are healthcare workers so we want it as safe as possible. So no chokes or joint locks.”

“Yes ma’am, we can just stick to rasslin. Come over at 1300 hours. We’ll hang out at the pool for a little bit, the girls can tussle, then we’ll have a barbecue. I’ll make my special chili.”

“I’m looking forward to it sir,” I replied.

“Kiva, what the hell?,” my husband started.

“No problem. Everyone gets what they want,” I said.

Once we got home, I felt a sense of excitement to have my first arranged match. I also felt relieved that nothing was being hidden from my husband. Being the consummate physician, he didn’t seem too worried that the match was limited to wrestling. The next day, as we prepared for the match, I packed a sports bra, yoga shorts, and high top sneakers into my gym bag. I added towels and water. Although I didn’t expect to swim, I brought a two piece swimsuit with my favorite design - leopard print!

As we left the house, I felt the excitement and butterflies. But there was more. Having my husband with me before I went into combat with another woman gave me a feeling I never experienced before. It’s hard to explain, but it was a sense of a primal tribalism, love, and raw sexuality all mixed together. Before we entered our car, I uncontrollably threw my arms around his neck and devoured his face with my lips. I would have done more if time permitted.

The security code the general gave us allowed us through the iron gate. The old commander and his young bride greeted us in his driveway. After a tour of the house and the sprawling property, we were directed to the pool. Of course, there was tension between Kyong and I. We sized each other up, we stared, we postured. I was directed to a guest room and instructed to change into my swimsuit. Well, OK, I thought, if they want to swim first, I’m cool with that. I thought I looked good in my leopard bikini. I picked up my bag and headed to the pool area where my husband, the general, and Kyong were waiting.

I was a bit astonished to see Kyong, wearing a bikini, more revealing than my own. Even more surprising was the snakeskin print, like her golf dress from the previous day.

“Well, what do you know,” the general bellowed, “the cobra and the leopard are finally going to settle it.”

“Wait a minute,” I demanded, “are we wrestling or swimming?”

“Wrestling, sweetheart,” Kyong said with a condescending sing song tone.

“In bikinis?”

“Yeeesssss”

I was a bit irked at being misled. My husband looked perplexed. OK, I thought. I’ll beat them at any game they want.

 “Alright, let’s go,” I responded. “Where are the mats?”

“Well, we decided to change the venue a bit, our retired host informed. “Come with us.”

The old man had us sit in the back of his private four seater golf cart with he and Kyong up front. Being Monday, the golf course was closed but as a member of the community, the general owned an access card.

“You mean we’re wrestling on the golf course,” I asked as we rolled onto the eighteenth hole.

“Why are we wrestling on the eighteenth green?” It didn’t seem too bad. The ground was soft and the surface felt like velvet.

“You’re not going to wrestle on the green. You’re wrestling down there,” said the old man as his finger pointed to....the coffin!

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I protested. “You want to fight in that sand bunker. Look I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

“I didn’t lie yesterday,” the general protested. “We promised we’d stick to rasslin but we never discussed mats or rings or anything like that. I think both you ladies will like this. You see, when I was in Tunisia, my buddies and I would go into town and watch the belly dancers. In this one club, after the main show, they had a sand pit in the back, and every night, they’d have two of the belly dancers go at it in the sand. My buddies and I would make bets. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to relive some of that. So here’s what I’m proposing. You two ladies rassle each other in the coffin. No dangerous holds like we said. You win by pinning the other woman to the bottom of the coffin for ten seconds. I’ll be up here keeping it safe. Are you good?”

“This is crazy,” my husband whispered in my ear. “Let’s leave.”

“May I make a deal with you,” I countered. “We’re here now. Let me do this once. If it bothers you, I will never talk about fighting again - except maybe in bed.”

Finally, my husband relented. “Good luck,” he breathed.

“Do I get a kiss?” I coyly asked.

Kyong descended down the ladder into the coffin first. Before I followed, I saw the general set up two beach chairs for the husbands in the grass over the bunker, opening a black case he retrieved from his golf cart.

“What would you like, Tom?” asked the gravelly voice as he pulled out two glasses. “I got bourbon, scotch...Jack Daniels.”

I stood for a moment on the green over the bunker. My eyes scanned over the golf course before I lowered into the sand. The afternoon Texas sun was hot, blazing through a flawlessly clear blue sky. The rolling flatness of the fairways was interrupted by a few stately oak trees and glassy water hazard ponds. Long grass waved along the fairway’s edges. In the distance, a construction crane stretched its long neck into the heavens. I know she is in the coffin’s sand waiting for me. She wanted this moment since she first laid eyes on me. She cannot restrain her desire to control me, to dominate me, to own me like a trophy. Yet, I feel something too that I cannot control. I also have a desire to show her I am the better woman. But I feel something else. Something deep and primal. Images and feelings that come from eons past. Our earliest past. They have reached out to me across thousands of years, telling me their stories. They say “You are one of us.”

The African sun was hot, blazing through a flawlessly clear blue sky. The rolling flatness of the savanna was interrupted by a few stately boabab trees and watering holes still left from the rainy season. Long grass waved along the edges of the plain. In the distance, a giraffe stretched its long neck into the heavens. I know Maheen is at the bottom of the sand dune waiting for me. She’s wanted my man from the moment she saw him. She wants me out of the way. I know only one of us may be alive after today. She stares at me with hatred as I climb down the dune. Facing each other, we remove our grass skirts. We approach each other, both of us trying to intimidate the other. We grunt out our utter disdain. Unable to control our urges and our bloodlust, we rush, our bodies colliding together.

I lowered myself into the coffin. Kyong and I took positions along the walls of opposite ends of the bunker, 11 yards apart. We intently eyed each other up and down. I am 5’7” and 128 lbs. I estimate she is 5’5” and 115-118 lbs. Kyong reached behind her back, unclasped her bikini top and pulled it over her head, tossing it out of the bunker. Without hesitating or thinking about it, I did the same, leaving us both bare chested. I think my husband might have protested above us but I didn’t  hear him. I didn’t care. Kyong is flat chested - about a 33A, compared to my 34C, but that didnt discourage her from puffing out her chest and rolling back her shoulders. I posed back. With her lithe body, thin Asian facial features and black hair pulled into a ponytail, she looked formidable. My chest and muscles were larger but she was not intimidated. Her body was lean and tight. Her abdomen boasted a six pack. From golfing, I knew she was very flexible. She may know more about wrestling, but I knew I could take her. We approached each other from opposite ends of the coffin.

At a distance of ten feet from each other, the general ordered “Ladies,...RASSLE!”

The bottom of the coffin was about eight inches of coarse white sand on top of a hard soil layer. The walls were more soil than sand to maintain its vertical cut. I learned immediately the traction beneath my bare feet would be challenging. With are knees slightly bent, hands held at mid-chest height, and shoulders hunched, my opponent and eye cautiously squared off across from each other. We circled each other. However, due to the narrow width of the bunker, we were forced closer together, causing our circle to look more like an oval.

With the torrent of adrenaline rush, I was completely in the moment as our feet slogged through the sand, our bodies moving within reach of each other, each of us contemplating the first move.  Although this would be a “friendly” wrestling match unlike my full on catfight with Freda, nevertheless, the thrill of competing against another woman, this time with my husband present, brought on a frenzy of emotions I’d never experienced before.

 Kyong reached in first, attempting to seize my right arm. I slapped her hand away. A second grab attempt by her brought the same results. She feigned going low to dive for my legs but I was not fooled. As she resumed a neutral position, I rushed in, grasping her left arm with both hands as she tried to back up. She held on to my left arm with her free right hand. Gripping each other, we both pulled back trying to throw the other off balance. We then pushed and pulled each other side to side, finally trying to swing each other by the arms, until we were both dancing in a circle while churning up the sand.

I sensed I was stronger as my swinging became more dominant. I yanked her hard across my body, letting go of her arm, sending her crashing on her back into the five foot high bunker wall. With the snakeskin bikini bottomed woman off balance, I lowered my shoulder, and rammed it into her belly, sending her back into the sandy wall. Using my height and weight advantage, I kept her pressed against the wall, keeping her small titted chest immobilized with my own upper body. Kyong frantically pushed back with her hands and kicked at my legs, evading my attempts to take her down. Violating our agreement to wrestling rules, the Asian woman kicked me in the shin, forcing me to back up. That increased distance between our bodies was all Kyong’s needed. As quick as a hiccup, she dove low on me, wrapping her arms around my hips, lifting me off my feet at driving me backwards, as we both tumbled into the sand.

The two of us struggled for control, rapidly breathing and grunting as we rolled wall to wall across the four yard width of the sand trap. Arms flailed at heads and shoulders as legs attempted to wrap around each other. Finally, I stopped rolling realizing I was trapped on the ground in a headlock. Fortunately, Kyong wasn’t able to apply maximal pressure because I had both of her thighs caught in a leg scissors. For a minute we squirmed and struggled, lying and panting in the sand. I squeezed my legs as hard as I could knowing I’d be in serious trouble if she escaped with my head still in her grasp.

The stalemate continued until I felt something sharp as nails, Kyong’s fingernails, dig into my left thigh. I let out a short high pitched scream as she freed her legs from my scissors.

“Fucking bitch,” I yelled as I returned the misdeed, digging my own nails into her bicep until I pulled my head out of her hold.  We rolled away from each other. I now accepted this wasn’t going to be a clean wrestling match.

We are locked together in the sand with neither of us able to gain the advantage. Although Maheen has my head and neck trapped, she cannot move. My legs wrapped around her hips keep her immobilized on the ground. Suddenly, I feel a sharp stab in my thigh. My enemy is holding a piece of flint and has cut my leg. I scream and thrash, releasing my hold on her. Wriggling one arm free, I punch her in the nose until she lets go of her hold on me. We roll away from each other far enough until we both stand and I see the blood trickling down my leg. I pick up an old wooden tree branch I can use as a club. We face each other again, this time brandishing our weapons. I now know only one of us will leave this sand dune alive.

As we both got to our feet, I heard my husband shout, “Kiva what happened? Are you alright?”

I wouldn’t have had time to answer. The second I stood up, Kyong shot in on my legs, sweeping both of my feet away, sending me falling backwards into the sand. Before I fully recovered my senses, I found myself lying on my back in the center of the coffin with the general’s fourth wife standing, holding my legs with my feet in the air, pushing them toward my head, attempting a  matchbook pin.

As I suspected, this woman is very quick. A feeling of panic set in. In an effort to keep my shoulders from being pinned, I propped myself up on my elbows. As Kyong started to fold my body, I scooted backward on my elbows, trying to prevent her pressure from forcing my shoulders down. As she pushed my legs forward toward my head, I dragged my body with my elbows to keep pace. My elbows ached from the sand scraping my skin raw trying to maintain the crab walk. Finally, I had no space to left as Kyong walked me into a sandy wall. I propped up my head, neck and shoulders against the wall. Kyong, continued to force my legs forward, planting my feet over my head and into the side of the bunker, successfully matchbook pinning me vertically to the wall.  Scrunched up and feeling powerless, I saw no escape.

“Got you, loser,” Kyong taunted. “Start the count, men,” she shouted, “She’s helpless.”

Not hearing numbers, she repeated belligerently, “Count her out, I got her.”

“No, love,” the general rumbled back. “You have to pin her to the ground...not the wall.”

“Fuck,” Kyong muttered. Frustrated, she peeled my legs off the wall and threw them down, leaving me in a twisted heap.

Taking advantage of the men’s partially blocked view, the devious wife swiftly kicked me in the vulnerable tailbone, sending a sudden jolt of pain up my spine like an electrical shock, momentarily paralyzing my legs.

From above, I heard the general exhort his young spouse, “Drag her to the center of the coffin and pin her.” I heard nothing from my husband.

Defensively, I rolled onto my belly. But as quick as a cat, Kyong lifted my legs under each armpit and backed up, pulling me away from the wall, dragging me face down toward the center of the bunker. I was surprised how quickly the smaller woman was moving me over the gritty surface. My fingers clawed the sand in vain as my exposed belly and breasts slid over the the unforgiving terrain, the coarse granules grating my skin and nipples. Briefly, I lifted my chest by pushing down on my abraded elbows, but was unable to maintain stability. Kyong’s quick yank of my lower body collapsed my arms as my face flopped into the powdered earth. Nearly my entire body was coated with a thin layer of sand as the gritty material attached to my sticky sweat.

After five yards, we reached the midpoint of the coffin’s length, where Kyong unceremoniously dropped my legs, leaving me prone on the coffin floor. Before I could move, she pounced on my back, pressing her knee between my shoulder blades, grasping my wrists, pulling back on my arms. The knee holding me in place was replaced by a sandy bare foot, as she rose to a standing surf board position, stretching my arms and shoulders, straining the ligaments to their limits. My flattened breasts and nipples felt excoriated, forced down into the unforgiving scratchy sand. My feet kicked uselessly, succeeding in only agitating the grainy ground.

“You have to pin her for ten seconds,” the general hollered.

“I’m softening her up first,” his wife responded with apparent delight.

What the hell? The miserable shit wants to wear me out and inflict punishment on me. In a way, I understood it. Ten seconds is a long time to hold down another wrestler’s shoulders. The winner would have to either beat down her opponent or apply a very tight combination. I realized again that I’m being dominated. Kyong was stronger than I thought and a decent technical wrestler...and dirty. I felt helpless as she worked me over.

Having thoroughly tortured my arms, shoulders and chest, the Korean woman released my arms, then promptly mounted my back. Next, I felt my head yanked up by the hair, and a pair of rough hands under my chin. Pain shot through my neck and back as my opponent rocked back hyperextending my neck.

The husbands were positioned behind us. I grunted but tried not to scream fearing my husband would stop the match. So far, he had been silent. I had no idea what he is thinking, but all I could do is try to fight on.

Kyong rocked back and forth several times as I tightened my muscles attempting to withstand the onslaught. I felt a moment of relief as one of her hands released my chin and tried to seize the opportunity bucking and squirming. My escape attempt was suddenly halted when the bitch returned her hand to my face, this time with a fistful of sand, rubbing it over my entire face. Tiny pebbles of earth and grime entered my mouth, my nose, my eyes. I stopped resisting. I coughed. I snorted. I spit. My eyes involuntarily teared trying to remove the grit. I couldn’t see. I used my free hands to wipe away as much as I could. Thoroughly distracted, I barely realized I was being rolled onto my back.

Weren’t the men seeing this? I could hear the general blathering with excitement but his words were unintelligible. Was my husband even there?

What the men, or at least one of them, did see was me on my back with my opponent lying across my chest in a lateral body press.

“One...Two...Three...Four...” the general counted.

Instinctively, I twisted hard to the left and raised my right shoulder to stop the count. Kyong shifted her weight to my right, pushing the shoulder down as the old man began another count.   I dug my feet in hard. The sand did not allow much traction but I pushed up and turned with all my might, successfully lifting my left shoulder blade out of the sand.

“You dirty cheating foul smelling cxnt,” I snarled through sandy clenched teeth. “You fucking put sand in my face”

“Get used to it,” she sneered, “I’m going to bury you here.”

I knew I was in trouble. Worn and fatigued at this point, I couldn’t bear to suffer the indignity of being long pinned into the sand by this skank. Summoning as much energy as I could, I rocked back and forth and bucked as violently as I could but wasn’t able to shake this woman’s snakeskin covered ass off of my chest. However, I did manage to push her down toward my pelvis, freeing up my shoulders. When she repositioned to recover her place on my upper chest, I saw my opportunity.

I wrapped my left arm around my opponent’s neck and pulled to my left side. Positioning my right arm between her legs, I pushed off with my legs, rolling to my left, taking Kyong with me. By the time we were done rolling, it was Kyong on her back and me lying across her chest in a complete reversal.

“Start counting, guys,” I shouted. “She’s down.”

The old Army commander only reached three as Kyong was still relatively fresh and I didn’t have ideal leverage. But I was still in control.

“Here’s payback, bitch,” I growled as I flung my own fistful of sand at her face.

“That’s a foul Kiva,” the general hollered. “One more time and your disqualified.”

Stupid old fuck! And where the fuck was my husband? Was he present in body only?

Back to business. I kept my full weight on Kyong’s chest, grappling with her arms and shoulders.

“Look at these tits,” I taunted. “Are you twelve years old?”

I trapped one of her arms with a leg scissors, but Kyong could twist just enough to keep her opposite shoulder up. Desperately, she bridged, then kicked. She lifted up her pelvis and pulled her legs up high to try to kick out. I held on. Kyong repeated the kick out attempt but this time, I was ready. When the Asian woman pulled up her legs, I hooked one with my arm. As I rolled back toward her neck, hoisting her foot in the sky, I forced her shoulders down flat.

“One...Two...Three...”

I liked my chances. I felt Kyong’s shoulders pushing upward but my weight kept them stuck in the sand. I felt her thigh muscles contract in vain, as I held the leg captive.

“Four...Five...Six...

Almost there.

“Seven...

“OOOWWWW!!!

Another nail. This time it was driven into my right nipple. In sudden agony, I released her leg and sat up as Kyong, squirmed out from under me and rolled into freedom.

Holding my seared boob, I rose to my feet to see my opponent was already standing.

“Mine might be smaller,” she jabbed. “But mine are winning.”

Infuriated, I threw a hard slap, my right hand striking the side of her face with a resounding SMACK. She slapped back, her blow grazing my cheek as I stepped back.

“Fucking whore,” I screamed.

“Fucking stuck up bitch,” she countered.

“Gold digger.”

“Miss Perfect,” she ridiculed, “Cxnt!

“Look, this has gotten out of hand. They’re taking this too far,” my husband finally spoke.

“Nah,” the general opined. “You know how womenfolk are,Tom...Tempers flare...They get their panties in an uproar...I say let them settle it themselves....Time for another bourbon.”

Damn right we’re settling this ourselves, I thought. I’m playing by new rules now. This bitch has been going by her rules since we started. It’s time to even things up.

With renewed energy, Kyong and I went right at each other, throwing wild slaps and punches, missing kicks, grabbing for hair. Using my size advantage, I took control. I was able to push her around, land a few shots to the body, and managed to keep her off me. Finally, I had her trapped against the wall of the coffin like a boxer on the ropes, hitting her repeatedly with a flurries of slaps.

Then she once again played the dirty card, driving her knee into my leopard print covered crotch, nailing me in the pussy. I dropped to one knee. She started throwing punches to my back when I decided how I would bring an end to this fight.

I stood up ignoring the pain, blocking Kyong’s shots. I remembered my fight with Freda. I already knocked out one bitch. I’ll do it again. I cocked my right arm, and prepared the set up by throwing jabs. In the center of the coffin, we faced off, hands up, feigning and bobbing. I threw a jab, then another, then I saw my chance.

Aiming for my opponent’s chin, I launched the haymaker. As my fist flew through the air, I felt the sensation of my knockout punch connecting with....nothing.  Kyong parried out of the way. Similar to my Freda fight, I left myself vulnerable to a counterattack. Kyong, lowered her shoulder, wrapped her arms around my waist and drove me backwards, tripping my feet, sending me crashing into the sand, on my back with her on top of me.

She quickly shifted into a cross body press as the old coot counted to five before I lifted up my right shoulder. My situation felt worse than the last time I was in this predicament. I was exhausted, sore, and short winded. Her weight on my chest made my breathing worse. Sand was stuck to me all over. It was in my hair, my ears, my mouth. It made its way into my bikini bottom and chafed my ass crack. My eyes were irritated. Beating the ten count felt harder. Kyong knew this. She had no intention of letting me up again. She changed her position very little, waiting for me to wear out.

The general started several more counts. Tom seemed to have returned to silence. I attempted to execute a reversal but Kyong was not so careless this time in maintaining her leverage. I kicked my legs, which moved her slightly. I was able to move several inches in the direction of my head, closer to the wall. More kicking inched me closer. Another kick brought my head even closer, but with a price. Kyong hooked my right leg and lowered her scrawny tits on to mine. I panicked. I knew I would not overcome this pinning combination.

The count started. I was terror-strickened knowing I was about to be defeated. I struggled and kicked with everything I had left. At the count of five, I kicked Kyong’s hand off my trapped leg, freeing it, and bridged up pulling up the left shoulder.

I maintained the bridge for what seemed like forever, creating excruciating tension in my abs and back. Kyong finally ended it by clawing and punching at my navel. Exhaustion was now mixed with despair, as I realized I was dying a slow death on the floor of the sandy coffin. I felt I was now truly inside my own crypt.

“Make it easy on yourself, loser” Kyong taunted. “Just lay down and I’ll stop hurting you. Can’t you see it’s over.”

My enemy has dominated me in this fight. She is stronger than I thought. She is faster than me.  I’m exhausted and nearly broken. Maheen sits upon my chest. I’m feeling crushed by her weight. I’m holding back her wrist. Her hand is coming closer to my neck, her fingers outstretched, reaching for my throat. I push against her wrist with everything I have left, but she is more powerful. Most of my strength has left me but...I don’t want to die.

My aggressor decided to speed up my demise. She lifted herself on her knees while positioned over my chest, then plunged her body down onto mine. She repeated this body thrust three more times, each one taking away more of my wind and resolve. Her tiny breasts hovered over mine, proclaiming their superiority. Her nipples, free to come and go as they pleased, tickled and ridiculed mine, laughing at their state of confinement. My leopard bikini bottom by now slid halfway off my ass, the result of my backside scooting against the granular terrain.

I sensed the humiliation but I couldn’t bring myself to quit just yet. Kyong pinned me two more times but I still used my legs and kicked and twisted to break the count at eight seconds both times. Every muscle in my body was tight. I inched a little closer to the wall. I doubted reaching it would help. It wasn’t like professional wrestling where a hold is supposed to break by reaching the ropes. Perhaps I could use it for traction, something I could push off of to escape. I noticed Kyong eyeing the wall. She repeatedly glanced at the wall, then my legs, her eyes moving back and forth. She was planning something. Perhaps she also thought I could use the wall to my advantage. Or maybe she recalled her failed matchbook pin attempt earlier and wanted nothing yo do with the wall.

Quickly, she made her move. She leapt off my chest, seized my ankles and began to push forward in a matchbook pin attempt. I struggled and fought. I made it more difficult than I expected. I hooked my toes around her hips, making her work to extract them. She made the mistake of leaning forward, allowing me to lock my ankles around her, catching her in my guard. Frustrated, the bitch started clawing and punching at my legs but I held on. Instinctively, she bent over forward, reaching down at my body with her arms, trying to take hold.

That was the break I needed. I sat up halfway, grabbed her arms and dug both feet into her hips. As I rolled back, my legs lifted her up as my arms pulled her forward. Now off of her feet, my legs propelled her toward my head, sending her tumbling head over heels into a monkey flip. Kyong let out a short scream as her back crashed into the dirt and sandy wall sending her sliding head first onto the floor of the coffin.

Dazed and weakened, I got to her as quickly as I could. Pulling her by the arms away from the wall, I crossed her legs, wrapped them with my arm, and lay across her chest. With her legs tied up and hooked, I wrapped my other arm around her head while maximizing the weight on her chest.

One...Two...Three...

I thought I had her this time. I felt her legs twitching and her body writhing, but I knew I had her shoulders firmly down

Four...Five...Six...

Maheen lies at my feet beaten and broken. It was an extremely hard battle. I shouldn’t be standing. My enemy brought me to the brink of death several times during this fight. Yet, here I am, bruised and bloodied. She made one critical mistake, now there she lies. She looks up at me begging for mercy. My eyes scan the area until I spot the object that I seek. It’s ten yards away. I retrieve the rock. It’s not the largest but it will do. I wish I didn’t have to do this but I have no choice. For my safety and the safety of my man and child, this is what must be. As I raise the rock over my head with both hands, Maheen looks on with sad resignation in her eyes, then she looks away. I don’t want to see her face but I focus on her forehead. My target. With my remaining strength, I shriek...and...bring the rock...DOWN!

Eight...Nine...Ten...

“That’s it,” the general declared....”Kiva wins”

I dropped her legs, rolled off her. Our battle over, we both lay on our backs, exhausted, sweaty, sandy, and grimy at the bottom of the coffin. Our husbands helped us exit the ominous bunker. I quickly covered up. Tom gave me a hug and a kiss and asked “Are you all right.” He said little else. Kyong was tearful as she leaned onto her senior husband. I gave her a quick uninspired hug and said, “Good fight.” We had no further interaction that day.

Kyong and I were completely encrusted with sand, which infested the general’s golf cart on the way back to their house. I drank water and hosed off. We declined the general’s offer for a barbecue. I just wanted to get home.

“Well then,” the general said, “Let’s get down to business. Tom, I have the paperwork done for your gift. After my attorney looks at it tomorrow, I’ll send it to the board of trustees, and we can complete the transaction.”

“Now, I have to make an amendment to the paperwork. You see, I had a stipulation that one requirement for the gift was that...I choose the name for the robot...I was going to name it Peter...after me. That’s because the robot gets in there, does it’s work, and gets out. No nonsense. No bullshit...Just like me. But I changed my mind. Earlier today, in honor of our two fighting ladies, I decided to name the robot after the winner. So, my stipulation for the gift will be that the robot be named...Kiva.

“Now the robot sure isn’t as pretty as you but it is tough, it’s smart...and it saves lives...just like you.”

Stunned, all I could say was, “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, young lady. And if you’re going to go now, I’ll go help the missus get washed up and give her a little pickle tickle for her efforts today. But Kiva, may I say one more thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“First, I want to say you’re a tough ol broad...er...Is it OK to say ‘broad?’”

What’s the use? “Yes, sir. ‘Broad’ will be fine.”

“Well, good. I sure don’t want to use words that’ll send the ladies into a hissy fit. I realized times have changed. And so...I’ll leave you with this...from one warrior to another.”

What the general left me with was probably the best gesture he could think of...a salute.

“Thank you sir, I’m very honored,” I said as I tried to return my own well intentioned but probably half assed salute.


EPILOGUE

I love this water pool. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. The water soothes my wounds and feels great over my sore tired muscles. My man washes the dirt, sand and stones embedded in my body. With the exception of the waterfowl, we have the pool to ourselves. We wash, we splash, we dunk, we play like two river otters. I never want to leave here. But the rainy season is over and soon, the pool will be gone. We lie in the grass, holding each other and laughing. Now we must go, to return to our shelter before darkness falls.

I love this large walk-in shower. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. The water soothes my wounds and feels great over my sore tired muscles. The water splatters onto my scalp. I’m still removing grains of sand from my body. The lavender scented soap is intoxicating.

I’m startled. I didn’t notice him come. He places his hand on my shoulder from behind me, tenderly caressing it.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” I say with a faint smile.

His hands are on both of my shoulders as he massages my scalp. My eyes focus on his dark blond hair, blue eyes. Tom is four inches taller than me. I place my head on his chest. We kiss. Something about this encounter already feels different. I feel different. It’s as if I have an awareness that I only knew vaguely before. About me. About him. He knows it but he’s confused. I wait for the water to soak his hair, then I lather him up. We smile. We giggle. We splash and slap each other like two river otters.

I know he wants me. I attack his face with my lips. He reciprocates as our tongues wrap and twist around each other. I kiss his neck while my hands run along his smooth chest. I massage his arms and work my hands around to his back. He outmaneuvers me and works his mouth on my neck, then shoulders. My husband licks away the last of the sand granules from my breasts, carefully avoiding the scratches. His fingers gently lift my globes from underneath as he gently glides his thumbs ever so lightly across my nipples, moving them in delicate circular motions. He’s always known the right buttons.

I return to his chest, planting my kisses and little love bites. My hands run across his belly, until I drop down onto my knees caressing his legs. And between his legs. I look back up at him and give him a sly smile....He’s not ready....It’s OK...I’m really not surprised. After all I’ve put him through. He looks at me with equal parts excitement and bewilderment. He’s not sure who I am. He wonders exactly who did he marry.

Come with me, my love. I lead him by the hand to the shower bench behind the shower head. The water sprays in front of us as if we were under a waterfall. He sits down first, then I sit on his lap. We kiss.

Women fight, my love. We always have. From our earliest days in the savanna, our first home. We had to fight. We were a family. We fought for men. We fought to protect our children. We fought over food. We fought to defend ourselves. Families became tribes. We defended each other. We fought against other tribes, those that were not us. Then we left the savannas of Africa, venturing out to new lands. We were hunters and gatherers. We still fought for the same reasons. And the right to use land.

We discovered rivers and invented irrigation. We learned how to farm. We stopped gathering and living as nomads. We built homes and grew our food. Around this time, we stopped fighting. The men were more expendable. We were needed to care for houses, carry babies, raise children, prepare food. Then we became cities and divided the labor. We forgot we were fighters. In most of our societies, we told ourselves female fighting was taboo.

Women still fight my love. But not with punches, kicks, or wrestling. What we do now is worse. Instead of choking off oxygen, we choke off social support. We punch and kick with lies. We knock out reputations. We humiliate at work, in our neighborhoods, even in churches.

I leave the bench to kneel on the shower floor. I kiss and caress his legs, then separate them apart. I take him into my mouth. He places his palms on my temples, his wet fingers combing through my tangled drenched hair. His grip is firm yet careful. He guides my movements. Up and down. Circles.

Hold on to me, my love. No rush. Some things cannot be awakened until the right season. Let’s share this moment. You will come to see it too. You’re almost there.

I haven’t changed. I’m still a wife, a mother, a nurse, a friend...and a fighter. It was always there. Some things are hidden but there’s nothing in the dark that isn’t there in the light. I see it now. I’m just...awakened.

He’s ready. I take his hand again and lead him to the shower floor. On my hands and knees, I offer him my hindquarters. The shower head blasts it’s water onto my back. I’m leaning on my elbows and lower my head onto my arms. My drenched hair hangs to the tile floor. His wet fingers reach under me exploring the outer doors, then enter into my Elysian Fields, probing my most sensitive spots. We’ve barely started and I shudder. The hard tile hurts my elbows but I don’t care. His fingers play me like a musical instrument and he’s hitting all of the right notes. As a lover, he’s so attentive, so considerate. His music is reaching a crescendo and I don’t want to wait. I want it all...now!

He thrusts but it’s a cautious thrust. He thrusts again...and again. We gradually pick up steam, like a locomotive making its first tentative chugs as it leaves the station. We know our destination and we love the ride. Thrusting! Faster!...Harder!

Each thrust forces my dangling breasts to sway forward and backward. My swollen, scratched nipples are agitated by the movement, but the pleasure is overwhelming.

Our train is now careening at breakneck speed. It can’t be controlled. We’re nearly flying off the tracks, down mountains, over villages, past faceless people. We both know we are headed to an explosive conclusion. And explode we do...Me first...than him. I scream, then shake, then release.

I feel my body shatter, then break apart like glass into thousands of pieces. Each piece floats away, then dissolved into...sand. But I’m awake. I’m in the shower. In an instant, I am not. I’m standing in a grassy plain. There are few trees, pools of water, and African animals. It’s a savanna. It feels vaguely familiar.

In a flash, the scene changes to ancient Mesopotamia, perhaps the first known civilization. Then the city states of Athens and Sparta. On to Persia, Egypt the hanging gardens Babylon, Macedonia under Alexander the Great, Rome, the kingdoms of China, India, the Americas, the fall of Rome, the rise of Europe, the Caliphates. Kings and emperors. Sultans and presidents. Never ending parades of armies. The history of civilization in just a matter of seconds. And I see it all.

I’m leaving now, heading into the sky, then out of the atmosphere. Earth is a blue ball, shrinking into a blue dot as I whisk through the outer regions of the solar system, past Jupiter, Saturn, and Neptune. Then out of the solar system, through the Milky Way, past countless stars and planets. Now, I see the universe as it is. Billions of galaxies, with billions of stars and billions of planets. I want to see it all. I want to know all. I want to...

“I love you, Tom.”

Still on all fours, I feel the fluids, mine and his run down my leg, dripping into the pooled shower water circling the drain, mixing with the sweat, salt, dirt, and sand from the coffin, a symbol of love and struggle, earth and sea, life and death. We both roll over and lie on our backs in this consecrated mixture as my husband holds my hand. The shower stream falls between us. I don’t want this moment to end.

Finally, life’s obligations call and we rise. We kiss one more time, then towel off. Following my husband, I reach back and turn off the shower and ceiling lights.

Darkness falls on the savanna.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: BarbaraUK on October 19, 2020, 11:51:41 AM

I liked that story.

The General and Kyong are interesting characters, a bit like small-town Bond villain and his henchwoman.

I 'm not sure if their marriage is as transactional as it seems, either she is a very good actress or Kyong actually quite likes fighting?

I expect she can tell how the other people in the General's circle look down on her, a bit like Anna Nicole Smith and Howard Marshall.

There are two approaches to that, either try to fit in or act up. It seems like Kyong's choice is to act up.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on October 19, 2020, 02:12:05 PM

Amazingly good in all kinds of ways. The Postage Stamp was already the most exciting hole in golf (narrowly edging out the Road Hole at St Andrews). Even more so now. Love the Savannah bit and the pan out at the end. Great scene in the shower too. Magic!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on October 20, 2020, 09:14:48 AM

I hope at least one of you remembered to rake the sand after all that. If there's one thing I hate on the golf course it's playing behind women who leave the bunkers looking like Vimy Ridge after their catfights. I had words with Annika Sörenstam about that once.  >:(

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on October 20, 2020, 01:25:38 PM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on October 19, 2020, 11:51:41 AM

I liked that story.

The General and Kyong are interesting characters, a bit like small-town Bond villain and his henchwoman.

I 'm not sure if their marriage is as transactional as it seems, either she is a very good actress or Kyong actually quite likes fighting?

I expect she can tell how the other people in the General's circle look down on her, a bit like Anna Nicole Smith and Howard Marshall

There are two approaches to that, either try to fit in or act up. It seems like Kyong's choice is to act up.

Thanks, Barbara. I like these characters too. They’re loosely based on a real life couple I met. Of course, I exaggerated and distorted their qualities a bit. Unfortunately, the homophobia was very real.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on October 20, 2020, 01:27:44 PM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on October 19, 2020, 02:12:05 PM

Amazingly good in all kinds of ways. The Postage Stamp was already the most exciting hole in golf (narrowly edging out the Road Hole at St Andrews). Even more so now. Love the Savannah bit and the pan out at the end. Great scene in the shower too. Magic!

Thanks so much. My husband would love to play at St. Andrews but I think I would get eaten alive by those courses. Here’s a clip of the real “coffin”. I made mine a foot deeper. Lol

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=szlvCDHM7kQ

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on October 20, 2020, 01:30:20 PM

Quote from: h_k on October 20, 2020, 09:14:48 AM

I hope at least one of you remembered to rake the sand after all that. If there's one thing I hate on the golf course it's playing behind women who leave the bunkers looking like Vimy Ridge after their catfights. I had words with Annika Sörenstam about that once.  >:(

Lol  :) Where I live, golf courses were open during much of the lockdown but rakes were removed from the bunkers to prevent virus transmission from so many hands on it. Our club strictly forbids catfighting on the golf course, unless you get permission from the board of directors.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: sinclairfan on October 20, 2020, 01:32:48 PM

Quote from: Kiva on October 20, 2020, 01:30:20 PM

Quote from: h_k on October 20, 2020, 09:14:48 AM

I hope at least one of you remembered to rake the sand after all that. If there's one thing I hate on the golf course it's playing behind women who leave the bunkers looking like Vimy Ridge after their catfights. I had words with Annika Sörenstam about that once.  >:(

Lol  :) Where I live, golf courses were open during much of the lockdown but rakes were removed from the bunkers to prevent virus transmission from so many hands on it. Our club strictly forbids catfighting on the golf course, unless you get permission from the board of directors.

Our Board of Directors has yet to deny any requests for a catfight.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on October 20, 2020, 04:07:52 PM

Perfection. The characters are great as well as the story. Completely relatable. I also love the primal connection showing how female combat is instinctual and has been repressed..or evolved into the backbiting and gossiping we see today. Everything was great and moved your evolution as a fighter forward with your husband getting a taste of it- and it's "rewards"  ;)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: TheDevilsAngel on October 20, 2020, 10:18:08 PM

I can’t believe I missed this story. Kiva, you have built a masterpiece! The characters are great and the action even better! Bravo!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on October 21, 2020, 11:56:27 PM

Thank you all for your comments. This was a fun if not challenging story to write. Your kind words help motivate me to keep trying.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on November 16, 2020, 02:50:15 AM

Chapter 4: Day of Reckoning

Fever burned through the body like an out of control wildfire. Overhead, the cardiac monitor displayed an endless stream of rapid blips, the fast heart rate racing to maintain enough blood flow in the face of the cardiovascular collapse. The intravenous pumps delivering their vasoconstrictor drugs supported a blood pressure barely compatible with life. Three antibiotics flowed through the veins in hopes of exterminating the offending bloodstream bacteria. The mechanical ventilator was set to maximum pressure and oxygen content forcing predetermined volumes of oxygenized air into the lung’s tiny air sacs, pushing aside the congestion of fluid and debris. My patient, thanks to the merciful propofol and fentanyl, was aware of none of this. Another case of septic shock.

And another day at work.

In another hour, my shift will end. I will sign out my report to my relieving nurse and go home. There is no place like a critical care unit. Look past the high tech equipment, the state of the art medicine, the highly trained personnel, and what do you see? You see the very essence of critical care - human beings often on the cusp of death, clinging to what may be their last moments of life. There’s a story behind every patient. Although it’s not always visible, critical care units are full of fear, courage, love, anger, sometimes resignation. Sometimes, I wonder what goes through the minds of some patients as they’re facing death, before their minds are sedated into oblivion. Do they reflect on their lives? Do they feel thankful for what they had? Angry? Remorseful? Guilty? For the ones that believe in divine judgment, do they rehearse their “Day of Reckoning?”

I’m home now, but not for long. I will quickly wash up, get changed, and head out again. I’m going to another institution to witness an activity that I expect will also involve pain, fear, courage, anger and resignation. For some of the participants, there will be shame and humiliation. Perhaps it’s a day of reckoning of another kind. I’m going to Billy’s sports bar and fight club to watch my friend Kelli fight inside a cage.

I let the babysitter in, kiss my daughter, and head for Billy’s. On the way, I contemplate my own fledgling fight career. It’s been two weeks since my match with Kyong. I finished my profile on the catfight website. Kyong is now also on it. The general recorded our battle and posted it - sneaky bastard. That’s actually good news for me as I now have credit for both of my fights. I need one more for my catpin.

My record is officially 2-0. I’m undefeated but I don’t feel like it. Let’s face it. I could just as easily be 0-2. I fought two smaller opponents. Freda dominated me until I landed a lucky punch. Kyong stretched me out all over the sand until she made a critical mistake. I’ll pick my next opponent carefully. I found a trainer. I need to get better. My trainer thinks I have a heavy right hand and that my knockout of Freda wasn’t a fluke. Looking at the videos of my fights, I can see where I was too tentative early allowing my opponents to take control. I need to get aggressive.

My husband admitted he found my match with Kyong exciting. And our sex life has really picked up. But...I still haven’t told him everything - like the website and my match with Freda. In fact, he doesn’t even know I’m going to Billy’s tonight. I told him I’m going to a local high school for career night to talk about nursing. Afterwards, I’ll go out with some girlfriends for a drink. It’s the absolute last time I will lie about my fighting life. I picked an exact date and time to reveal all. I decided it’s okay to go to Billy’s tonight without him. He couldn’t join me anyway. After work, he’s meeting with manufacturer representatives for the new cardiac robotic equipment...excuse me, “The Kiva”, the hospital is buying thanks to the general’s gift.

I know this fight tonight is a very big deal to Kelli for a few reasons. First, if she wins, she’ll be the top contender for the Housewife Division in cage fighting, which will give her a promised title shot. Secondly, she’s convinced a woman named Jolene her sights set on Jake. Kelli’s last cage fight was against Jolene’s sister Paige, a trophy wife I know from the country  club. During the fight, Kelli noticed Jolene sitting next to Jake, practically slithering and grinding all over him. Worse, Jake seemed to do little to nothing to discourage her. The distraction almost cost Kelli the fight. I will not let that happen tonight. Jolene will definitely be there tonight fighting for the title. My job is to keep her, or any other woman, away from Jake. I promised Kelli I will guard him like a Doberman pinscher.

As I pull into the parking lot at Billy’s, I see Kelli and Jake in my rear view mirror, arriving in their Jeep. Good. I wasn’t looking forward to wandering around alone in this place. Kelli looks relaxed and confident as the three of us walk across the parking lot to the front door of the club. I notice I start to feel the jitters again. Although I had two fights under my belt, this is a whole new level. A public fight in front of a crowd. Inside a cage. Wearing a bikini. There’s more...the loser gets stripped naked. I feel a strange mix of excitement, dread, concern for Kelli; the butterflies are back.

This is my first time at Billy’s and I’m a bit apprehensive. While still outside, we hear a tumultuous roar from within the building. As we set foot inside, my heart pounds immediately. The smoky air and neon lights cast a foreboding atmosphere. I pay my cover charge since I’m  not a fighter or trainer. Kelli and Jake are clearly accustomed to this environment as they start to casually saunter through the crowd as I follow. The clientele look like an interesting mix of socioeconomic backgrounds. Many of them look the part of blue collar workers, farmers or ranchers. Other men are in dressy casual clothes while others are wearing ties and jackets as if they came straight from business meetings. The crowd is overwhelmingly male, although I see more than a few women. Comparable to the men, there are tank tops and Daisy Duke shorts but there are also blouses, blazers and pumps. Interesting. I’d estimate about 250 people making up the crowd.

As we make our way through the throng, I see the bar to my right. To my left is a very spacious area as if it was once a large dance floor. In the middle of this area stands a conspicuous structure - a 15’ x 15’ cage made of chain link fencing, the only well lit area of the facility.

It appears that a fight has just reached its conclusion corresponding to the roar we heard at the door. Now the crowd is rowdy again with chants of “strip her” and “take it off”. The noise reaches a crescendo as I stretch my neck to direct my eyes to the source of commotion. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of a pretty Latina looking woman dressed only in a black bikini bottom smiling jubilantly, arms held high over her head waving a gold bikini bottom. Must be the winner, I thought. I go up on my toes and stretch my 5’7” frame a little more to see a second woman with light brown hair, completely nude, crying, shakily picking herself off the canvas. Throughout the building, the electricity, bloodlust, and sexual tension were palpable.

The noise dies down as the cage clears in preparation for the next fight. I’m completely unfamiliar with this place so I continue to follow Kelli and Jake as we weave through the mass of spectators and bar patrons en route to Kelli’s dressing room. As we turn a corner, Kelli and Jake suddenly stop as we pass a threesome sitting in a corner booth. I recognize the brunette as Paige, the man is her husband Robert. I can only assume the attractive redhead with the pretty green eyes is Jolene.

Kelli and the redhead glare at each other. Yup, assumption confirmed. The situation immediately becomes tense.

"Good luck tonight, skank,” Kelli barks.

"You suck as bad at reverse psychology as you do at fighting, bitch..oh and I see you brought a little lapdog with you tonight " Jolene shoots back. She looks me over up and down as I keep my eyes on hers to show I’m not intimidated.

Kelli leans over their table until she and Jolene are at eye level and in a deliberate low voice growls,  “I actually do want you to win.... I want to be the one who takes that title from you.."

“Bitch, I'm the only one that will be doing any taking - when I take your husband" Jolene says as she begins to stand. Damn! Kelli wasn’t kidding. Now I know I will have my hands full tonight.

A large bald headed man, slightly larger than Jake arrives on the scene. "Ladies... ladies.... save it for later... you both have fights tonight... I assure you both, you will get your chance to settle this business... just not tonight." I surmise this is Billy.

A Latina referee directs us to Kelli’s dressing room as Kelli tries to cool down. Now I see how heated this issue is between Kelli, Jolene, and Jake. With the three of us in the small room, I make it a point to stay out of Kelli’s way. I know she needs to focus and get “in the zone” so I speak very little trying not to distract her.

I excuse myself to give Kelli her space and head to the Ladies, room. As fate would have it, I practically bump into Paige. I don’t really have an issue with this woman. I don’t have a particularly high opinion of her but she is another member at our club and I offer an olive branch to diffuse the awkward situation from a few minutes ago.

“Hi Paige,” I said. “I’m Kiva. We met once before at the club.”

“Oh yes,” she replied. “I know who you are. You’re a nurse. Right?”

“That is correct.”

“And aren’t you married to a doctor?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What kind of doctor?”

“He’s a cardiologist.”

“Not bad, although I might have gone for the neurosurgeon or orthopedist,” she laughs.

“Well...,”I reply, “they may make more money but the lifestyle can be brutal. They’re never home.”

“Well, is that so bad?” she laughs again. Paige continues, “So...you’re married to a doctor....but....you....are still...working? ...How interesting.”

I know where this conversation is going. Paige belongs to a clique of trophy wives who believe a woman’s highest calling in life is to marry a man with wealth and influence, never have to work, while enjoying all the perks of affluence. In their view, a married woman who works outside the home, whether by necessity or choice, is automatically of a lower social position. It means either her husband’s income is insufficient or, in my case, she has seriously misplaced values.

“Yes,” I answer. “I’ll never stop being a nurse. It’s my vocation. I’m not going to waste all the education, training, and skill I’ve acquired over the years. It’s just who I am.”

“To each her own, I suppose,” she says. “I’m glad I got out of the rat race.”

“And I have no interest in spending my day watching soap operas and participating in endless bake sales,” I respond.

What Paige doesn’t say is the job of trophy wife comes with a price. Her main responsibility is to enhance her husband’s public image. She must look attractive at all times and be presentable on a moment’s notice. Many trophy wives in the club, including Paige, have had boob implants and other forms of cosmetic surgery. She must attend community events, her husband’s business dinners, charitable fund raisers, and be a regular fixture at the club, rarely ever missing a Friday evening Happy Hour. For many trophy wives, the position is unstable. A lot of them were former mistresses wrecking their husbands’ previous marriage. Although they try to deny it by telling themselves that “he found his soul mate” bullshit, they know, at least subconsciously, they could be discarded at anytime for the next pretty young thing.

“But isn’t it hard knowing your child is being raised by someone else?” Paige asks.

Cheap shot. In truth, I respect any personal decision a woman makes when she feels she is acting in the best interest of herself and her family. I resent it, though, when someone pushes her values and judgment onto me.

“My daughter is just fine, Paige,” I firmly tell her, “and she’s off limits to further discussion.”

“Fine then,” she replies. “May I make a final suggestion,” the surgically statuesque woman asks, her head tilted with a haughty expression. “I saw you came in here with Kelli and Jake.”

“Yes”

“I strongly suggest you keep yourself out of the crossfire,” her voice steady, her expression stern. “Whatever happens between Kelli and Jake and Jolene, or even myself, is our business....This doesn’t involve you. You just keep your nose clean...Am I making myself clear, honey?” Her eyes give me a piercing stare. I stare back at her and we lock eyes for a few seconds.

“Enjoy your evening, Paige,” I mutter as I turn away to rejoin Kelli and Jake in the dressing area.

Kelli looks terrific in her camouflage bikini, as she begins her stretches. Jake, as usual, looks calm and relaxed. But the tension and anticipation is undeniable. I look at Kelli and imagine myself in this situation. I wonder what it would feel like to fight in a cage in public in front of a largely male screaming crowd - wearing a bikini, no less. How exhilarating would a victory be? And how extremely humiliating would it be to be defeated...and stripped naked. All at once, I’m excited, nervous, a little aroused...and fearful. Kelli has done this before. I wonder what she feels. Soon there will be a knock on the door to indicate Kelli’s fight is up next. The anticipation  causes my heart to skip a beat. Kelli and Jake share a quick kiss as I follow Jake out to the cage area to take our seats.

At 6’3” and 240 lbs., Jake clears a path through the crowd as I follow like a running back behind an offensive lineman. As we approach the cage area, I feel a large bony hand on my shoulder.

“Well, hello young lady,” a voice greets as I turn.

“General! Fancy seeing you here.” Shit! I forgot the general frequents here. I’ll definitely need to tell Tom about my adventures before someone else does.

“You thought the old man was lyin’ to ya about Kelli fighting at Billy’s, didn’t ya.”

“No General, I never thought you were lying,” I explained. “I guess I decided to see for myself. Is Kyong here?”

“Not tonight. She’s at a class. We’re working on getting her U.S citizenship. Then she can vote and help make sure the right people get elected to keep our military strong. Where’s your hubby?”

“He’s not here. He’s at a meeting”

“And you’re here alone?” the general asks with a hint of concern. “Well now, this is not a good place for a woman like you to be waltzing through here by yourself. Come sit with me. I have an extra seat in the VIP section. Kelli against Danielle. That ought to be a ripsnortin’ lalapalooza. But I think Kelli bit off a little too much in this one. I’m afraid your friend is gonna end up as nekkid as the day she was born.

“Thanks General,” I reply, “but I came here with Kelli and Jake. I’ll be close to Jake so I think I’ll be alright.”

“Well OK then,” said the old man’s gravelly voice. “But if any men try to put the moves on ya, you come see me about it. I might be up in age, but Ol’ Fuss and Feathers here still knows how to put the hurt on somebody.”

“Will do, General. Thanks.”

I resume my journey to the cageside seats. Jake has gone ahead but fortunately he is easy to spot. Up ahead, I see him sitting in the front row. As I get closer, I don’t see an empty seat next to him. In fact, he is talking to a person next to him. As I approach, that person looks like...is it?...NO!...IT CAN’T BE! ...OH FUCK!...IT’S JOLENE.

SHIT! One minute into my mission and I failed already. I walk as quickly as I can and position myself in front of the bitch.

“Hi Jolene, I’m Kiva” I sing as I put on my fake smile. Nice to meet you. I understand you’re fighting for the title. I just want to say that I wish you luck....And if you don’t mind,...I’m afraid you’re in my seat.”

The woman looks at me with a condescending smirk as she turns to Jake.

“Isn’t this the little sidekick Kelli brought with her tonight?”

“Yes,” he answered. “This is Kiva.”

“I see,” she snarks. “Nice to meet you, sweetie. But I sat down with Jake. You were never here, Love.”

“I know. I was talking to someone. But that seat was saved for me.”

“No, dear. There are no reserved seats here. It’s first come, first served. I was here first. Now please run along.”

I know Jolene is a tough skilled fighter I should not mess with. However, I am not backing down.

“I am not going anywhere,” I insisted. “Now please get out of my seat.”

The redhead is starting to look agitated.

“I thought I made myself clear,” her voice starting to rise, “what is it you don’t understand? You have interrupted our conversation. Now kindly disappear.”

Disappointingly, Jake seems content to let this play out, passively leaving it up to the women to settle it. Why isn’t he defending me? He needs to take SOME responsibility for himself. Finally, I drop the gauntlet.

“Jake,” I said as I direct my gaze toward him, “you decide. Which of us sits here next to you?”

He pauses for way too long.

“You know Kelli wanted me here tonight,” I added. “But the choice is yours. Does Jolene get this chair next to you. Or do I.” Jolene gives him a seductive “come hither” look while look askance at him.

Finally, he gives Jolene a rather abashed look and in an apologetic tone tells her, “Well,,,um...yeah...Kelli invited Kiva to be with us tonight...we were saving this seat...for her.”

Good Lord, Jake, I’m thinking. Do you think you could possibly say that with less conviction? Was it really that hard?

“I see,” Jolene responds. “You’re a gentleman. You’re a man of your word. I get it. In fact...I like that.” The temptress then adds, “We’ll continue our conversation...real soon.”

“And as for you, Missy.” she says in a cocky voice, “keep this seat warm for me. And don’t even think of getting in my way next time.”

Finally, the arrogant bitch slinks away as I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Jake and I make small talk for a few minutes. With Jolene out of the way, I can now relax and focus on Kelli’s fight. After winning the battle with the red headed slut, I need a drink.

“Jake, I’m going to the bar. Would you like me to get you something?”

“A rye with one large ice cube,” he answers.

“Got it.”

I order my wine first. “Here ya go, ma’am,” says the bartender, “Cabernet Sauvignon...and here’s Jake’s rye.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “How did you know Jake wanted a rye? I didn’t order it yet.”

“Are you sure? Someone ordered it.”

“Jolene,” said the busy waitress. “She ordered it for Jake on her tab.”

Damn, this woman is fast. “I’ll get it to him. May I have a second rye?”

I know it’s not logical. I promised Jake a rye but I don’t want him to have Jolene’s gift so I buy him the same thing. I carry back my glass of wine and two glasses of rye. From behind the seats, I slip one of the ryes under my chair and pass the other to Jake before sitting down to sip my Cab. Finally, I settle in to watch the fights.

The current match is finished. The crowd roars as another triumphant woman waves around her defeated foe’s bikini while blowing kisses to the spectators. Behind her, another nude woman wearing nothing but a look of humiliation and shame skulks her way to the cage door. After all the bodies are cleared from the cage, the attendants mop the canvas in preparation for the next fight - Kelli’s fight.

I can’t help but feel tense and nervous. A spotlight shines in the back. Music plays. From out of the shadows emerges an intimidating dark skinned woman in a bright orange bikini. She is stocky, listed as 5’8” and 160 lbs. The crowd applauds as she lumbers her way to the cage. She is introduced by Billy as Danielle “MegaHurtz” Harris. As she enters the cage, the tough looking woman shakes her arms to loosen up.

“Shit, Jake. She’s huge. Did Kelli know that?” I ask as I nervously squeeze his arm.

The music starts again as the spotlight focuses on the back of the aisle. Into the light steps Kelli. With her camo bikini, blonde ponytail bouncing behind her, she waves and smiles to the cheering crowd. Wow! I thought, she looks...beautiful. Again, I briefly imagine myself in her position. A lump forms in my throat as I think that may be me one day.

I stand up on my chair, scream Kelli’s name and wave at her as she enters the cage. The chain link walls and metal pipe frame of the cage are foreboding. After Kelli enters, the ominous clang of the door slamming shut sends a chill through my body.

A thin Asian woman in a skimpy referee outfit brings the combatants together in the center of the cage to go over the rules. I know this fight ends with a submission or ten second pin. I can tell the two women are trash talking.

The bell rings and Kelly immediately charges into her larger opponent, slapping and punching. MegaHurtz backs up until Kelly drives her into the cage, pulling her head down, firing knees to the belly, furiously punching away at the lower back and flanks. The crowd erupts. I too am caught up in the frenzy.

“THAT’S IT, KELLI!....KICK HER ASS!....PUT HER AWAY!,” I scream, finding myself absorbing the crowd’s bloodlust. I’m incredibly charged up until I feel a hand tugging on my left arm.

“Excuse me...excuse me,” says a woman’s voice. “Are you Kiva?...Are you the nurse?”

I turn to see I’m being interrupted by a red headed woman. Jolene?...No, it’s not Jolene. It’s a different ginger I did not recognize. She’s wearing a waitress jacket. She’s thin but with a rough streetwise look about her.

“Yes, I’m Kiva.”

Her voice was frantic, even panic stricken. “We need you,” said her voice, rushed and breathless....A man collapsed in the restroom...He’s down...They can’t find a pulse...It’s that older gentleman you were talking to earlier...the general...They’re doing CPR...Someone said you’re a nurse...they need you immediately....HURRY!

THE GENERAL!...COLLAPSED?...GETTING CPR!  OH MY GOD! I know he has a heart condition but that doesn’t blunt the shock. I fly out of my seat and run to the back of the building pushing my way through bodies. It took less than ten seconds to reach the Men’s restroom but it seemed like a thousand light years. I throw a shoulder block at the door.

I stumble in out of breath. I see tile, sinks, stand up urinals, toilet stalls. I expect to see pandemonium centered around a man lying on the floor. But I see...nothing of the sort. Fuck! Every second counts! He’s gotta be here. Frantic, I turn the corner, running past the stalls. Nothing! Confused and disoriented, I dash back to the sink area, my head turning in all directions. She did say the Men’s room. Was there some mistake?

In an outburst of desperation I scream out, “WHERE IS HE?....IS THERE A MAN DOWN IN HERE?” For the first time, I notice the stunned men at the sink and the ones standing relieving themselves. Their faces gradually change from looks of confusion to amusement, then to laughter. Then louder laughter.

“Holy shit!” said a voice from the stalls. “Do I hear a woman in here?” I’m approached by a second man emerging from a commode.

“I thought I heard a female voice,” he said with a grin. “Did you say you’re looking for a man to go down on in here? Well, look no further, honey. Here I am.” The restroom erupts with howls of male laughter.

“What in blazes?,” I hear a familiar voice ask. I look toward it to see a man zipping up his trousers as he turns from the urinal.

“General!...You’re okay!..Oh thank goodness.”

“KIVA!...What the HELL!...,” his stern voice scolding.

Sheepishly, I back up and could barely face the men, “Sorry guys, I think there was a mistake...You see, I’m a nurse and I was told...”

From behind me, an aged hand wraps around my eyes as the other hand pulls me by the arm.

“This is no place for you, young lady. There are sights in here an honest woman shouldn’t see.”

“General, let go,” I plead as he escorts me out of the restroom. “I’m a nurse. I’m used to seeing men pissing.”

“You’re coming with me,” he barks.

“Let go!”

“You’re sitting with me in the VIP section,” he informs as he takes me to an area of elevated cushioned seats.

“No, I’m not,” I protest. “I’m not a child.”

“No, but ya come here without your husband, flitting around like a five dollar floozy, trolloping in the Men’s room like a mule in heat... Dang women,” he starts, You can’t trust ‘em.”

“General, I don’t need a lecture,” I asserted.

“I’m calling your husband,” the old man threatens as he takes out his cell phone.

“No...DON’T”...I beg.

“Then sit down next to me so I can see that your behavin’ like a proper woman.”

“Oh brother!” I sigh as I sink in the chair in the “VIP section.” I notice several thin Asian women in sexy referee outfits seated around the general. I guess Billy knows how to please his best benefactors. Immediately, my mind scrambles to figure out a way to get back to Jake.

Finally, I turn my attention to the cage. Kelli is in complete control, holding the bigger woman down on the canvas as she delivers a series of slaps while screaming “bitch” and “cxnt”. Danielle looks battered and exhausted, her bikini top is nearly off, and her face is smeared with a mixture of makeup and tears.

“Looks like your friend Kelli is doing pretty well for herself for the moment,” the general observed, “but I still think she’ll be nekkid as a jaybird before it’s over.” Apparently, the general has no problem seeing naked women, but me seeing men urinate is a scandal.

As I briefly watch Kelli working over Danielle, I stretch my neck looking for Jake, I glimpse a head of red hair working her way to his area. I look again. Is it? Oh fuck,...it is her. Jolene....And she’s headed in Jake’s direction. I squirm in my chair.

“General, I have to pee,” I tell him. “I’ll be right back.”

“We’ll all right,” he replies. “I know what that’s like. At my age, my prostate is the size of a grapefruit. Just be back here in a few minutes, young lady or I’ll have to bring your husband in here to keep ya under control.”

“Sure will, sir,” I reply as I fly out of my seat.

Again, I weave my way through rows of chairs and aisles until I see Jake. What I saw as I approached him instantly sent me into a rage. My seat next to him was empty but the situation was far worse than before. Jolene was there...sitting...in...Jake’s...lap.

“Jolene, GET OUT!,” I scream at her.

With her arm around Jake’s neck and her legs crossed seductively, she gives me an arrogant smirk.

“Oh look, she’s back,” she sneers. “I thought you were a cheap skank, but really? Soliciting in the Men’s room? I didn’t know you were that low.”

Now I realize I was set up.

“How much did you pay that waitress to send me into the Men’s room, asshole,”  I responded. “You can leave now, Jolene. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your fight?”

“Oh, I can get ready in seconds but thank you for asking,” the haughty bitch answered. “And what’s your problem?” She added. “You have your seat and I have mine. And I happen to think I have the best seat in the house,” she coos as her fingers provocatively run down the side of Jake’s face.

I’m now confronted with the fact that this whore has no intention of leaving. I take a deep breath and try to regroup. I barely notice the crowd noise has been picking up. Glancing at the cage, I see Kelli is locked in a rolling catball with the larger woman, and I’m feeling worried.

“Jolene, get your slutty ass out of here now,” I ordered.

“This is none of your business, honey,” she laughs. “Jake and I are consenting adults. If you don’t like it, you can fucking leave.”

She had a point. Why is Jake allowing this?

“You’re just causing trouble for yourself,” I shot back. “You don’t think Kelli is going to see what you’re doing?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t think Kelli is seeing much of anything right now,” she laughs again as she points toward the cage. “Take a look.”

I turn toward the cage and gasp in abject horror. Kelli is pinned on her back with Danielle’s ample ass on her chest. Her face is wedged between the chubby woman’s thighs, her arms held down to the mat, her legs awkwardly bent against the cage fence.

“One...Two,” the referee shouts.

I begin to panic.

“Three...Four.”

“COME ON KELLI, GET UP. YOU CAN DO IT” I scream. My exhortation lacks confidence.

“Five...Six.”

The full weight of harsh reality sinks in. Kelli is trapped, plastered onto the mat. Her opponent is too big, too heavy. I watch her buck in futility. I see her feet scrambling frantically, then trying to climb up the chain link face. I can tell Danielle is trash talking and taunting her. My stomach drops.

“Seven....Eight.” The spectators count along. Danielle has folded one of Kelli’s legs leaving my friend’s body twisted and I know she’s in pain.

Jolene is holding up her fingers with each count, a wide grin on her face. Jake has a solemn look of concern. But he’s still letting the slut sit on his lap as his wife is being counted out. Jolene is clearly enjoying this.

I’m overwhelmed by the cruelty of it all. Kelli is on the verge of defeat, her camo bikini to be claimed by her conqueror, her nude body will be on display for all, like a vanquished queen forced to suffer ignominy and humiliation in front of the masses. Then comes the lonely walk of shame out of the cage, the exposed woman enduring the jeers, laughter, scorn, lewd insults. Then the final indignity: Jolene seducing her husband. I feel sick.

I am also defeated. Jolene outmaneuvered me in a game of chess, to claim her prized king. I failed Kelli. I failed myself. I almost want to congratulate the redhead. My heart sinks, I actually feel like I might faint. I cannot bear to hear the final count proclaiming Kelli’s demise. I wrap my arms around my head. I cover my ears in total helplessness.

“Nine”

The count is faint and muffled but I hear it. And then...loud cheers. I know it’s over. I don’t  need to see the guillotine blade fall to know the execution is over. There’s a new lump in my throat and a knot in my chest. After a few seconds, I know I must face the cold reality. I open my eyes and I see...the fight is still going on. Kelli is free. Both women are scrambling to their feet to face off again.

“Jake, what happened?” I asked with a sense of confusion.

“She pushed off the pole and kicked out at nine,” he explained.

I take a deep breath. I feel relieved but I know Kelli may still lose. But I also get another chance.

“Jolene, get out now,” I bark with more resolve.

“Are you going to shut up or do I have to shut you up?” she coldly asks.

Then I remembered. I took the glass of rye she bought for Jake from under the seat.

Turning toward Jolene, I growl, “By the way, here’s the drink you bought. You either leave now or you will be wearing this drink on your blouse.”

The slutty ginger rose to her feet and approached me until she entered my space.

“You little twat. If you throw that drink at me, dear, that will be the sorriest mistake of your life” she threatened.

We stood chest to chest, our eyes giving each other poisonous stairs. I know I’m probably overmatched but I’m not backing down. Regardless of what happens to Kelli in the cage, I’m going to do my part to get this cxnt away from Jake.

“Jolene,” a male voice calls, interrupting the confrontation. It’s Billy. “Save it for the championship fight. You’re up next. Get ready now.”

She waves a finger in my face. “This isn’t over,” she snarls. “One last warning. Stay out of my business or you’re going to end up one sad little girl. Understand?”

Jolene turns and heads for the dressing room. I breathe a sigh of relief as I sink into my seat next to Jake.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “You got some fighting attitude.”

“I’m fine.”

I notice he has pitched a tent in his pants, his formidable pole propping up the denim of his jeans. I shake my head and give him a look of disapproval. My eyes say, “Really, Jake?” He receives the message.

“She was quick,” he says with an embarrassed shrug.

I’ve seen very little of the fight so far. Finally, I can now settle in and at least watch the end. I see Kelli is in control again, backing her woman up against the cage, firing blows to the belly. Danielle looks like she’s out of gas and I’m confident now Kelli will win. With the distractions gone, I can now watch intently.

Distractions...Oh FUCK!...The general...I forgot...He’s thinks I’ve been in the Ladies’ room.

“Excuse me, Jake. I’ll be right back.”

I scurry back to the “VIP section”, where the general is surrounded by his bevy of cute thin Asian women while saving my seat next to him.

“That was a long potty break, young lady,” he cackles.

“Sorry, general. Maybe it was that back bean and rice burrito.”

“Well now, sit down here and watch the rest of fight before I tell your husband he needs to put you on a shorter leash. I know how married womenfolk are. Once they get out of the house alone, they have trouble controlling themselves.”

Unbelievable. I really need to get out of here.

“General, can I make a deal with you?,” I propose. “It’s extremely important that I talk to Jake. See, he’s down there in front of the cage. I’ll be next to him the whole time. I won’t leave his side. I promise.”

“Well now,” the raspy elder voice replies, “I don’t mind turning guardianship of ya over to Jake. His woman is preoccupied at the moment so don’t get any funny ideas.”

“I won’t sir.”

“Jake’s an honorable man,” he says, “I know he won’t fall for any wanton woman’s advances.”

“I agree sir.” Geez, how long did my nose just grow?

“I’ll be watchin, if I see ya can’t keep yer hands to yourself, yer hubby’s getting a full report from the general.”

“Deal, sir.”

The crowd noise rises as I head back toward Jake’s area. I’m watching the fight as I walk. Danielle looks just about finished as Kelli digs her hands into the unfortunate woman’s big tits before delivering a knee to the crotch. Someone tugs my arm.

“Excuse me, miss? I heard you tell the general you’re going to see Jake.” It was one of the Asian beauties in a sexy referee outfit.  “Um, which one is Jake.”

“Why,” I ask.

“Um, I have a note for him. I’m a locker room attendant and Miss Jolene told me to give this to him,” she explains holding a little card envelope addressed to “Jake” with a little smiley face. Cute.

“Oh, in that case, I can give it to him.”

“Well, I was told only Jake may have it.”

“No worries,” I tell her. “I’m Jake’s wife. We’re really good friends with Jolene. We’re all going out dancing after the fights. Jolene is telling us where to meet. I can take the note. It’s okay.”

“Well...alright then,” she says as she hands me the card.

“Don’t go away yet,” I instruct.

I quickly rip open the envelope and pull out the card and read:

Hey Handsome,
Ditch the skank sitting next to you and come to my dressing room.
I have a nice surprise for you,
I’m waiting,
J

I took a pen from my handbag and scrolled beneath her message:

Leave me alone.
I’m happily married.
Jake

I stuff the card back in the envelope and instruct the attendant to return it to the bitch. I’m sure she’ll know it’s me but I’m satisfied she’ll know I won this round.

As I restart my journey back to my rightful seat, I see Paige and the red headed waitress that sent me into the Men’s room. I stop. The waitress and I engage in a staring contest for several seconds before she flips me her middle finger. I respond by sliding my index finger across my neck in a cutthroat gesture, then move on.

“Everything okay?” Jake asks as I take my place next to him.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Jake, who is that redhead waitress?”

“Her name is Ginger,” he explains. “She’s one of Billy’s girls if you know what I mean.”

“Hmmmmm”

In the cage, Kelli is dragging Danielle by the hair to the center, finally dumping her on the canvas. Kelli is clearly in the zone, verbally threatening the woman with more punishment before unceremoniously pinning her by placing her foot on the afflicted woman’s face. MegaHurtz is a total mess of bruises, scratches, red marks, smeared makeup and tears. She starts to resist for a second, then lets her arms fall limp in submission.

The crowd goes nuts as the petite Asian referee counts. I feel a massive burden lifted. Kelli will win. Jolene is not here. I see Jake’s boner has returned but I’m sure this one was inspired by Kelli. I know he will be with her shortly. This evening was exhausting but ended well. I’m finally relaxed. But then...OH...MY...GOD,...IT...CAN’T...BE!

Across the cage, in the crowd, I see a group of men. The sight of one particular man chills my blood. Perhaps I’m mistaken...No...that face, that dirty blond hair....And that shirt!..I bought it for him!...That posture...I’m not mistaken!...It’s my..fucking husband...What the FUCK!...TOM IS HERE!...WHAT THE FUCK IS MY HUSBAND DOING HERE?

The referee counts “Ten”, as the crowd roars. I give Jake a hug as he prepares to rejoin his triumphant wife.

“Jake, I have to run. There’s some issue I have to deal with.”

“Is something wrong?”
 
“No. Tell Kelli I said congrats and I’ll call her.”

I work my way to the other side of the cage and approach my husband from behind, tapping his shoulder.

“KIVA!” he gasps. “What are doing here?” He looks shocked.

“Didn’t the general call you?”

“The general?”

“You mean you came here on your own? To watch fights? Is that what you did?” I grilled. He was silent.

“Fuck, Tom, you lied. You said you had a business meeting with the robotics manufacturer. You lied. You lied. You...FUCKING LIED!...And who are these guys you are with?”

“Just some guys I met at a meet up group,” he answers matter of factly.

“A meet up group for what? Catfight fans?...Real classy.”

“About as classy as wrestling topless in a sand bunker,” he shoots back.

“Fuck you, Tom. You know that was a private matter. I partly did it for you so you could buy your robot...So how many other times have you been here?”

“Just one other time,” he answers.

“And you never planned to tell me?”

“I would have.”

My interrogation continued. “Do you have catfight videos hiding under the floor boards?”

“Just a few.”

“This is fucking unbelievable. You think you know the person you married, then....THIS!...FUCK!...Why did you act disinterested.”

“I didn’t want you getting hurt,” he replied.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your fetish before?”

“I was afraid you’d think I’m weird.”

“But you thought it was okay to lie.”

I’m starting to feel relieved. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. With my husband now out of the closet, the door is now open for us to pursue our interests together. I felt my anger quell. As I reached to take his hand, the bouncer approached us and turned toward my husband.

“Time to pay up, cowboy. That will be a hundred bucks,” said the large heavily muscled man.

With confusion, I watched my husband hand over five twenty dollar bills.

“Sorry your girl lost,” said the bouncer as he pocketed the cash.

“What?...Tom, what was that ab-. Did you bet?....Did you....WHAT THE FUCK!..You bet, didn’t you?...You....HOLY SHIT!....YOU BET AGAINST KELLI!

“Um..,” he stuttered. “The guys and I were just having a little fun. It didn’t mean anything.”

“DIDN’T MEAN ANYTHING?” I shouted. “You bet against my friend? You play golf with Jake and you bet against his wife. UGH...I am so OUTTA HERE,” I scream.

I head for the door as Tom follows. The crowd noise picks up again as Jolene’s title fight gets underway. Outside, the crisp night air contrasts with the smoky environment inside.

“Wait,” my husband implores as I keep walking. “Kiva...STOP!”

“If you have something more to say, say it,” as I turn around. “But make it quick. I wanna go home.”

“Damn right I’ll say it. It’s my turn now,” he begins as we’re both standing in the parking lot. “You called me a liar? Well Miss Pot, meet Mr. Kettle. Some career night, my dear. Or is this the career you’re selling to high school girls? Do you expect me to trust you now when you say you’re going somewhere for the evening?”

“I was planning to tell you,” I countered.

“But you didn’t,” he retorted.

“It’s not the same thing,” I insisted.

“Oh no?”

“I’m done talking.” I state firmly as I start walking again.

“And one more thing,” he adds.

“Stop,” I said, “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

“No, you’re going to hear it,” he insisted.

“Dammit Tom, WHAT IS IT?”

He pauses...”Nice knockout of Freda,” he whispers.

Stunned, I can barely gasp out, “You...you knew?”

“Of course I knew,” he answered. “Kyong joined the website. The general found your video.“

“You know about the website too?” My knees felt week.

“And the catpin deal.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Any other fights I don’t know about?” he asks.

“No, that’s all.”

“How much longer did you think you could live this double life?” He added. “Hey, I’m glad you beat Freda. She’s our worst resident. But that’s a hell of a thing to not tell your spouse.”

“I know...” I murmured, my eyes turned down to the blacktop....“It was....wrong.”

Our discussion lasts another twenty minutes. The Jolene fight is over and much of the crowd files out.

“There he is,” grunts the general as he passes. “You need to keep a close eye on that one, Tom. She’s a live wire.”

We move closer toward the back of the building to finish our talk in privacy. We vow to not hide anymore secrets. We both understand that I like to fight and he likes to watch fights. He will be at my fights as much as possible. I will immediately share with him any fights involving catpins where he is not present. I will quit fighting anytime he says so. As for betting against Kelli, he’s not quite off the hook for that one. I guess you could say we both had our day of reckoning.

“You know, Tom,” I tell him. “This has been a hell of a night. There’s only one way to top it off.”

“Oh?” He wonders.

“I need to kick somebody’s ass. Let’s go back inside.”

Many spectators are filing out as the fight card is completed and I re-enter the building. Someone needs to pay for my trouble tonight. I’m not ready yet for Jolene. Maybe not Paige. But something tells me one bitch is ready for her day of reckoning. I have Tom wait at a table as I storm my way to the bar

“Where’s Ginger?” I demand from the staff. “Where is she? “WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?”

“Try Billy’s office,” said one of the waitresses. “It’s in the back.”

I dart past the kitchen behind the bar, past a storeroom, to a closed door. I barge in to find the large bald man sitting at a desk, the red headed bitch, wearing only pink panties, sitting on his lap as the two are engaged in an intense lip lock.

“What the FUCK!” she screams at me. Get the FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

I do not move.

“So are you done giving blow jobs in the Men’s room?” Are you looking for more?” she jeers. “Well, this one’s mine. GET LOST!”

I stand at the doorway with my hands on my hips, studying the nearly nude woman. She is young, appearing to be in her mid twenties. She is a fair skinned redhead but has a gritty streetwise look to her. She’s about 5’8” but thin, about 120 lbs. Her breasts are small, definite A cups. Hung over a chair is a black leather biker type of jacket. Fixed to the jacket is...the catpin. Shit, I thought, this woman fights. I hesitate for a moment,...then,...I issue the challenge.

“You and me in the cage, now.”

She glares back at me. “Are you challenging me to a fight?”

“You heard that right.”

“I don’t believe we met,” the big man interjects, “I’m Billy.”

“My name is Kiva.”

“Nice to meet ya, darlin’,” he answers. “But next time please knock”

“She’s the loser who came in with Kelli,” Ginger adds. “She’s been sticking her nose in Jolene’s business. I’d be happy to give her a good ass kicking.”

“Look ladies, the show is over. Folks are leaving. I can book you for next card,” Billy suggests.

“I don’t want a show,” I reply. “I want to use your cage tonight.”

“Well now, then, that’s up to Ginger,” says the club owner.

“I’m gonna eat her alive,” the redhead threatens as she eyes me up and down. “She don’t look like much.”

“Let me go salvage what’s left of the crowd. I’ll get a referee,” Billy tells us. “Ya got a bikini, darlin’?”

“No, but I got a bra and panties underneath my blouse and slacks I explain.”

“Good enough. Ginger, what about you?”

“You broke my bra, Billy, when you pulled it off. But fuck it, I’ll just wear panties,” the skank answered. “Do I get a bonus for this?”

“A hundred bucks,” he answers. “And if you win, ya get a special prize which will be delivered to ya personally by yours truly.”

“Meet me at the cage, bitch,” Ginger hisses.

I meet Tom back in the bar area and tell him I have a fight. His response, understandably is a mix of excitement and concern. I begin stripping on the floor of the club placing my earrings, necklace, bracelets, and wedding ring in my handbag. I hand my husband my outer garments until I’m left in a white bra and cotton panties. Ginger is already in the cage in her pink lacy brief. Billy enters the cage and motions for me to do the same. The eerie clang of the cage door doesn’t seem to creep me out like I expected. I don’t feel the fear like I thought I would. Maybe this is what “being in the zone” means. Only half the crowd is left. Some people who headed for the door return to their seats. I don’t see Kelli and Jake and I presume they left. A Latina referee agrees to officiate.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Billy announces. “We have an add on fight for this evening. In this corner, weighing 120 lbs, Billy’s own,...Ginger Thomas. A robust applause fills the air as the woman is well known in this establishment.

“In this corner, weighing 128 lbs, making her first appearance at Billy’s,...um...Kiva.” I only elicit faint applause as Billy tries to remember my last name which I never told him.

So this is what it’s like, I thought. In a cage. Under the lights. Standing across from another woman. About to battle in public. Her body against mine. Jubilation and humiliation on the line. I block it all out of my mind. This is no time for butterflies and fear.

“The rules for this fight are....NO HOLDS BARRED.” The crowd roars its approval. “The match ends by submission or knock out.”

WHAT? I didn’t agree to that. Ginger slyly smirks at me from across the cage. FUCK! I got set up again. Kelli wasn’t kidding. Billy is a douchebag.

The bell rings as the referee motions for us to start the fight. I’m determined to start aggressively, unlike my first two fights. I think no holds barred will be to my advantage since my trainer thinks I’m a good striker. She’s an inch taller but I think I’m stronger.

I come out with a boxer’s stance with my hands up high. Ginger is in a neutral stance. She can tell I intend to strike so her hands are high and she moves laterally side to side hoping I’ll swing and miss giving her a chance to counter. The remaining crowd seems to be Billy’s regulars and they are solidly for Ginger. I hear, “get her Ginger,” “kick her ass,” and “strip her naked.” Oddly, I’m not afraid.

I stalk her around the cage. I jab at her to set up my right hand. The skanky redhead keeps her distance keeping away from my jab. She slips under my jabs, then shoots low for my leg but I kick her away, staying upright. A few jabs graze her as she avoids substantial blows.

Finally, I abandon the boxer’s stance, lower my shoulder and rush at her. It worked. I wrap my arms around her waist and drive her back into the cage. She wraps her arms around mine and we hold each other but I keep her back to the cage. I fire knees upward partially striking her hips. I kick at her legs and sense she’s losing her stability. She lunges for my hair, pulled up in a ponytail, and prevents herself from falling. I grab on to her red locks. The two of us have handfuls of each other’s hair but I have the advantage. She’s till trapped against the cage and I’m still driving my knees at her.

Her hands release the grip on my hair. I feel her fingers run down my forehead, until her fingertips poke both of my eyes.

Fuck! I stumble around blindly, trying to massage the pain from my eyes. I do not see her knee driving into my crotch, into my womanhood, as I drop to my knees. Damn! This woman is a very dirty fighter.

I fall on all fours and can see nothing, the pain sears down below. I have no idea where Ginger is. Then, I feel her legs around my waist as she mounts my back. Her fingers probe my face from behind and each index finger inserts into my mouth pulling back into a double fish hook.  My mouth feels like it’s being ripped apart as my lips are pulled beyond what I thought was even possible. I never considered this hold. The pain is excruciating. I can’t imagine how grotesque my face looks.

Trying to buck her off is futile. There is no chance of prying her fingers off. I’m trying not to panic. The referee asks for a submission. I refuse. I grab on to her right wrist. I dig my thumb into the wrist just beneath the heel of her hand. I locate her median nerve, then dig into it with my thumb. The median nerve supplies the muscles of the forearm and thumb and supplies sensation to part of the hand. Pressure on the median nerve can cause pain, weakness and numbness in the hand. I dig my thumb in with everything I got. I feel her grip loosening. The tension on the right side of my mouth lessens. I can move my jaw slightly, just enough to line up my molars with her finger, then...CHOMP!

She releases the fish hooks immediately as she lets out a scream, then dismounts me.

“Fuckin dirty cxnt,” she shouts.

I scramble to my feet. I know my lipstick is smeared across my face. I must look like Heath Ledger’s version of the Joker. I have enough eyesight back to find Ginger trying to shake the pain from her hand.

We lock up and I drive her back again into the cage. Now that I know she fights dirty, I take extra precautions. I flick a few jabs at her face. I take a step back and measure her with my arms, then, throw a big right hook to the ribs. She is clearly in pain. Following my trainer’s lessons, I set her up with more jabs to the head. She appears helpless like a desperate boxer on the ropes. After a third jab, I fire my right hook to the jaw.

The barmaid, stumbles forward. I push her away. She staggers a few steps, spins, then falls forward, crashing face down on the mat. The referee waives me off, stopping the fight, calling for the bell.

The fight seemed long but lasted less than two minutes. The crowd gives me a hearty applause. Ginger rolls onto her back, looks awake, and is answering the referee’s questions. The crowd begins a chant, “strip her naked, strip her naked.”

As a nurse, it’s not my nature to add further insult on an injured opponent. I try to ignore the crowd. I’m about to help Ginger to her feet. Then I remember the cruel trick she played, flipping me the middle finger, the complete disrespect. Now there she is, on the mat, defeated, her flat chest with the puffy pink nipples pointing at the lights.

“Fucking cxnt”, she grumbles again, as she spit a disgusting piece of phlegm onto my leg.

I bend over, lift up her hips, then grab on to the back of her panties. For a second, I decide to let her be. Then I think of an old John Wayne movie, I think it was “McLintock.” In a parody of an iconic scene where The Duke held an unfortunate varmint by the collar and threatened to belt him in the mouth, I tell Ginger:

“Pilgrim, you caused a lot of trouble around here today. Somebody ought to strip off your panties and leave you butt naked. But it won’t be me. I won’t do it...No, I won’t do it........THE HELL I WON’T...RIP!

“Consider this your day of reckoning,” I added.

I wave to the crowd and experience my first time standing under the lights victorious. There really is nothing quite like it. I leave the cage with my first “trophy.” My own bra and panties remain intact. Just outside the cage, I exchange stares with Jolene and Paige one last time. Tom hands me my clothes but I just want to leave. I’ll get changed in my car. As I head toward the exit, I pass Billy.

“Do I get paid for this?” I ask.

“No, sugar,” he responds. “You picked a fight on your own. You and I never talked business. I just let you use my cage....But, since you put on a good show, here’s ten bucks. That makes it half price cover charge. Pretty good deal, don’t ya think?”

Is he kidding?

“And,”....he adds, “here’s my card.”

It’s been a week since my first cage fight. My catpin should be arriving in the mail any day now. The burden of secrecy has been lifted from my husband and I and things couldn’t be better. I’m not sure what’s next for my fighting career. I do know that there may still be some unfinished business. I take out the card.

“Hello, Billy,...it’s Kiva...Yes, we met last week....Are we ready to talk business now?”



For details of the Kelli-Danielle cage fight, see Fyre’s Fight Journal, Ch 23, Pride and Paychecks
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=78153.90

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: BarbaraUK on November 16, 2020, 08:12:42 PM

Thanks for this. It was a very good story. I thought I would get to the end without there being a full fight and I wasn't unhappy about that.

Also, you do have that big right hand, its now official :)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on November 17, 2020, 11:20:28 AM

Well, in our 'Where's Kiva?' office sweepstake, I had 'in an alien spaceship headed for a distant galaxy', one had 'kidnapped by a cult', another (clown) put 'deputizing for the Tooth Fairy', but most people seemed to think you were either a) in the dungeon of Freda's castle awaiting torture (my attempts to convince them that junior hospital doctors, even in Texas, cannot generally afford castles fell on deaf ears) or b) in a crate in the trunk of Rihanna's car.
No-one, I mean no - one, had 'in the men's restroom watching the General pee'. You blindsided us all there.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on November 18, 2020, 01:33:51 AM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on November 16, 2020, 08:12:42 PM

Also, you do have that big right hand, its now official :)

Yes! At my gym, they had to reinforce the heavy bag with extra chains because I hit it so hard.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on November 18, 2020, 01:38:35 AM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on November 17, 2020, 11:20:28 AM

Well, in our 'Where's Kiva?' office sweepstake, I had 'in an alien spaceship headed for a distant galaxy', one had 'kidnapped by a cult', another (clown) put 'deputizing for the Tooth Fairy', but most people seemed to think you were either a) in the dungeon of Freda's castle awaiting torture (my attempts to convince them that junior hospital doctors, even in Texas, cannot generally afford castles fell on deaf ears) or b) in a crate in the trunk of Rihanna's car.
No-one, I mean no - one, had 'in the men's restroom watching the General pee'. You blindsided us all there.

Yes, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. That was one of many crazy things going on at Billy’s that night but at least it all ended well - for now. I’m sure Jolene and Paige will be causing more trouble before long. I’m really looking forward to the inevitable clash between Kelli and Jolene in the cage. As the general might say, “that’ll be a barn burnin’, hell raisin’ Texas tornado of a fight.” (No pressure at all, FyreCracka.)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on November 19, 2020, 07:15:47 PM

Shouldn’t laugh, I know, but those girls really did give you the runaround – between the bar, and the men’s restroom, and the general’s lodge in the VIP section, and trying to keep Jolene off Jake … – and then having to fight at the end of all that. It’s lucky you don’t have a more arduous job, or you’d be worn out!
But I’m glad you got one of them, even though – (not wanting to belittle your achievements or anything) – it was rather the weakest member of the herd.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: snw on November 19, 2020, 10:28:50 PM

Quote from: Kiva on November 18, 2020, 01:38:35 AM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on November 17, 2020, 11:20:28 AM

Well, in our 'Where's Kiva?' office sweepstake, I had 'in an alien spaceship headed for a distant galaxy', one had 'kidnapped by a cult', another (clown) put 'deputizing for the Tooth Fairy', but most people seemed to think you were either a) in the dungeon of Freda's castle awaiting torture (my attempts to convince them that junior hospital doctors, even in Texas, cannot generally afford castles fell on deaf ears) or b) in a crate in the trunk of Rihanna's car.
No-one, I mean no - one, had 'in the men's restroom watching the General pee'. You blindsided us all there.

Yes, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. That was one of many crazy things going on at Billy’s that night but at least it all ended well - for now. I’m sure Jolene and Paige will be causing more trouble before long. I’m really looking forward to the inevitable clash between Kelli and Jolene in the cage. As the general might say, “that’ll be a barn burnin’, hell raisin’ Texas tornado of a fight.” (No pressure at all, FyreCracka.)

Yes the Jolene vs Kelli match is one I’m really waiting to see. It seems Jake is as well and I’m wondering if  he’s not wanting a piece of Jolene. He didn’t seem too concerned when Jolene was around about Kelli winning or losing. I’m not saying he wants Jolene enough to do Kelli wrong but he may be hoping she wins just to have a roll in the hay with Jolene. I’d love to hear Kelli and Jake’s take on this. Goodness knows he wasn’t avoiding Jolene by any means. I think Jolene worries Kelli to some degree in a fight though she hasn’t really shown it. She really hasn’t even addressed Jolene’s interest in Jake yet. Is she worried about Jake’s interest in Jolene? Can’t wait to see how this goes. Could it possibly be the start of another “nemesis “ type saga in the making? I hope so those were really good stories as all have been in this series.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on November 20, 2020, 01:29:17 AM

Quote from: snw on November 19, 2020, 10:28:50 PM

Quote from: Kiva on November 18, 2020, 01:38:35 AM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on November 17, 2020, 11:20:28 AM

Well, in our 'Where's Kiva?' office sweepstake, I had 'in an alien spaceship headed for a distant galaxy', one had 'kidnapped by a cult', another (clown) put 'deputizing for the Tooth Fairy', but most people seemed to think you were either a) in the dungeon of Freda's castle awaiting torture (my attempts to convince them that junior hospital doctors, even in Texas, cannot generally afford castles fell on deaf ears) or b) in a crate in the trunk of Rihanna's car.
No-one, I mean no - one, had 'in the men's restroom watching the General pee'. You blindsided us all there.

Yes, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. That was one of many crazy things going on at Billy’s that night but at least it all ended well - for now. I’m sure Jolene and Paige will be causing more trouble before long. I’m really looking forward to the inevitable clash between Kelli and Jolene in the cage. As the general might say, “that’ll be a barn burnin’, hell raisin’ Texas tornado of a fight.” (No pressure at all, FyreCracka.)

Yes the Jolene vs Kelli match is one I’m really waiting to see. It seems Jake is as well and I’m wondering if  he’s not wanting a piece of Jolene. He didn’t seem too concerned when Jolene was around about Kelli winning or losing. I’m not saying he wants Jolene enough to do Kelli wrong but he may be hoping she wins just to have a roll in the hay with Jolene. I’d love to hear Kelli and Jake’s take on this. Goodness knows he wasn’t avoiding Jolene by any means. I think Jolene worries Kelli to some degree in a fight though she hasn’t really shown it. She really hasn’t even addressed Jolene’s interest in Jake yet. Is she worried about Jake’s interest in Jolene? Can’t wait to see how this goes. Could it possibly be the start of another “nemesis “ type saga in the making? I hope so those were really good stories as all have been in this series.

In due time, I'm rolling it all out slowly. The next chapter will address a few of those questions. I definitely need to give ol' Jake a piece of my mind now that Kiva has filled me in on all the happenings  ;)

And back to this very excellent chapter. I was greatly entertained by all of the shenaxxxxns that were taking place at Billy's. I feel I have definitely got you involved in some in my drama, lol. And I like that you and the hubby are now in the same page...and you got your Catpin, we might just have to go out lookin for some trouble one of these days....and the General made an appearance... there's was a lot going on and it all worked perfectly. I'm a bigger fan than ever.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on November 20, 2020, 02:55:56 AM

Quote from: Kiva on November 18, 2020, 01:33:51 AM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on November 16, 2020, 08:12:42 PM

Also, you do have that big right hand, its now official :)

Yes! At my gym, they had to reinforce the heavy bag with extra chains because I hit it so hard.

Well, a right-hook's useful, of course, if you're fighting someone whose left arm's fallen off or (because of the way the door opens) hiding in a fridge, but if you want to leave a real tornado trail behind you - which we all want you to do - you're gonna need a left hook as well. They never see it coming. Jelena Mrdjenovich is known as the 'Queen of the Left Hook' …
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q6T-SPcAOj0 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q6T-SPcAOj0)
… for the time being. One day, she'll just be 'Canadian Kiva'.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on November 20, 2020, 03:37:58 AM

Quote from: FyreCracka on November 20, 2020, 01:29:17 AM

I definitely need to give ol' Jake a piece of my mind now that Kiva has filled me in on all the happenings  ;)

I don't think you should be too hard on dear ol' Jake. Against attractive redheads with pretty green eyes, I'm afraid, the male immune system has no defense. Perhaps, when they've finished whatever they're working on at present, these two might turn their attention to the problem:
https://www.nytimes.com/2020/11/10/business/biontech-covid-vaccine.html (https://www.nytimes.com/2020/11/10/business/biontech-covid-vaccine.html)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: TheDevilsAngel on November 20, 2020, 08:17:43 PM

I love the stories moving back and forth between you and Kellie! I seriously need to find this bar!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on January 04, 2021, 01:32:52 AM

Chapter 5: Dance Mom Dust Up

Hush now baby, baby, don’t you cry.
Mama’s gonna make all your nightmares come true.
Mama’s gonna put all her fears into you.
Mama’s gonna keep you right here under her wing.
She won’t let you fly, but she might let you sing.
Mama’s gonna keep baby cozy and warm.
Ooh baby, ooh baby, ooh baby,
Of course mama’s gonna help build the wall.
-Pink Floyd


“I’ll be right here when dance class is over, sweetie. Then we’ll go shopping, we’ll have lunch, then we’ll go to the park and feed the ducks. We’ll have a mommy-daughter day.”

“Okay,” my little one answers before disappearing into the dance studio to join the other seven-year-olds dressed in their little leotards and dance slippers.

I love being off work Saturday mornings. Being a hospital nurse means working many weekends and holidays. I’ve also worked more night shifts than I can count. You learn to plan your time carefully. My husband’s schedule is worse with long hours and call duty. Sometimes, we pass each other like ships in the night. That was not a problem for us early in our marriage. But a child changes everything. Timing our careers around daycare, nannies, school, activities and necessities of life is one very complicated juggling act.

I know the Paiges of the world would like to think I’m a terrible mother for choosing to continue my career after giving birth. To be honest, there have been moments when I questioned that decision myself. I still don’t regret it. My daughter is well adjusted and doing wonderfully in school. I’ve learned it is what you do with your time and how you build a quality relationship with your children that matters more than just simply being home. My husband is on call this weekend. Clarissa and I will be spending all day together.

Usually, after I drop her off at dance school, I have an hour to run errands before I pick her up after class. Today, I have a different plan. I have my critical care recertification exam coming up. I’m using the hour to read some study material in the waiting room. The room is quiet. Only one other mother is also waiting.

I’m dressed in blue jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers, typical for me on a cool Saturday morning. Due to work and family demands, I haven’t had a fight since the cage match with Ginger. Billy offered me the opening bout for his next card against another new girl, the card in which Kelli fights for the number one contender spot. I had to decline since I’m on the night shift on that date. I have my catpin attached to my T-shirt. I’ve only worn it in public twice but received no bites. Today, I have no time for a fight either, so the pin is hidden underneath my hoodie. I take the American Heart Association Advanced Cardiovascular Life Support manual out of my handbag and immerse myself in an array of emergency protocols.

“Hi, I’m Luanne,” said the other mom in the waiting room. I look up, reluctantly. I’d rather keep reading uninterrupted but the woman is just being friendly. No reason not to be polite.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Kiva.”

“That’s an interesting name,” she answers. I smile in return. If the situation were different, I might have explained why I received that name but today, I don’t have time. Luanne looks a bit taller than me at around 5’9” with long legs. Her hair is long and blonde. Similar to me, her hair is in a ponytail and she’s dressed in jeans but with a sweater and boots.

“I presume you have a daughter in this class?” she asks, apparently ignorant of my need for quiet reading.

“Yes,” I answer, “Her name is Clarissa.”

“My little girl is Madison,” she replies. “Madison has been dancing since she was two years old. This is her third year of formal dance school. I’m not supposed to say anything but Bethany the instructor is planning to have Madison in the lead position at the recital.”

Oh please don’t let this be one of THOSE parents, I’m thinking.

“Very nice,” I say. “You must be very proud of her,” I add as I ponder the significance of leading a performance of little girls in tutus and ducky costumes.

“Oh yes,” she continues. “My Maddie is a natural leader. She’s the captain of her soccer team and she made the traveling cheerleading competitive team.

No such luck. She IS one of those kind of parents.

“Oh, I see,” I answer, turning my nose back to the book on my lap as Luanne turns her attention to her tablet. After a few minutes, my concentration is shattered again.

“Did you ever have one of those frustrating moments when technology isn’t working at the worse possible time?” she asks. “I spent an hour filling out all the online forms to register Madison for the gifted program. Wouldn’t you know when I click submit, an error window pops up. Guess I’ll have to go to the school myself and talk to the admins.”

Oh lady, please shut up.

“I think she’s going to be like my oldest son,” the braggart goes on, “he’s a senior in high school, he’s ranked second in his class and he’s captain of the tennis team. He’ll be going to Baylor on a full scholarship.”

“Oh,” I mutter, my responses becoming shorter and lower in volume.

“And my middle school son won the President’s Award for Educational Excellence. He won first place at the science fair for his work in superconductors. He’s ranked second in the state in chess for his age group. When he grows up, he wants to do research on the use of nanotechnology to treat cancer.”

I notice Luann’s eyes light up as she boorishly drones on.

“But Maddie will be the literary one in the family. She just wrote an essay criticizing the historical inaccuracy of Disney films. I mean, it’s appalling that kids watch movies like Pocahontas and believe it’s nonfiction.

Of course, I’m thinking. We can’t sully little Maddie’s brain by having her watch fantasy.

“Sounds like you have...um...interesting kids,” I offer. Luann catches none of my cynicism. The truth is I know much more about Madison than Luanne will ever realize. Maddie is a chronic bed wetter. I know this because I occasionally volunteer as a substitute school nurse when my schedule allows. Maddie has had a few accidents in class and is seeing a child psychologist. Let me be clear. I’m not ready to blame the parents without knowing all the details, but I do know that psychological stress is a common major factor in such cases. Given the high expectations her parents demand of her, I’m seeing red flags.

“Yes,” she says. “My husband and I have set standards. After all, he graduated at the top of his law school class. In college, he was Vice President of his college’s chapter of Phi Beta Kappa. Do you know what that is? That’s the most prestigious honor society in the world. It was started in 1776 at Harvard University...”

“I know all about Phi Beta Kappa,” I interrupted....”I’m a member.”

“Really,” Luann exclaims, looking at me for the first time with even the vaguest hint of interest.

“Yes,” I reply, “I was elected my senior year.”

“Oh,” she responds. “Well, that’s impressive. Very few students ever get chosen.”

“To be honest,” I explain, “I was shocked. PhiBK was never anything I thought about. It wasn’t one of my goals. My advisor put in my name and I got chosen. I really didn’t expect it.”

“Well,” the blonde mom asks, “I see you have some kind of medical book. Are you a doctor?”

“No.”

“Are you a research scientist?”

“No.”

She looks at me with an expression of anticipation, waiting for me to reveal my occupation, clearly enthused with the discovery that she is in the company of an elite individual.

“I’m a nurse.”

For a few seconds there’s an awkward silence. Her face is a mixture of confusion and quickly deflating enthusiasm for her waiting room mate. Finally, she spoke.

“Oh...well,...that’s interesting. I didn’t know Phi Beta Kappa took nursing majors.”

Here we go again with the “just a nurse” mentality. Translation: “If you’re so smart, why did you choose a career in something as menial as nursing?”

“I guess you’re right,” I answer. “PhiBK prefers liberal arts and science over professional degrees. But like I said, PhiBK was never my goal.”

“But, didn’t you want to do...more?”

How ignorant. I don’t owe this woman any explanation but I’ll try anyway.

“No, nursing is enough for me. In addition to my patient care, I’m a manager, I’m on faculty at the university where I teach nursing classes. I’ve written text book chapters and I’ve been involved in clinical research. It’s been a fulfilling career for me. Nursing gives me a sense of meaning and purpose....And that’s what I want for my kids...a life of purpose and meaning.”

She breathes out a half hearted “I see” before returning to the topic of her family’s greatness. “We push our kids to reach their full potential. They need to learn that it’s a competitive world. Second place isn’t good enough. We taught them to recite the quote from Vince Lombardi, ‘Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing.’ Most people are born to be followers. My kids were born to be leaders.”

This is getting infuriating. At what point does pushing your kids become child abuse? My first inclination is to ignore her but the compulsion to speak is now overwhelming.

“How do they learn life skills?” I asked. “How do they learn from their mistakes? In any competition, disappointment and failure are inevitable for everyone at some point. Don’t they need coping mechanisms. Don’t they need to learn healthy and gracious ways of accepting victory and defeat?”

“Not at all,” Luanne coldly answers. “Discussion of defeat is not permitted. In our trophy room, we keep a plaque with a quote by Knute Rockne, ‘Show me a good and gracious loser, and I’ll show you a failure.’”

I really don’t like this woman. But in a strange way, I’m curious. What drives her to dehumanize her kids? Usually, I found that parents who push their kids to be super competitive are dealing with their own unresolved issues. Their kids are stand-ins for their own unfulfilled dreams and desires. I decide to probe a bit.

“Luanne,” I ask sounding innocently, “we’re you competitive in the past? Was it in sports? Academics?”

“Yes,” the tall blonde answers. “I was a beauty queen once. I was second runner-up in the Miss Texas pageant. I should have won...That...bitch....cheated! Then she went on to win Miss USA. That should have been...ME! Her voice becomes low pitched, the eyebrows furrow, the jaw clenches. Clearly, this is a sensitive issue with her so I change the topic.

“Did you go to college.”

The jaw clenches even more. The voice is barely audible; her look of distress becomes obvious.

“I had a scholarship to Rice University...,”she starts.

“Very nice,” I respond.

“No...”, she replies. “I didn’t...finish....I...had....to...leave.” The face contorts into a look of sheer anguish. I now realize I walked into a land mine. Whatever pain in her life I tapped into, it was time to reverse course immediately.

“Luanne, it’s OK. We don’t need to talk about it,” I said. Meanwhile, I’m wondering. Did she have failing grades? Did she get pregnant? Was she thrown out for disciplinary reasons? But at this point, it’s clear this is a painful topic that needs to be dropped. Luanne’s face looks flushed, and she is trying to hold back her emotional distress over her aborted college career. “So what do you like to do in your free time? Do you have hobbies?”

“Yes,” she answers. “I have hobbies.” She appears to be feeling hot as she peeled off her sweater. “Yes indeed, I have a hobby.”

As she pulls the sweater over her head, she reveals a blue T shirt underneath. To my shock, fastened to the chest of her T shirt is a shiny...catpin! I act ignorant.

“Tell me about your hobby, Luanne.”

“Well, I compete with other women.”

“What is it?” I ask. “Do you play card games?” Now I’m really acting dumb.

“No,” she answers. “I compete with other women in physical contests. My body against hers. My wits against hers. It’s primal combat. We continue until one of us surrenders, her spirit and will broken.”

“You mean a fight?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To prove myself. To prove I am the better woman. I especially like fighting other moms. I love the feeling of forcing them to submit. To hear them proclaim my superiority. To place my foot on their broken, blubbering bodies. I want everyone to know that my children’s mom conquered the others. I owe it to my children to prove myself over the other moms. When they are old enough to understand, I want my children to know that I lived by the same standard I set for them. That I was the reflection of perfection.”

I found myself feeling stirred. Something told me this wasn’t right. This woman’s emotional stability seems at least questionable. But her words seared through me like a challenge.

“So you’re a catfighter?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s your record?”

“7-0”

“OK, mine is 3-0.” I replied.

“What?” she asked in confusion as I slipped off my hoodie, exposing my own catpin fastened to my black T shirt.

“Well, what do you know,” I crowed. “Catpin...catpin. You know what this means.

“Yes,” Luanne answered back. “Let’s settle this. But where?”

For a minute, we discussed logistics. We both had plans the rest of the day. Our girls would be finished with dance class in 45 minutes. We considered outside around the back of the dance school but that area was exposed to traffic. Surely, our fight would be broken up. We both pulled out our date books to select a future day and time.

An office door opens off from the waiting room. “Uh, oh,” says a voice. “Looks like we have ourselves a catfight.”

It was Bernice, the owner of the dance school. Bernice is a former professional ballerina. Now in her early forties, her compact 5’3” 110 lb. body was tightly solid with undoubtedly powerful legs and core. Dressed in tights and leotards, her black hair up in a bun, away from her delicate features, Bernice chortles, “Good thing I don’t have my catpin today or I’d have to take on both of you, one at a time. Despite Bernices small frame, I’m not sure I’d be so quick to take her on.

“Here’s the deal, ladies,” Bernice proposes. “I have an empty studio you can use to settle your differences. There will be privacy. You both have daughters to pick up in 45 minutes. Since I’m the host, I’m imposing a 30 minute time limit. Since you need to be presentable to your girls, no closed fist punching, kicking and no scratching to the face. I suggest a topless blue jeans fight in bare feet. Any items in the room may come into play. Fight to a submission. I will record the fight and declare the winner. If no submission in 30 minutes, the fight is a draw. After the fight, please get yourselves together to pick up your daughters. Luanne, do you agree to these terms?”

“Yes,” answers the blonde mom.

“Kiva, do you agree to these terms?” Bernice asks.

I wasn’t thrilled with giving up my best weapon of the right hand punch, but I figured I could slap her into next week.

“I accept”

“Very good,” said the former ballerina. “Ladies, come this way.” The petite but tough looking dancer took us down a short hallway as she fumbled for her keys, finally unlocking a thick door.
“Here we are,” she said as she lead us into a sprawling empty studio. “1000 square feet for you to rumble,” she informed.

The room was certainly large. One entire wall was taken up by a glassless mirror. On the opposite side was a long grounded balancing barre with two suspended horizontal beams set to 3 feet and 4.5 feet off the ground. The wall on the same side contained embedded hooks to be used as pulleys for leg stretching exercises. The floor was covered with a soft vinyl surface instead of traditional hardwood. Scattered over the floor were several rubber elastic bands for stretching exercises.

Bernice positioned Luanne and me about ten feet apart. “Ladies,” she ordered, please remove your footwear and I will take them to the side. I quickly peeled off my Nike sneakers and athletic socks as my opponent carefully wriggled off her beautiful, I presumed hand crafted boots with their intricate engraving of eagle’s wings. I liked how my bare feet gripped the vinyl floor. Slippage would not be a problem.

“Now, I need you two to remove your shirts and bras and hand them over,” our hostess orders.

We were already out of my hoodie and her sweater. We both pull off out T shirts and look at each other for a moment. My bra is a simple white underwire Maidenform purchased at Target’s while Luanne is wearing a black half padded lingerie bra. We both reach around our backs to undo the hooks, then pulling our bras overhead, as our bare breasts spill out. We dutifully give the garments to Bernice who places them on a chair to the side.

“May I suggest some stakes?” The school owner asks. “The winner gets free tuition for her daughter for one year. And the loser’s bra will be handed over to the winner.” Neither one of us object.

With both of us topless, the eyeing process and posturing really heats up. With our hands on our hips, we stare at each other intently. For the first time, I’m facing a larger opponent, giving away two inches and 10-15 lbs. Luanne’s breasts are bigger at 35D to my 34C. Her nipples are larger. Our blue jeans are high at the waist, the belt lines just below our belly buttons. Luanne is wearing western style Wrangler’s compared to my Ralph Lauren designer jeans. My finger and toenail polish is deep red in contrasts to the blonde’s pink..

We approach each other for a stare down. We roll back our shoulders. My opponent clearly wants to assert her larger breasts as she positions herself to touch her nipples to mine.

“Another mediocre mom who needs to be put in her place,” she snarls.

“Stop living your life through your kids,” I shoot back. She looks at me like she wants to take my head off. Bernice repositions back to a ten foot distance from each other.

“Ready Ladies,” she instructs....”FIGHT!”

We rush at each other with are hands up high in a neutral wrestling position. We grab on to each others’ arms, grappling, pushing and pulling, trying to send each other off balance. Our feet dance around on the vinyl floor, struggling for position in which to launch an attack. I sense we’re instinctively trying to protect our breasts as are hands maintain their grips on each other’s arms. Finally, Luanne, with a hard jerk of my left arm, gains the advantage and swings me around before letting go. I stagger several yards but stay upright.

I have little time to react as the perfect mom comes charging. With her focus on tits and upper body, I suspect she wants a bear hug. I was right. As she wraps her arms around me, I keep my arms tucked to my side and hold her around the waist. For a few moments, we squeeze and grunt and push into each other. Finally, Luanne achieved one of her goals; she positions her chest against mine. Our boobs flatten out against each other but Luanne’s size and strength advantage take effect. She manages to lift me up to my toes, and powers forward, driving her legs and shoulders while continuing to press her breasts into mine. I’m helplessly driven backward until my back crashes into the wall.

She continues to press me against the wall as I release my grip from around her waist and try to slap the back of her head and shoulders. She backs off slightly, just enough to fire her knee into my abdomen, causing me to gasp and bend over. I know another one is coming so ai raise up my own knee to block. I grab her ponytail behind her head and she manages to do the same to me.

Luanne’s strength advantage allows her to forcefully yank me away from the wall, although I maintain my grip on her hair. We pull each other’s ponytail and slap with our free hands to the head and body, yelling and shrieking as we spin around each other.

“Keep the noise, down, ladies,” Bernice warns. “Kids are in the next room.”

Again, Luanne’s size advantage allows her to take control as her slaps and hair pulls have me reeling. She lets go of my hair, as I stumble out of control. Seeing her opportunity, the former second runner up to Miss Texas dives at my legs, taking me down.

I find myself on the floor. Instinctively, I roll onto my belly to cover up as I know she will pounce.  Sure enough, I feel a knee on the middle of my back. My head is forced back as she again pulls my ponytail. In front of me is the mirrored wall. Her hands shift from my hair to my chin as she pulls back into a chin lock, her knee wedged between my shoulder blades. In the mirror, I see my face is red, twisted into an expression of agony. I see Luanne’s look of sadistic arrogance.

“Not very smart, Phi Beta Kappa,” she taunts. “You’re very lucky, bitch. My opponent’s usually don’t get the privilege of witnessing their own suffering. You’re getting to watch the work of a master.”

On the other side of the wall, I hear the sound of little feet marching to the gentle melody of “Put on a Happy Face.” I try to stiffen my neck as pain shoots through my upper spine. Finally, I feel the tension break as Luanne releases my chin, letting my face fall to the floor. The relief, however, is very short lived. I feel a pair of arms snake beneath my armpits, the hands interlocking behind my head, grinding my forehead to the vinyl floor. Realizing, I’m trapped in a full nelson, I flap my arms uselessly.

“You’re so smart,” Luanne jeers. “Figure your way out of this one.” With her legs straddling my sides, the mom with perfect kids stands up, pulling me up to my knees, holding on to the full nelson. Swinging my head and arms side to side, she pulls me to my feet. “Stand up,” she barks.

My chin forced into my upper breast bone, I see my tits dangling toward the floor as she walks me back several yards toward the balance barre. I see my bare feet at the end of my blue jeans trying to gain traction. Again, she swings me back and forth, finally flinging me off as I go stumbling off balance. I have no time to recover as she quickly goes on the attack, pushing my head down and locking in a front face lock. The familiar pain shoots through the back of my neck. I realize we are standing at the end of the barre. Luanne positions me over the upper bar, doubling me over, pressing my boobs into the upper bar. She releases the face lock, and lies across my back, dropping down with all her weight, crushing my breasts against the wooden beam. I let out a shriek as she holds me there for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, the tormentor takes her weight off my back and fired off a slap, sending me reeling. Off balance, I have no time to react as she  rushes at my legs, sending me to the floor in a double leg tackle. I twist on to my belly, then push myself up to my knees, when Luanne, from behind, yanks my ponytail back with one hand and twists my right arm behind my back with the other. Once again, I’m facing my distressed image in the wall mirror. My reddened breasts bear the indentation from the balance beam pressed into them.

“Look at you,” Luanne growls, “that’s what mediocrity looks like. A complete waste of a Phi Beta Kappa spot. And teaching your kids to accept mediocrity...Disgraceful!...You’re going to learn what excellence is all about!”

She forces my head forward, driving me back onto my belly as she straddles my back. I cover my head with my arms, and for a brief moment, Luanne has removed herself from my back. I hear the muffled music and children’s voices behind the wall singing, “The Wheels on the Bus.”
I don’t know my opponent’s position. Instinctively, I know I should roll away. But then, I hear a vicious shriek. I feel a slapping, stinging strike to the middle of my back. I hear the loud ominous cracking sound, as if from a whip. Stunned, I try to move away, but I am struck again. The primal scream, the loud snap, the whipping of flesh. The nerve endings of my back are being seared. I force myself to roll over. I knew it.

Luanne stands over me, her right arm raised. In her hand is a blue soft rubber stretch exercise band. In an instance, the weapon comes down slapping, stinging, scourging my belly.

“Oooh Yeah,” she bellows. The cxnt horse whips me again as I try to block the strikes with my arms. As she continues the assault, red welts appear on my belly, back and arms. Finally, I roll away, as the crazed mom chases, lashing at me with the band. Between loud “thwaps” of rubber striking the floor, my flesh, or both, I move toward an adjacent wall.

On my belly, I feel the taller blonde pounce on my back as we wrestle on the floor. I manage to buck her off but she has a superior position, grabbing my legs and turning me on my back. Trapped against the wall, she folds me up into a near matchbook pin. She tucks both my feet under her armpit and reaches around to her back pocket. I didn’t realize her plan until it was too apparent. In a flash, Luanne winds the stretch band around my ankles, tying my feet together. I squirm and kick but the bitch has my legs immobilized as my back is on the floor with my head and shoulders pressed against the wall. I realize I’m helpless. Next, she pulls out a second band and loops it through the band tying up my ankles, finally stretching it to the wall, looping the band onto a wall hook used for stretching.

With my feet up in the air and tethered to the wall, Luanne takes advantage and resumes her whipping. Using my arms to protect my boobs and head, the flogging manages to create more welts on my belly and shoulders. Twice I manages to grasp on to her ankles before she manages to kick away. I realize if I pull my legs as hard as possible away from the hook, the stretching of the band creates more slack. I now feel the hook attachment loosening. As Luanne continues her flagellation, I focus all my effort to raising my hips as high as possible, straightening my legs, and pulling up my ankles until....finally, the loop of rubber band lifts off the hook. I allow my legs to drop to the floor, my feet are still tied together.

I know Luanne is again on the attack, so I roll across the floor as she pursues, whip in hand. I take several more lashings until I roll hard directly into her legs, wrapping my arms around her ankles and tripping her to the floor. Again, we grapple across the vinyl. I’m at a huge disadvantage with my feet tied so I go all out pulling hair, scratching arms, clawing tits. She tries to do the same as we are wailing like wildcats. Finally, on my back, I kick Luanne in the crotch with my bound feet, doubling her over, buying myself a few seconds. Quickly, I manage to untie the stretch band from my ankles, and for the first time in what seems like a very long time, I stand.

“You fucking bitch,” Luanne growls as she straightens her self up. Our eyes glaring, our teeth clenched, our claws out, we lunge at each other. The fight is now a whirlwind of slapping hands, hair pulling, and tit grabbing. The pretense of trying to keep our voices down is gone as we both let out shrieks trying to inflict pain on each other. Finally, with a chance to use my right hand, I fire a slap to Luanne’s face that nearly turns her head around. A second roundhouse misses and just like that, Luanne grabs my right arms and folds my wrist back into a wrist lock, taking away my best weapon.

Grunting and groaning, my left hand finds Luanne’s ponytail and I pull until she releases my right hand. She returns the favor, pulling my hair as we yank and spin each around, finally losing our balance and tumbling to the floor.

Luanne scrambles on top of me. I feel my arms stretched over my head and pinned to the floor. I feel a long pair of blue jean clad legs snake around my own, stretching my limbs. I now realize I’m grapevined. I can barely move. The pull on my muscles hurt but I try not to show it. I resist the best I can.

“Give up?” Luanne asks. “You’re trapped like a rat.”

“No,” I respond. If this were a pin wrestling match, I would have lost. I know Luanne could hold me here for a long time and win a war of attrition as I could only lie here for so long stiff and sore. I continue to resist.

“Fine,” she says. “I guess I just have to finish you off more forcefully. She slaps me across the face before releasing the grapevine and standing on her feet. She turns to retrieve her whip on the floor.

I quickly turn over and pull myself to my knees. This time, I’m not rolling away. That approach would assure a matter of time before I lose. This time, I’m fighting back.

As Luanne approached me snapping her rubber band, I charged her low, backing her up against the wall. With my arms around her knees, I lifted her off her feet, her back pressed against the dry wall. With her draped over my shoulder, I felt her slapping and scratching by back. Holding on to her legs, and holding her like a sack, I turned her away from the wall. With squirming and hitting combined with her weight advantage, I could not maintain control. I stumbled and staggered as I tried to carry my opponent. Finally, I pitched forward, unintentionally slamming Luanne’s back into the upper wood beam of the balancing barre, splintering the bar in half as we crashed to the floor.

Both of us stunned, I get to my knees, as Luanne lies on her belly. Her back has several abrasions from the broken beam. She tries to roll but I stop her and mount her. Pulling her arms behind her back as I scoop up a nearby band.

In just a few seconds, I have my opponent’s hands wrapped and tied. Next I looped the other end of the band around the metal post of the balancing barre. Using a technique from nursing, I applied a quick release knot, used to subdue violent patients. The beauty of a quick release knot is that it tightens as the patient resists but a nurse can release it with a gentle tug.

“You bitch,” Luanne snarls. She is on her knees but unable to stand as her hands are tied behind her. Her tits are helplessly exposed. I stretch the rubber band like a sling shot and release it as the rubber snaps Luanne’s left tit, causing her to squeal. I repeat the procedure on the right breasts as tears begin to roll down her cheeks.

“Give up Luanne. It’s over,” I advise her.

“Fuck you, loser,” she shoots back.

I need to end this quickly. I knelt on the floor, positioning myself behind Luanne. Turning my red painted fingernails into talons, I dug into her breasts, drilling my index fingers into her nipples.

“Stop, I give up,” she screams. “Please stop.”

I slowly rise to my feet and stretch. I’m covered with welts and red marks from my waist to my shoulders. Luanne is sobbing tied to the barre post. I can’t resist a parting taunt.

“Someday,” I tell her matter-of-factly, “you can tell your children how you got beat by an underachieving nurse....And one other thing,” I added....”Tell Knute Rockne he can go fuck himself.”

Bernice raises my hand and presents me with Luanne’s bra. “Good fight, girls,” she says. “Now get yourselves together. Your girls will be out soon.” I hear the muffled little voices singing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” next door.

I go to untie Luanne, when I’m startled by her loud uncontrollable crying.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she bleats out. “I’m sorry I lost. I’m sorry I failed. Oh Daddy, I’m so sorry.”

I quickly release her binds. I’m unsettled by the eerie display. “Luanne, get yourself together. For your daughter,” I urge her.

“I’ll take her,” Bernice offers, as she helps Luanne to her feet and leads her to a bathroom.

Alone, I feel creeped out. Maybe someday, I’ll learn Luanne’s full backstory and why she left Rice University. Maybe someday it’ll be easy to see how she pushes ridiculous expectations on her kids. Right now, I just feel the resolve to be the best parent I can be.

I won’t be fighting or wearing a bra anytime soon as I have healing to go through. I stuffed Luanne’s bra and my own into the front pocket of the hoodie. I grab a drink of water and try to look presentable. Parents are gathering in the waiting room as the class is ready to let out. To my surprise, Luanne is among us without any visible signs of distress.

The door opens as the little ones file out. I see my angel holding hands with another little girl.

“Mommy, this is Madison. She’s my friend.”

“Mommy, this is my friend, Clarissa,” the other little girl tells Luanne. “Can we have a play date?”

“That would be so cool,” my daughter beams excitedly.”

“Yes,” added Madison. “We could get our two moms together.”

It’s been a few days, and my sore boobs and flogged skin are healing. My daughter’s report card came online today through the parent’s portal. The school uses a standards based system that measures level of proficiency for various components of learning for a given subject. I read Clarissa’s report card with her. Language Arts - Advanced Proficiency, Science - Advanced Proficiency, Social Studies - Advanced Proficiency, Mathematics - Limited Proficiency.

“Let’s talk about Math,” I said. Clarissa looks at me with large sad blue eyes.

“Are you mad, Mommy,” she asks.

“No, I’m not mad,” I whisper as I hug her.....“It just means we have a lot to improve on next time.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on January 04, 2021, 10:03:31 AM

That was GOOD! ( I hear the sound of little feet marching to the gentle melody of “Put on a Happy Face.” LOL)
Dahlia Daggerheart yesterday; Kiva today. I'm taking a distinct liking to 2021.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Maturecatluvr on January 04, 2021, 11:10:10 AM

Really loved the rules AND the whipping!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on January 04, 2021, 12:00:52 PM

Quote from: Maturecatluvr on January 04, 2021, 11:10:10 AM

Really loved the rules AND the whipping!

Except it's the wrong person getting whipped  :o  The little trick at the end though, with the elastic bands, was even better.  :)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Texaskid on January 04, 2021, 04:29:29 PM

Hope Luanne is not one and done. Lot of layers to her

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on January 05, 2021, 01:13:52 AM

Quote from: Texaskid on January 04, 2021, 04:29:29 PM

Hope Luanne is not one and done. Lot of layers to her

Thanks. I agree. I think there’s a lot to explore with Luanne. She’d be great for further character development. The ending leaves the door wide open for her to return. She could go well in a number of different directions - including a face turn.  :)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Texaskid on January 05, 2021, 01:45:28 AM

afters years of psycho therapy and boat load of meds

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on January 06, 2021, 07:54:30 PM

Fantastic chapter. Luann is an interesting and complicated character- like a real person! The rules and the fight were great as was a lot of the multiple motivations for the fight... and the ballet studio owner getting in on it was fun as well. Definitely interested to see what trouble Kiva gets into next.... and to see if Luanna makes any more appearances.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on January 08, 2021, 02:34:31 PM

https://www.instagram.com/p/CJvyI9fMSfO/
"Is the jab safe, do you think, Tibs?" he asked me.
"Of course!" I told him. "Kiva had hers weeks ago."
"Has she fought since?" he asked. "I think I'll wait and see how she gets on first."
He didn't even wait for Luanne to submit, Kiva! You'd no sooner tied her hands and looped the other end of the band round the metal post than he was on the phone to the hospital to make an appointment.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on January 08, 2021, 02:57:39 PM

BTW "Great fight!" he told me to tell you.
(He'd tell you himself, only he's just left the building)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on January 08, 2021, 07:44:33 PM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on January 08, 2021, 02:34:31 PM

https://www.instagram.com/p/CJvyI9fMSfO/
"Is the jab safe, do you think, Tibs?" he asked me.
"Of course!" I told him. "Kiva had hers weeks ago."
"Has she fought since?" he asked. "I think I'll wait and see how she gets on first."
He didn't even wait for Luanne to submit, Kiva! You'd no sooner tied her hands and looped the other end of the band round the metal post than he was on the phone to the hospital to make an appointment.

Very nice! I receive my second dose on Saturday.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on January 08, 2021, 09:21:39 PM

Quote from: Kiva on January 08, 2021, 07:44:33 PM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on January 08, 2021, 02:34:31 PM

https://www.instagram.com/p/CJvyI9fMSfO/
"Is the jab safe, do you think, Tibs?" he asked me.
"Of course!" I told him. "Kiva had hers weeks ago."
"Has she fought since?" he asked. "I think I'll wait and see how she gets on first."
He didn't even wait for Luanne to submit, Kiva! You'd no sooner tied her hands and looped the other end of the band round the metal post than he was on the phone to the hospital to make an appointment.

Very nice! I receive my second dose on Saturday.

Great news! We can't afford to lose Kiva. It would be like losing Shakespeare, Cervantes and Tolstoy all on the same day. Not to mention Gezary Matuda, Alejandra Lara and Ariane Lipski…  Maria Callas, Jessye Norman and Jenny Lind… Pallas Athene, Aphrodite and … In short: a catastrophe!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on January 08, 2021, 09:45:54 PM

Quote from: Kiva on January 08, 2021, 07:44:33 PM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on January 08, 2021, 02:34:31 PM

https://www.instagram.com/p/CJvyI9fMSfO/
"Is the jab safe, do you think, Tibs?" he asked me.
"Of course!" I told him. "Kiva had hers weeks ago."
"Has she fought since?" he asked. "I think I'll wait and see how she gets on first."
He didn't even wait for Luanne to submit, Kiva! You'd no sooner tied her hands and looped the other end of the band round the metal post than he was on the phone to the hospital to make an appointment.

Very nice! I receive my second dose on Saturday.

When you think: she took down an opponent 2 inches taller and 10-15 pounds heavier after her first dose, she's going to be taking down giraffes, rhinos and killer whales after her second!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on January 08, 2021, 09:56:44 PM

Quote from: h_k on January 08, 2021, 09:45:54 PM

Quote from: Kiva on January 08, 2021, 07:44:33 PM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on January 08, 2021, 02:34:31 PM

https://www.instagram.com/p/CJvyI9fMSfO/
"Is the jab safe, do you think, Tibs?" he asked me.
"Of course!" I told him. "Kiva had hers weeks ago."
"Has she fought since?" he asked. "I think I'll wait and see how she gets on first."
He didn't even wait for Luanne to submit, Kiva! You'd no sooner tied her hands and looped the other end of the band round the metal post than he was on the phone to the hospital to make an appointment.

Very nice! I receive my second dose on Saturday.

When you think: she took down an opponent 2 inches taller and 10-15 pounds heavier after her first dose, she's going to be taking down giraffes, rhinos and killer whales after her second!

Just as well there isn't a third dose: there'd be black holes wetting themselves!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on January 09, 2021, 02:43:42 AM

Thanks guys. That’s very sweet of you.  :)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on January 12, 2021, 08:25:50 AM

Haven't decided yet what to do with Luanne's bra?
I think I have the answer: In Finland, instead of snowmen, they build snowmoomins. (They really do, I've been researching this).
https://twitter.com/davidmacdougall/status/1348880860305645568?s=20
Now look at that moomin jaw. That remind you of anything? Here's my idea: Get a shovel, take all that Texan snow piled up in your backyard and build two snowmoomins, side by side, Mister and Missus, and you can use Luanne's bra as a double face mask. Ingenious, eh? Waste not, want not. And if Luanne turns out to have a sister who's as mouthy (and busty) as she is, rinse and repeat.
You could even use this as a way of helping Clarissa with her maths. "If Mummy fights 2 mouthy mums a week for 3 weeks, how many snowmoomins will she need".
Answer: 2 x 3 x 2 = 12
OK, so that's not Fields Medal stuff, but a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on January 12, 2021, 09:10:05 AM

I was going to suggest teaching Clarissa to count on her fingers. Admittedly, that will only get her to 10, but in a state that elected Ted Cruz, wouldn't that make her an intellectual?
https://www.thepoke.co.uk/2020/12/14/ted-cruz-trolled-the-whole-of-canada-epic-self-own/

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on January 12, 2021, 09:35:41 AM

Er, and who elected Boris Johnson?

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on January 12, 2021, 09:48:45 AM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on January 12, 2021, 09:35:41 AM

Er, and who elected Boris Johnson?

Point taken. No state has a monopoly on stupidity.
But getting back to the bras. And Kelli has a collection of panties too. What are you girls doing with them? It may seem a mite pervy, but these are the kind of details for which even the most dispassionate reader is bound to feel considerable, if not avid, curiosity.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on February 02, 2021, 01:34:18 AM

Chapter 6: Life With Kiva (Part 1 of 2)

When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so fuckin' special
But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here
-Radiohead


For some reason, I have a bad feeling about Mr. Clayton in bed 12. He was admitted with chest pain but so far his tests are coming back normal. The EKG shows no worrisome changes. Serum troponin levels are undetectable. Vital signs are fine. But something feels foreboding. His primary nurse, Jennifer, feels the same way. Some say experienced nurses develop a “sixth sense” when something is about to go wrong. Maybe we’re just sensitive to subtle cues we don’t fully understand.

Otherwise, it’s a rather slow day in the ICU. Today, I’m wearing my supervisor hat. I don’t have any patients of my own. I’m here to help my nurses and keep the unit running on track. In bed 10, a respiratory therapist administers Duonebs to a patient with COPD. The woman in bed 9 wants a sleeping pill. The man in bed 8 is on a mechanical ventilator.  And at the nurses station, Frank, the hunky senior resident, is hitting on one of our new young nurses. I’m having none of it. Not on my unit. Time to break it up.

“Jaycie, go into bed 11 and help Katherine reposition Mrs. Miller,” I order.

“Yes, ma’am,” the fresh faced nurse answers before dutifully heading to the room.

“And you,” I turn toward Frank, “don’t you have work to do?”

At 6’1” and possessing a ripped body, Frank cuts quite a figure. The broad shoulders and wide chest taper into a flat waist and tight butt. Okay, I’ll admit it. He has a cute butt. His face, though, is the stuff of fantasy. The dark complexion, high cheekbones, short black curly hair, small trimmed mustache and killer smile all have a dreamy quality. He’s rumored to be a ladies man constantly on the prowl. I can see why women get seduced by this guy.

“Yeah, I got plenty of work,” he answers. “But first, I want to say what a privilege it is to be on the same shift as the renowned Kiva.” The gentle eyes dance all over me. “I heard a lot of good things about you and always hoped I’d work with you. Well, today, I get my wish. And who knows? Maybe we’ll learn a thing or two about each other,” he tells me in his best suave voice as he looks at me like he sees my soul.

I give him a faint smile as I resume rounding on my unit. What he will learn about me is that I’m all business in the ICU. Friends sometimes ask if guys often hit on me at work. The answer is rarely. First, most guys know I’m married. Secondly, I learned the art of being collegial while working like a machine. A woman who comes across as smart and self assured can be intimidating. Casanovas like Frank will cautiously approach and flirt around the periphery until they realize that’s as far as they get. I resume work.

“Mr. Clayton?” I hear Jennifer scream in from the bed 12 room. “Mr Clayton....MR. CLAYTON!...Call a code...CODE BLUE ROOM 12!

I hurry to the room to see Jennifer checking the pulse of the unconscious 65 year old patient.

“Jennifer, what do you have,” I ask with a sense of urgency.

“He went out suddenly,” the nurse explains. “No pulse. Monitor is showing V Tach.”

“Code blue has been called,” I inform. “Let’s start CPR.”

I position my hands on the patient’s sternum as Jennifer hastily prepares the air bag and mask. I begin my compressions pushing down at least two inches on the breast bone before letting it recoil at a rate of 100 compressions per minute. Jennifer tilts the head, seals the mask over the mouth and nose before squeezing the oxygen bag.

Within a minute, the code team arrives, one scrub clad body after another storming into the room. The hallway has become a chaotic scene as onlookers gather.

“Bring the crash cart in here...and the defibrillator,” I scream. “Serena, get a second IV started.” By now the room has become cramped. I order Katrina, a large strong nurse to relieve me working chest compressions. From among the small crowd, Frank emerges.

“I’m the code leader,” he asserts. “V tach and no pulse. Prepare to shock.”

Another nurse carries the defibrillator forward. The limp body rises and falls with Katrina’s brisk compressions as I place the defibrillator pads on the appropriate places on the chest.

“Stop chest compressions,” Frank barks. “Everybody stand back...Is everybody clear?...Charge...and...SHOCK.” Clayton’s body jerks upward with the electrical jolt. “Check the rhythm,” Frank instructs. “Ventricular fibrillation ....Resume CPR.”

By this time, the pulmonologist arrived on the scene to intubate. As the plastic tube is being inserted into the patient’s airway, I decide to clean house and establish some order.

“Maria, after the intubation, you and Jennifer work the oxygen, Katrina and Heather will alternate chest compressions. I’ll get two more nurses to replace you after ten minutes. Sarah, you will handle the medications. Caitlyn, you’re the log recorder. For now, everyone else please leave the room and wait outside. I’ll tell you when I need you.”

The intubation completed, Frank orders another defibrillation with no effect. Chest compressions  are resumed. Epinephrine is given by vein followed by another defibrillation and then...

“Sinus rhythm...normal sinus rhythm,” someone exclaims.

“Do we have a pulse?” Frank asks.

“Yes,” Katrina answers. Blood pressure is 80 systolic.

“Let’s start an norepinephrine drip,” our handsome code leader orders. “And prepare amiodarone and call Cardiology.”

Eventually we reach a modicum of some stability, however, the situation remains tenuous. The blood pressure and pulse are acceptable but not without powerful vasoconstrictive drugs. Mr. Clayton remains sedated on a ventilator. An emergency echocardiogram was performed. Suspected of having a myocardial infarction, the patient is taken to the cardiac catheterization lab for an emergency procedure. With Clayton temporarily out of our ICU, we collectively catch our breath but are far from finished. There is documentation to complete, a family to notify, a room to clean. Several workers chat briefly at the nurses station trying to unwind before taking on the next challenge. From behind, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“You are impressive,” Frank croons. “The way you handled yourself in there. I never saw anyone keep a code that organized before. I mean it. You live up to your reputation. I mean...you are the best.” I keep on my poker face.

“And I was wondering,” he continues. “A group of us are going to meet at Doc Watson’s Pub after work...and...we’d be thrilled and honored if you’d join us. And...maybe you and I could chat a little bit and....maybe get to know each other a little.”

Not a bad kinda sorta come on, I thought. A group outing. It’s a low risk, high yield move for him and he’s hoping it will lead to something more.

“Thanks,” I tell him, my voice low and flat. “But I’ll be here late doing paperwork. Then, I need to get home to my husband and daughter.”

“OK,” he responds, “It was great working with you and I hope we can talk again soon. I meant every word I said. You make life better for everyone around here. Yes ma’am, ‘Life With Kiva’. Sounds like a novel. Perhaps you and I can write it some day.” He flashes me that killer smile as he turns to leave. From behind me, I hear Sarah chuckling.

“You shot down Frank, Kiva?...Nice job,” she giggles. “Kiva sends another plane down in smoke. Not many women say no to Frank.”

“Oh shut up,” I tease back. “The nerve of that guy. He must know I’m married.”

“Oh, Frank doesn’t care,” Sarah laughs. “I know at least two married women who slept with him.” I notice her glancing to the side as we spoke. “Don’t look now, girl, but it looks like you got another boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Over there,” she grins motioning her eyes toward the opposite end of the nursing station.

I turned my head in that direction to see a young man sitting at computer behind the counter. Short and slightly built, the fair skinned face was pointed in my direction. I noticed the very light blond hair and pale blue eyes behind gold metal framed glasses. What immediately disturbed me was that the eyes were fixed on me with a gaze of someone who has been transported to a fantasy world. The man, who appeared no older than his mid-twenties, obviously lacked awareness. My eyes met his briefly before turning back toward Sarah.

“Look how he’s looking at you,” Sarah giggled. “He looks like Al Pacino in The Godfather when he was hit by the “thunderbolt” by looking at the Sicilian girl,” suggested my friend, who has seen every movie ever made. “Damn, Kiva, you’re drawing them in like flies to a horse’s behind.”

“How do you know he isn’t staring at you,” I asked.

“Because he’s been tracking you for the last fifteen minutes.”

“This is creepy,” I complained. “Who is he?”

“His name is Carl Wankum,” she said, trying hard not to laugh. “He works in IT. He came up here to fix a computer.”

“Seriously?...That’s his name?” I sighed.

“Yep.”

“Well, just as long as he fixes the computer and gets out of here ASAP.”

I resume my activity on the unit, backing up my nurses, preparing for Mr. Clayton’s return from the cath lab, which I knew would take up a lot of resources. Occasionally, I glance at the young man at the computer and each time, I catch him gazing at me. Finally, I head back to the manager’s office to catch some time alone and finish some administrative tasks.

I shut the door, sit at my desk, sip coffee at let my mind wander for a minute to unwind. It’s been two weeks since my fight with Luanne, and only now are my boobs beginning to feel normal again. I still feel haunted by Luanne’s strange meltdown after the fight and I wonder about her backstory. Maybe I’ll get my chance. I was surprised when Luanne called me a few days ago. She got my number from the school’s parent directory. She called to invite Clarissa to her home to play with her daughter Madison. I will allow it. Luanne even suggested we share a carpool driving our daughters to dance school on Saturdays. I accepted it since it would help ease the burden of our hectic schedules. We were cordial with each other but oddly, neither of us said anything about the fight, as if it never happened.

I think of Kelli’s upcoming championship cage fight at Billy’s. I know she can’t wait to get her hands on Jolene. After what I witnessed and experienced with Jolene, I hope Kelli beats the crud out of her. As for my next fight, I have no idea what’s next.

My thoughts are interrupted by a gentle tap on the door. As I open, I immediately feel a chill down my spine to find myself face to face with the nerdy guy who’s been staring at me out on the unit. Oh no, he found me, was my first thought. At about five foot, five inches with a wiry body, dressed in brown trousers and a yellow collared shirt without a tie, he first stammers, then proceeds to speak.

“Um...Uh...are you...uh...Kiva?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh...um...Hi.” The pale skin flushes red in the face. His body becomes tense as the shoulders droop. “I’m Carl from IT.” He pauses. “I just, um, finished replacing hardware on one of your computers....And, uh, I need you to sign off on the work order.” The palms of his hands are sweaty as he hands me a paper.

He is obviously intimidated and clearly unaccustomed to being in the presence of women. I’ve attracted guys like this before. I’d much rather deal with guys like Frank who are socially savvy enough to read an uninterested woman’s cues and bail out before embarrassing themselves. Inexperienced geeks like Carl, on the other hand, can make for very uncomfortable situations. I sign the form and return it to my wannabe paramour.

“Thanks,” he says. He stands still on my office for several seconds.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Um...um...” I notice sweat stains from his armpits on his shirt. “Uh,...do you think, uh, you and I...could get together some time and....uh.”

“And what?” I ask as his eyes drop to the floor.

“Uh...Oh, man, I forgot what I was going to say....Well,...Bye.”

“Goodbye sir,” I reply. “Thanks for fixing our computer.” I lead him toward the door as he nearly stumbles over his own feet. Hope I don’t see this guy often, I think to myself.

No such luck. I see Carl make several appearances on our ICU over the next week. Each time, he was fooling with some equipment, and yes, he couldn’t stop looking my way.

“Carl,” I said gruffly, “Why are you here?”

“Oh, um, we’re taking inventory on computers and electronic communication devices.”

“For a week? Look, this is an ICU. If you don’t have official business, you don’t belong here. If I see you here again, I’ll find out from your supervisor if you’re telling the truth.”

“Uh..uh..um..,” he stutters as his hands tremble. “No ma’am, that won’t be necessary. I’m leaving,” he says in his nasal voice before lurching down the hallway, out the double door and out of the unit. I head back to my office.

My Carl-free time would not last long. The administrative assistant booked a 1:00 pm appointment for a person named “Claire” to see me. I leave the door open and wait.

“Are you Kiva?,” In the doorway stands a petite woman, about 5’3” and thin with light brown hair in a bowl cut. The delicate face is accentuated by large brown framed glasses which seemed to magnify her eyes. Her tiny upturned nose and small round lips gave her a rather mousy appearance.” I answer her question in the affirmative.

“I’m Claire, I work in Social Services,” she answers in a high pitched familiar nasal voice.....”Claire Wankum.”

“Claire...Wankum?” I’m getting disoriented.

“Yes,” she answers. “I believe you met my brother Carl.”

“The guy from IT? Yes, he’s been up here, apparently to work on some computers. I met him briefly.”

“Well, I’m afraid it’s more than that,” she replies, the eyes behind the spectacles seem to be growing. I have a dreadful feeling that something very weird is about to happen.

“You see,” she continues, “Carl was offered a nice position with a high tech company in California. He has two weeks to accept it. At first he was very excited and even scouted out apartments near the company. But now, he seems to be changing his mind. I didn’t understand it. Last night, I had a long conversation with him. Finally, I got him to admit that he met a girl. He says he doesn’t want to leave her,...so,...he’d like to stay here and decline the job offer. Of course, I don’t agree with his decision. He wouldn’t tell me her identity. But then, I came across something. Then it became clear to me that the girl is ....you!

“Are you kidding me?” I shot back. “That’s ridiculous. I had two brief awkward conversations with your brother and that’s all there is to it.”

“That’s not how he sees it,” Claire responded. “He has very deep feelings toward you.”

“I’m afraid to inform you that you’re brother is fantasizing,” I shot back.

“And what is your role?” she asks. “What are you doing to lead him on?”

“What am I doing?” My voice getting louder, my tone becoming more angry. “Aside from the fact that I’m several years older than your brother and married with a child, look at me and look at him. Why on earth would a woman like me ever want anything to do with him?” I realize right away the arrogance of that statement. I never would have said it if I wasn’t provoked.

“Look Kiva,” Claire starts. “I realize Carl isn’t much to look at. He spends most of his spare time gaming on line and messing around with electronics. I’m sure you realize he’s shy and let’s face it, he can be awkward and nervous around women. He never dated and I’m quite sure he’s a virgin. In high school and college, good looking girls made sport of him. They faked flirting with him, getting him all worked up and turned him into a laughing stock.”

“And you think I did that to him?” I grumbled.

“Well, we all know how cruel women with your looks can be,” Claire answered. “Since high school, I’ve been in a lot of fights with mean girls. I know I don’t look like a fighter and I’ve taken a lot of beatings but I’m not afraid to stand up for my brother.”

“This is totally absurd,” I protested. “I think I’ve heard enough.” I was about to show her the door but then I recalled something she said at the beginning of our conversation. “Did you say you found something that indicated I was Carl’s girl.”

“Yes,” the petite social worker answers. “Carl came to my apartment yesterday to fix my laptop. He apparently transferred some of his own files onto my computer to work on. He moved the files back to his computer then deleted them from mine...except one he apparently forgot.”

Claire pulls a stack of papers from her bag, handing them to me. “Here, I printed it. Please read this. Carl has apparently been writing a novel.”

As soon as I glanced at the document, my eyes nearly jumped out of my head.

Life With Kiva
Chapter 1: We Meet

Chaos surrounds me in the ICU as I endeavor to service the computer. A patient’s heart stopped beating. There are doctors and nurses scurrying everywhere. Several are speaking at once. A man’s life is on the line. I peer into the room from the hallway. There she is, silhouetted against the window shade. She is a statuesque beacon in a torrent of confusion. Her long dark hair is tied up into a bun. Skillfully, she directs her nurses like a field general in battle. They all depend on her for guidance as she effortlessly organizes the attack. Her beauty and intelligence shine as all revolve around her like the sun. I learn that her name is Kiva.

Finally, the battle is over but she knows the war has yet to be won. She steps out into the hallway to regroup. A very foolish man approaches her, obviously smitten. The woman sends him away like a goddess deflecting a silly mere mortal. From my chair, I see her talking to another nurse. And then, she looks my way. Our eyes meet. Instantly, I know she has met her match. She resumes talking to her friend, but I am not fooled. Kiva tries to not make it look obvious but she cannot hide her desire. The diva looks at me again. And again. She tries to suppress her heart racing within her but she knows resistance is futile. Indeed, she cannot deny her destiny. I have hooked the biggest fish in the pond. Now It’s a matter of time before I reel her in. Kiva will be mine.

“What the FUCK?” I exclaimed trying to keep my voice down. “I can assure you this is NOT how it happened. Your brother is fantasizing.”

“And you did nothing to inspire it?” Claire spoke with a hint of interrogation. “Tell me the truth. Are you playing mind games with Carl?”

I look at her with contempt. “No. Fucking. Way,” I snarl.

“There’s  more,” she said coldly. “Keep reading.”

I flip through the printed pages, stopping at a random spot, horrified by what I see.

Chapter 4: The Encounter

The warm summer air is enchanting on this beautiful starlit night. Kiva holds my arm as we stroll along the promenade. As usual, she looks ravishing in her blue evening gown as she leans into my shoulder, her long flowing hair tickling my face as she turns to plant a kiss on my cheek.

“Carl, that was a lovely dinner,” she whispers, “I’m having such a wonderful time tonight. Thank you for bringing me here. I love this place.” We walk past store windows, bustling cafes, and art galleries, taking it all in, talking, laughing, and holding on to each other.

We both notice another couple walking toward us in the opposite direction. They are holding hands, but the woman is looking at me seductively. She is maybe an inch taller than Kiva. Her breasts are enormous, likely a 42G bra size. As we pass, her eyes give me an alluring look. Her tongue motions in a circular fashion to indicate her lustful desire for me. Kiva sees it.

“Hey bitch,” she shouts. “Don’t even think of looking at my man. He’s MINE.”

“Fuck you, bitch,” the other woman counters. “You’re jealous of my tits. I already have a man. I can have any man I want.” The women exchange words.

“Whore”

“Skank”

“Scum”

“Cxnt”

“I know,” Kiva exclaims, “let’s fight this out now to see who the better woman is. We can split the cost of a motel. And let’s fight nude so our men can see what a real woman looks like.”

“That’s fine with me, bitch,” growls Kiva’s rival. “And the real woman is going to be me when I destroy you with my tits.”

I’m getting nauseated. The story is so absurd, so cartoonish, and so....disgusting....And I’m the star of it. I flip a few more pages and force myself to read more.

After we push the furniture to the side, the men prepare their women. With Kiva standing in front of me, I unzip the back of her blue evening gown, gently sliding the shoulder straps down her arms, then slipping the gown to her feet, watching her step out of it. Next I pull down her hose leaving her bare legged. I give her a soft hug as my hands reach behind her back, unclamping the bra strap. I step back and watch her beautiful breasts spill forth as I remove the garment. Finally, my fingers guide the cotton covering of her womanhood down to her ankles as she dutifully lifts her feet allowing me to separate her from her panties. Totally nude, she falls into me for one last embrace before the battle, my one hand is on her upper back, the other on her lush derrière. Her nipples are fully erect and hard as steel. We kiss. She whispers in my ear, “I’m doing this for you, babe...my stud muffin.”

The women meet in the center of the room, nose to nose and chest to chest. Kiva looks to be outweighed by about thirty pounds. Her shapely orbs are dwarfed by the other woman’s massive mammaries. They stare at each other with disdain. Finally, they lock up, each woman seizing the other in a struggle for control. After a few seconds, Kiva is lifted off her feet and thrown to the floor.

“You got her, Daniella,” the other man shouts.

“Get up Kiva,” I plead.

“OH...MY...GOD! Okay, I am completely creeped out,” I tell Claire. You’re brother needs to get out of here. He needs to go to California. I don’t want to be anywhere near him. Never again!”

“He would be going to California if not for you,” she asserts.

“Oh, you think I encouraged this fantasy world of his?” I snap.

“Read some more,” she she says pointing to the papers. I flip over a few pages, my eyes fixing on a series of random passages.

Kiva has fought bravely, going toe to toe with the larger woman, but Daniella is too strong and too heavy. I know Kiva is weakening. Her movements are slower, her blows are sloppier. Her skin shines with sweat, her matted long dark brown hair, falls in tangles over her face and shoulders. I fear it is a matter of time before my angel’s demise............

.......Kiva’s arms are pinned down above her head as Daniella’s lies on top of her body. I see my baby squirm helplessly under Daniella’s weight, her poor tits crushed by the larger woman’s gigantic jugs. Her cute trimmed bush bobs up and down in futility with each bucking attempt.  Her eyes search for me as I watch her fade. I can do nothing for her.

“Bit off more than you could chew, didn’t you little girl?” her tormentor scowls. “I will put you out of your misery, but not before you feel the full wrath of MY TITS”  Daniella shifts her body toward my girl’s head, positioning her watermelons over the lovely face before dropping them down like huge ballon’s over the pretty nose and mouth, engulfing the entire face in a deadly breast smother.

Kiva desperately kicks her feet and squirms harder as her oxygen is cut off. Daniella presses down further assuring the smother. Kiva’s screams are barely audible from beneath the giant orbs. I know she is suffering from the asphyxiation. I don’t want her to lose but my erection is so intense, it hurts. Then, from out of nowhere, she manages to free an arm. Daniella tries to pin it down again, but Kiva finds a fistful of hair and slowly pulls the larger woman off balance. Finally, she turns her face to the side and lets out a loud gasp like an underwater swimmer coming to the surface taking her first breath in minutes............

........I don’t know how she did it, but my babe is totally in control. Daniella, exhausted, is finally felled by a series of blows. Kiva has her flat on her back and is perched on her in a reverse face sit, pinning the arms with her knees, punching and clawing at the large vulnerable tits. Finally, Daniella tries to speak but cannot only make moans, her mouth pressed into silence by Kiva’s beautiful ass. My sweetie lifts up slightly.

“I give up,” Daniella coughs out. “You’re the better woman. Get off of me.”

“Did you say something, bitch?”, my girlfriend asks.

“I give up. You win.”

“I thought so.”

Kiva stays on her woman, pivots 180 degrees, then descends back into a face sit. She slides back, then positions her muff over her victim’s mouth and nose, then begins to rub. Her pelvis rocks back and forth, pleasuring her wet pussy with Daniella’s face. Daniella can only groan as Kiva’s rhythmic movements turn faster and harder, the poor woman’s face becoming increasingly wet as Kiva grinds her love button. Kiva now moans and breathes rapidly as she works herself into a frenzy, Finally, she shudders her entire body, nearly every muscle quaking, as she appears ready to explode. The shuddering becomes more violent until she lets out a scream, her womanly juices squirt out, watering Daniella’s face like it’s a garden. Briefly, she pauses to catch her breath, then the shuddering resumes.

“Take me Carl,” she calls out. “Finish me.”

I peel out of my clothes as quickly as I can. I hold Kiva by the hand as she rolls off her defeated rival and on to her back. She shudders some more as I enter into her and we hump on the floor like rabbits. Our moans and screams fill the cheap motel room, as the alpha woman enjoys her just desserts, next to her fallen opponent. Our love making escalates to that point of no return, until, with one last ultimate quiver, she screams and blasts out her love juice as I fire my cum into her. I hold her, feeling her body tremble in my arms until, gradually, our bodies go limp as we lie on the carpeted floor. A few feet away, Daniella’s man tends to his broken woman.

“Now your man knows what the scent of a real woman is like,” Kiva sneers.

I am too stunned for words. This is so surreal and so...repulsive. I thumb over a few more pages.

“Carl, I can never repay you,” my angel says to me. “You’ve given me everything a girl could want: a beautiful house, nice cars, a cat....and the most wonderful attentive husband ever. We are going to have such a sweet life together.”

“Sounds like the title of a book I’m going to write,” I tell her. It’s called ‘Life With Kiva’.

And now, I have some fantastic news for you,” she says, her eyes lovingly falling into mine.

“What is it my love?”

“I’m pregnant.”

I am beyond feeling angry.  “FUCK!” I blurt out. I feel so violated. In a fit of rage, I tear up the pages and toss them in the trash. It doesn’t matter, Claire and Carl have electronic versions.

“What’s he planning to do with this lovely tale?” I ask.

“Probably nothing,” Claire answers. “It’s just his own private thing.”

“If I ever find out this is published, either in print or the internet, I’ll sue his ass,” I threaten.

“Um, Kiva is not a common name, but you’re not the only one dear.”

“Excuse me,” I query. “But why did you show me this?”

“So you can see what kind of effect you have on him,” Claire explains.

“Oh, so you think I encouraged this?” I ask.

The mousy face glares at me with seemingly widening eyes. “Let’s just say I know how mean and cruel women can be,” repeating what she said earlier as she digs into her handbag. “And...I  believe you know what this is,” she says as she holds up a .....catpin!

I’m shocked. “You’re a catfighter?”

“Yes,” she answers, “I’ve been fighting for Carl since we were kids. I fight to keep my skills up.”

“Look,” I respond. “Carl needs to socialize normally. Maybe instead of fighting for him, you should start encouraging him to form healthy relationships. Maybe you can help him find friends or even meet a woman who shares his interests. But let me assure you, I do not play mind games with people. I only had minimal interaction with your brother.”

“Okay,” she replies, “I’ll trust your word.” Finally, our discussion concludes to cap off a strange day.

At home, I have dinner with my family, feed the dog, watch TV and drink a glass of wine. I go to bed but have trouble falling asleep, disturbed by the words of Carl’s sickening manuscript. “Stiff nipples,” “womanly juices,” “love button,” - every cliche from an awful erotic novel.

Morning comes and I’m off work. After Clarissa boards the school bus, I pour myself another coffee and sit at the computer. I receive a notification from the catfight website that I have received a challenge. I excitedly open my inbox only to learn my challenger is....Claire.

Who is she kidding?, I thought. She’s four inches shorter than me and twenty pounds lighter. Her fight record is 0-4. I watch her fight videos. Good heavens, her fights weren’t even close. In all of her fights, she was dominated. Freda worked her over and submitted her. Destiny, a young woman barely out of her teenage years who Kelli fought, knocked her out cold. Why is Claire challenging me? Why does she fight at all? Having nothing to gain by fighting this misguided social worker, I decline the challenge and enjoy a peaceful day off.

Another day and I’m back at work. I’m not surprised to see Claire on my appointment schedule.

“Look Claire, what is this all about?” I demand to know.

“When I spoke with you last, I didn’t realize you had a second discussion with Carl,” she started, the big eyes glaring through glasses above the tiny nose and mouth. “Carl said you scolded him and kicked him out of the ICU in front of people.”

Unbelievable. “No,” I countered. “I told him he needed to have official business on the unit or he needed to leave. I have a right to demand accountability on my unit. It’s an ICU. We can’t have employees who don’t belong there loitering,...especially stalkers.”

“You’re calling my brother a stalker?” she forces out of tiny pursed lips.

“Okay, maybe stalker is too strong a term,” I reply. “But your brother needs to learn he just can’t show up anywhere and stare at women he finds attractive. Instead of fighting for him, you need to help him start a life of his own. He needs to start the job in California, meet new people, start over. He’s not learning anything from you fighting for him. Besides, you’re not helping yourself either. You keep getting your ass kicked.”

“I accepted your word when you said you weren’t a mean girl,” she says softly. “Now I see otherwise. Are you going to accept my challenge?”

“Oh Christ, Claire, you’re not getting it. No, absolutely not. I am NOT accepting your challenge. Now please leave,” I say firmly.

“May I propose stakes?” She asks. This should be interesting, I thought.

“I spoke it over with Carl,” she says, her words careful and deliberate. “If you win,....Carl will accept the job in California and he and I will never bother you again....and if you lose,...”

“Go on.”

“And if you lose,...”

“Come on, say it.”

“If you lose...., immediately after the fight,....you will go to...Carl’s apartment,....and.....”

“And sleep with him?” I finish her sentence struggling to hold back laughter.

“Yes,” she clarifies. “You will take his virginity.”

I can’t hold it back any more. My attempt to suppress the chuckling, explodes into a full belly laugh.  “Are you kidding? Me and Carl? That’s the dumbest and funniest stakes I’ve ever heard. And exactly how is me boinking Carl supposed to help him?”

“Well,” she attempts to explain, “I thought if he could get past his first conquest, he might come out of his shell more.”

“Conquest?” I retort. “I prefer to think of sex in terms other than conquering some one.”

“What’s your answer?” Claire interrogates.

“My answer? I ask incredulously. Here’s my answer. My answer is no, N-O, nada, never, no way. Got it?” Finally, the mousy looking winless fighter rises as I escort her out of my office.

Another shift and night passes. I find myself back at work in the morning. The nurse manager from the Emergency Department calls. They are short staffed and need help. She asks if I can spare any nurses from the ICU with prior emergency medicine experience. I tell her yes and I volunteer...me.

It’s been awhile since I worked the ED and I’m enjoying getting back into the swing of it. I reconnect with some old colleagues. It’s busy today. There have been two traumas, a myocardial infarction, and a subdural hematoma needing neurosurgery. It’s noon and I head to the break room for a quick lunch. I’m interrupted by Gina, one of the young ED nurses.

“Kiva, there’s a guy outside in the hallway looking for you,” she informs. Already, I’m feeling ill.

“Did you tell him I’m in here?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“Shit,” I take a few more bites. Time to get this over with.

I open the break room door. Unsurprisingly, there he is. The diminutive frame, the pale skin and hair, the glasses, the unstylish clothes.

“Hi Kiva,” he struggles to get out. “Um...Uh...I went to the ICU to work on more equipment and...uh...they told me you were here.  I uh...um..just want to say Hi.”

I looked at him for a few seconds. He was already starting to sweat.

“Carl,” I said, “I think we need to talk. We’re not really friends. We’re barely even acquaintances. We’re just two people who work in the same building. We can get along fine, but you must understand there are certain rules men need to follow when around women.” The face was expressionless.

“Do not stare except when making eye contact when speaking. Do not spy, keep track of, or follow a woman around. That is stalking and qualifies as sexual harassment. Respect personal space and limits. Be polite.” Finally a response. He nods.

“Your sister told me you have a job offer in California. Sounds like a great opportunity for you. Are you going to accept?”

“I haven’t decided yet?” For the first time, he completed a sentence without stammering.

“Alright, I hope you decide for the best. For now, we can get along fine but please respect my privacy. I’m a nurse, a wife, and a mom. I’m not someone to be leered at. I hope this makes sense to you.”

“Uh, yeah, it does.”

“OK, well whatever you do, I wish you the best.”

“OK,” he answers. “Thank you” as he walks away.

After the shift, I go home feeling better about the Carl situation. I think I at least put an end to the uncomfortable behavior. On the computer, I’m notified by the catfight site I have an email from Claire.

“Hey bitch,” it reads. “Carl said you broke up with him in the hallway. Now he’s devastated. Not a mean girl, huh. You fucking cxnt.”

Shocked, I try to explain my side of it but to no avail.

“I’ll believe my brother before I believe a skank like you. You whores are all alike. I reissue my challenge. Let’s fight, bitch. The stakes are the same as we previously discussed.”

My blood is boiling. I feel my blood pressure rising. How dare she stand up for her pervert brother. I want to punch the computer screen. Then I think about her pathetic fights and how she got her ass whooped every time. I want to be next to throttle this bitch. With all irrationality out the window, I type:

“Yes, bitch, I accept your challenge. Stakes as previously discussed.”

The next day at work, Claire comes to my office. We agree to fight Saturday evening at 7:00. Tom will be home and we will host the event at our house. Claire emails me a consent form stating I agree to mutually and willfully engage in vaginal intercourse with Carl if I lose. Other sexual acts are optional and listed: oral sex, anal sex, bondage, toys, etc. I check no to all of them.

Tom knows about the fight in our home and is excited about It. Luanne offered to take Clarissa for the evening. We will make space in the den and use mats. I will wear a sports bra and long yoga pants. Claire will wear a one piece tank swimsuit and will be accompanied by Carl. Everything is set except....

Shit! I haven’t told my husband about the stakes yet.


To be continued


End Note:
Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) struck by “the thunderbolt.”
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=W0iXfa2unYY

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: BarbaraUK on February 04, 2021, 12:34:51 AM

Congratulations! I never thought I would ever see anybody use an embedded narrative in here  ;D

Very interested to see what happens in part 2.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on February 04, 2021, 01:04:15 PM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on February 04, 2021, 12:34:51 AM

Congratulations! I never thought I would ever see anybody use an embedded narrative in here  ;D

Very interested to see what happens in part 2.

Lol. Thanks. It’s another one of my writing experiments.
I think Carl writes catfight stories better than I do. Maybe when I’m done with him here, I can bring him on my post as a guest author.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Altered Ego on February 06, 2021, 12:51:40 AM

Damn juicy setup and my kind of stakes. Very hot and I bet the next chapter will be on fire. Great series.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on February 06, 2021, 10:51:15 AM

I'm tipping Kiva to throw the fight. Having a little brother or sister who's half nerd could help Clarissa enormously with her maths. As a conscientious mother, Kiva can't fail to have made that calculation.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on February 06, 2021, 10:57:40 AM

Quote from: Kiva on February 02, 2021, 01:34:18 AM

Claire emails me a consent form stating I agree to mutually and willfully engage in vaginal intercourse with Carl if I lose. Other sexual acts are optional and listed: oral sex, anal sex, bondage, toys, etc. I check no to all of them.

A little late to be telling you this, Kiva, sorry, but you can't check "no" to an option. If you check it, it means you consent.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on February 06, 2021, 10:58:24 AM

p.s. do we get to vote on the toys?  ;D

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on February 06, 2021, 11:05:29 AM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on February 04, 2021, 12:34:51 AM

Congratulations! I never thought I would ever see anybody use an embedded narrative in here  ;D

Very interested to see what happens in part 2.

I'm a little worried for Kiva here. You know what they say: "Go to embed with a narrative. Wake up with STDs."

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on February 06, 2021, 11:10:17 AM

Quote from: Kiva on February 04, 2021, 01:04:15 PM

I think Carl writes catfight stories better than I do. Maybe when I’m done with him here, I can bring him on my post as a guest author.

No one writes catfight stories better than you do [Blush emoji]  but there's no denying: the nerd has talent. Just think. When you two are married, you could be the Elizabeth Barrett / Robert Browning (not, I hope the Sylvia Plath / Ted Hughes) of the genre.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on February 06, 2021, 01:15:00 PM

This could be you and Jaymie:
https://twitter.com/Soxthewavingcat/status/1358024168852381699?s=20
See now how valuable that left hook is?

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on February 09, 2021, 04:59:47 AM

You've done it again, Kiva. You create the most interesting characters and manage to turn so many aspects and cliches of the genre (and people's perception of fans of the genre). You've definitely set the hook... now I can't wait for you to reel me in, pull me into the boat and bash me over the head with an oar.  :)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on February 09, 2021, 12:00:42 PM

Quote from: FyreCracka on February 09, 2021, 04:59:47 AM

You've done it again, Kiva. You create the most interesting characters and manage to turn so many aspects and cliches of the genre (and people's perception of fans of the genre). You've definitely set the hook... now I can't wait for you to reel me in, pull me into the boat and bash me over the head with an oar.  :)

Kelli, I don't think you should be encouraging Kiva to bash you with an oar, because although she's your friend and I know she'd only whack you very gently, Jolene is NOT your friend, and if she sees Kiva's allowed to use oars, she's going to want to use one too, and so will Micha, and so will Jaymie. And when Jaymie's finished, that alligator of hers is going to want a go, and if you think being eaten by a shark was the worst it could get, you've obviously never been whacked by an alligator wielding an oar.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on February 09, 2021, 04:37:07 PM

Quote from: h_k on February 09, 2021, 12:00:42 PM

Quote from: FyreCracka on February 09, 2021, 04:59:47 AM

You've done it again, Kiva. You create the most interesting characters and manage to turn so many aspects and cliches of the genre (and people's perception of fans of the genre). You've definitely set the hook... now I can't wait for you to reel me in, pull me into the boat and bash me over the head with an oar.  :)

Kelli, I don't think you should be encouraging Kiva to bash you with an oar, because although she's your friend and I know she'd only whack you very gently, Jolene is NOT your friend, and if she sees Kiva's allowed to use oars, she's going to want to use one too, and so will Micha, and so will Jaymie. And when Jaymie's finished, that alligator of hers is going to want a go, and if you think being eaten by a shark was the worst it could get, you've obviously never been whacked by an alligator wielding an oar.

Meh... alligators have short arms. They can't generate much force whilst swing an oar! I'm not scared!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on February 09, 2021, 05:25:44 PM

Quote from: FyreCracka on February 09, 2021, 04:37:07 PM

Quote from: h_k on February 09, 2021, 12:00:42 PM

Quote from: FyreCracka on February 09, 2021, 04:59:47 AM

You've done it again, Kiva. You create the most interesting characters and manage to turn so many aspects and cliches of the genre (and people's perception of fans of the genre). You've definitely set the hook... now I can't wait for you to reel me in, pull me into the boat and bash me over the head with an oar.  :)

Kelli, I don't think you should be encouraging Kiva to bash you with an oar, because although she's your friend and I know she'd only whack you very gently, Jolene is NOT your friend, and if she sees Kiva's allowed to use oars, she's going to want to use one too, and so will Micha, and so will Jaymie. And when Jaymie's finished, that alligator of hers is going to want a go, and if you think being eaten by a shark was the worst it could get, you've obviously never been whacked by an alligator wielding an oar.

Meh... alligators have short arms. They can't generate much force whilst swing an oar! I'm not scared!

They hold them with their tails, silly! I just thought I should warn you, because people often have the wrong idea about crocodiles and alligators. They think they just sit around all day making shoes and handbags, and whilst I have heard they do make very nice shoes and handbags, that's not all they do. Their extracurricular activities – I mean, when they've finished for the day with the shoes and the handbags – are such as to make Jeffrey Dahmer look like a boy scout, and this time Kaida and Agnetha may not be around to rescue you, and I wouldn't count on Kiva either. She'll be busy, I expect, making whoopee with her new paramour (sure, she says she doesn't fancy him, but methinks the lady doth protest too much…).

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on February 14, 2021, 02:28:44 AM

Chapter 6: Life With Kiva (Part 2 of 2)

It’s Friday night, the eve before my fight with Claire. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop. Tom is watching TV in the living room. Clarissa went to bed after I looked over her homework. Chase, my beagle, is curled up on the floor at my feet as I sip my second glass of wine.

Claire and I finalized the rules this morning. Winner by submission. No fists, kicks or scratches to the head or face. I watch her videos again. She sucks. I mean, she really sucks. Against Destiny, she walked right into punches. Freda tied her up into a pretzel. She looks weak. She can’t stop strikes. When she shoots at her opponent’s legs, she practically trips over herself. In her last fight, she did manage a little offense, and even stunned her opponent once, but did not follow up and gave the match away. I wonder if she likes being a jobber.

I notice my catfight website inbox has three messages. First is from Destiny. What a strange coincidence. I haven’t met Destiny yet. I only know her from the video of Kelli’s fight with her.

“Yo girlfriend,” it reads. “Saw your knockout vids. Let’s talk.”

I’m not surprised. She seems to fancy herself as a striker and is probably looking to go fisticuffs with someone. I’d love to flatten that young punk. Maybe in the future. I don’t have time for her right now.

Next message is from “Gloria.” I have no idea who she is as I open her message.

“Hey bitch, stay away from Frank. He’s MINE! He loves watching me fight. I will tear you to pieces right in front of him....Got it, cxnt?”

What the hell? How does she know me? Did Frank say something to her? Did she see me in the hospital talking to Frank? I should have known Frank enjoys catfights. After all, he’s a male. It doesn’t matter if it’s Frank, Carl, kings, paupers, saints or sinners. Guys like watching women fight. I have no time for Gloria either. I respond.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, hon. You and the other seven women claiming to be Frank’s girlfriend should have a tournament. I’ll present Frank to the winner. Good luck, bitch.”

The last message is from Paige! Jolene’s sister. This should be interesting.

“Hey Nurse. You better reserve a hospital bed. Kelli will need it after Jolene is done with her.”

I half expected there’d be growing tension between Paige and I. She’s in a snotty trophy wives clique at the country club. Then there was that condescending conversation at Billy’s. I’m on her shit list for siding with Kelli. Plus that whole episode with Jake and Jolene during Kelli’s cage fight. The two of us are probably headed for the cage ourselves. But not right now. I type.

“No, but there’s space in the morgue for Jolene.” I log out.

I take what’s left of my wine and head to living room to join my husband. But first, I make a detour to the medicine cabinet for a few ibuprofen pills. My right shoulder hurts. It happened today at work while transferring a patient from a litter to the bed. I was one of six female nurses involved. With three of us on each side, we grabbed onto the edge of a sheet underneath the patient to use as a sling to lift the patient. I was on the far side which meant I was bent over the litter. With the large man’s weight placing a strain on my back, shoulders, and arms, I cocked my hip to block an IV pole from falling. The shift in weight caused a sudden sharp pain in my shoulder. Determined to not let go of our patient I worked through the pain. It happens. There are many occupational risks in Nursing. All day, we stand, bend, lift, pull, carry, move people and equipment. We’re exposed to infections, biohazardous material, radiation. Many of the older nurses I know have chronic back problems. I’ll be fine, it’s just another sprain. I’ve had them before. It should be gone tomorrow.

Well, the fight is less than 24 hours away and Tom doesn’t know the stakes yet. Personally, I’m not worried about it. I know Claire has no chance. I’m bigger, faster, stronger and a much better fighter. Still, I know I shouldn’t have agreed to the stakes. I should have kept my cool. I never would have agreed to this against an equal fighter, but against Claire? It just doesn’t matter. But now, I got to get through this. It’s time to tell Tom. He’ll be upset at first but I can assure him it’s a total non-issue. I think it’s actually kind of funny. Imagine. Me and that geek having a roll in the hay. I think Tom will have a good laugh too when he sees Claire and Carl. Now all I have to do is go in there and tell him. I know how to present it to him.

“WHAT?......WHAT?.....WHAT?....DID I HEAR THAT RIGHT?....WHAT THE F-“

“Tom, keep your voice down. Clarissa is upstairs,” I try to say soothingly.”

“Kiva, are you NUTS? Are you out of your fu- um MIND? How COULD YOU?”

I calmly explain how I was provoked into it and lost my head by agreeing to the stakes. But I assure him that the chances of me losing are nonexistent.

“Dammit Kiva,” he scolds, “are you starting this shit again doing crazy dangerous things behind my back? You promised I would be fully informed of your fighting activity but this one...this one is off the charts. This takes the cake. It’s the most dumb ass thing you’ve ever done. EVER.” The harsh expression, popping neck veins, flushed face tell me he means business. My husband, in a word, is ....pissed.

“I won’t lose,” I repeat.

“Famous last words,” he warns. “No you won’t lose because you won’t be fighting. Cancel the fight.”

“I can’t,” I barely mumbled.

“Then cancel the stakes,” he orders. “They’re not valid because I wasn’t involved. You’re my wife and I should have a say if you’re going to risk running off to screw some virgin dork.”

“I don’t know if I can,” I breathe out, my voice barely audible.

“I don’t mind if you wear a bikini, lingerie, a thong, or fight topless or even nude in front of men. In fact, I think it’s hot. But if you so much as touch another man, we’re done!”

“Does that mean you’ll leave me,” I meekly ask. He pauses.

“Look,” he says, “here’s the deal. If you want to fight here tomorrow night, fine. If you lose and the stakes aren’t cancelled, you will stay here and I will personally throw the two of them out of this house myself. If I have to, I will call the cops. But, you are NOT going anywhere tomorrow night. I am so pissed at you, I can’t even see straight. Excuse me, but I’m going to bed.”

My husband leaves me with a cold expression before turning toward the bedroom. I sit down and try to collect myself. I know he is right about everything. He has a right to be angry. How could I have done something so stupid? In a sense, I did betray him. But this time tomorrow, it will all be over. I will win and everyone will be better off. Carl will start a new life away from his controlling sister. Claire might stop taking beatings. And they will both be out of my hair.

I slip into my nightgown and crawl into bed. I snuggle up to my husband who....rolls to his side turning his back to me.

“Tom?” I call out.

No answer but I know he’s awake. He won’t talk to me. I’m being shunned...and I don’t blame him. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling fan. I’m wide awake. I doubt I’ll be falling asleep anytime soon. And my shoulder feels worse.

An hour later, I’m still awake. I think Tom by now has fallen asleep. I rise from bed, turn on the TV and sit on the sofa. I channel surf through 500 channels of shit, watching old reruns. I spend the next two hours watching “Indecent Proposal,” a 90s movie about a happy young couple who are about to lose their home due to financial ruin. A mysterious billionaire offers to help them out of their predicament by offering the wife one million dollars...if she sleeps with him for one night. It’s not helping my mood....and my shoulder is killing me.

I’ll be fine if I can get to sleep. The ibuprofen isn’t doing much. I’ll find something stronger so I’m back to the medicine cabinet. There it is on the top shelf; a pill box with a few tablets of...OxyContin! Tom was prescribed them last year after an ankle fracture. He hates narcotics so he didn’t use them. They expired a month ago but they should still be good. I know you should never take another person’s prescription medications. But I’m a nurse and I know what I’m doing. As they say, “Do what I say, not what I do.” I can handle this and it’s just one time. I really need pain relief and sleep, then I’ll be ready to kick Claire’s ass tomorrow. I sip from a glass of water and swallow the tablet. I’m good to go. Time to get back to bed. On the kitchen counter, I see the opened bottle of wine. Oh shit, I remember, I drank alcohol and took OxyContin. That can be dangerous. But the wine was a few hours ago. I’ll say it again. I’m a nurse and I know how to deal with this. No one else should ever try this. Ever.

I slip under the covers. Tom’s back is still facing me. Chase awakens at the foot of the bed. He licks my face and plops himself against me. A dog’s love. So unconditional. So nonjudgmental.

It’s 2 am and I’m still awake. My shoulder feels better. My head though is woozy. I’m not surprised. I should have remembered. Narcotics do that to me. I haven’t taken any in years. The ceiling fan twirls and softly hums. Sparks fly off the fan blades and scatter across the ceiling. Strange faces form in front of my eyes, one at a time, emerging from the dark, then receding back to nothing. Brightly colored shapes dance around the room; squares, circles, triangles. They organize into symmetrical patterns within a circle like a child’s kaleidoscope. I hear music in my head but it’s terrible music...Nickelback...Ugh. I know I’m getting drowsy. Sleep is coming. Finally...sleep.

What? It’s light already. And so bright. What time is it?

“Kiva, wake up,” I hear Tom say, “It’s 3:00 in the afternoon.”

“WHAT?...what happened?”

“I knew you were up late so I let you sleep.”

“Shit, my whole day is gone.” I don’t sleep this late, even when I work night shift. “And Clarissa?”

“Clarissa has been taken care of,” my husband answers with a hint of detachment. “Now get up. You’re opponent and lover boy will be here in a few hours.”

I arise, take a shower and put on a sweatsuit but I still feel a bit foggy in the head. Tom and I clear the furniture from the center of the den and lay down the mats for the fight. We say very little. His demeanor towards me is chilly. I have a light dinner while Tom takes Clarissa to Luanne’s house.

My opponent and her brother will be here in thirty minutes. Something doesn’t feel right. I’ve been awake for a few hours but can barely account for the time. It’s so surreal. It’s time to dress for the fight. I don’t want my attire to reveal too much to Carl. There will be no bikini, thong, bra and panties. I put on my sturdiest sports bra and long yoga pants so as not to be bare legged. I pull my long hair back into a ponytail. A car pulls up in front of our house. They’re here. They arrive in one car but if Claire wins, I am to leave with Carl and Claire will call Lyft. As if that might actually happen.

I hear the doorbell. My husband lets them into the foyer as I stand behind him. Immediately, the situation is awkward. We all have little to say to each other. Tom offers them a snack and drinks. The four of us sit in the living room but the conversation goes nowhere. My shoulder begins to ache again. Finally Tom says, “Well, should we get this event started?” Our guests nod.

We enter to the den and Claire and I head to opposite corners of the mat. We kick off our footwear. I pull off my hoodie as Claire peels out of her sweatsuit revealing a tan one piece tank suit. Cameras and cell phones are set up. I size her up but there’s not much to her. She’s 5’3”, probably no more than 110 lbs. Her chest size is small. The arms and legs are thin. Her bowl haircut remains intact. With my four inch and 15-20 lb advantage, it doesn’t seem fair. Carl, dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt takes a seat in her corner as Tom does in mine.

Claire and I meet in the center for a stare down. It’s almost laughable. Her eyes look smaller without her glasses and she squints. The nostrils flare from the thin nose. The small mouth is pursed into an intense expression. I’ll give her credit; she looks serious.

Tom gives the command, “Ready....FIGHT.”

Claire attempts the first move, trying to shove me with hands to the chest, but I block most of it with my arms. Using my reach advantage, I retaliate with my own hard shove, sending her stumbling backwards. A sharp jolt of pain lances through my shoulder as I see her lose her balance, falling to the mat. The pain distracts me from moving in. Tom knows nothing about my injury. I think I may have a strained rotator cuff. I’m not worried. I can beat this woman with one arm. She quickly scrambles to her feet and charges at me.

No problem. I easily side step her, wrap my left arm behind her neck, and extend my leg, tripping her down on her hip. I dive in to tie her up but it proves difficult with one arm. Claire slips away to an escape and we both return to a standing position.

She takes on a boxer’s stance. I’m happy to see this because I know she can’t box worth shit. The nerdy girl tries to slap fight with me but can’t get through my defense. I respond with a flurry of slaps to the head and body. My shoulder pain has taken the power out of my right arm.  I land a few slaps with it but I’m mostly using my left. Claire lunges for my hair, but I deflect her arms away. With her body wide open, I shoot in with my left shoulder to her abdomen, tackling her to the floor, where she lands on her back with me on top of her. The impact of the fall creates another jarring shot of right shoulder pain and I involuntary scream out, “Oww.”

“Kiva, what’s wrong,” I hear my husband shout.

With the advantage position, I stay on top of my opponent, trying to gain control. Her legs are wrapped around my waist keeping me outside her guard. I try to be patient, in no hurry to end it, using my weight advantage, hoping to wear her down. Again, I’m not able to do much with one arm. Finally, Claire grabs on to my left arm and uses her legs to roll me to the left sending me off my mount. Our legs battle for control as we continue to roll across the mat, one of us on top, then the other. We seize each other’s hair, throw slaps, and kick at each other’s legs.

Finally, with me on top, I feel a strange but familiar sensation on my back. Two objects press on my skin. It’s like a set of dull but nonpainful nails, as if from a very small pair of hands. I know this feeling. They’re not hands. They’re not human. They’re paws....from a dog. It’s Chase! What the....I thought Tom sent him outside in our fenced yard. He prances in a circle around the two combatants on the mat, leaping up playfully on his haunches, landing on us with his front paws. His tongue pants with delight. The humans are having their playtime and he has no intention of being excluded.

“What the fuck,” Claire shrieks.

“Oh Chase,” I sigh.

Tom quickly scoops up our beagle and the two of them return to the chair.

With our catball broken up, Claire and I stand up and start again.

I’m dismayed I didn’t do a better job of controlling her on the floor. I have better success striking her. I have to rely on my left arm for power. She’s incapable of landing blows on me so I’ll need to be patient. I assume a southpaw stance and flick slaps and jabs to her face and body. They blows lack power but most of them are getting through. And I’m not getting hit at all.

Finally, a hard looping left hand slap smacks her hard on the side of the head. The social worker spins around, disoriented and off balance, staggering to my right side. Very quickly, she falls. Before I can react, she reaches up, seizing my right arm, yanking it down as she falls to the floor. Insurmountable pain flares through my shoulder. I let out a loud piercing shriek. My arm feels like it is jerked out of my shoulder socket as I tumble to the mat with the mousy girl.

Tom, still holding the dog, stands up, uncertain what happened.

On the mat, Claire is on all fours with me on her back. I snake my legs around her waist and lock my ankles into a body scissors. However, she is still holding onto my right wrist draping it over her shoulder. The position is very awkward and painful on my shoulder. She tugs on my arm eliciting another yelp from me. I have no choice but to release the scissors. I kick at her arms and shoulders until she releases my arm. I desperate need to regroup by rolling away from her and getting back on my feet. Claire also stands and I decide it’s time to go back to striking.

Anguished with pain and frustrated I haven’t put this little jobber away yet, I feel myself becoming impatient. My right arm hangs uselessly at its side and I must protect it from further damage. Claire smirks. She thinks she’s getting the better of me. I can finish her with just one arm...and here it comes.

“You dorky little bitch,” I growl at her. I rush at her with a big roundhouse left hand slap aimed at the head. This time, I tell myself she will not be pulling me down with her. I swing as hard as I can. As soon as I threw it, I knew it was sloppy. Claire blocked it with her right arm. Off balance, I feel her knee driving into my belly like a cannon ball. I’m stunned and doubled over. I don’t see her. I now realize she is behind me but it is too late.  A volley of punches land on my back. I struggle to collect myself. The creases of my knees are kicked out. My legs collapse and I drop to my knees like a rock. A kick between my shoulder blades knocks me forward on my belly. The overprotective sister pounces on my back. In a matter of seconds, I’ve been flattened face down. I’m confused. And I’m in trouble.

I’m just a few feet from the edge of the mat. I know Tom’s chair is nearby. I’ve got to get this annoying twerp off of me. I lift my head up and blink my eyes hard, trying to regroup. Suddenly, I feel my right arm being pulled behind my back. My shoulder can’t take it and I scream in pain. My right hand is pressed against my left shoulder blade bending the arm into a chickenwing. I don’t want to submit but the pain is unbearable.

Her free arm wraps around my face and tightens like a belt, forcing my face to the side. Oh my God, I know what this is. It can’t be. Her hands clasp together. It’s the crossface chickenwing. How did she learn this? She tightens the hold. My shoulder feels like it’s being ripped off my body. Her bony arm digs into my nose like a steel bar. I know there is virtually no escape from this hold once properly applied. I also know Claire is a poor fighter. I’ll find away out of this.

“Give up, bitch?” she snorts. “You’re not such a mean girl now, are you?”

I can’t move my head and her arm is bending my nose but I shift my eyes to the side. I catch glimpses of Tom and I see he looks very worried. Chase watches intently. He hears me scream and realizes this may not be playtime. Still holding the dog in his right arm, Tom gets on his knees and bends down closer to the mat.

“Come on, Kiva, you can do it,” he tries to assure me.

My husband extends his left hand over the mat towards me hoping to instill inspiration. Claire rocks back sending another excruciating wave of pain surging through my disabled shoulder. Instinctively, I reach my free left left arm out to my husband’s hand. I can’t reach it. I need a few more inches. I manage to lift up very slightly on my knees and lurch forward. It’s not much but it’s all I need. With my head twisted I can’t see him but I feel his hand take mine. His fingers massage my palm. My trembling fingertips stroke the back of his hand. I find his fourth finger and...his wedding ring. My index finger and thumb rub along the golden band. For now, I try my best to ignore the agony. I’m so sorry my love, I want to say. I’ll never do anything this foolish again.

“Give up, fool,” Claire growls. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

Don’t leave me, my love. Let me hold your hand. Remember our wedding day? The exchange of rings? Our exchange of vowels? Trust me dear, I’m going nowhere. I’d rather lose my arm than be apart from you. I’d prefer to die here than to be given to another man. No matter what, you will always be the love of my life.

Claire cranks my arm and head again and I’m now seeing spots in front of my eyes. I squeeze my husband’s hand tightly. Suddenly, our hands fly apart, forced away from each other by a violent blow. Now I see. Carl kicked us, tearing our hands apart.  My fingers now only clutch barren mat. I’m alone and fading.

“Hey,” he squeals with his nasally voice. “That’s illegal. No touching the fighters.”

“You little shit,” my husband yells, jumping to his feet, grabbing the nerdy IT tech by the collar. “I ought to punch you out right now. I ought to...”

“I GIVE UP!”

“Kiva, did you submit,” my husband asks.

“YES...Let go of me, you win.” I frantically tap the mat.

Silence. The moment seemed frozen in time. For a few seconds we are all motionless. Claire seemed like she didn’t believe what happened. She quietly released her hold on me, letting my head and right arm fall to the mat.

Then, grasping the reality of the situation. She breathes, “I won?....I’m the winner?....I beat her?” Tom and Carl stood by, neither of them yet moving.  I could sense Claire’s shock turn to elation as she stayed perched on my back, realizing she was no longer winless. I felt her body bounce with excitement. “I’m the victor,” she repeated. “I won....I beat her...I really won!”  She squeals with delight and giggles like a little girl in the school yard.  “Oh my God, I won. Carl, take pictures.”

The smaller but triumphant fighter yanks my head back by the hair, forcing me to face Carl’s cell phone. My prone body and defeated face is presented to the camera as a trophy. She lowers her own face next to mine and points both our noses at the phone. Two faces in one image. One face beaming and victorious, the other anguished and conquered. Next, she points me in Tom’s direction, cruelly delivering a lasting visual message that his wife is subdued and broken. I can’t bear to look at him seeing me humiliated. Finally, the little bitch pushes my head back down, pressing my nose into the mat. “This is where you belong, loser. Kissing the ground I walk on.” She shoots a few more poses, flexing her skinny arms before lifting herself off my back. Not done yet, she plants her foot on the back of my neck like an ancient warrior raising her arms in victory.

I’m lying on the mat, degraded and in pain. Unable to hold it back any longer, I sob and choke on tears. I role to my left side to ease the fire in my right shoulder. Tom has not yet come to comfort me, but someone else does. Chase approaches tentatively, sniffing, sensing my distress. He knows. He licks my face, wiping away tears as I drape my sore arm around my dog’s neck.

My brief moment of palliation is suddenly disrupted by a bare foot pushing my bad shoulder down, rolling me on my back. Claire is overwhelmed with joy of her first win and she wants to savor every possible second. I suffer the indignity of more victory poses as the cxnt steps on my chest and smiles for the cameras. “Carl, keep the fucking dog away,” she orders.

I hear her prancing around our den still glowing with jubilation. “Carl, hand me my cell phone...Crystal?....Guess what?....I WON!...Yes, she submitted...I won!....Hello Abby?...unbelievable news...I WON!. Yes, that bitch nurse from the hospital I told you about...twenty pounds bigger than me and I had her begging for mercy...I’ll tell you about it later....Hello Mom?...I DID IT!..I beat her!...I taught that bitch a lesson...she won’t be messing with Carl again..wait till I tell Aunt Jo....Hey Sweetie, guess what? Your girl was the better woman...I WON!...I wish you could be here. It’s so awesome...Yeah, she’s crying and everything...I want to make love to you so badly...Wait till tonight, honey...we’ll watch the video...together...Love ya honey!”

Finally, she starts to collect her belongings while I submissively await her permission to rise.

“Get up, princess,” she orders. “You’re night is just beginning.”

Oh my Lord. The stakes. She expects me to honor it. This can’t happen.

“I’ll give you ten minutes to get ready, then I’ll see you and Carl off.”

Oh fuck, she means it. I’m not going. I’ll fight her again. Tom won’t let them take me. I turn to my husband. “Tom, no, send them away.”

He looks at me with a solemn expression. “Kiva, let’s go in the bedroom and talk.”

I’m frantic as we walk. “You’re kicking them out, right. You said you’d call the cops. Are you going to do it?

“Nope”

My blood ran cold. “You’re not?”

“Kiva, you made the stakes without me so you can deal with it without me. You made your bed. Now go lie in it.”

“You don’t mean this?”

“I’m done talking about it.”

How cold. How callous. He’s rejecting me.

“Hurry up, loser” Clare calls.

I’m in shock. I know the catfight code about stakes. I’m expected to fulfill my obligation. Reneging on stakes means I could lose my catpin, my profile, I’ll be blackballed. My husband won’t help me. It’s a bitter pill to swallow. It’s unthinkable but I must accept my fate. I change into sweat clothes and sneakers, put on a baseball cap over my tied up hair and large sunglasses to hide my face from any possible witnesses who might spot me with Carl, and I place a few items into an overnight bag. I’m sobbing the entire time. I kiss my husband. “You know I love you, right?”

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he responds flatly.

I walk back toward the foyer, past our wedding portrait, past pictures of Clarissa, past numerous icons of our marriage, our family, our domestic life. I kiss and hug Chase and cry some more. Carl and Claire, flanking me like a prisoner, walk me out through my own door, past our patio, our lawn, our flower garden. We come to Carl’s Honda Civic and I insist on sitting in the back seat alone. He pulls away as Claire calls for Lyft. My house, my street, my neighborhood all disappear through the rear view mirror. Carl and I say absolutely nothing to each other during the ride. I continue sobbing. Finally, I’m resigned to the fact that I’m spoils of war taken from my home and family. All I can do now is resolve to complete my agreement, as horribly distasteful as that may be.

Carl lives in a small one bedroom apartment across from my hospital. I feel faint as we walk from his car to the lobby. I know other employees living there so I pull the visor of my cap way low. The walk from the elevator to his room seems endless. I swallow hard as we enter through his door. Like most single young men in their twenties, his apartment contains very little. A small living area is in the front and a kitchen in the back with a bedroom on one side and bathroom on the other. The walls are bare with the exception of Star Wars posters. Electronic gadgets and gaming magazines are littered about everywhere. There is no bed, just a single sized mattress on the floor of the bedroom. Is that where I’m supposed to do it? I feel like I’m in college again. I again fight back nausea.

“Kiva,” Carl finally breaks the ice with his soft nasal tone, “I uh have something for you....You see, I didn’t think Claire would win, but just in case she did, I uh got you this.” He hands me a dozen long stem roses.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice indifferent.

“Would you um like something to drink? I bought wine?”

“No thanks.”

“Would you like something to eat?” He asks. “I have peanut butter and jelly.”

“No.”

“I can order pizza.”

“No thanks.”

“Um..do you want to play a game? Do you like Final Fantasy 14? Overwatch? Fortnite?”

“I’m not a gamer.”

“I can show you.”

“No”

“Do you,” he asks, “uh..want to watch a movie?”

“No.”

“Carl,” I say, “I know I’m throwing a wet blanket on your plans for a romantic evening but I’m really just here for one reason. We both know what that is. I prefer we just do it now and get it finished.”

“Oh, oh, OK,” he says, “uh, how would you like to start?”

“Well,” I explain, “we start by taking our clothes off. Here, I’ll get us started.” I begin to pull up the top of my sweatsuit.

“Wait, Kiva,” he interrupts. “Uh..May I do it? May I undress you? Uh..you see, I have this fantasy where uh, I’m with a girl who’s about to fight another girl nude. And, like, I’m her cornerman, and...I get her ready for her fight by stripping her and massaging her.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You do?”

“I mean, er, a lot of guys have that fantasy.”

“So, uh can I take your clothes off for you?”

“Fine, Carl,” I tell him. “But let’s go over the ground rules. We’re just going to do a basic garden variety, vanilla flavored fuck. You may touch me anywhere with your hands except my privates down below. You may not kiss me on the face, especially the lips. That’s only for my husband. I will not kiss you. I will not give you oral sex or do anything else beyond the basic. I have a vagina. You have a penis. We’ll hook up the two and that’s about it. Got it?”

“Yes”

Good Lord. I never dreamed I’d be insisting on a wham bam, thank you ma’am. I feel like a whore discussing business terms. I let Carl lift up my top. Because of my shoulder pain, I have to assist removing it from my right arm. Standing in my bra and sweatpants, it’s all at once strange, awkward, shameful and humiliating. Carl’s eyes widen and his pants are already bulging. He stands frozen unsure what to do next. It’s impossible for me to fathom that I’m about to allow this man access to my body. His fingers tremble as he reaches around my back exploring my bra strap. He fumbles with the clasp until I explain it to him. “Push the two ends together, separate the hook from the eye and slide apart.” Finally, I feel the straps loosen and the cups drop. I allow him to slip off the left shoulder strap exposing my poor girl to the indoor elements. I gingerly slide the other strap down my injured right side and allow the entire garment to fall. The sight of my own bare breasts pointed at Carl disturbs ands saddens me. The puppies want to cower and hide like a pair of nocturnal creatures whose cover has been ripped away by a high beam light. The last time I did this with a man other than my husband seems like ancient history. Carl looks mesmerized, the shaking in his hands have become more coarse. Once again, I perform a mental lobotomy on myself, removing and distancing all my emotions. I’ll get through this. I’ll keep it technical. I’ll keep it clinical. No strings attached.

I remove my sneakers and socks. My virgin partner hyperventilates as he curls his jittery fingertips around the elastic band of my sweatpants. My hips wriggle in assistance, the waist of the pants crumples to my knees, then down to my ankles. The legs, in solemn acceptance of my fate, step out of the warmth and shelter of the polyester and spandex. My feet kick the pants to the side, my toes kissing the fabric goodbye.

The cotton panties are all that is left of my previous existence, a life abruptly put on hold due to my own hubris. When they leave me, the transition will be complete, the woman I once was will be tossed to the floor in a heap. I must go through with this. I repeat my mantra. It’s just technical. No strings attached.

The young man’s grubby fingers tug at my white briefs. His face is red, his breathing rapid. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lower lip. It’s done. I feel the cool breeze from the air conditioning vent on my bare ass. I look down and see my doomed genitalia startled at being uncovered in such a strange place.

Carl looks me over head to toe. The lips quiver and the hand tremor continues. I surmise that I’m the first nude woman to be in his presence.

“May I um keep these?” Carl asks holding up my panties.

“No.”

“Claire says since she beat you, they belong to her.”

“No...Aren’t you going to take your clothes off?” I ask.

“Um..I will in a minute. Um, first, let’s pretend you’re in a nude catty wrestling match and your opponent banged up your boobs and made you submit the first fall. I’ll be your cornerman and massage them so you’ll feel better. Uh..is that OK.”

“Be gentle,” I warn.

A pair of sweaty nervous hands approach my bare breasts, fingers extended, stretched out like claws.

“Carl, NO!” I scold. “You don’t squeeze like you’re honking a horn. Come up from underneath with your palm like this, then very lightly work your fingers up, around the nipple at first, then gradually move toward the nipple itself. And...Oh Geez, why am I telling you this?”

He sits me on a kitchen stool like a fighter in her corner. “Poor baby, you’ll get her in the next fall,” he coos. “I’ll help you.” He follows my direction. His caresses are clumsy but improved.

“Look,” he exclaims, “your nipples are stiff. They’re standing up. You LIKE this, don’t you? That is so cool! Come on baby, let’s see those nips go.”

Actually, my nipples are stiff because I’m chilly but I’m not going to rain on his parade. His hands grope around my boobs like a child with a new toy. At least he’s more gentle this time. He is still fully clothed and wearing his glasses. For thirty minutes, we go through this charade of role playing with me as a nude catfighter or wrestler and Carl as my boyfriend cornerman or manager. Carl makes up fight stories as I sit on the stool acting like I’m waiting for the bell. With each “return” to my corner, Carl massages my back, shoulders, and boobs. He rubs my feet. He washes me with a sponge, dries me with a towel, gives me water to drink, tends to my bruises and scratches. His hard on is obvious. I hope he loses his load in his pants and gets me off the hook. It’s not happening. I want to speed this along and get it over with. I suggest a story where I score a dramatic come from behind victory after taking a dreadful beating. After the hard fought win, Carl and his nude woman celebrate by running to his bedroom where I rip his clothes off and we do the deed. He agrees.

I stumble around, acting battered and exhausted, but victorious. Returning to my stool, Carl and I hug, he raises my left hand in victory. I taunt my imaginary opponent, “Don’t ever think of flirting with my man again.” I take Carl by the hand into the bedroom. I unbutton his shirt and pull it off of him. Next, I undo the belt buckle. He removes his pants himself and I’m given the honors of separating him from his underwear. Here we are, standing naked in front of each other like two awkward teenagers. Without his clothes, Carl looks like I expected - like a chicken with its feathers plucked off. He is short, thin, and pale. He has a stooped over posture. His cock is at least average size. His ass is as scrawny as any I’ve ever seen. I lead him to his bed, roll on my back, spread my legs and wait. It’s technical, Kiva, no strings attached, I remind myself. I wait...and wait.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he answers, “I’ll be ready in a minute.” I see that he is not ready. I shouldn’t be surprised. I still intimidate him. I acted too aggressively for someone like him.

“It’s OK Carl,” I reassure him. “You’re nervous. It happens a lot the first time.”

We go back to role playing. I tell him fight stories. I pose. I massage his back. I let him suck my tits. He has no problem getting hard, until we’re in bed just at the magic moment. He watches catfight videos. Same result. At this point, I feel I’ve done enough. I put in a good faith effort.

“Carl, you’ll be fine,” I tell him. “There’s nothing wrong with being alone with your fantasies. But a flesh and blood partner is a different ballgame. You just need the right person, someone you’re comfortable with, someone who is your peer. Sex is best when you explore it together with that special person. You’ll meet her someday.”

“We can tell your sister we did it. She doesn’t need to know,” I added. “I’m going to go home now.”

“Kiva, don’t leave,” he pleads. The agreement is that you stay here until 7 am. I think I can do it.”

“There’s no point in putting this kind of pressure on yourself,” I respond.

“Kiva, um...will you do something for me?....Will you....wrestle me?”

“You and I in a wrestling match?” I’m not sure I heard that right.

“Yes,” he clarifies, “a nude mixed wrestling match.”

“No Carl, I’m not doing that. Beside, I have a bad shoulder.”

“It’s simple,” he explains. “If you win, you can leave. If I win, you stay. I’ll be easy on your shoulder, I promise.” I notice he’s not stuttering or stammering so much.

I don’t want to do this, but if it gets me out of this mess....I can beat him with one arm but I know I said that before. “OK, I accept,” I respond, “One fall, ten second pin. Freestyle rules. Do not attack my right arm or shoulder. Do not squeeze my boobs. Keep your fingers out of my crotch.”

“Deal,” he says. “Can I make a request? If I win, I want you to call me ‘stud muffin’.”

We face each other in his small living space. He’s a male but I find myself instinctively sizing him up. Small guy. He’s two inches shorter than me and probably weighs slightly less. His skin is so fair, he looks like he might sunburn if he stood too long in front of an open refrigerator. My 34C cup breasts protrude over his concave chest, my female nipples are amused over his useless pink male nubs. My bikini waxed triangle recoils in repulsion as it faces its erect phallic counterpart arising from its nest of blonde pubic hair. My hands and feet are bigger. My muscle tone is better. I’m more athletic. I can take this guy.

Except...I feel like shit. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted. I was already beaten in a fight. My shoulder wants to fall off. I’ve been humiliated. I don’t know the status of my marriage.

“Ready Kiva?,” he asks.

We lock up in a collar and elbow tie up. My shoulder can’t take it and I immediately break off. I can’t believe I’m wrestling a man nude. The freakiness of it all would be overwhelming but after the events of tonight so far, I’m beyond being overwhelmed.

My naked opponent with the XY chromosome and I square off again. I’m forced to take a defensive approach. Carl lunges high reaching for the back of my neck but I push him away. Twice, he shoots for my legs but I easily elude him. My shoulder injury has taken away my mobility as well. My own attempts at leg dives are wholly ineffective. Carl can’t get through my defense and I can’t execute an offense. The two of us, a married nurse and mom and a socially inept IT tech, do an awkward nude dance around the room, pawing at each other.

Finally, I take a chance, lowering my shoulder and charge, driving him into the wall. I press forward with my body, feeling his hard dick on my thigh as I pin him upright. Hooking his armpit and tripping his feet with mine, I manage to send him to the floor. I’m slow to pounce. We grapple on the floor and before long Carl has the advantage. He puts me on my back, straddling my belly. He shifts forward trying to take hold of my arms as his dick rests on my tits. He makes the mistake of bringing his head and shoulders high up. I take full advantage bucking my pelvis, swinging my legs up high, hooking my ankles around his neck. It’s enough to knock the nerd off his mount, but he slips loose as I roll away and we both regain our feet.

Once again, we resume our stand up dance routine with me refuting Carl’s attempts at control. This time though, he’s successful. The diminutive man holds me around the waist lifting me off my feet. He spins around and throws me, sending me crashing down on my back, with him on top. I have my arm wrapped around his neck. The momentum of the throw rolls him off of me, and I continue to roll us into a full reversal.

Now it’s me in the mounted position. I perch myself on his lower chest, holding his arms. I stay low to avoid getting hooked by the skinny legs. Our arms struggle with each other, pushing and pulling. It’s a matter of time before I pin them and go home. Except...my shoulder hurts so much. I see this being another stale mate so I add reinforcement. I slide further up his chest pulling up my knees, digging them into his biceps, firmly schoolgirl pinning my man. 10 more seconds and I’m out of here.

“One...Two...Three,” I count.

His face and chest are red. The shoulder muscles twitch helplessly. The feet flail in futility.

“Four...Five...Six”

I don’t want to admit this to myself but I’m kind of enjoying this. Here I am dominating...a man. He’s defeated. Under my control. At my mercy. Helpless. I feel a flush of pride in securing another victory for girl power. I bask in the sensory input of the moment...my muscles flaring, the tangled matted dark hair over my face, skin glistening with sweat, the hot moist air blowing on my pussy....WHAT?

I look down with horror and disgust. How did this not occur to me? I was so focused on the win to remember that I’m nude. And my pussy is nearly in his face. Alarmed, I let out a gasp jerking my ass back toward his belly and dismount immediately. I know it doesn’t make sense. After all, I’m supposed to screw this guy. What’s the big deal? I don’t know. I’m a wife and mom. It just seemed so dirty and so...shameful.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I sigh.

I sit beside his supine body with my knees up. For a moment, we’re both still and quiet. I need to find a way out of this nightmare. I watch the bony chest heave to catch his breath. His muscle challenged arms lie at his side. His hard on has partially subsided. Maybe there is one other way to finish this.  I considered doing it earlier but resisted. It’s now time to take matters into my own hands - literally.

I cradle his balls with my palm, then slide my fingers up and around the shaft until I encircle the entire unit. Up and down I slide, ever so gently at first. I pause to massage the head with my thumb, then resume the stroking. Up and down, gradually picking up speed. The erection is full again. I need him to explode and we may be good till morning.

I’ve been at this for under a minute, and I know it’s getting close. He’s moaning. His cock has an extra firmness. “Come on, baby. Come on my stud muffin.” The breathing is faster and deeper, the moans more frequent. “Come on big guy. Let me be your...”

“STOP”, he yells, slapping away my hand. “I want to save it....for, you know...me and you.”

Defeated again. Carl wants to resume our wrestling match.

I can’t go on. I’m beyond being physically and emotionally spent. I need this to end now. Carl dives for my legs, I deliberately feed him my left arm and let him capture my thigh lifting me in a fireman’s carry. I practically flip myself over his back, landing on my ass on the floor. He moves in, seizing my ankles as I feign trying to escape. The runt folds me into a matchbook pin, pressing my feet over my head. My crotch points to the ceiling. My lower orifices, unaccustomed to light, bathe in the illumination of the overhead fluorescent bulbs. I fake a vain kick out attempt with my legs as Carl counts to ten.

“You’re pinned, Kiva,” he says. “Do you agree?”

“Yes, you win.”

“Who’s you’re master?”

“You are, sir.”

“What’s my name?”

“Stud muffin.”

“Kiva,” he whispers, “I think I can do it this time. Really, it’s going to stay hard. I can feel it. Let’s go in the bedroom.”

I can’t bear going through anymore of this torture. I no longer care how this ordeal ends, just so it ends now. “No Carl,” I reply. “If you got it, you got it, just do it now, right here.”

He shifts back with his body, bringing me into a half fold position and holding on to my legs, keeping them spread apart with my feet up high. I see his member is fully erect and I brace myself for the consummation of our acquaintance. Carl’s eyes shift alternately between my vagina and his dick. He positions his penis with his hands and aims like a nervous golfer before the backswing. His unit lunges forward, missing its target wide left, plowing into my crotch just outside the labia. I wince.

“Let me help you,” I offer. I reach down with my hands, directing his incompetent cock to the front door of my inner sanctum, nudging the head to the opening. My sexual greenhorn rocks back with his pelvis, then thrusts forward sending his missile too far north.

“OUCH!” I yelp, as his rod rams directly into my clit, sending a surge of pain through my crotch.

“Sorry.”

I know what I must do.

“Carl, just lie on your back. I’ll do the rest,” I instruct.

He obeys as I climb on and mount his pale thin body. I straddle him at the pelvis, and lift up, holding his still hard organ. My womanhood hovers over his male member and I slowly descend, presenting my gateway. My pelvis drops further, sliding him through the portal, enclosing him in my personal box. The flushed face gasps, the undeveloped chest heaves with anticipation and wonder.

It’s not easy. Under these circumstances, I’m neither as moist or as open as I would ordinarily be, for this is purely a mechanical performance for me. Nevertheless, I glide up and down and rock back and forth, riding his shaft in a forward cowgirl position. His heavy breathing turns to moans as I increase the pace. He instinctively raises up his hips and I respond by grinding down with mine. His moans are louder, now turning to howls of ecstasy.

Faster and faster, I bounce, I rock, I grind. His hands claw at the carpet in delirious excitement. The belly twitches involuntarily. I decide to take him to the next level but I sense what’s about to happen. His organ seems to enlarge further and I detect a pulsing sensation inside me. Carl, his face bright red and sweaty, let’s out a high pitched scream. I feel a warm infusion fill my inner chamber. I feel his tumescence subside to softness. It’s over. I dismount and roll on my back beside him, fluid trickling down my thigh. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, and ponder the knowledge that I just gave Carl Wankum the best thirty seconds of his life.

“Kiva,” he whispers, “thanks.”

“Congratulations Carl,” I reply. “You’re a man now.”

He suggests we both sleep in his bed. I decline and opt for a blanket on the floor of his living space. Finally, I’m alone. And I’m miserable. I just got used for sex and I only have myself to blame. No strings attached? Who am I kidding? For women, strings are usually involved. I don’t blame Tom in the least for being upset. We both grew up in conservative traditional backgrounds where we were taught that any sex outside of marriage was a sin. But how can something that seems so inconsequential, lasting just thirty seconds be a sin? When I was a teen, a youth pastor said that a girl who loses her virginity to anyone she’s not going to marry later presents herself to her husband as a chewed piece of gum that had been in other mouths.  Lovely. Imagine. Only a misogynistic patriarchal society can conceive such an idea. Each couple defines what sex means to them. For us, it was always about love and intimacy and I gambled with it like loose change. I’m dreading talking to Tom about it tomorrow.

It’s morning already. My duty is over. Wait. How did I get in Carl’s bed? I’m still naked. Did he move me? Where is he?

“Good morning, babe,” he greets entering the bedroom. He’s been up and dressed for awhile. Dressed? He’s wearing a freaking tux. “Time to get up, love. It’s our big day today.”

“What the fuck?”

I hear the apartment door open and there are voices. A man and a woman stand at the bedroom doorway.

“Why, there are the two lovebirds,” the woman trills. “This must be Kiva.”

“Do you mind?” I spout angrily as I pull a sheet over my nude body. I note the words “Carl’s Girl” has been written on my chest with a sharpie. The man and woman look like middle aged versions of Carl and Claire.

“I’m Carl Sr.,” says the man.

“And I’m Irene,” the woman adds “We’re Carl’s parents....She’s lovely, dear.”

“Yessir, Carl,” the man adds. “Looks like you got yourself a keeper.”

“Kiva, honey,” the woman adds. “We don’t have much time. Claire and I will help get you ready. The guests will be here soon. Carl’s dad will officiate the ceremony. I know you didn’t bring anything with you, so you will wear my dress.”

I’m too stunned and paralyzed to speak. “Www...wwhha...whaat?

She continues. “We’re so glad you’re joining our family, dear. You and Carl will have a wonderful life together. Life with Kiva and Carl...Carl an Kiva.”

“II..I.m mm,,married,” I could barely get out.

“That’s now invalid, dear. That was in the agreement you signed.”

“Nnn..no..NO. I’m getting out of here. My sweatsuit? Where are my clothes?”

Irene replies. “Oh we threw those dirty things away. They were from your old life. You’re one of us now.”

“She’ll make a wonderful Wankum,” says Carl Sr.

“Yes,” his wife agrees. “She’s thirty three years old but there should still be plenty of eggs left in those ovaries.”

“Just think,” Carl Sr. suggests. “Right now, millions of little Carl IIIs are swimming inside her.”

Claire appears in the doorway. The four of them surround the bed.

“It’s time, Kiva. You’re new life begins now.”

“NO,” I scream, getting my voice back. “LET ME OUT OF HERE.”

“Kiva”

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!”

“Kiva?” It’s a male voice.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!” His hand is on my left shoulder. He’s shaking me.

“KIVA!”

“LET GO!”

“KIVA...WAKE UP!”

“FUCK YOU, CARL!”

“Carl?”

“Tom?”

“”Yes,” says a familiar voice. “It’s me....you’re dreaming....And I’d say you’re having a hell of a nightmare.”

I quickly sit upright. My eyes gradually come into focus. For a few seconds I linger in a confused state unsure what’s real and what isn’t. My heart pounds rapidly, I breathe like I just sprinted. It becomes clearer. I’m in bed, my own bed, in my own bedroom...with my husband.

“Calm down,” he assures me. “It’s just me. I’ll get you a cup of water.”

“What day is it?”

“Saturday..7 am.”

“Clarissa?”

“She’s still asleep. Luanne will take her to dance class.”

“Tom?...did I have a fight last night?” I ask, still not fully oriented.

“No,” he answers. “That’s tonight...against Claire. Are you alright?”

Now I get it. “Yeah, it was a dream,” I sigh. “I’m fine.” Damn OxyContin.

I eat a light breakfast and drink my coffee. I feel both relieved and disturbed. The dream seemed so real, so horrible. Does it mean anything? Could it be foretelling my future? I take Chase on his morning neighborhood walk. The knowledge that I wasn’t really defeated, humiliated and sexually used made the morning air fresher than usual but the fight tonight with Claire and the stakes are still very real. I went to bed last night confident and eager to fight. This morning, I’m feeling apprehensive and, dare I say it, nervous? What happened to my confidence?

The day drags. I go out and runs errands. I read nursing journals. I pay bills. I just feel so...down. Why? It’s just a damn dream. Claire still sucks. And my shoulder still hurts. I rub on IcyHot and hope for the best.

Tom is still acting standoffish. The fight is a few hours away. He drops off Clarissa at Luanne’s. We prepare the den, move furniture, roll out the mats, set up cameras.

“Tom,” I ask, “Do you think dreams mean anything? Like omens?”

“No,” he answers, “there just brain electromagnetic activity processing sensory input, consolidating some data to memory and discarding others. The sensory input can be related to information, emotions, desires.”

“Do you think they could be mystical? Like messages sent to warn us? You know, like Ebenezer Scrooge? Was I visited by the ghost of catfighter future?”

“You’re really shook up by that dream,” he said. “It’s just your subconsciousness telling you that you’re an idiot.”

“Oh.” I know he’s right... “Tom, if I lose this fight, will you really have them thrown out if they try to take me?”

“That dream really got to you. You’re not so sure of yourself, are you? Where’s that confident brash fighter who was here last night? And if you lose...we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”

He’s right again. I’ve been awake for several hours, yet that nightmare hangs over me like a dark cloud. And any thought of sex seems repugnant. Do dreams reveal truths about ourselves? Maybe I’m not as good as I think I am. I’m losing my confidence and it shows. Is it possible to get PTSD from a bad dream?

I change into my attire for this fight. Instead of the sports bra and yoga pants, I choose a black sleeveless long legged body suit. I want to reveal as little flesh as possible. With Carl watching, I’d fight in a sumo suit.

They’ll be here any minute and I’m dreading it. The doorbell rings and I feel a knot in my stomach. As we let them in, Claire immediately glares at me like she hates my guts. The sight of Carl makes my skin crawl.

“Well bitch, are you ready to get taught some manners?” Claire snaps at me. Strange seeing such talk from a delicate looking face. I look right at her and...I don’t have a comeback. I remain silent.

We decide to start the fight right away and not waste time with niceties. Claire changes into a silver one piece tank suit. Tom and Carl take their corner positions. Claire and I meet in the center. Since she’s arrived, Claire seems agitated and surprisingly aggressive.

“I’m going to punish you, then hand you over to Carl, mean girl,” she snarls. “You will remember the name Wankum for the rest of your life.” I try to give her a dismissive look but her words send a chill through my body. She just summarized my dream.  She removes the large framed glasses and we go through the stare down. My body language accents our size differences. Our eyes lock. I’m surprised at the ferocity in her usually demure face. She looks like a killer. I have trouble matching her look of intensity and then,...my eyes fall to the floor. Oh fuck, she won the stare down. She intimidated me. She knows it. Dominance now shows in her face and body language.

We back up to a distance of ten feet apart and Tom gives the order, “FIGHT.”

Claire attacks me with an aggressiveness I haven’t seen in videos of her earlier fights, swinging wildly with a chaotic flurry of slaps. I effectively block them with my arms, then land a slap of my own to the face. She tries to grab on to my arms, but I grab hers, then shove her chest driving her backward. Pain immediately shoots through my shoulder and I struggle not to panic.

My opponent stumbles, recovers before falling, then charges again. Instinctively, I shift to a defensive stance, placing my left foot forward and pointing my left shoulder toward the bitch, attempting to protect my injury. I keep her at bay, jabbing and slapping with my left hand, making full use of my height and reach advantage. She tries to elude my left, making lunges at my hair.

I’m effectively one armed, looking for a way to generate offense. I raise my knee looking for an opening to kick the bitch in the belly. Claire stuns me by connecting with a face slap, creating a loud smacking sound. I keep my head and remain focus. Her head is within reach. I stretch my arm reaching for her hair then....oooommmph. I’m kneed in the crotch. Doubled over, pain throbbing in my pussy, I try to push through. Claire rushes to my vulnerable right side, seizes my right arm, searing my tormented shoulder. I get a horrible feeling of deja vu as I squeal and grab onto her hair, both of us tumbling to the mat. I roll her off my bad shoulder and the two of us are lying on our sides, slapping and pulling hair, shrieking and cursing. Claire’s mousy face has been transformed into that of a wild predator. We grab and kick, catballing across the floor. Sharp nails dig into the exposed areas of my body suit, namely the arms and shoulders. I’m bleeding slightly as she rakes her hand across my upper chest. I manage to pry her hand away which cost me a small piece of skin. Finally, I’m on top using my weight advantage. I press her arms down, fighting through the shoulder pain.

Despite the bottom position, the deranged social worker mouths off. “I’ll make you beg for mercy, bitch. And Carl’s going to fuck you so hard, you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.” Just then, I see her stretch her neck to the side, where I have her arm pinned down. She strains to move her head as far as she can to the side, then....opens her mouth, showing her teeth.

Fuck. This little shit is trying to bite me. A new feeling of anger floods over me. I no longer have any knowledge of the foolish stakes. My memory of the dream instantly evaporated. All I know is that I’m in a fight with a nut and I’ve got to put her away.

I release the hold to get away from her teeth. I rise to my feet and give her a kick in the ribs.

“Get up cxnt,” I growl at her.

She wastes no time scrambling upright and resumes her maniacal attack. With elbows flexed and hands bearing claws in the air, she races toward me. I see my opening. I don’t have my big right arm today but I have my left, digging the hardest hook I have thrown from that side into her ribs underneath the elbow. She folds over and staggers. I circle to the side and slam a hard left handed slap to the face. Claire stumbles around, then falls on all floors.

Like a cat, I stealthily position myself behind her and wait. I’m rewarded for patience when Claire pushes herself to her knees, holding her head upright. I snake my arms under her armpits, clasping my hands behind her head into a full nelson. Pushing down on the back of her head for all I’m worth, I see her talons on each side of me helplessly clawing at air. This hold isn’t helping my shoulder but I have so much weight advantage and leverage, I know it won’t be long.

“I give,” she groans. “Let go of me.”

I release immediate as to not cause neck injury. Claire falls back on all fours and I flatten her with a stomp to the back.

“So bitch,” I taunt, “You’re going to kick my ass and Carl is going to do me, huh? I would have to take some bad drugs before I could ever begin to imagine that.”

I return to my corner where Tom and I share a long passionate kiss while Claire grovels on the mat. I don’t even want to bother with a victory pose. I just want to put this whole episode behind me and I want them out of my house now.

“Good fight Claire,” I tell her. “No hard feelings, OK. I’ll see you around at work. Carl, good luck in Cali. I’ll help you out to your car when you’re ready.”

“Kiva?” Carl asks, “Can I uh speak with you...” He adds with a whisper...”privately.” I lead him to the kitchen away from his sister’s hearing range.

“I uh...,” he begins “I want to let you know I accepted the job in Cali.”

“That’s great Carl,” I commend.

“And..I...I...want to say that I...would not have taken you to my apartment if you had lost.”

“No?” I ask.

“No” he answers. “It wouldn’t be right. I uh want my first time to be with a girl who wants to be with me...not just there because she lost a bet. I’d want it to be good for both of us.”

“Well Carl,” I reply, “that’s very thoughtful and considerate of you. A lot of guys would take advantage of the situation.”

“And...” He pauses and stammers more than usual. “Uh...Claire...said...you...read the story I wrote. And...I’m sorry.  I never meant for anyone to see it. You must think I’m really weird and creepy.”

“We all find ourselves attracted to other people,” I explain. “It’s just how we’re wired. We all fantasize. It’s easy to create imaginary people and places inspired by others around us. We all have our secret place inside us where we store these fantasies. They are only for us. If we’re lucky, we may share some of them with those we love. Just remember that they only exist in the imagination. The Kiva you created is not me. That’s fine as long as she stays locked up in your secret place. Claire had no right to read your story and allow me to see it. Just be careful next time.”

“I will...And I uh have something to tell you.....I met someone.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he tells me. “She lives in Cali. I met her gaming online. She’s not far from my new job. We’re meeting in person next week.”

“Are you sure she’s real?” I warn. “The internet is what it is.”

“She is real. We’ve been video chatting all week.”

“Very nice,” I say. “I wish you the best.”

We hear Claire’s voice shouting from the den. “Carl, Let’s GO!”

Carl and I chit chat for another minute. I tell him that I appreciate him reaching out to me. Thanks to our honest conversation I feel a burden lifted. I have a little more respect and appreciation for Carl. Finally, I feel like this whole episode is resolved.

“Come on, Carl, I’ll walk you out...and I have a parting gift for you.”

“You do?”

“Yes” I walk him back to the den where Claire is waiting and Tom is restoring the furniture arrangement. I take a head shot portrait of me from the desk and sign it. I watch him blush as he reads:

“To Carl,
My #1 fan and stud muffin.
Kiva”

As the ever so gracious hostess, I walk my guests to their car. Claire remains silent and sullen. I breathe a huge sigh of relief as their vehicle pulls away.

At that moment my cell phone rings. It’s Billy. He asks if I would like a cage fight with Paige as the lead in to the Kelli-Jolene fight. At first I excitedly say yes but remembered my shoulder. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice. Kelli taught me that. She once hurt her ribs fighting a beast named Candace. She fought again too soon and lost to a smaller woman who had no business beating her. I tell Billy I need a few days to see how my shoulder comes along but he insists on an answer now. Regrettably, I decline the fight. Shit. This is the second time I’ve had to turn down a fight at Billy’s but he assures me I’ll have more opportunities. I’m sure Paige will let me have it. She’ll probably say I’m afraid of her and faked the injury but I’m not going to put myself at a disadvantage. We’ll have our day.

Walking up our driveway, a pair of male hands grabs my waist from behind. I jump. My silly husband.

“You dodged quite a bullet, dear,” he says.

“I know.”

“I’ll think I’ll write my own Life With Kiva story,” he jokes.

“Oh yeah,” I shoot back. “Tell me, what is life with Kiva like?”

“Well,” he teases, “it’s never boring but it’s bad for my health. It’s going to give me an early heart attack.”

“Well, I know some good cardiologists,” I reply....”Tom, you’re right. What I did this time really took the cake. I owe you big time. Tell me what you’d like me to do for you. I promise I’ll do it.”

He puts his arm around my shoulder as we head toward the front door. He answers. “We have two more hours before we pick up Clarissa. I can think of something you can do for me.”

As we open the door and step inside, I place my arm around his waist and rest my head on his shoulder. And I’m reminded of how wonderful life, marriage.....and sex can be.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

-Kiva. 


The Kelli-Jolene cage fight has been posted. A must read!
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=78153.13
 Head to Head with a Home Wrecker p10, ch 28

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on February 14, 2021, 05:09:31 AM

OMG... I was hating you so much. Which was brilliantly done by the way. Let's go on a little trip through Kelli's brain while reading this...

I'm so ready to read a beat down.

Uh oh, with Tom being mad and Kiva's shoulder being hurt this could get interesting

Wine and Oxy are a bad combo... this could be close.

surely this is a bad dream...

Kiva still has this...

Surely this is a bad dream...

Ok Tom will inspire her, Kiva has this...

Please be a bad dream....

Nooooo!!!!!!....

Well Tom will throw them out...

Maybe Carl won't want this...

Oh fuck..this can't be happening....

Please oh please be a bad dream... please...

Oh God... Kiva is naked.... no, no, no, no....

Oh fuck... Carl is naked.... I can't handle this...I'm stopping.. I just can't...

Ok, I have to finish this...

Oh thank God, she can beat him!

Nooooo!! (Again)

No Kiva... for the love of God. I'll start my own catpin club... don't do it!

Holy Fuck!!!!! She did it.... Noooooo!!! (Again)

Oh now comes the fucking bad dream... fucking brilliant but I hate you now....

Dear lord... Kiva just pulled an "Inception" moment ... I love you again...

On to the real fight..

Ok... Kiva has some stuff to work through but she's got this...

Yessss!!! That's what I'm talking about

Sweet, Carl's an ok guy - perfect cherry on top

Standing ovation after a slow clap.

--Kelli

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on February 15, 2021, 04:08:50 PM

Thanks so much Kelli. That was a dirty trick putting you through all of that. My hope was that this would be a roller coaster ride of a story that would get the heart racing a little, knowing I’d probably tick off readers in parts, but hopefully come in for a smooth landing. I love the Inception comparison.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on February 16, 2021, 10:04:54 AM

I think there's something rather noble about a sister defending the honour of her nerd of a little brother. And when she's a scrawny klutz who can't fight for toffee apples, it only makes her more heroic. I'd love it if she won one. There must be someone in Texas she can beat. I'll hold her coat. And her specs.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Altered Ego on March 01, 2021, 07:55:40 PM

Excellent effort. Lots of twists and turns- none of them being tired or overused. The characters were complicated and interesting. Everything flowed well with the rest of your chapters and everyone's actions seemed consistent with how they've acted previously. Such a well thought out world.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on March 02, 2021, 09:08:06 PM

Quote from: Altered Ego on March 01, 2021, 07:55:40 PM

Excellent effort. Lots of twists and turns- none of them being tired or overused. The characters were complicated and interesting. Everything flowed well with the rest of your chapters and everyone's actions seemed consistent with how they've acted previously. Such a well thought out world.

Thank you A.E., I’m glad you enjoyed it. One really fun thing about being an extended guest in FyreCracka’s universe is experimenting with both old and new characters and plots while keeping my vision of this wonderful place consistent with Kelli’s. It’s been a blast. Thanks to all for reading!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on May 20, 2021, 10:10:12 PM

Chapter 7: Destiny

Each of us
A cell of awareness
Imperfect and incomplete
Genetic blends
With uncertain ends
On a fortune hunt
That's far too fleet

You can choose a ready guide
In some celestial voice
If you choose not to decide
You still have made a choice

You can choose from phantom fears
And kindness that can kill
I will choose a path that's clear
I will choose free will
-Rush

Her name is Destiny. She is the 18 year old child.... I mean woman,...standing opposite from me in the cage. Like me, she is shaking her arms, bouncing and shuffling her feet in place. Her blonde hair is in a ponytail, her fair skin is covered in tattoos. The referee calls us to the center. We both obey as I walk off to meet her with my trainer Freddie behind me, rubbing my shoulders. Now is the stare down. Our blue eyes are fixed on each other’s. She gives me her best scowl as I do the same. My sports bra and bikini bottom are black, hers are blue. We are wearing 10 oz. boxing gloves and are barefoot. The fight is scheduled for 10 two minute rounds with one minute in between.

The referee is reviewing the rules but I’m not hearing it. It’s a typical crowd tonight at Billy’s. Electric. Horny. Bloodthirsty. My fight is the lead in to Jolene’s caged catfight title defense against Patricia in a fight billed as “Battle of the Gingers.” Inside the cage, I fight back the butterflies. The air smells like cigarette and cigar smoke and spilt beer. The lights are bright, it’s hard to make out faces in the crowd. I know Tom is out there. I think Kelli and Jake are still here. I suspect Jolene and Paige are watching. The rest are nameless silhouettes of ranchers, oil workers, factory employees, business persons, accountants and lawyers.

Destiny looks very confident, as if she owns the place. She’s a self-absorbed twit who’s already made several poor life decisions, making a living as a stripper and a hustler. She had been after me for weeks wanting a fist fight. She considers herself a striker. After watching videos of my knockouts of Freda and Ginger, she marked me as an opponent. I wasn’t very enthused. With Destiny at 5’3 and 115 lbs, I didn’t need another undersized opponent. She persisted. Finally, she took the idea to Billy who offered to sponsor a bare knuckle cage fight. Not for me. In my profession, I can’t afford to injure my hands. Billy suggested boxing with gloves. When I hesitated, he reminded me that I turned down his last two offers to fight and after strike three, he’s done with me. At least I’m getting paid for tonight.

Destiny has more fighting experience. I never boxed before. I have a 4 inch and 13 lb size advantage. It has occurred to me that getting knocked out by a smaller teenager will be humiliating. I’ve trained hard for this, working out at 4 am, then after work. Freddie hooked me up with Hector, a retired former world lightweight champion who now runs a gym in town, specializing in teaching boxing to women. Both men are working my corner tonight. Destiny’s corner woman is her mother, a blonde woman named Krystal who looks eerily like Kelli’s evil twin. Think of Kelli Rose as a weatherbeaten, tattooed, foul mouthed, chain smoking skank and you have a pretty good picture of Krystal.

The referee orders us to touch gloves and return to our “corners,” actually opposite ends of a square enclosed by the chain link fence. Freddie inserts my mouthpiece and applies Vaseline to my face. My long hair is braided and tied back. Hector quickly goes over last second strategy.

“Oh Kiva?,” he says. I turn toward him. “Your necklace. You’re still wearing your necklace. Take it off.”

“Oh shit, I forgot.” I lower my head as the bald fit middle aged man removes the gold plated jewelry.

****6 hours earlier****

“Elena, take a deep breath. Nice. Again. Good. Now lie back. I’m going to press on your belly. Tell me if anything hurts.”

The young Latina woman assists me in completing my assessment. Weak and anemic, a hint of beauty still shone through her sickly form. The pretty brown eyes managed to glimmer like a sunbeam breaking through the clouds. Pale and malnourished, I could sense an inner strength pushing back against the disease ravaging her body.

A young wife and mother of two, Elena was in excellent health until she was struck with an aggressive form of acute myelogenous leukemia. After a rocky course of toxic chemotherapy and body irradiation, she underwent a stem cell transplant. Since then, she’s had a string of complications. Her immune system obliterated, she was in and out of my ICU with infections. Recovering from severe pneumonia, she improved enough to come off the mechanical respirator yesterday.

“Kiva...,” the frail young woman said with a mischievous gleam in her eye and lips trying to hold back a sly smile. “I can’t believe I got stuck with you as my nurse. This is too funny.”

“I’m going to flush your IV,” I explained.

“You know, Kiva, it’s a good thing we’re not wearing our catpins right now. Or I’d have to get out of this bed and kick your ass.”

We both laughed. I had met Elena online a few months ago. We had a catty exchange and explored an arranged fight. We couldn’t find a mutually agreeable date, and then she disappeared, not answering my messages. At the time, I had no idea why.

“I have a rule, Elena,” I joked. “I require all of my opponents to be off the ventilator for at least three days.”

“So...you want to set up an arranged fight,” she asked with another coy smirk.

“When you’re ready, dear. But right now, you and I are a tag team. I’ll hold down the leukemia, and you....”, I whisper in her ear so only she hears my words,...”kick it in the pussy.”

“I can’t believe you said that,” she giggled.

“Hey, what’s a little shop talk between two catfighting sisters...right?...But next, back to business. You need a breathing treatment, your IV antibiotics, physical therapy, and your doctors are planning a bone marrow biopsy to...you know, check on the status of the leukemia...to see if it tapped out yet.”

“Cancel the biopsy. I’m not doing it.”

“Why?”

“It hurts.”

“I know, hun, but it’s really important. You’ve been through so much already, this will tell us so much,” I offer.

“What would you do?”

“I’d have the biopsy.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“I know it’s hard, Elena,” I say, trying my best counselor voice. “Somethings happen that are out of control. No one knows why you got leukemia. But all we can do is control what we can by making the best choices.”

“Fine,” she replies. “You talked me into it...Bitch,” she adds with a grin.

“Sounds good to me...Skank,” I shoot back. We laugh again.

Some may consider my interaction inappropriate and unprofessional. I disagree. Every patient relationship is unique and appropriateness is determined within that context. Because of our shared hobby, I could connect with Elena in a way like no other nurse.

“Kiva,” the pretty but chronically Ill looking Hispanic woman says, “My mother is coming today. She has something for you.”

I have no idea what she means but I thank her, finish up my shift and say goodbye. “See you tomorrow, sweetie,” I said. “A little more progress and we can get you out of the ICU, so get some rest and get those nails sharpened.”

My shift is over but not my working day. As the manager, I head back to my office where paperwork and budget spreadsheets await. I pause at my desk pondering the irony. A few months ago, Elena and I planned to rip each other’s hair out. Now here we are with a common goal of saving her life. I guess that’s destiny.

My thoughts are interrupted by a tap on the door and in my office walks a young, very attractive woman.

“Hey girl, I wanted to catch you before you leave,” she says. It’s Tori, one of the hospital pharmacists. She’s only in her early 20s, having joined us last year after college graduation.
“I hear your fighting at Billy’s tonight,”

“Yeah,” I reply.

“Well guess what,” she says excitedly, “so am I.”

“Wait,...did you say you’re fighting tonight at Billy’s?

“You got it. I’m in the opening fight...in the cage..It’s gonna be AWESOME!”

I did a double take.  At 5’8” and about 140 lbs, Tori has a very athletic body, having competed in multiple sports. She approached me several weeks ago about taking up catfighting. She joined the website, then had her first arranged match with another newbie and won easily.

“Tori,” I explained. “I’m not understanding this. You’re fighting tonight at Billy’s? How many fights have you had.”

“This will be my second.”

It’s not computing. “Uh, how did you get this match.”

“I went down to Billy’s, spoke with him myself, and he booked me. It’s so cool. I’m gonna get paid.”

“Does he know you’re inexperienced?”

“Yup, he knows. But he told me he had the perfect opponent in mind for me.”

I still can’t wrap my head around this. Maybe Billy is matching up rookies these days, but something about booking Tori really smells bad.

“Tori, I warned, “I don’t like this. Don’t ever trust Billy. The man is slime. There is no good reason for you to be fighting in a cage in a place like that yet.”

“No worries,” she responds. “I can handle myself. I can’t wait to get in there and kick some ass.”

“Uh,..do you know who your opponent is tonight.”

“Yup, Billy picked her out. “He said he knows I can take her. And guess what? She’s somebody you know? Guess who it is.”

“Uh, Freda?”

“No.”

“Deanna?”

“Nope.”

“Claire?”

“Wrong again.”

“I give up...Who?”

“Kelli ‘FyreCracka’ Rose.”

“Wh..Wha...WHAT! Tori, tell me I didn’t hear what I just thought I heard.”

“You heard that right. I’m fighting Kelli Rose at Billy’s tonight.”

“Alright Tori, I’m missing something. So, you’ve had one fight. You went to see Billy and he’s paying you to fight Kelli Rose in a cage. And he told you he thinks you’ll win?”

“Correct on all points, sugar,” she answered.

I’m still not processing this. Furthermore, I don’t understand the confidence and smugness exuded by this upstart over the idea of fighting Kelli.

“Alright Tori, look here,” I chided. “Something is seriously fucked up about this. You know Kelli can fight like hell. She’s had at least thirty fights so far.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said almost dismissively.

“And you honestly think you’re a match for her?”

“Yep,” she replied without hesitation....”She’s old.” Good Lord, the smugness.

“Tori, do you have any idea what kind of shit you’re stepping in?”

“Look, I know Kelli used to be good, but she’s finished. I’m younger, I’m stronger, I’m faster. She has no idea what I’m going to hit her with.”

“Tori,” I cautioned. “You’re making a big mistake. I don’t know what Billy has up his sleeve but it stinks to high heaven.”

“No worries. Have you seen Kelli fight lately?” she asked. “She’s too slow. I was there when Jolene knocked her out. Fuck, Jolene telegraphed that punch. Anyone could have seen it coming a mile away. Kelli just doesn’t have it anymore. Imagine what I can do to her.”

“I was there too,” I retorted. “That’s not how I saw it.”

“Well you’re not exactly a spring chicken either, dear,” Tori scoffed. “I mean, come on, that Housewives Division is a joke. A bunch of grannies rolling around, pulling hair and slapping each other. They all need to move on. I’ll retire them one by one, starting with Kelli.”

“Yeah right,” I replied with my own dismissive tone. “Tori, you do know what happens to catfight losers at Billy’s, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” she said sounding annoyed. “They get stripped, I told you, I’ve been to Billy’s before.”

“And you’re OK with that.”

“Hell yeah,” she answered, taking her smugness to another level. “I’ll feel bad for the crowd, having to look at Kelli’s saggy ass again.”
   
“Kelli is in great shape,” I snapped back.

“Yeah, for an old lady....And those things on her chest she calls tits...”

That did it. I briskly arose from my desk and approached the misguided fledgling catfighter and stood nose to nose with her as if we were having our own prefight stare down.

 “Alright Tori,” I said in the most sonorous and stern voice I could, “I cannot possibly make what I’m about to say any clearer. Kelli is going to rip you apart limb by limb. You will be left in the cage naked and humiliated, being jeered and leered by a crowd of bloodthirsty and lustful animals. The only way I can see this not happening is if Kelli somehow has a fit of compassion and decides to let you off easy. But don’t count on it. A fight is a fight.”

“You have a choice,” I added. “There’s still time to get out of the fight; I’d be happy to take the hit for it from Billy, if you’d like. Or...you can get in the cage with Kelli and face your destiny. The choice is yours.”

With our faces just inches apart, her hazel eyes stared into my blue ones. Her shoulder length walnut brown hair contrasted with my dark brown. I wondered if she would shove me to start a fight in my office. Instead, she slowly turned toward the office door, then turned her face to me one final time.

“See you at Billy’s...loser,” she muttered, as she exited, closing the door behind her.

“You made you’re choice,....bitch,” I mumbled to myself.

Kelli. I’ve been wondering a lot about her lately. After her loss to Jolene, she deliberately took time away from Billy’s to regroup. She fought a few fights. She told me an incredible story about a fight she had in a mud pit with the matriarch of an Indian catfighting family. She mentioned a fight she had in her own home with one of Jake’s old girlfriends. It must have been wild. She won but she was pretty vague about how she finished off the woman. Even when I pressed her, she would only say, “I was the better woman.” Maybe she’ll explain it someday. Kelli even found a new fighting venue in a very exclusive club that caters to high society. I’d love to learn more about it.

I can understand if Kelli is ready to return to Billy’s to make another run at Jolene. But against a nobody like Tori? In the first match of the card? She can’t be happy about it. Does Billy think she’s a has been? Is he into squash matches? Actually, I suspect he’s trying to screw with Kelli’s mind. Maybe insulting her with a prelim fight is his way of firing her up for a Jolene rematch.

I called Kelli and asked her if the Tori fight was true. Her response was so laden with profanity, it just about melted my cellphone. When she calmed down, my suspicions were confirmed. Billy denied her request for a Jolene rematch, insisting she’s fallen down in the rankings and must fight her way back into contention. What bullshit! She didn’t know until today that her opponent has little experience, but she feels she has to go through with it. As I presumed, Kelli is pissed. We’re both thinking the same thing. Billy is playing mind games.

I locked my office door and walked down the hall. The elevator door opened and I hurried inside it not noticing the woman exiting it as I walked past her. “Kiva?” a lovely 60ish Latina woman called. Embarrassed, I turned back toward her and apologized for my inadvertent rudeness to Elena’s mom.

I hurried up home, washed, had a very light meal, packed my gym bag, waited for the babysitter, and Tom drove us to Billy’s. My cover charge was waived tonight. We walked through the darkened doors and into the familiar dim and smoky air, illuminated by the bar’s neon lights. Across from the bar is the arena, centerpieced by the foreboding chain link fence cage. The cageside seats were still sparsely filled as it’s early in the evening. We headed toward the dressing room to drop off my gear, passing barstools and booth tables. As I feared, Jolene and Paige were with their husbands at their favorite corner booth. Paige and I had been at each other for weeks. I declined a cage fight with her due to a shoulder injury a while back and she relentlessly uses that against me. “Oh look who showed up tonight,” she barbed. “Want me to carry your gym bag, little girl. We don’t want you to hurt your shoulder again.” I ignored her. She’s not worth losing my focus. I have a fight tonight.

I met Kelli and Jake in the back area. Kelli was already in her red bikini and stretching, being in the opener. I felt a twinge of sadness knowing that her favorite camouflage bikini is now in Jolene’s trophy case. I really hope Kelli gets another shot at the redheaded bitch. But tonight, she’s a curtain jerker and the look on her face said it all. We nod and waved at each other but did not speak. She’s in the zone, looking like she’s about to kill a bear. There will be plenty of time to talk later.

Further back, I saw Patricia with her husband Randall and daughter Gina. I know Patricia from the country club. She’s another trophy wife with whom I have little in common, but I like her. She can be a little rough around the edges, but I admire her no nonsense approach. We get along fine. I really hope she wins tonight. I wished Patricia luck and she did the same to me. We hugged as Tom and Randall briefly chatted about golf.

Another dressing room door opened and I caught a glimpse of Tori in her cream colored bikini. I’m immediately struck by the youthfulness and vitality she radiates. Her body is magnificent. Not rock hard, but strong, vibrant, yet still feminine. She radiates vigor and youth. For a brief moment, I wondered if she would be a tough match for Kelli. Nah, I told myself as Tori sneered at me, closing her dressing room door.

Tom and I found my room, we dropped off my stuff and went out to watch the first fights. Tori was introduced first to music. She bounced down in the aisle in her bikini to a raucous response, eating it all up, smiling, waving, fist bumping. She’s not lacking confidence, I thought. That’s for sure.

Kelli came next. I had never seen her like this. Usually, she loves to interact with the crowd. Tonight there was none of that. She approached the cage, looking straight ahead, deadly serious and angry. I can’t blame her. Booking her with Tori is an insult. It was clear to me Kelli wanted to end this travesty quickly.

I was disappointed to see Tori get the louder crowd response during the introductions. I supposed they enjoyed seeing a new young fighter, especially one with Tori’s looks. She played  it up, doing a little twerk when her name was announced. The two women were called together to the center of the cage. I had never seen Kelly wear such a fearsome staredown expression. Tori, however, was clearly not intimidated and practically laughed in Kelly’s face. Could this girl possibly be a bigger fool? I wondered.

Unfortunately, the answer was “yes.” The young pharmacist, still nose to nose with Kelly, reached her arms behind her back. Next thing I knew, her 35D bikini top was off, as the crowd popped with wild cheers. Shocked I watched her puff out her chest, waving around the top, while acknowledging the crowd. This moron is really asking for it, I thought.

Kelli remained motionless and without expression during this charade. Tori, as if she didn’t provoke her enough motioned for Kelli to remove her top as well. Tori clearly had control of the crowd as they joined with her urging Kelli to go topless, beginning a chant, “Take it off, take it off.”

Reluctantly, Kelli gave in, finally removing the top part of her bikini, baring her breasts, as the crowd erupted again. I can’t possibly imagine how pissed she is. They continued their stare down, with Tori very pleased and proud of her body. She clearly believes hers is superior to Kelli’s and has no doubt the crowd feels the same. She imposed her breasts into Kelli’s space, practically touching the blonde’s 34Bs.

What the fuck? I thought. I just want this fight to get started. Once it does, I’m sure it will end quickly. It’s irritating for me watching Kelli having to put up with this nonsense. What does Tori think she is accomplishing? I wondered. Yes, her body is younger, her tits are bigger, but Kelli’s done this enough times to not be intimidated. At age 39, she’s confident in her own skin to be thrown off by this shit.

As the ref ordered the women back to their respective edges of the cage, the combatants remained in their bare chested stare down for a few more seconds. And then, against all wisdom, Tori, for reasons known only to her, reached a new low in disrespect, thrusting her upper body forward, nailing Kelli with a chest bump, their tits crashing, knocking the blonde backwards several feet. The crowd rocked again. I was sure Kelli would rush her before the bell and beat the crap out of her on the spot. I certainly would have. Kelli, with her experience showed remarkable restraint, glaring at the woman while returning to her corner. Tori’s antics won over the crowd, who began chanting her name before the fool did a lick of fighting. With one look at Kelli, it was clear she had a plan. The bell was about to ring. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Ding,” Both fighters rushed to the center of the cage. Tori tried to be the aggressor, going right after Kelli with her hands up, looking to land heavy blows. Kelli was unfazed, calmly maneuvering to the side as the inexperienced pharmacist swung wildly. The veteran blonde fired a few counter slaps to the face. Tori, who possibly may have never been hit before, appeared to panic immediately, sloppily lunging after her opponent’s hair. As she reached in, the young fool left her belly wide open as a target that was impossible for Kelli to miss. A hard right to the midsection doubled the brunette over. A hard slap to the face nearly turned her head around.

Ever the brawler, Kelli than charged at her disoriented prey, driving her backward, crashing her back into the cage. Trapped, Tori could do nothing to defend against the barrage of blows to the abdomen and kidney area. One punch after another, fists buried into the youthful flesh. Kelli stepped back, letting her victim fold forward in half, then pitch headfirst to the canvas in a heap.

Considering Tori’s prefight tit comparison contest, I could have guessed what came next. Yanking her battered victim up by the hair, Kelli maneuvered behind the rookie, locking the arms behind her back. With her front unprotected, I winced as Kelli drove her forward into the fence. Sandwiched between Kelli and the fence, Tori’s boobs were pressed between the links. And then Kelli did it. She raked Tori’s body along the fence, scraping the defenseless tits across the links. At this point, the fight was only about a minute lsince the opening bell. Watching the metal dig into tit flesh, I started to worry for Tori, knowing how upset Kelli was. I wondered how far she would take it. Fortunately, the answer was not much further.

Tori, her chest and body red and scratched from Kelli’s fists and the fence, slumped helplessly as Kelli released her. Staggering to her feet, she was completely vulnerable and Kelli wasted no time seizing her by the waist and carrying her to the center of the cage before slamming her to the canvas like the proverbial sack of potatoes. I watched her moan and roll on to her belly as Kelli stood straddling over her. No sooner did Tori lift herself on her knees and elbows when Kelli cinched  on the body scissors, forcing the hapless pharmacist to her side. As I expected, Kelli clamped on the chin lock, pulling the neck upward while wrenching the body with her strong legs. I anticipated Tori’s submission as her moaning turned to wailing as her spine was helplessly stretched. That was, at least until Kelli released the chin lock, reaching her arms around her foe’s front, seizing both breasts with her hands, digging in with her nails. I tried to imagine Tori’s pain as Kelli’s claws raked her already battered boobs upward while the leg scissors yanked her body downward. I didn’t have to imagine for long. The formerly smug newbie screamed in agony for a few seconds before screeching, “I GIVE UP...STOP...PLEASE!”
Kelli gave her leg scissors hold one last hard spasm before releasing the woman who failed to heed my warning.

The ending bell rings as Kelli stands, leaving her crumpled opponent on the cage floor. The referee takes hold of her arm to raise it in victory, but the blonde brawler yanked it away and glared at her in disgust. She didn’t want this victory. She didn’t want a celebration. She didn’t want this fight. She wanted to move on from this farce as quickly as possible.

Billy entered the cage and Kelli went at him like a starving pit bull. At 5’6”, up on her toes, she did everything she could to get in the face of the 6’5” slime bucket. With her neck veins bulging, she unleashed a verbal torrent from which he could not escape. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but I can read lips and I think every other word contained the root word, “fuck”. It was almost comical. Forced to endure Kelli’s mouthy assault, I could see the large bald head nodding frantically, saying only, “Okay, okay, okay, huh, huh, yeah, okay” as she gave him more than a piece of her mind.

On the other side of the cage, I saw Destiny had arrived. The sight of her put butterflies in my stomach with the realization that I will very shortly be in a boxing match. Turning my attention back to the cage, Tori was now nude as Kelli had rightfully removed and claimed the loser’s bikini bottom. The unhappy winner began to exit the cage, looked at the cream colored brief she had just won, then tossed them back into the cage before heading to the back dressing area. I understood. It wasn’t worthy of her trophy collection. Why keep any reminder of this abomination?

Tori slowly and stiffly rose from the canvas as a battered blithering mess to a chorus of jeers, whistles, and decadent comments. She tried her best using her arms and hands to hide her bush and bruised breasts as she stumbled her way out of the cage. Burned into my memory is the lasting image of her bare ass skulking down the aisle to laughter and insults. I tried.

Freddie and Hector made their way over to me. “Time to get ready, champ.” I left Tom and headed to the back rooms. My hair was already braided and tied up. Dressed in only a few minutes, I waited for my trainers to come tape my hands and glove me.

I sat alone in the dressing room. And felt very lonely. I’ve heard of the extreme isolation a boxer feels in the minutes before a fight. The nervousness, the anticipation, the struggle against fear - its all very real. Even if someone is physically present with you, you feel all...alone. I couldn’t stand it.

I walked out of the room and paced the hallway, hoping to slightly relieve my anxiety. A door opened, Kelli and Jake stepped out.

“Hey,” I breathed out.

“Hey”

“You okay?”

“Better.”

“God, Kelli, I don’t know what to say. It sucks what Billy is putting you through....So, is he giving you a Jolene rematch?”

“Well, let’s just say Billy and I are negotiating. I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, you just focus on Destiny. Remember, she’s fast and she’s got a jab but you can cut the ring in half and hit her.”

Kelli’s right. Destiny doesn’t hit hard, but she can move and she’s elusive. Her left jab can mark up your face and eat you alive as the fight goes on. My trainers and I watched her videos. I have a size and power advantage. The strategy is to not let her dance circles and jab. We worked on techniques to take away her space. It was all about to happen in a few minutes. Shit, I was nervous.

“Good luck, hon,” Kelli offered. “We‘ll be out there for you.” I hugged the two of them as they headed out of the back room dressing area.

“Thanks.”

Down the hallway, I heard a noise...like loud sobbing, like a woman..crying.

“Tori, it’s Kiva,” I announce as I tap on her door. “Are you alright? May I come in.”

“Go away,” she manages to choke out between sobs.

“You might feel better if we talk.”

“I said LEAVE!”

I’m sure her physical pain was nothing compared to the embarrassment and humiliation she suffered. Maybe she feared I’d say, “I told you so.” I wouldn’t. Doing so would serve no useful purpose. Hopefully, this ordeal will change her for the better. Maybe she’ll start making better decisions. Maybe she’ll improve her chances of a happy destiny. But right now, I have my own date...with Destiny.

*****

“Ding.” The opening bell sounds as our stools are scuttled out of the cage. My heart must be racing faster than patients with atrial fibrillation at the hospital. Destiny and I meet with our gloves up in the center of the ring. Immediately, she circles to her left and I pivot to keep in front of her. She throws a few jabs but they are flickering blows without much force behind them. I block them easily. I stay in place as she dances a semicircle to one side, then reverses directions. Finally, she moves in at close range. I throw my own left jab, but in a flash, Destiny backs out. My miss wasn’t even close. She moves in and out and in again. I threw a looping right hand that she easily dodges and counters with a left hook, catching me above the right eye. Not a dangerous punch but it sent a message. Destiny is fast and clever. Her feet are swift. She is hard to hit. And the crowd loves it. Half a minute into the round, my confidence is already draining.

“Kiva, the plan,” Hector shouts, “Don’t stand there and watch her. Stay with the plan.”

He’s right. I should have known. We watched the videos. She’s doing exactly what we expected. Our plan was to cut her off from using the whole cage or she’ll circle me and jab me all night. I think it was Mike Tyson who said everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth. With the novelty of being in my first boxing match wearing off, I’ve got to try something.

Don’t chase her, I tell myself. That’s what she wants. Cut her off. Move when she moves. Be her mirror. She dances to her left, I shift to my right and angle my body so she can’t get around me. It’s working. She’s flitting side to side. She moves, feints, then ducks out. But she’s giving up ground and moving backwards. The cage fence behind her back is getting closer. Yes, I’m getting hit by some shots but it’s not so bad. I’ll trap her soon.

We continue this dance for about a minute. I can tell Destiny is getting flustered as I keep her from circling. Finally, I land a straight right to the midsection, backing her up against the cage. It worked! I quickly close the distance. Keeping her pinned against the cage, I fire short blows to the body. A hard right uppercut to the solar plexus nearly lifts her off her feet. She lets out an “oomph” before dropping to a knee. I aim for her head before the ref pushes me away. What the fuck?

“Knockdown,” he informs me. “She’s on her knee. Go to the neutral corner.”

Shit, I almost forgot this was boxing. Destiny is up at seven. The ref waves us to resume fighting. However, as I move in on her, the bell rings to end the round.

Freddie and Hector are pleased. “You got it girl,” Hector smiles. “You know what to do. Back her up and trap her and she’s yours.” On the stool, I’m already sucking air. I look over at Destiny and she looks determined and relaxed despite my body shots. That’s the resiliency of youth. The minute rest evaporates quickly and the bell signals round two.

Destiny comes out circling and jabbing again and I catch a stiff one on the nose. The crowd is dazzled by her speed and footwork. She seems to fly around the ring, moving in, jabbing, ducking my counter, and backing out again. Instinctively, I forget my strategy and stalk her, getting peppered by her jabs from different angles. My trainers are frustrated. “Kiva, stay with the plan, cut her off,” they exhort.

The second round seems like a repeat of the first, as I start moving side to side with her. She misses a big right and I tie her up. With my size and weight advantage, I drive her backward against the cage with my short right. I cut her off by moving to the left, so she moves right - into the corner. Yes! Where I want her! With my reach, I fire a series of jabs, most of which she blocks. Finally, she lowers her guard for a second and I crash my hard right hand into her temple, sending her reeling along the fence, before falling on her hands and knees. Another knockdown! I know she’ll get up. She’s on her feet at the count of seven and I move in on her from my neutral corner. I drive her back into the corner and unleash a combination of blows to the body.

Suddenly, I feel a pair of arms around my neck as she lurches forward to tie me up. The ref orders a break, and a hard bony elbow jars my jaw, sending pain through the lower part of my face. Shocked, I stop, rub the right side of my mandible, then a right hook crashes into the left side of my jaw. I stumble backward, losing my balance, unable to prevent myself from falling on my ass. Fuck! I’m down - for the first time. The referee is counting but I know I’m OK. I spring to my feet immediately complaining about the foul but he’s not interested. Round two is history as the bell sounds.

“Fuck, did you see that?” I ask my trainers.

“Keep your cool and stay focused,” they advise me. I’m sucking wind even more than the last round.

Round three begins once again with Destiny dancing and me pivoting. I learned my lesson. I’m not delaying this time. I can back her into the cage and she knows it. And I’m proving it again. I keep her from circling around me. We trade punches. She lands twice as many blows but mine are harder. A right cross catches her as she’s backing up and she stumbles into the fence. I go in for the kill, but the dirty stripper wraps me around the chest, and I feel a solid rock crash into my nose. It was Destiny’s head. The fucking little low life head butted me. The pain is paralyzing. “Did you see that?” I shout to the ref. I see Destiny on the attack and I cover up.

My face is inflamed with pain and all I can think to do is protect myself. My arms and gloves cover my head as Destiny goes on the offensive. I keep my face well protected at the cost of my body as Destiny lands several hard blows to the belly and ribs. I hold this position and back up, so it is now Destiny doing the chasing. Her pursuit brings the end to round three.

Blood trickles from my nose. Hector assures me it’s not broken and he applies some goop on a swab before sticking it up my nose to stop the bleeding. It seems to be working. The trainers are surprised the ref didn’t see the head butt but they promised they had my back if any more funny stuff.

I’m still in pain and having trouble breathing through my nose due to the fouls as I answer the bell for round four. Destiny and I approach each other. “Try fouling me again, bitch,” I snarl through my mouth piece. She knows I’m looking to retaliate. The skank keeps her distance, only moving in occasionally to jab. That’s fine with me. I’m blocking most of her punches and I need time to recover. We’re moving much more slowly this round and throwing fewer punches. The crowd voices it’s displeasure and I hear a few boos at the close of this uneventful round. “Come on girls, pick up the pace,” Billy orders from outside the cage. Douchebag.

At the start of round five, we both seem a bit more rejuvenated. Destiny is still keeping her distance but is taking more calculated chances, throwing jabs, but now mixing in more right hands. Stinging flurries connect with my already bruised face. As she dances and flutters, I realize I’m having a hard time keeping up with her. After thirty seconds, I actually catch her with a sloppy looping right hand on the side of the jaw. She staggers and retreats to her own corner and covers up as I begin to press her. I outmuscle her with my body and fire away. Outside the cage, her skank mother shouts, “Hang on Destiny, cover up. This dumb bitch can’t beat you.”

I remember my trainer’s instructions to pivot with my punches as I have my derelict opponent trapped in the corner. I throw a series of left jabs, feint, than launch my haymaker right hook, I prepare for the impact of my glove to Destiny’s face, only to find I hit...nothing. The clever little whore ducked under my right, escaping from the corner like a trapped mouse who saw daylight. The momentum of my punch nearly turns me around. I’m confused as Destiny ploughs into me, driving me into her own corner. Before I could reorient myself, a right hand smacks into my left cheek. I slump backward against the corner post as Destiny lands combinations to my head and body. Once again, I cover up, moving my head up and down and side to side. “Put er away, Destiny,” her sleazy mother, Krystal shouts out. “You got er. Knock out that nurse cxnt.”

She has me pressed against the cage wire. Finally, I manage to clinch, my nose pushing into her sweaty tattooed shoulder. Destiny pushes me back into the fence but I have her arms tied up. What I do not notice is that the miserable shit has extended the thumb of her glove and thrusts it upward spiking me in the face just below my left eye. I let out a shriek, loosening my grip on her.

The referee does nothing as Destiny wriggles free of the clinch, and drives her knee into my belly, doubling me over as I drop to my knee. The fucking dirty bitch. Surely the referee saw that. It was so blatant. From my knees, I see him approaching her and...sending her to a neutral corner. He returns to me, then begins to...COUNT! WHAT THE FUCK. He scored it a knockdown. Infuriated, I stand immediately and wait for Destiny to approach. We put our hands up, but I go low, grab her around the waist and swing her into the fence, “You’re dead, bitch,” I grumble as the round five is over.

The ref is intently talking to my cornermen as they point out Destiny’s obvious disregard for the rules. They return to my corner to inform me of shocking news. I’ve been charged with a foul. They apply ice to my eye. Fortunately, the thumb spike missed the eye directly but a weal may be rising beneath it.

The bell for round six sounds and I’m mad as hell. I’ve been fouled three times, yet I’m the one with a point deducted. Fired up, I charge to the center of the ring as she dances away. She still can’t counter my strategy of restricting her space. I begin to move with her. I don’t need to outmaneuver her this time. My big right to the jaw drops her. In my neutral corner, she goes up on one knee and takes a nine count. She’s been rocked. I know I can end this. She looks unsteady, she is backing up to her own corner as I stalk her for the kill. She’s trapped and just looking to hang on. I throw an avalanche of punches, digging into the body. She feels it. I can tell she’s in pain. She ducks low, then lower, then practically to the ground to where I can’t hit her. This isn’t legal. I look to the useless ref. Nobody home. Destiny wraps her arms around my knees, lifts up and twists. I spin off balance, then fall backward into the cage. The blonde scum has me trapped against her corner post again, wrapping her arms around my neck. Fuck, where’s the ref to call the break?

I grab on to her neck and shoulders as we wrestle in her corner. The toxic raspy voice of her trashy mom trills again from behind the corner, “Kill ‘er Destiny. Kill ‘er.” Then, in the middle of my lower back, something penetrates my skin, as if something entered the cage from outside the fence sending searing pain in my lower spine like a hornet sting, but worse. I scream and lurch forward. I quickly turn behind me to see Destiny’s mom stamping out her cigarette butt. “FUCK!” I scream out. “SHE BURNED ME!...WHAT THE FUCK!

Completely distracted and with my hands down, I never saw the right hand coming, landing flush on the side of my jaw. All I know is that I am down on the canvas and stunned. Lying on my side, propped up by one arm, I’ve been rocked. I hear the crowd but they sound so distant. I can get up. I’m not out. I’m going to get the fuck up and knock this bitch out.

“Four...Five..” I can get up but it’s so...hard.

“Seven...Eight...” So hard...but I’m ...up.

The little BITCH! She comes after me, her right hand cocked. She thinks I’m vulnerable so she’s loaded up her haymaker. Not me, babe. Two can play this game. I duck low, wrap up her waist and lift. I carry the load of garbage to the center of the ring and throw her to the canvas as hard as I can. She leaps back up and we grapple until I throw her down again. I feel the refs hand seize my arm. He’s pulling me to my corner. He speaks. I’ve been charged with another foul and point deduction. One more, he tells me, I’ll be disqualified. Is he fucking kidding? The round ends. Freddie and Hector argue with the ref but it goes nowhere.

Round seven begins. Something seems different. I have an ominous dreadful feeling. This fight has been something out of the Twilight Zone. I’ve been elbowed, head butted, kneed, thumbed to the eye and burnt with a cigarette. And yet I have two fouls to her none. Something is not right. Who the fuck is this ref? I’m past beginning to wonder. Destiny and I approach with a viciousness unlike any other round. For the first time, she doesn’t begin the round by dancing and circling. Her hands are up like she wants to slug it out. That’s fine with me, whore. Bring it. We meet in the middle of the ring and swing. She no longer respects my power and seems to think I’ve weakened. I’m getting hit. She’s faster and landing more. For the first time in the fight, I notice my legs feel different...heavier. My swings are sloppy, I’m not punching on the pivot. I’ve forgotten how to use my shoulders and elbows. My trainers are screaming at me.

I flail at her but I’m the one getting hit. A stiff left to the face staggers me backward. She pursues. I let her swing and miss, then move in for the clinch. I’m getting tired so I lean on her. I look out for the thumb this time but now she tries a new dirty trick. I feel her kicking my shins. I motion to the ref but I get no response. We break, this time I land a solid left to the chest and she backs up. We again stand in place and slug. She hits me with three blows before I land one.

Finally, my favorite punch, the right hook drives into her ribs. She winces and grabs on to me and resumes kicking my legs. We lose our balance and stumble to the fence, grabbing on to each other. I manage to free my right hand and plunge another chopping shot to the same ribs. She feels it. Her kicks are harder and more frantic. My shins are in agony. “Stop kicking, cxnt,” I grow. I grapevine one of her legs with mine. As she tries to kick again, we both lose our footing and spin into the cage wall. Destiny strikes the fence face first as the two of us slide to the canvas. We roll together for a few yards before the ref separates us and helps Destiny up. Is that legal? I painfully power my way to my feet and the two of us prepare to face off.

As I rise, I note a trail of red drops staining the canvas. There’s a smear of crimson across my bra...and on my left arm....Blood...no mistake about it...but from where?...one look at Destiny’s face answers the question. A jagged laceration about one and a half inches long is located above her left eye. The left half of her forehead is smudged with red. A few trickles run around her eye and down the side of her face. But how? I don’t think it was from my punches...The fence. Destiny went face first into the fence when our legs tangled. Serves the bitch right, she was trying to kick me.

The ref orders us to resume fighting. Isn’t anyone going to check her out. As a nurse, the cut looks concerning. As a fighter, it’s a wonderful sight. We put our hands up. My fighter instinct takes over. I fire several jabs at the cut. She blocks them as the bell indicates the end to round seven. I walk to my corner confident as I know Destiny is in big trouble.

Hector reminds me that, according to the rules, if a fight is stopped due to an accident, the winner is determined by the scorecard up to that point. By his estimation, I’m behind due to the fouls called against me. But is anybody playing by the rules?

Destiny’s mother is applying pressure to her daughter’s wound. Billy enters the cage and examines Destiny. Now he’s talking to the ref. Is the fight being stopped? The nurse in me hopes so. Billy leaves the cage, the bell rings and the ref motions us to fight. Oh Christ, there really is going to be a round nine.

Destiny comes out of her corner with her left hand held high to protect the wound, which at this time seems to have a slight ooze of blood. She seems determined not to mix it up, instead she circles but not jabbing, using her left for defense. The fight has taken its toll on both of us. Destiny is not as fleet with her lateral movement and fades. My legs feel heavy as I decide to stalk her.

I fire a series of left jabs to the eye. She manages to block them but the left side of her body is open and vulnerable to my right hook. A few blows to the body back her up. She grabs on to my arms and shoulders, then slips away. For half the round, I land rights to the body. I know she feels them as I see her left hand lower. Finally, I jab a left into her glove, fake the right. Her left lowers, then BAM, a hard left finds the cut over the eye.

The bleeding has restarted. I repeat the process, digging rights to the body, forcing openings to the left. Blood trickles down her cheek, down the side of her nose. Her forehead is a mess. This must end. A big right to the head sends her down. It’s a matter of time now.

As Destiny is counted and a I wait in my neutral corner, a voice calls from behind me beyond the cage.

“Kiva,” calls a low male voice. “It’s Billy. NO. Don’t look. Don’t make it obvious. Just look straight ahead” What the fuck could this be about. At this point, nothing would be surprise me.

“Kiva, I need you to do something. I need you to lay down.”

“Lay down?”

“Yeah, lay down. As in take a dive.”

“You want me to throw the fight?” Holy shit. Could this dickhead possibly be more corrupt.”

“Look,” the douchebag explains, “there’s a lot of money here tonight that says you’ll go to sleep before the final bell. Go down and you’re cut is five grand...Pretty good gig, right.”

I’m shocked into being speechless. I can’t even bring myself to answer him.

“Five grand and a shot at Jolene. I’ll let you kick Destiny’s ass later.”

Across the ring, Destiny manages to rise again. I leave my neutral corner, and Billy, without giving him a response. He doesn’t deserve one.

My opponent and I are ordered to resume fighting. Although I’m a nurse who is used to blood, I can’t stand to see Destiny. Her face is a mask of scarlet. Streams and rivulets of red run down to her neck and shoulders. Drops splatter across the ring.

Destiny tries to run and hold on as much as she can to avoid further damage. Even her attempts at dirty fouls have become feeble. I’m almost hitting her at will when she falls again. She manages to beat the count once more as the bell mercifully sounds to end round eight.

My trainers are disgusted, pleading to the referee to stop the fight for Destiny’s sake. Their instructions to me are simple. Go all out and end it.

Destiny staggers out of her corner. Her mother wiped away most of the blood but the wound is still oozing. It will open up easily. My legs feel heavier but I won’t need much to finish off Destiny. More right hands to the body, a left right left combination and down she goes. I see Billy is waiting for me outside my neutral corner.

“Okay, Kiva,” he says, “Seven and a half grand and I strip Jolene of her title and give it to you. You’re now the Housewives Division champ. You walk out of here tonight with all that.”

It makes sense now. The fouls, the incompetent referee, placing Destiny’s health in danger. This whole fucking fight was rigged. Even Destiny’s mom is involved. I was never supposed to win this fight.

Across the ring, unfortunately for her, Destiny has risen. The cut looks bigger. The bleeding is worse. The referee talks to her and holds her gloves. Is he finally stopping the fight. No, he’s doing something to her gloves. He’s giving her something. Or is he? Is it a blade? A bottle? A hypodermic syringe? No, can’t be. These people aren’t that smart. But they made me paranoid. Maybe there up to something. I can’t let them get inside my head. I need to focus and finish this........

What happened? I’m down. I was hit in the head and knocked into the fence. And now I’m lying on my side. Did someone throw something at me?...No...It was Destiny. She punched me. Hard. I was lost in my paranoia, became distracted, took my eye off of her. Now I’m down.

I’m facing the crowd. The noise seems like it’s coming through a tunnel. I see faces. I see Tom. I see Kelli and Jake. My vision is a little wavy. I see their horrified concerned expressions. I see Billy. He smiles at me and gives me a thumbs up. The bastard thinks I accepted his offer.

I roll over and lift up with my arms as the referee reaches a four count. I get to both knees, than one knee. I don’t know if I have my legs. I suppose I’ll find out. I might be finished. If I am, at least I’m getting paid a lot more than if I won.

“Seven...Eight.”

I turn my head again to the crowd. Tom, Kelli, and Jake are urging me. Billy is nodding at me and clapping his hands like he’s saying, “Good Job.”

Well, fuck you, Billy. I’m...

“Nine...”

UP!

Destiny looks defeated at the sight of me rising. My legs feel like lead. My eyes are glassy. But still, I know Destiny is worse. Her knockdown punch used up her last fiber of energy. She can barely raise her hands. Blood impairs her vision. To her credit, after cheating her ass off this fight, the little skank decides to die fighting.

She charges at me like a streamlined missile, her right hand cocked. She knows it’s her last chance and she hopes I’m too stunned to get out of the way. I brace myself and wait. The eighteen year old runs at me, digs her feet, and unleashes her right. It’s a very wild swing that I easily duck. The momentum has her entirely off balance as she stumbled with her hands down.   The young woman is entirely defenseless against my right hook. This time, I need to make it count for good.

It does. My fist finds the angle of Destiny’s jaw. She is unconscious before she hits the canvas. The asshole referee counts to ten anyway instead of getting her the help she needs. I’m feeling lightheaded, dizzy and stiff myself. I know the pain will get worse when the adrenalin levels fall. They raise my hand and announce my name. I wobble to my corner where I’m hugged by my trainers. I watch them revive Destiny. I refuse to look at Billy. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I tell my cornermen.

Freddie, Hector, and Tom help me back to the dressing room. I’m not in a celebratory mood but they tell me I did a great job for a first boxing match. Kelli and Jake stop by briefly to offer their congratulations before they all head back out to the arena, leaving me alone to wash up.

“Oh Kiva, don’t forget this,” Hector reminds me as he hands back my necklace.

For several minutes I sit alone and stare. My body feels like it was run over by a train and I know it will get worse. My face is swollen and bruised. Two days off work won’t be enough. As the nurse manager, I can relegate myself from patient care to administrative work for awhile. Finally, I wash and dress. As I pack up my gear, my cell phone pings a new message. It’s one of my nurse colleagues. Elena has taken a turn for the worse and is back on the ventilator. Her bone marrow biopsy revealed her leukemia has returned.

I pick up the necklace and the card that came with it. It was given to me by Elena’s mom on her behalf at the elevator. As hospital employees, we’re not permitted to accept personal gifts from patients. I can’t imagine an act more cruel than returning it. I reread the card.

“Kiva,
To an amazing nurse and awesome bitch.
Thanks for everything.
Hugs and scratches,
Elena”

I stop and stare at the walls several more minutes, too exhausted to cry. Finally, I pick up my gear and leave the room. I pass another dressing room with the door open. Destiny’s mother is holding an ice pack wrapped in gauze over her daughter’s forehead.

“Destiny,” I offer, “you know I’m a nurse, right? I think you’re going to need some sutures.”

“Fuck you and get lost,” she squeals.

“Look, I’m afraid, you’ll be left with a scar. I know people in the ER. They do good work and I can pull strings to get you fast tracked.”

“You heard her, nurse,” the mom belches. “Fuck off.” I leave them to their choices.

The crowd noise has intensified into a frenzy over the past few minutes. Down the hallway, I see a darkened shape against the bright lights of the arena heading in my direction to the dressing room. The shape takes the silhouette of a woman’s body. As she moves further from the bright lights and into the dressing room hallway, more details emerge. It’s a woman walking, her head low, her shoulders slumped as if in shame. She’s...nude....and she has red hair. The main event must be over. It’s the loser’s walk of shame. I approach her...to see that it’s...Patricia.

I go to meet her. The face that’s usually in control and self confident is forlorn and barren of dignity. The fair skinned body is ravaged with red marks, scratches and bruises. The enhanced breasts show signs of abuse. Her ginger hair is a wreck. She looks like she’s been struggling to hold back tears. Away from the leering crowd, she stops as we come face to face. We are joined by her daughter Gina. I can’t find any words. Anything would seem shallow. Sometimes it’s best not to say anything, a friendly presence is enough.

“Mom almost had her,” Gina explains. “It’s a very heartbreaking loss.”

The three of us hug. Patricia stops repressing her emotions and erupts into a flood of tears. Gina does the same...And I follow.

If my medical career has taught me anything, it’s that life is unpredictable. Pain and misery come to every living creature at some point. Some people, like Destiny and Tori, create their own unhappiness by bad decisions. Some people try to create their own destiny, but fail. Some try honestly, like Patricia, others dishonestly, like Billy. And some, like Elena suffer misfortune through no fault of their own. The best we can do is realize life is short and strive for the common good of ourselves and each other. Then, as Hamlet pointed out, “the rest is silence.”

As Tom and I cross the parking lot, a woman’s voice calls out.

“”Hey nurse, how long are you going to keep ducking me. When are you and I going to have our date with destiny?”

Someday soon, Paige. Someday soon.


Acknowledgment: The characters of Destiny, Billy, Patricia, Gina, Jolene, Paige and of course Kelli and Jake were created by FyreCracka and appear in various chapters of Fyre’s Fight Journal.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on May 21, 2021, 10:43:35 PM

I think chapter 7 is phenomenal. It's pretty much everything that I love about your stories all in one chapter. Every paragraph had purpose and was advancing one of the various themes or stories that was going on, weaving it into a thoughtful, dramatic, exciting wonderful overall tale. You are a true gift to this site.

-Kelli

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on May 22, 2021, 02:09:43 PM

And you really didn't say "told you so" to Tori? Scout's honour? You're a saint!
Wonderful in the all the ways your stories always are - moving and thought-provoking one moment, funny the next, and packed with excitement, vivid descriptions and suspense. I hope Elena pulls through - there's a chance, isn't there?
I loved both fights here and I'm delighted both my heroines won but must confess I have a soft spot for cocky. I hope Tori wins her next fight. Destiny I have less time for. Glad you thrashed her!
And can't wait for you and Paige …

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on May 24, 2021, 02:27:33 AM

Kelli and h_k, I can’t express enough my gratitude for your comments and for being two of my most ardent supporters since I started writing stories here. It means so much to me coming from two talented writers. And thanks to all the readers who took the time to make it through these stories. You are all appreciated.

A few readers asked me about Elena. No, she’s not based on a certain real person, but I’ve had many terminally ill patients like her over the years. Yes, she still has a small chance. I use characters like her sometimes because I feel strongly that even stories on a fetish site can have a human side. To me, characters are at their sexiest when they seem just like us, experiencing life just like we do, with the same challenges, thoughts and emotions. I want to remind you of your wife, girlfriend, sister, friend, coworker, etc. I want you to feel relieved when I win a fight, and if I lose and get humiliated, I hope you’ll feel it too. I owe a debt to Kelli for the “everywoman” concept by having a character we can all get behind.

Finally, more thanks to Kelli for trusting me with her characters, including herself, and for letting me run wild through this incredible catpin world.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on May 25, 2021, 03:59:52 PM

Your stories are a joy to read. They're never written to a formula. Each time you find some new angle (which can't be easy!) and the fact that they reflect the real world and are filled with characters we recognise or with whom we can identify makes them not only more powerful but also more fun.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on June 15, 2021, 09:55:47 AM

And what about Destiny's mom? She stubbed a f*cking cigarette out on your butt, Kiva. That cannot go unpunished| One of you (either you or Kelli but please not both) has to extract an apology from that cowardly, cheating bitch. And the more witnesses (including her daughter, husband, sons, grandchildren …), the merrier.
Her probation officer (I"m sure she has one) might enjoy the show too.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on June 26, 2021, 02:46:09 AM

Chapter 8: Friday Night Lights Out


Think I'm going down to the well tonight and I'm gonna drink till I get my fill
And I hope when I get old I don't sit around thinking about it, but I probably will
Yeah just sitting back trying to recapture a little of the glory of
Well but time slips away and leaves you with nothing mister but boring stories of
Glory days, they'll pass you by
Glory days, in the wink of a young girl's eye
Glory days, Glory days

-Bruce Springsteen


Part I. The Build Up

The large digital clock indicates that five minutes of playing time are left, but as far as I’m concerned, this game cannot end quickly enough. It’s been a long day. We’ve traveled 25 miles to this town. The parking lot was full and busy with countless pickup trucks and SUVs. People were littered everywhere. There were the grills, the barbecues, the tailgate parties. Then finally the game, which is now in its final moments on this beautiful afternoon. Behind us, the voices from the bleacher become louder and more raucous. “Hit em, Joey, harder,” a male voice booms. “Hey ref,” barks another, “that was holding. Get new glasses.” And this gem, “Coach, get number 30 out of there, he’s terrible.”

“Number 30 is my SON,” a woman’s voice screeches. “Ya gotta PROBLEM with that, ASSHOLE?”

I turn to my husband. “God, I hate these Saturday Pee Wee football games,” I groan.

I’m here for one reason - my daughter. Clarissa has shown no interest in team sports like soccer. Instead, she excels in dancing and gymnastics. So, it wasn’t surprising when she asked to try cheerleading. Her squad of 7 to 9 year olds cheer at the Pee Wee football games on Fall weekends.

“That’s it, Clarissa,” I shout, “You’re looking good, babe.”

On the field, eight year old boys clash and collide as the clock runs down to zero and they head back to the locker rooms. Parents begin to descend from the bleachers, preparing to meet their little gridiron heroes. Some of these parents really ought to be ashamed of themselves, I thought. Why do idiotic parents ruin it? Maybe I’m more irritated today than usual. Maybe I’m getting cocky, but I woke up this morning with this urge to belt one of these football moms. Hell, I taught Luanne a lesson. I’ll do it again and set another bitch straight. That’s when I attached the catpin to my denim jacket as I left the house. So far though, no hits.

Clarissa’s coach has gathered her little cheerleaders into a post-game huddle. Tom and I wait as she delivers her final messages. Meanwhile, I’m approached by a morbidly obese woman with a deadly serious expression. She stares at my catpin. Oh shit.

“I know what that pin is,” she drawls. “Who do ya think y’all are wearing that around here? You’re lucky my sister ain’t here. She’s always looking for a fight. She weighs 250 lbs and she’d squash you like a grape. Your too big for your panties, honey. Stupid Karen.” I remain silent as she walks off. Maybe the catpin wasn’t such a good idea today.

Finally, the cheerleaders break and Clarissa and I hug. “Great job, sweetie,” I tell her as the three of us head toward our car.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice calls from behind us. We turn to face Cynthia, Clarissa’s coach. A former college cheerleading national champion, she is a beautiful fit woman about my age. Dressed in a polyester sweatsuit and sneakers, she carries herself with the grace and self confidence one might expect from an athlete in her sport. Her light brown shoulder length hair and green eyes highlight a flawless complexion. “You’re Clarissa’s parents, right?”

“Yes we are,” I answered.

“Oh great,” she beamed, “I was hoping to have a word with you. Aren’t you Dr. Raines?” she asks my husband. He answers affirmatively.

“And I’m Kiva, Clarissa’s mom,” I add.

“Well, I just wanted to tell you,” Cynthia starts, “Clarissa is a wonderful little cheerleader. She’s a fast learner. She soaks it all in like a sponge. And I think next year, she’d be a good candidate to be on our competitive traveling team. That is, if she’s interested, and, of course...if it’s okay with you.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear,” we tell the coach. “That’s something for us to think about. Thanks for the feedback.” We all smile and wave goodbye, then we realize Cynthia has more to say.

“Um...Mrs. Raines..”

“Call me Kiva.”

“Um...Kiva...could I speak with you privately for a second? I’m sorry, I know you guys want to get home, I promise I’ll make this quick.”

“Sure,” I reply as the two of us step away together.

“OK, uh, look,” Cynthia says, her eye contact with me intensifying, her voice lowering, “I saw your catpin. I noticed it during the game when you were in the bleachers. I could see it from the sidelines.”

“Oh,” I respond. “You know, I forgot I had it on.”

“So, are you looking for a fight?”

“Well, I was.”

I watch Cynthia as she opens and rummages through her gym bag. “Well, look no further,” she says, pulling her hand out of her bag to show me her own cat pin. “I have one too. It looks like you found your opponent.”

“Cynthia,” I explain, “you’re really not what I had in mind. I was in a bad mood this morning and I came here hoping to set up a fight with one of those obnoxious football moms. You know, those big mouths from the bleachers.”

“Yeah, I know,” she replies. “I can’t stand people like that either. But here we are. You have a pin and I have a pin, so let’s do it.”

I truly did not expect this and I can sense Cynthia becoming impatient with my hesitancy. “What are you concerned about?” she asks. “You know the code about women with catpins. Obviously, we can’t fight today, but let’s arrange something.”

The coach works her cellphone and I note she logs onto the catfight website. “Do you mind if I look at your profile?” she asks. I oblige giving her my username. “Well look,” she says excitedly, “we’re the same size, and...oh my goodness, you’re undefeated. Kiva, we have GOT to do this. What do you say?”

As we speak, scores of spectators pass by us as they head to the parking lot. We are two attractive women, one a nurse, the other a former cheerleading champion turned coach. One is dressed in jeans, a blouse and a denim jacket. The other is in an athletic jumpsuit. I can’t help but notice guys glancing at us. Men walking together, men walking with their wives, men walking with kids. They can’t resist looking, if just for a second. It’s as if the act of two women discussing fighting each other sends pheromones into the air attracting men from miles away. And I notice something else. Cynthia is getting the longer looks. Is she prettier than me? No way, I tell myself. I’m just imagining it. The men think we’re both hot. But no, I see it. We’re already having a competition and Cynthia is winning. Instinctively, I roll my shoulders back, throw my chest out, cock my hips, stick out my ass. Cynthia notices. She...does the same. The parade of men and the looks continue. Now the men are looking longer. Some are not even trying to hide it from their wives. And they’re still paying more attention to....Cynthia.

My mind flashes back to high school. I had a large circle of friends but I wasn’t in the clique of “popular girls.” I was attractive enough. I got asked out a lot. For some reason, I wasn’t accepted by the highest echelon of high school social sphere. Those girls were beautiful, socially savvy, and...many were cheerleaders.

Cynthia stares at me waiting for my answer. No doubt, she was a popular girl. The ones that treated me like shit. Now I know why. I was a threat to them. I was good looking and smart. They were protecting their clique, the bitches. Now this former high school slut wants to put me in my place, does she? Well, that’s fine with me, whore. You and I will meet and I’ll show you what a phony you are. I’ll take hold of you and I’ll....I’ll...I’ll...

“OK Cynthia, let’s arrange a fight.”

“Great!” she exclaims. “Josh and I will be happy to host you and your husband. We have a professional ring. Do you like ring fights? I’m flexible with rules. Does Friday night work for you?”

“Yeah, Friday is fine.”

“Wonderful, now let me introduce you to my husband Josh.”

She points me to a small group of men and boys clustered in a circle. The center attraction is a tall handsome dark haired man in his thirties, wearing jeans, boots, and a red football jersey bearing the number 18, signing and handing out autographs. Lots of smiles, handshakes, and talking. And lots of...stories, until the star of this small gathering is interrupted by the sound of his wife calling his name.

“Josh, come here, honey. There’s people I want you to meet.” I wave for Tom and Clarissa to rejoin us. Cynthia introduces us. Smiling ear to ear, Josh is clearly a charming charismatic man. I never met him before but I know about him.

Cynthia and Josh met in college. He was the star quarterback, making All-American his senior year and leading his team to the Cotton Bowl Classic, being named Big 12 Conference MVP. Cynthia, of course, was a highly talented cheerleader, helping her team win the national championship. Josh was drafted into the NFL in the first round. The couple married after college. Sadly, Josh’s professional football career was a massive disappointment. After two dismal seasons as a starter, he was designated to backup quarterback status. He lasted a few more seasons as a journeyman on various teams before being cut for good. Now he’s a car salesman and local celebrity, reliving his glory days which are now twelve years past. He’s rarely seen in public without his number 18 jersey from his college years.

“Josh, Dr. Raines,” Cynthia addresses the men, “Kiva and I have planned an event for Friday night at our house and we want to make sure that is OK with both of you.” Clearly, “event” is a code word for fight in the presence of my daughter.

The men agree to “the event” and we all part with smiles and handshakes. An elderly man hands Josh a football which he signs with a Sharpee. Another man points Josh out to a group of preadolescent boys who look very disinterested. I find that the rumors are true. This is a couple that lives in the past. I’m going to do my part by getting Cynthia in the ring in front of her man and send them both crashing into the present.

I text Cynthia the following day to discuss the specifics but she requests we meet in person. I leave work during lunch break to meet her in an upscale coffee shop. Wearing my blue scrub uniform, I’m not surprised to find her in a white blouse and red skirt which, not coincidentally, are the colors of her alma mater. Her face is youthful appearing and radiant. Her poise and self confidence couldn’t be unnoticed. She’s a natural cheerleader.

“Thanks for coming, Mrs. Raines, I mean...Kiva. I know your busy. Excuse me, I just got a text from Josh. He’s signing autographs today at that new Home Depot grand opening and later today, I have an alumni meeting while Josh speaks at the 4-H Club banquet. We both like to stay busy. She returns the texts, then continues, “I thought we could take a little time to get to know each other.” I look at her handbag on the table with an attached keychain linked to a laminated photo of her and Josh from their college days. She notices me looking.

“Like the picture? This is from our freshman year. I had a lot of guys chasing me back then but I met Josh. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“What did you major in,” I asked.

“I majored in Josh,” she says with a sly grin.

She taps her phone a few times, then turns it toward me. “And this is from the Thanksgiving Day game junior year....And this is against Purdue which was Josh’s first start at QB...And this...”

After a dozen Josh college pictures, Cynthia shifts to photos from her school cheerleading days. “Here I am, my first year doing the Belgian pyramid. I’m in the second row, third from the right. Our coach thought I was too tall to be a flyer so I played base and spotter....and this...”

“Excuse me, Cynthia,” I interrupt. I only have another twenty minutes. Can we go over our plan for Friday night?”

“Oh I’m sorry. I’m boring you aren’t I?”

“No, not at all,” I answer less than honestly.

“Okay then, mind if I ask a few questions about you?” She asks.

“Sure.”

“You have an accent. You’re not a native Texan, are you?”

“No, I’m from the northeast US. I moved here not too long ago.”

“Very nice. Where did you graduate from?”

“Yale University School of Nursing.”

“Oh, very impressive. You must be smart....Ivy League...I don’t think I have an Ivy League...I mean I don’t think I’ve ever fought an Ivy Leaguer before. I know I haven’t. I’m really looking forward to this...Um..Kiva, what are Yale’s colors?”

“Blue on white, why?”

“I’m just interested in school colors. Ours are red and white as you know. But let’s get down to business. First, do you agree we should fight until a submission?”

“Yes.” We confirm the usual banning of eye gauging and fish hooking and a few other dirty dangerous acts. She agrees to no closed punches or kicks to the face or head. After the Destiny fight, I’m not ready for another head shot. Almost everything else would be allowed.

“Are you okay fighting in a ring? It’s 18x18 feet.” Cynthia asks. I answer “yes.” I hadn’t really thought of it before but I like the idea of battling in a traditional squared circle. “It’s not pro wrestling,” she adds. “Holding the ropes won’t break a hold. The ring is there to contain us. Leaving the ring deliberately is an act of submission.”

“I would like for us to just wear panties. Nothing on top. Are you good with that?” she adds.

I pause. Sometimes, I still feel twinges of my conservative upbringing. “Uh, will men be there?” Until now, the only man other than my husband to see me fight topless was the General when I removed my bikini top under the spell of some strange inspiration.

“Just our husbands,” she assures me. “And you have nothing to worry about with Josh.”

“Well, I guess that’s fine,” I respond. “So, it will just be the four of us?”

“The four of us and some cheerleaders from the school team. They’re getting ready for regional competition. Each year, we open our house to them on weekends to go over new routines. I’m an assistant coach. So I’m expecting ten of them Friday night. After practice, we throw them a pizza party. They’re all girls...You don’t mind, do you?”

“Are they going to be watching our fight?”

“Yes, you might be surprised how competitive cheerleaders can be.”

“I’m not, but...will they all be cheering for you?”

“No, I’ll make sure neither of us has an advantage in the cheering department. You’ll have to trust me on that.”

I’m not sure what she means by that but I answer, “Fine.”

“Oh Kiva, may I ask you one more thing.” I look at her in anticipation. “Could you wear blue panties..like, uh,..the color of your alma mater?”

That question makes me sit up straight. How odd. “Why?” I ask sternly.

“Well, I thought it might be interesting if you and I represent our schools. You know, like have a little college rivalry.”

Now I’m getting weirded out. Clearly, Cynthia has taken this college thing too far. “Look,...Cynthia, if you want me to wear blue panties, I suppose I can find a pair. But I think this is a very silly idea.”

“Why?”

“Because I finished college years ago. I have no desire to go back. I think remembering all the good times is wonderful but why keep reliving it?”

“No Kiva, you don’t understand,” she responds, starting to look agitated. “You see, Josh was the starting QB many NFL teams wanted and I was on the cheerleading squad that took the national championship. We did so much for that school.”

“I’m happy for you Cynthia. But why stop there? You have your lives ahead of you. Focus on new challenges, new accomplishments. Instead of rehashing old memories, create new ones.”

Cynthia bit her lip. “Obviously there are differences between us.”

“Yes,” I shot back, “you’re mentally still in college and I grew up. Get a life and move on.”

That sounded harsher than I intended. However, It got the point across. Now she’s definitely agitated. “Okay, I get it now,” her voice almost snarling, “you’re one of those Yankee intellectuals who think you’re so smart, you can tell the rest of us how to live our lives. You were bored seeing my pictures, weren’t you? You weren’t just bored, you were annoyed. I could see it in your face. Why didn’t you just say so?”

“No, I’m not trying to be a smart ass,” I answer back. “It’s just that I think it’s healthier to live in the present and future than to be stuck in the past. Why does college have to be your best years? What are you afraid of? Yes, the future has uncertainty but that’s no reason to not embrace it. I’m sorry Josh’s NFL career didn’t work out and there are few demands for an ex-cheerleader, but that’s no reason not to have new hopes and new dreams. Try it.”

I knew right away I hit a nerve. Cynthia’s face becomes drawn, her teeth clenched, her eyes widened. “You know what this is about, Kiva? This is about jealousy. That’s right, jealousy. You wish you had a life like mine. You wish you had a man like Josh. Face it. In college, you were a nobody, weren’t you? I can tell. You were a nobody in high school, a nobody in college, and you’re STILL a nobody. You can’t stand that I have the looks, the body, the athleticism, the popularity, so you try to tear me and my husband down. That’s what nobodies like you do, try to tear others down. I’ve had to deal with losers like you my whole life? So Friday night, I am going to give you an attitude adjustment you won’t forget - if you still have the guts to show up.”

“Jealousy?” I counter, “Jealous of what? Jealous of two has-beens whose lives went past them by age 22? Jealous of a couple that will grow old boring everybody to tears telling stories of their long ago lost glory years? No thanks!”

Cynthia springs to her feet and I react by doing the same. We stand eye to eye just inches apart. “Fine with me, Miss Ivy League,” she sputters. “I will take your advice and start creating new memories. And my first new memory will be on Friday night of your beaten body lying on the canvas, while I stand on you in my victory pose.”

I lean my forehead in, almost touching hers. “I will be there Friday night,” I growl out. I’ll wear my blue panties and you wear your red. I will give you such a beat down, I’ll turn the rest of your skin as red as your school colors covering your ass.”

Realizing we’re attracting the attention of other diners, we both back off.

“Ladies, is there a problem?” the waitress asks.

“No ma’am, none at all,” we tell her “Check please.”

We sit there in silence occasionally exchanging mean glances as the waitress processes our credit cards. We both stand to depart, each of us simultaneously sneering out the same words,
“See you Friday night...bitch!”

The following day, she texts me her address. For the rest of the week, catty messages go back and forth. It got personal. I called her and her husband has beens who have been irrelevant for years. I know it’s very unkind but she wouldn’t let up on me either. She called me a jealous nobody going through life as a runner up but never a winner. I told her that, unlike her, I have a future as a contributing member of society. We both got offended. Animosity started to build. The insults got worse.

“You were probably one of those brainy girls in high school who couldn’t get a date for prom,” she fired at me. Unknown to Cynthia, that one actually hurt. I missed the prom when my boyfriend and I broke up just before the event. He found another date and I didn’t. It wasn’t that I was unattractive. The guys assumed I was taken and I was asked by...absolutely no one. I spent prom night crying in my room.

“How many football players did you fuck before Josh came along, Miss Spirit?” She responded with a barrage of obscenities.

This isn’t like me. I know that. I’ve trashed talked opponents before but it was never this personal. I’m not impulsive. In fact, I’m known for being rational, analytical, and level headed. Something about this woman just grates on me. She reawakens in me every high school and college insecurity from long ago. It doesn’t make sense. I’m 33 years old. I’m attractive. I have a wonderful husband and daughter. A good income. I’m respected at work and in my community. Yet, I have this strong urge to make this woman suffer at my hands. For some reason, she brings out all those old self doubts I haven’t even thought of in years, the misguided feelings of being unattractive, unpopular, of feeling slighted, of feeling inferior, of feeling....jealous?

I can’t explain it but every fiber in my body bristles at the thought of this woman screaming out her defeat, announcing to the universe that I am the better woman. Apparently, Cynthia feels the same way. We agreed a simple submission would not be satisfying to either of us so we set new terms of surrender. Cynthia will submit by screaming, “I’m a has been” while I will quit by crying out, “I’m a nobody.”

Her final text: NO ONE HAS EVER INSULTED ME LIKE YOU HAVE!!! I’LL MAKE YOU PAY...BITCH!!!

The date arrives. I dig out a pair of blue panties from the bottom of the drawer. After packing my gym bag and dropping off Clarissa for a sleepover, Tom and I arrive at the house. Josh greets us with his gregarious style. From the foyer, it is clear the entire house is a shrine to their alma mater. Red and white decor everywhere. School logos appear on clocks, lamps, rugs, sofa pillows, you name it. Knick knacks everywhere, figurines, bobbleheads, pens, calendars all celebrating the school’s football team. “These people piss red and white,” I joke to Tom.

Josh makes friendly chit chat and offers to give us a brief tour. We pass through one college themed room after another. I’m not surprised when I see the football teams logo on their bedspread cover. “I bet neither of them can fuck unless they see their college emblems,” I giggle to my husband.

“Uh, where’s Cynthia?” I ask.

“She’s out in the backyard with the girls. They’re here for extra cheerleading practice.” From the kitchen window facing the yard, I see her, amidst about ten college girls all dressed in white tank tops and shorts, some red, others blue holding matching colored pom poms.

“Over here is our trophy room,” Josh explains. We enter into an area with walls covered with gold and silver plaques, trophies and medals. Framed photos fill any remaining space.

“We had to add an expansion room to hold everything,” Josh tells us. “See that picture on the left? That’s me being honored as college athlete of the year by Texas Sportswriters Association. And that one over there is my favorite. That’s me scoring a touchdown on a quarterback draw play against Alabama, and that one...”

“Don’t waste your breath, Josh,” Cynthia’s voice interrupts. “She doesn’t want to hear it. You’re boring her. I can see her rolling her eyes from here. She thinks you and I are has beens.” Dressed in her red 18 jersey and gym shorts, her youthful girlish face seethes with vitriol. This woman hates me.

“No, I..,”I start to say before being cut off.

“Yes, you said it, honey. Don’t try to deny it,” Cynthia insists.

The embittered woman turns to her husband, “That’s right dear. Miss Stick Up Her Ass here doesn’t think much of our lives. She says we’re...what was the word?....Unproductive.”

“Well now,” Josh interjects. “Kiva is entitled to her opinion, even if we don’t like it. Maybe she’ll change her mind after she gets to know us better.”

“Well, she’ll certainly learn a lot about me tonight,” Cynthia replies, “because I plan to teach her some very painful lessons.” Her self assured expression and acid tone give me a brief chill. “I know,” she adds, “Kiva might be interested in seeing my special trophies. Why don’t you show her, dear?”

“You mean...?” Josh begins to ask.

“That’s right.  THOSE trophies. After all,” she says with a smirk. “Kiva will be adding her own contribution to it. We may as well let her see the company she’ll be joining.”

“Very well,” Josh responds. He leads us to a large walk-in closet containing a cherry wood cabinet. He unlocks it and retrieves at least a dozen...panties. Each undergarment is sealed in a clear zip lock plastic bag and appears in a variety of different colors. Most panties are of a small to medium size but a few large ones are included. Each bag is dated and bears a label. I read.

Susan-Purple-Texas Christian U-submission, body scissors
Jackie-Maroon-Texas A&M-submission, belly punches
Tracy-Green and gold-Baylor- long pin, face sit
Jeannie-Tiger stripes-Clemson-submission, tit claw

I see a name I recognize.

Deanna-Red-Rutgers-submission, head scissors

I’ve seen enough. I know Cynthia is trying to intimidate me with her panty collection. In catfights, when women fight in bikinis or underwear, there’s often an unwritten understanding that the winner removes the loser’s briefs to keep as a trophy, a token of her victory. I didn’t think of this when I agreed to a panty fight. She clearly plans to strip me naked and keep my blue briefs. What’s the point? It’s something I once wondered about but now know the reason.
The transfer of panties can have a euphoric effect on the winner. For her, it’s a tangible token of victory, of dominance, of conquest. It’s similar to a gunfighter adding a notch to the belt or a hunter mounting the head of prize game.

For the loser, however, losing her panties can be crushingly demoralizing. Panties are personal - the final veil covering our most secret parts, the last barrier between the outside world and the private members we keep hidden from all except our lovers and doctors. A woman’s panties are part of her identity, her innermost sense of being. A defeated fighter separated of her panties has lost her individuality. To have her panties removed and taken by another woman as a trophy is to be stripped of her pride, her will, her uniqueness, and left humiliated. Like a wild horse who has been broken, and accepts the rulership of its trainer, a defeated woman who surrenders her panties, tells her conqueror, “This is my title deed. You are my new owner.” If Cynthia thinks she can take my blue Yale panties, she’s in for a major disappointment.

Cynthia calls the cheerleaders into the house. Josh explains the five girls dressed in blue shorts will be cheering for me while the other five wearing red will support Cynthia. How cheesy can this possibly get? The ten of them file in through the back door.

“Josh, may I have a word with you?” Cynthia asks her husband. The tall man excuses himself leaving Tom and I awkwardly in the presence of ten college girls, each of them holding pom poms. A few of them politely smile and give an awkward hello. Some ignore us while others give me funny looks like they are sizing me up, saying to themselves, “I could take her.” I offer no expression.

One petite girl breaks the ice. “I’m Amber. Do you like to rassle?” She is a cute, almost cherubic brown eyed, walnut brown haired girl.

“Yeah, I like most forms of fighting,” I answer.

“Wanna rassle me?” She asks. “I love pin rasslin. My boyfriend loves watching me rassle. I love to pin other girls down with our guys watching and holding her there until she surrenders. I bet I could pin you. I know you’re bigger than me but I’ll grapevine you and...”

“Excuse me...Amy,” I interrupt. “I not thinking of any matchups now other than Cynthia. And frankly, I prefer taking on women closer to my own size and age.” She becomes quiet.

Josh returns. Cynthia decided that the two of us will not speak to each again other before the fight and Josh will handle the preparations. I know Cynthia is pissed and absolutely despises me. Fine, that will work to my advantage. The atmosphere becomes tense and awkward. Josh takes us to the large recreational room converted into a home gym, containing an 18x18 foot ring that looks...magnificent. I climb up to the apron, then through the red ropes and I am in...awe. Something about being in a ring fills me with inspiration. It feels so primordial, so basic. Two combatants meet in this traditional enclosed space. One emerges triumphantly to a jubilant celebration while the other lies broken and defeated. “I always wanted to fight in a ring,” I tell Tom.

One thing about this ring is strange, though. In the center is an emblem of their damn school logo. My initial thought is you’ve got to be fucking kidding. But then an image flashes in my mind. An image of me submitting Cynthia, hearing her scream, hearing her cry that she’s a has been and I leave her defeated right on her beloved icon. “Ooh, I’m gonna like this,” I say to my husband.

Finally, Josh shows us to our guest room to change. He explains that he’ll knock on the door to cue me when we’re ready to fight. He tells me I’ll be led to the ring by the five blue and white cheerleaders who will be cheering for me.

“Uh...what’s the point of that,” I ask him.

“It’s Cynthia’s idea,” he answers. I roll my eyes right in front of him.

With Tom and I alone, I strip naked and tie my hair up in a bun. I pull the blue panties from my gym bag. Pretty basic cotton mesh. They were part of a multicolored pack from a department store. I haven’t worn them in over a year. The last time I remember wearing them was....Clarissa’s birthday party.

“These people are so ridiculous,” I tell my husband. “I’ve never wanted to beat someone so badly as much as I want to beat Cynthia tonight.” I do some stretches and warm up exercises.
Then, the knock.

I open the door to be greeted by a bevy of young women in a blur of blue and white shorts, pom poms, sneakers and socks. “We’ll be doing your cheers tonight,” one of them informs. “You walk behind us and follow us to the ring.” Whatever. Another eye roll.

My entourage and eye head down the hallway to the gym room. Arms raise, pom poms shake, sprightly young legs jump. They chant.

Hey hey, we got a fight
Kiva’s gonna rock the house tonight
She’ll eat you up and spit you out
She will hit you like dynamite
She brings the heat, she can’t be beat
Give a cheer for blue and white

Oh good Lord. This is the cheesiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. After several cartwheels and back handsprings by my posse, we reach the ring. I feel butterflies as I stand on the apron. A wave of excitement passes through me as Tom holds the ropes for me to enter. I look at the ropes. I feel the firm mat beneath my bare feet. I glance up at the overhead lights. The wave of excitement is now a flood. I’m about to go into hand to hand combat with a woman my equal in size and age. Both of us nearly nude...fighting...in this space. For a moment, I imagine I’m not in a private home. I’m in a ring in Madison Square Garden, or Caesar’s Palace at Las Vegas...with thousands watching...millions more on pay per view. Cynthia and I will finally settle it. One of us will prove to be the better woman.

I hear a commotion in the hallway and I know Cynthia is arriving. Her red and white cheerleaders with their pom poms are the first one visible. Now I see her. She’s wearing the red jersey with the number 18. Of course. Her light brown hair is tied into a bun. She strides gracefully and ...so confidently, like she’s not the least bit afraid of me. I suppress the quick shudder. Another chant.

She’s the roughest, she’s the toughest
And we’re mighty proud
Cynthia is number one
And we’ll say it loud
She’ll tear you up, she’ll beat you up
She’ll  knock you to the ground
Red and white is gonna fight
Cynthia’s the best around.

She effortlessly glides through the ropes in one motion and starts loosening up. We stop to stare at each other from opposite corners. She gives me a look of hatred. I disrobe first, removing the terry cloth. She lifts off the red jersey. Her skin is creamy and perfect. Her tits are about the same size as mine but are hers...perkier? No, I tell myself. Her skin tone might be slightly firmer. I look at her legs. They look like killers. For her size, her thighs and calves are thick and well developed. Why not, she’s an athletic cheerleader who does acrobatics and gymnastics. I noticed most of her wins came by scissors submissions. Now it’s easy to see why. I will need to avoid getting scissored. Even without punches to the head, I can pulverize her body and slap her face into another time zone. I got this.

Cynthia gets on the mat and stretches. Seated, her legs spread out nearly 180 degrees. From that position, she bends forward, touching the mat with her forehead. I wasn’t that flexible even as a teenager. She stands. Her back arches…and arches. Her hands touch the floor behind her in a back bridge. The legs forcefully lift up, and swing over her head, the momentum returning her to a standing position. A perfect back walkover. She’s an athlete. I get it. But the better athlete isn’t necessarily the better fighter - so I tell myself. Yes, I am going to win.

I’m feeling excited again. The fact that I’m about to beat this woman in her own home, right on the dumb logo, in front of her NFL reject dumb ass former jock husband is overwhelming. I’m feeling a tingle and a body blush. I know what that is. Holy shit, I’m ...aroused. My nipples are becoming engorged. I know many women get sexually turned on just before a fight but this is a first for me. I turn to show my husband. “Oh God, Tom,” I pant. “I love you so much. I’m going to win...for you...for me.”

“Cool it down, girl,” he says with a smile. “We’ll have our time after the fight. Just focus on your job, now.”

Josh calls us to the center of the ring. The three of us stand on the lame circular logo. Cynthia and I resume our cold stares. Her lively breasts are sporting their own partially erect nipples but mine are jutting straight out. She looks at them and scoffs. “They’re not going to be so happy when I’m done with them,” she sneers.

We head back to our corners. As Cynthia turns, I see that her red panties are stamped with her husband’s white 18 on her ass. I laugh. Tom and I kiss. “I’m gonna beat that 18 right off of her,” I assure him. I turn to face my opponent.

To Be Continued

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Jill_C on June 26, 2021, 01:27:15 PM

WOW, that is a little Psycho here.  Your imagination has just exploded here and it's a great story. I'm still grasping at the cheerleaders and love how you play them.  This is one chapter that opens up several directions for you to go but I will just sit back and enjoy the ride where ever it goes.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Texaskid on June 26, 2021, 02:52:40 PM

Well this one got creepy fast. Cynthia needs to get her butt kicked and sent to the psycho ward

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on June 27, 2021, 03:27:18 AM

Chapter 8: Friday Night Lights Out (cont’d)

Part II. The Fight

“Are you ready, ladies?” Josh asks, “Get ready and....FIGHT!”

Cynthia races out of her corner like a wildcat with its tail on fire. I’m not surprised given all the hostility she’s built up at me. She looks like she wants to take my head off. I let her charge across eighty percent of the ring as I wait for her. My boxing training prepared me for this. I time my sidestep perfectly and let her swing wildly, then I counter with a light slap across her face. It didn’t hurt but it frustrated her, adding to her anger. She rushes after me again, but I backpedal and circle, flicking backhanded jabs at her face. I plant my feet and throw combinations, landing one hard slap. I know I can beat her in a slap fight and it’s to my advantage to keep it a stand up fight. Cynthia realizes this too as I rain a flurry of slaps to the head and a few punches to the body. Outside the ring pom poms are shaking and cheerleaders are chanting. I don’t know what they’re saying and I don’t care.

Cynthia moves forward with determination and crouches, looking for an opening. Ignoring my slaps, the cheerleading coach bends her knees and springs her body at me like a heat seeking missile.  I’m surprised at the force of the impact as her shoulder strikes my belly and she wraps her arms around my waist. Air is knocked out of me as I fall backward with my opponent landing on top of me. Instinctively, I roll over. We grab onto each other’s arms and battle with our legs as Cynthia rolls off of me. We bowl across the ring in a catball, alternating top and bottom positions, seizing each other’s hair bun, grunting and shrieking, slapping ineffectively. As we reverse directions, I feel the power of Cynthia’s legs as they begin to dominate mine. As our legs entwine, I find it harder to kick hers away. Finally, from the bottom position, her thighs scissor my right leg. I can no longer roll and she has me trapped in an awkward side position. Her leg muscles tighten, engulfing mine, as I’m twisted onto my shoulder.

Cynthia’s face is positioned behind my head and I feel her breath on my ear. One of her hands yanks my hair back while the other grasps my chin, squishing my mouth into a distorted pucker.

“So, you don’t like how I live my life, bitch?” her scratchy voice gnarls in my ear. “By the time I’m done with you, I’ll make you kiss my footprints.”

She lets go of my mouth and I feel the slaps from behind striking me in the head and belly. My left arm is trapped under my side, I cover my head with my free right arm. Cynthia continues her slapping attack until she notices my breasts are exposed. I let out a scream as her hand clamps on my left boob and squeezes. I twist and squirm but can’t free my scissored leg to escape. Finally, I fire back with my elbow, striking her on the collarbone, sending her backward. I pull my upper body up enough to sink my elbow into her thigh, then again, and again. Her leg grip relents. I pull my leg out from between her knees and roll away.

We both warily stand, about eight feet apart, our hands raised for striking. That’s fine with me. Cynthia rushes in and once again, I make a quick lateral dodge, and fire a right handed slap which lands flush on her cheek. Angry and irritated, she chases after me, swinging wildly. I’m now thoroughly convinced I have a strong advantage in a stand up fight. I dominate the woman, landing several combinations to the  head, then a hard left punch to the ribs for good measure. Cynthia retreats, her face red, wearing her frustration. I see her crouching again, about to make another lunging charge. This time I’m ready.

She rushes forward and with exquisite timing, I sidestep, wrap one arm around her shoulder and spin her into a corner. With her momentum working against her, Cynthia crashes her back into the corner pad. I quickly move in, running my shoulder into her chest, keeping her trapped in the neutral corner. Yanking her head back by the hair, I hold onto her arms, and thrust my body into hers several times. Using the ropes for leverage, I give her a few more shoulder blows to the chest and belly, keeping our bodies close. I line up my tits against hers and press into her pulling on the ropes for extra pressure. I know this doesn’t have much physical effect but the sensation of my girls mashing her popular girl perky puppies is a psychological lift for me and I’m sure is demoralizing for her as I drive my pec muscles into hers, flattening our tits. At close range, our breathing and grunting sounds become louder and faster.

I back up enough to send heavy artillery, driving a knee into her belly, then another one, eliciting an “oomph” from the former cheerleader. She tries to double over, but I pull her up by her hair, keeping her in the corner. “You’re the nobody, loser,” I growl out.

She grabs onto my arm and works her other hand around my head, grabbing on to my hair. Our hair buns are nearly unraveled as I latch onto her light brown locks. Cynthia manages to spin out of the corner as we maintain our hold on each other’s hair, slapping with our free hand. We waltz around in this bitch clench, slapping with everything we have. This should be to my advantage but her face is at an angle making it difficult for me to land clean shots. We yank each other’s head back and forth, dancing in a circle, kicking at each other’s legs. Finally, disoriented and off balance, we tumble to the mat, neither of us letting go of the hold on the other woman’s mane.

Struggling for control, we roll across the ring in another catball, screaming and cursing as we struggle for a dominant position. Finally, I pry Cynthia’s talons off my hair and roll on top of her, pinning her wrists to the mat. I straddle her chest, straightening myself up, perching onto her upper body in a school girl pin. For a moment, we both pause trying to catch our breath. I don’t want to lose my chance so I slide my butt up, and squeeze her head with my knees. If I move now, I can end this. If I can trap her arms under my shins, she’ll be finished. I might be able to finish her with a …facesit!

Cynthia pushes back with her arms but I know it’s a matter of time that she’ll drain her strength underneath me. I can feel it. Suddenly, the strong muscular legs go vertical and her hips lift off the ground. With a violent bucking sensation, I’m thrown off of her. Off balance, she pushes me out of the way, and rolls to freedom.

I’m on my hands and knees, I rise preparing to attack. As I straighten, I’m nailed by a hard kick to the sternum, sending me reeling into the ropes. Before I can react, I see Cynthia charging with her fist cocked. I have no time to get out of the way or block as the punch forcefully strikes my chest at the same location as the kick. I roll along the ropes, stunned and coughing as I hold my chest. And I know Cynthia is stalking as I flop into the corner.

The former national cheerleader champion closes in and I’m in no condition to get out of her way. I straighten up, still holding my breast bone, when I see Cynthia kick up her leg with the fluency and agility of a Rockette. Like a ballerina on the balance barre, her foot lodges on my neck, just beneath my jaw, pushing my head back over the corner ropes. My throat gurgles as her sole presses on my airway. Desperately, I grab onto her ankle, punching and digging my nails into the skin, until she relents and I feel the pressure subside from my throat.

“Fuck,” she snapped, seizing my breasts with her own claws in retaliation. I try to scream but can only make throaty sounds after her attacks on my chest and airway. She backs out of the corner, leading me by the tits as her nails stay embedded into the flesh. Screaming, I have no choice but to comply as she walks me to the center of the ring until our feet are on her beloved logo. Her talons shift from my boobs to my hair which has now lost all semblance of a bun. Pain sears across my scalp as she pulls, planting her feet and swinging me in a circle. I voluntarily move my feet to lessen the pressure, until Cynthia spins faster and I’m stumbling uncontrollably. She gives one final pull before flinging me helplessly down to the mat, sending me into a twisted heap.

I’m still coughing and choking, struggling for my breath as I’m lying on my side, outside the logo circle. I pull up with one arm, then the other, then up on all fours. I knew immediately it was a mistake. A powerful pair of thighs wrap around my waist, the ankles locking together. I panic and twist. Too late. As I turn, Cynthia cinches in her dreaded body scissors and falls to my side. Our bodies are perpendicular in a T shape. I’m facing her as she convulses her leg muscles squeezing my lower ribs and abdomen. I gasp as my already compromised breathing is even more restricted. I try to pry her ankles apart but my arm strength is no match for her leg power. My hands are free but so are hers. Her boobs and head are far out of reach. She tries to grab my wrists. If she does, it will be over. My hands and arms are all I have.

My breathing sounds like throaty raspy groans like a dying animal. “Give up, bitch,” Cynthia orders. “It’s over, you pompous ass. Tell us the truth. You’re a nobody. Say it. Spare yourself more pain…SAY IT!”

My entire torso has been bruised and battered. I can’t breath. Cynthia’s squeezes come in waves of spasms, again and again. I lie on the mat like a deer being killed by an anaconda. I dig my nails into her thigh. She laughs. “You’re going nowhere, Miss Snotty…Give up!

One of my elbows is between her thighs. If I can reach up high enough. It’s my only chance. A little more.

“Give up, already,” she snaps impatiently. “Fine, I can squeeze you here all night.”

I hear my husband, “Kiva, do you want to submit.” I work my fingers a little higher.

“N..Nnn..No,” I can barely croak out.

I’m almost there, a little more. Yes! I made it. I can barely drill my nails into her red panty covered pussy but it’s enough. “Aaauuuuggh,” she shrieks as she unlocks her legs and draws up her knees. I roll away as quickly as possible, sucking air, my chest aching with each breath. Cynthia takes a moment to soothe her womanhood giving me some time to try to recover.

Slowly, we both rise to our feet. Our skin shines with sweat. Our stringy wet hair is in our faces. Cynthia is still in better shape and she resumes the role of aggressor. I take a defensive position, backing away and keeping my hands up, again utilizing my boxing training. I taunt her, daring her to come after me, then retreat trying to fill air in my lungs. She lunges and I dodge her. She shoots in, I sidestep her, and deliver a slap to the side of the head. She’s frustrated. “Come on loser, fight, this isn’t a dance contest,” she grumbles.
I stick my tongue out at her. Now she’s infuriated.

That’s what I want. Cynthia charges at me, hands up. I feign a retreat. Her hands reach for my hair, but I duck down, punching her in the ribs with one of the hardest right hands I’ve ever thrown. The blow hurt my hand but I know it hurt Cynthia much worse. She doubles over, clutching her ribs, staggering, almost falling as she stumbles into the ropes. Now it’s my turn to go on the attack. I got her back to the ropes and fire a knee to her belly which she mostly blocks with her arms, keeping them low to protect her bruised body. Her head, unguarded, is an easy target so I fire a vicious slap to the face. I undo the last vestige of her light brown hair bun and grab hold of her strands like a greedy only child.

I pull the has been to center of the ring by her locks and begin to spin. “Now you’re going for a ride, bitch.”l I’m standing on the logo with my prey, gleefully twirling her in a circle. Around she goes, until I trip her feet sending down on her precious emblem. She rolls on her belly as I pounce on her back. With her face down, I seize her legs, folding one of them, forcing the calf into the crease of the other knee. I crank her ankle up, crushing the other legs calf as she lies with her tits down, pounding the mat in exasperation.

Her arms reach behind her in futility. I shift upward and seat myself on her folded leg at the ankle, incapacitating both legs. I look down at the red panties with number 18 on her ass with amusement. How absurd. Ridiculous people. I’m about to let her know what I think of the matter. My hands are free. The opportunity is too inviting. I open my hand and slap down hard on her husband’s old venerated number. Again, And again. Smack, Smack. I want to beat the shit out of the stupid 18. She tries to block with her hands but I can control them with my other free hand. After several blows, I decide it’s time for number 18 to go. I pull the silly underwear down, exposing her bare ass. She shrieks with anguish and anger as I resume the spanking on her naked butt. “I’m gonna beat these panties right off of you, sweetie,” as I deliver another series of slaps to vulnerable skin. She cries and squirms in vain as the pallor of her nude cheeks turn to scarlet.

It feels like poetic justice to humiliate her right on her holy school symbol. I get a strange sense of satisfaction beating her ass red in the middle of the circular logo. As much as I’m enjoying this, I need to put her away and end it. I quickly release her legs and bounce onto her back, seizing her hair in the back of her head. I pull back as she helplessly tries to reach around and grab my arms. I push back down, burying her face into the mat. Straight ahead, I see Josh outside the ring in his own absurd red 18 jersey and I take delight in pulling Cynthia’s head up so he can see his wife’s anguished face - just before I plough her nose back down into the canvas.

I force her head side to side, rubbing her face into her precious school symbol. “This is it, honey,” I taunt. “This is your life. This is all you have. Why don’t you kiss it?” I mock as I press down even harder. She garbled something I couldn’t understand but I’m sure it wasn’t polite.

I know this is torture to her. Still, I know this won’t submit her. It’s time to get serious. I snake an arm under her armpit and place my hand behind her head in a quarter nelson. I shift my body to her side, place my other hand into her crotch, now free of the panties, and roll her over onto her back. Quickly, I mount her chest and nail her arms down under my knees. There! A tight schoolgirl pin. I press my thighs against both sides of her head and squeeze. I snicker at her exposed bush and the red panties around her thighs.

She’s almost finished. She looks defeated. The confident expression is gone. The green eyes look tired and desperate. This shouldn’t take long. I twist behind me and deliver two warning shots with my fists to her belly. “Give up!” I demand. She grunts out her defiance.

I squeeze my thighs together distorting her face again. I see Josh looking very worried. The only way she can escape is by hooking me with her killer legs so I stay low out of reach. I nail her belly again and she takes it. Finally, I see a surefire way of finishing this. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this but I want it to be over. With my weight on her chest and her arms secure beneath my knees, my pussy is just below her chin. I seize her hair and yank her nose into my blue panty covered pussy.

“Give up!” I order. No response.

“Give up!” She doesn’t even seem to be struggling. Did she pass out?

I let her head fall back to the mat. In that instant, a pair of pythons quickly wrap around my neck pulling my body backwards and off to the side.

“Holy shit! How the fuck did she do that? No human being has that kind of flexibility. But this woman seems to be made out of rubber. Even the displaced panties didn’t limit her range of motion. However, I learned my lesson. Cynthia’s scissors holds mean death. I voluntarily vacate my mount, pop my head out from between her legs and roll away.

I quickly stand and hover over my opponent. I’m angry and frustrated. I can’t believe I let her use her legs like that. But I know she’s hurt and waiting to be finished. Playing cat and mouse, I watch my prey roll onto her hands and knees and struggle to stand, pulling her red panties up to their proper position. I circle behind her. As soon as she gets onto her feet, I fire a devastating left handed slap to the face. She staggers back and nearly falls. I follow up with a vicious right slap that nearly turned her head around. Cynthia reels across the ring, collapsing near the ropes.

I’m standing on the emblem observing my fallen foe. Her eyes are glassy. To her credit, she gets up on one knee. It’s clear she doesn’t want to quit. Her eyes focus on me. She looks at me with utter contempt. The bitch. I’m beating the hell out of her and she’s still defiant. Then she lips words with her mouth. The meaning is clear. “You’re…A….Nobody.”

Fuck! Really?…I mean really?. Isn’t that just like the popular girls at school. You best them at something and they still don’t give you credit. My dislike of Cynthia just reached new heights. Or maybe more like new lows. Fuck you! Fuck your school!

Standing alone on the logo, I impulsively try to hurt Cynthia mentally in the worst way I know how. I wipe my feet on her hallowed school symbol, simulating the wiping of dirt on a doormat. I watch her eyes widen with shock and I see a flame of anger. On one knee, her face morphs into an expression of bitter hatred as she watches me desecrate her revered idol.

I glare back at her. I return my own look of disdain but I know mine does not match hers in intensity. That’s right, bitch, I hear myself speaking internally. For that moment, she represents every popular girl I couldn’t stand in high school. The cliques. The conceit. The arrogance. And she’s right in front of me, just waiting for me to finish her off. I’m coming for you, bitch. In a moment, it will be over. But before I turn your lights out, let me show you one last time what I think of your school spirit. I mimic a deep breath and a throat clearing motion. I heave my neck and chest forward as if I’m about to spit on her cherished logo, that symbol that means everything important in her life.

Oh my God! I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen. It was supposed to be a pantomime, just a gesture. But it happened. I lurched forward making a hacking sound. From somewhere deep inside my chest, a gob of phlegm travels up to my throat, then spews out from my mouth into the air. The disgusting ball of mucus travels a few feet before falling with a splat on the holy red and white lettering in the center of the ring. I honestly didn’t intend for this - but I did it. And I can’t take it back.

Still on her knee, Cynthia’s face contorts into monstrous mask, as if she just watched me drive a dagger through the heart of her child. She crouches on her haunches, I see her leg muscles twitch. I prepare myself for what’s coming.

“YOU FUCKING CXNT!!!” she screams, as she leaps up from the canvas and charges. Shrieking like a crazed warrior, Cynthia attacks me with her hands up like she’s after my throat. I dig in with my feet, brace myself and wait. My right hand curls into a fist, I eye her left ribs. One well placed shot and it’s over. Her hands are high, my target is vulnerable, my arm is cocked. Here she comes.

My timing is perfect. She comes in. I prepare to throw the punch like my trainers taught me. I position my body just right and swing and….oooouuuuwwwwwll. Fuck! The bitch lowers head at the last moment and my bare fist crashes into the top of her skull. My hand hurts so bad, it’s numb. Cynthia drives forward, wrapping her arms around me, driving me halfway across the ring and into the ropes.

The woman is out of her mind as she presses me into the ropes firing a series of knees to my belly. I block most with my arms, until my arms hurt. She throws a volley of punches to the body and slaps to the face. I cannot block all of them and the ones that land cause pain. I try to cover up, then a heavy knee catches me in the chest. I double over until a second knee plunges flush into my belly. She straightens me up by my hair and I cannot defend a flurry of face slaps. A heavy knee strikes my thigh, then another one. I can barely stand. I am being pummeled all over my body and am now defenseless. Her frenzied assault continues. There is nowhere for me to go but.….down.

I pitch forward while bent in half, falling in front of the ropes. I curl into a fetal position while Cynthia kicks at me. I shift onto my knees and elbows and tuck in my arms and legs in a defensive turtle position, like a survivalist protecting her vital organs from a bear attack. I’m battered, I can’t breathe and I fear I’m finished. For the first time ever, I consider submitting. Finally, Cynthia pauses her brutal attack. Maybe I still have something left. I don’t know. I lift my head from out of my crouch. I learn immediately that was a big mistake.

Muscular thighs encircle my neck, instantly wrapping together and tightening. Cynthia falls to her side, forcing me down with her. She clamps the neck scissors tight, her powerful legs constricting my airway and blood supply. I claw at her thighs but I know it is futile. I also know I have little time. There is no escape from this. It’s happening. Little bubbles of light are in front of my eyes. A gray shade covers my vision. I sense my consciousness slipping. So this is what it’s like to be choked out. I’m slipping away. I have a choice. I can pass out or tap out. It’s over. I…will…tap…

What happened? I’m free. Cynthia let go of me. Did I pass out? Did I tap? I’m on my belly facing the ropes. I see Tom outside the ring looking worried and confused. Where’s Cynthia?

From behind, a hand grabs my hair and pulls up my head. Her voice is in my ear. “I don’t want to choke you out sweetie. You’re coming with me…to learn better manners.”

Hands seize my ankles and lift my legs. I’m being pulled, dragged on my belly. Instinctively, I place my hand across the lower rope, but I can’t grip it. Tom and I meet with our eyes. My hand slips off the rope as I’m dragged farther by the legs. My tits and belly wipe the mat as the distance between my husband and I grows. I look at his face one last time as Cynthia pulls me to her destination of doom. He looks like a sad little boy watching his puppy being hauled off to the dog pound.

I’m lugged across the ring and onto the logo, where the sputum smears onto my upper belly. Cynthia drops my legs and for a brief second, I’m faced down flat. I can barely move a muscle
when I sense my attacker standing over me straddling my body, facing my feet. Just like that, she picks up my ankles up high and locks them under her armpits.

I feel my feet rise higher and higher while tension grips my lower back. Cynthia pulls back toward my head, taking my legs with her as the back pressure transforms to searing pain. I can barely lift my head. My tits are cemented to the mat. She pulls back further and I feel ligaments and tendons stretching around my spine. Is this some kind of Boston Crab? The Boston Crab?…Fuck!…I thought that only worked in pro wrestling. Cynthia can’t be strong enough to pull that off. No way! I’ll get out of this!…Somehow.

The pain and pressure intensifies. My legs and spine are in positions nature never intended. I feel her weight shifting. The agony is unbearable. Now I know what she is doing. Cynthia is arching her back adding extra force. I can’t stand it. I’m helpless. She’s bent back so far, I feel her hair fall on my shoulder blades. I scream. Fuck! Sweat covers my forehead, tears form in my eyes. My spine…MY SPINE!…I’m an ICU nurse. I know all about spinal cord injuries. No, this can’t be happening. I…I…I…

“I GIVE UP! STOP”

“Are you a nobody?” she grills me.

“YES, NOW LET GO!”

“Then say it.”

“I’M A NOBODY....PLEASE...MY SPINE!

“Kiss it,” she demands. “I said KISS IT!….KISS THE LOGO!

Oh fuck, she’s punishing me for what I did to her precious icon. I don’t want to kiss it. This is so degrading. But my back, my spine. I don’t want to be a paraplegic.

“KISS IT!” She repeats.

My cheek is already on the mat. I turn my nose face down. Drool drips from my mouth. I lower my lips, pressing them onto the white letters, tasting the polyvinyl chloride plastic and my own sweaty feet. My lips come together to make a smooching sound.

“She did it,” both of our husbands clamor. “Let her go, Cynthia,” Josh urges.

She releases her hold and my legs fall lifelessly to the mat. I lie face down motionless. My lower back is in one massive spasm. I’m not sure if I feel my legs. Just trying to lift up my head worsens the pain in my back. I drop my face back down onto the grime, spit and sweat of the mat.


Part III. The Aftermath

I see Cynthia’s bare feet frolicking in celebration. I see the legs and sneakers of her cheerleaders pouring into the ring to greet her. They cheer and shake their pom poms and surround her as if she just scored a winning touchdown.

All I know right now is that I’m in pain. Any attempt to move a leg muscle is excruciating. I want to get up. I need to get my nose away from this smelly mat. Using my arms, I manage to push off to the side and roll over onto my back, wincing in the process. The support of the mat provides a little relief.

To my right, Cynthia’s cheerleaders surround her.

Victory Victory
Feels so sweet
Cynthia wins again
She can’t be beat

She’s the roughest
She’s the toughest
She’s the best around
Don’t ever mess with Cynthia
She will put you down

I’m in pain. I want to get up. My legs won’t move and I’m scared. This can’t be a spinal cord injury. This isn’t one of those I tell myself. I can move my toes. That’s encouraging. It’s all just muscle spasm and sprain. I just need a little time. But I don’t want to lie here. This is so humiliating being laid out in the ring, nearly naked like a game fish that’s just been landed. The winners jubilate around me. The cheerleaders look at me with indifference, some with derisive expressions. “Remember when her nipples stood up,” one of them remarked to the other. Amber stares, smirking with derision. I half close my eyes and turn away.

Movement is returning to my legs. I bend my knees. Maybe I can lift up now. I dig my elbows to the mat and prepare to push up but I go nowhere. A weight on my chest forces me to remain affixed to the mat. Cynthia’s foot presses on my sternum, my chest supports most of her weight. My squinty eyes see the form of her statuesque body over me, her arms raised in triumph. Her tightly muscled legs rise from my chest like two pillars supporting her firm red covered ass. The white number 18 positions itself over me like a conqueror’s flag claiming it’s new land. She proudly throws out her chest, her sprightly breasts and spirited nipples bask in the light and free air as mine suffer under the sweat and dirt of the soles of her feet. She flexes and poses while I helplessly lie still.

The room has become eerily quiet as all eyes are on us. My husband makes no attempt to rescue me from this indignity. He and Josh stand outside the ring like they are observing some kind of solemn ritual that’s as old as humanity itself, an ancient rite where the winner displays her dominance over her defeated foe in the presence of witnesses, a process that cements the pecking order. After all the trash talk, the posturing, the threats, it’s been settled for all to see. The better woman is decided. Social order is restored, each woman knows her place relative to the other.

It sickens me that Tom is watching this. He knows the code. Winners are entitled to victory poses over the losers. Husbands who accompany their wives to their fights assume some risk of their own. If their woman wins, they enjoy celebratory benefits in the bedroom. On the other hand, the spouse of the loser watches her pride get dismantled, takes her home and tries to physically and emotionally rehabilitate his broken wife. But right now, I am all…alone.

Cynthia steps off my chest and I take an unrestricted deep breath. I attempt to sit up but I’m quickly pushed right back down by her foot. Her message is clear. I was not given permission to rise. She wipes her feet on my chest, clearly retaliating for what I did to her logo. She makes sure to cover both breasts with her soles before miming scraping off mud from her feet and flinging it down on me. Finally, she dismounts again. Through squinty eyes, I see her gazing down on me. I hear her make a deep guttural sound with her throat. I brace myself as a mixture of mucus and saliva is expelled from her mouth, the loogie landing on my belly button with a wet slapping sound.

“I believe you owe me something,” she says softly. My stomach knots as she points to my blue panties. Panicking, I clutch them with my hands.

“You can make this easy and cooperate,” she whispers. “Or we can do this the hard way.” Our eyes meet for the first time since the fight. I see her stern expression and melt with intimidation. My hands relent, I lift my pelvis. Cynthia pulls and claims her trophy as my blue panties depart from my body for the final time. She holds it up high as if it were the decapitated head of a rival king.

Nude and horizontal, laid out on the logo like a slab of meat on a platter, I dare not move or leave the ring before Cynthia. She positions my arms to the side. I squeeze my thighs together in an ineffective attempt to hide my bush. I fight back the tears but I know I’m emotionally breaking down. My breathing has become rapid. I feel tingling in my hands and feet and around my mouth. I know these are symptoms of acute hyperventilation. I try to slow down my breathing but cannot.

I’m dehydrated. My throat is parched. I’m lightheaded. Celebratory sounds continue. Cheerleaders surround me, both red and blue. Noise is becoming muffled, more distanced. I can’t make out what the voices are saying. I think I hear chanting but I don’t know if it’s real or in my head.

Kiva, Kiva, you’re a fool
Never disrespect our school
You’re not smart, you’re not cool
Red and white will always rule

More cheerleaders, the ones in blue who were taught to cheer for me, enter the ring. All ten seem to be in some formation. Is this one last cheer? A finale? I choose not to watch and loll my head in the opposite direction.

I feel as if I’m about to pass out. My mind wonders through a litany of irrelevant unconnected memories and thoughts. I can’t stop hyperventilating. That’s what stress and anxiety do to you. Voices start again and I still don’t know if they’re from delirium.

Cynthia, Cynthia, she’s the best
Kiva found out and got laid to rest
Kiva, Kiva, what happened to you?
You lost the fight and your panties too
Cynthia’s the better woman, that’s what we conclude
Look how she changed your attitude
Now we see you beaten and nude
And lying there like vulture food

Did I really see Cynthia through the air, backflipping off of a pyramid formation? The cheerleaders give one last yell. Josh has entered the ring and embraces and kisses his wife. Everyone begins to leave. The celebration is over. “The pizza is here,” I hear the cheerleaders say.

Not everyone has left. I look up to see Amber and another cheerleader standing over me peering down. “You got your ass kicked,” she grins with condescension. “Wanna rassle me now? I bet I can pin you. I’ll call my boyfriend so he can watch.”

Is she fucking kidding. “Get the fuck away from me,” I groan, my voice raspy.

I’m unable to react when Amber’s body dives onto mine. She squirms horizontally across my chest. In an instant, she holds my wrist to the mat with one arm while seizing the back of my knee with the other. I scream as pain once again pulses through my lower back. I feel my leg lifted into the air.

“Cross body press with a leg hook. I got her,” the twat declares. “Caitlyn, count.”

I sense another cheerleader drop to her knees behind my head. “GET OFF OF ME,” I scream.

“One...Two...Three...Amber is the winner,” the second brat says.

Amber scrambles to her feet with her arms raised in “victory”. “The cheerleader vs the naked nurse. Damn I wish my boyfriend were here. Too bad Cynthia doesn’t allow pictures.” She presses her sneaker on my chest for a victory pose. I seize her ankle and attempt to twist it.

“THAT’S ENOUGH,” Tom yells as he uses his body to shield me from my harassers. Finally, my knight shows up. “You’re a tough girl, aren’t you?” He scolds Amber, “Going after a woman who’s already down.” The college punks scamper off for pizza as Tom throws my terry cloth robe over me. I cover up as he lifts my head, slowly getting me into a sitting position. He holds me in his arms as I lean my body into him.

I have to roll under the bottom rope to exit the ring as I can’t quite stand. Tom lifts me up and holds me across his chest, one arm around my shoulders, the other supports my hips. Down the hall, we hear the merriment of the pizza party in the kitchen area. My husband carries me back to the dressing room and gently sits me on the bed. He holds my hand and kisses my head. He begins to rub my back. We say nothing. He brings me water. Despite my dehydration, several minutes pass before I drink. I stare straight ahead, stunned and catatonic.

Finally, my breathing slows down to normal. The lightheadedness and tingling subside. I begin to gulp the water. My mind is coming back. My body bears the sweat, scratches and spittle from the battle. The terry cloth robe sticks to my skin. My hair is a wild mess. I don’t want to wash here. I only want to go home. I fight back the sobs.

There’s a tap on the door. Josh is standing in the doorway.

“Cheer up, kiddo,” he tells me. “You fought a good fight. You’ll be back.” He pauses as if to retrieve some story filed away in his mind. “In my junior year, on opening day, I threw three interceptions against the Longhorns. Worst game of my life. But then, the following week against Texas A&M, I threw for over 400 yards and five touchdowns. We went on to win the...”

I tune him out. Last thing I need is to listen to this blather. Funny how he seems to have forgotten that he couldn’t throw anything except interceptions in the NFL. Then he regains my attention.

“Kiva, Tom, Cynthia and I would like for you stay and join us for pizza and beer.”

“No, thanks,” I tell him. The thought repulses me. “I think I’ll get dressed now and we’ll be going.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “We’d love to have you stay.”

“Yes, I’m sure, but thanks.” All I want to do is get out of this house as quickly as possible with my tail between my legs, go home, take a shower, and have a good cry.

From behind Josh, I’m shocked to hear Cynthia chime in. “Yes, Kiva, why don’t you stay? Josh and I would really like that.” I see she’s already showered and back in her red jersey.

“We really should be going,” my husband responds.

I really want to leave but I can’t seem to speak or move, as if my will to go home is being overpowered by...something else.

“Come on, Kiva, let’s go,” Tom says. “I’ll help you get dressed.”

“Wait,” I tell him.

I can’t do it. I can’t get up. It’s not that my legs don’t work. They do. It’s just that I seem to have  lost my resolve. I want to leave but Cynthia wants me to stay. I just can’t bring myself to conflict with her again. I feel this weird compulsion to...defer to her. Two women met in the ring to settle their differences. One of them prevailed and it wasn’t me. Now I can’t bring myself to go against what she wants. I know it’s silly. Intellectually, I know she’s just trying to extend an olive branch and be a good hostess. I’m sure she’d be fine with me leaving. But something deep within me says I must do what she wants. She has established her superiority over me and I have this strange urge to comply with her will.

“We’ll stay,” I tell her as I nudge my husband. “It’s okay,” I whisper to him.

“May I wash up,” I ask meekly.

“Of course,” answers Cynthia, “I’ll show you to the restroom. But first, Josh has a gift for you, from both of us.”

“Here, kiddo, this is for you,” the former college star says as he shows me a red football jersey with white lettering. “It’s not an official school jersey but it’s a good replica,” he explains as he holds it out to show me his name and the number 18 emblazoned on the back. “Cynthia and I both signed it.”

“Kiva, why don’t you put it on after you wash up,” Cynthia adds. “I think you’ll be more comfortable than with those clothes you brought with you.”

I take the garment I previously mocked, tuck it under my arm, pick up my gym bag, then carefully and stiffly rise from the chair. “Okay, I’ll wear it,” I dutifully tell her.

“Great,” she smiles. “Come with me.” She takes me by the arm, leading me down the hallway. A wave of pain runs through my lower back with each step, as I lean on the arm of the woman who caused it for support. She shows me the bathroom, the shower, the towels. “Meet us in the kitchen when you’re done,” she orders. “Oh,” she adds, “you’re welcomed to use the Motrin in the medicine cabinet.

My body aches all over, especially my back. The warm shower water provides some relief. Finally, alone and now that a little time has past, the events of the night all come crashing down on me. I was defeated. Humiliated. My underwear taken. Left naked. Spit on. By a woman whose very existence I insulted. On top of it, I was disrespected by her mentees. I knew I would eventually lose a fight. I just didn’t think it would be like...this. The tears in my eyes turn to sobbing. The sobbing turns to bawling. I mourn the end of my undefeated record, my lost dignity. I mourn that another woman can now claim to be my conqueror.

I don’t know how much time has passed. I turn off the water. The crying is over and it’s time to move on. Live in the present and future. Isn’t that what I said to Cynthia? I dry off, brush my wet hair, put on gym shorts and slip on Josh’s jersey which extends to my knees. I take a deep breath and collect myself and prepare to join my husband and face the winner. I have obligations to fulfill.

The bathroom door opens and I find myself face to face with Amber. “Well it’s about time, loser,” she scowls. “What the hell were you doing in there?”

“Get out of my way,” I growl at her. I refuse to give her any ground by walking around her. She steps forward in my direct path, moving slightly to the side, hitting me with a shoulder bump, knocking me into the open door.

“Fucking bitch!” I shout as we lunge at each other, both of us seizing handfuls of hair. We yank and pull each other’s head, shrieking and screaming.

“Hey, hey, girls...GIRLS...That’s ENOUGH,” Cynthia barks as she separates us.

“If you two want to fight, I’ll let you use my ring another time. Amber, you stay away from Kiva. She’s already had enough for the night.” Cynthia takes me by the arm and leads me down the hallway as I turn toward Amber one last time.

“You stupid twat,” I snarl, “You better pray you never see me again.” The tussle causes a flair in my back pain.

“Sorry, Kiva,” Cynthia offers, “As I said, these girls are very competitive and a few of them can take it a little too far. Come on, let’s go back to the kitchen.”

In my bare feet and wet hair, I let her lead me by the arm. My body is covered by a bright red jersey with the number 18 and the name and signatures of my defeater and her husband visible on my back. It occurs to me. The process is over. The transition is complete. I’ve been branded and signed, marked as their property. As we approach the kitchen, I feel like a subjugated tribeswoman forced to adopt the culture and attire of her conquerors.

“The jersey looks great on you, kiddo,” Josh beams. “Here, this seat has been waiting for you,” he says as he pulls out a chair at the dinette table. I take my designated place at the table next to my husband. “Here’s your beer,” he says, “good ol’ locally brewed Texas draft. And we got pizza with all kinds of toppings: pepperoni, sausage, green and red peppers, mushroom, you name it.”

I notice a collection of photo albums on the table. There’s a laptop. I see a small box of flash drives. Across from me sits the happy couple, both wearing the same red jersey as the one that envelops me, proclaiming me as their belonging.

Now I know what’s about to happen. It makes sense. To the victrix belong the spoils. Like a she-wolf subdued by the alpha female, I’m shown my proper place in the pack. I know my responsibility. I know the service they expect of me. What they want from me is…my ears...my undivided attention, an audience that will validate their lives, let them believe that past glories are to be kept alive, that time past is to be relived in the present, that the future has no other purpose that to celebrate days long gone. That’s all they ever wanted from me. And who am I to deny them that?

It’s 9 pm. “Look, Kiva,” Josh begins. “This was me in my first football uniform at age eight. Look at those shoulder pads. Can you believe it?”

“My goodness, Josh” I laugh. “You were cute as a button.”

“And this is me in middle school,” Cynthia joins. “Look how skinny my legs were.”

“Maybe, but it’s obvious you were going to be a hottie,” I assure her.

“And this is me in high school,” Josh returns, “I weighed 170 lbs at this point and....”

11 pm. “And this is me and Josh sophomore year just before the Nebraska game.”

“What a gorgeous couple,” I exclaim. “And you know what? You still are.”....

“This video clip is me scrambling for a full ten seconds just before halftime against LSU. The defensive end was this big 320 pounder who thought he had me. Now watch this move.”

“That’s amazing, Josh,” I say. “I don’t know how you pulled that off. Cynthia, what was going through your mind?”

“Oh my God, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. But I knew my Josh would work his magic.”

1 am. “This is my cheerleading squad at the regional championship. We had only three days to learn this routine....”

“So I see my receiver running down the sideline as time ran out, and I threw.....”

“And this clip is from the Cotton Bowl Classic....”

“It was fourth down and we were out of time outs....”

“I played the entire second half on a sprained ankle....”

“Kiva, would you like another coffee? Black again?”

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on June 27, 2021, 01:32:44 PM

This is an effing masterpiece! A whole kaleidoscope of wickedly entertaining images – of poisonous feminine rivalry; of internecine strife; of pitiless, grinding humiliation. And not even a bone broken! In the hands of a truly talented writer, less is more.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on June 27, 2021, 03:45:48 PM

And it's funny too! That couple are like something out of Dickens.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Texaskid on June 27, 2021, 05:01:21 PM

Sure she didn't kill you and send you to hell lol

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on June 27, 2021, 07:00:00 PM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on June 27, 2021, 03:45:48 PM

And it's funny too! That couple are like something out of Dickens.

I’m certainly no Dickens but I appreciate some of his work was social satire for his time. This chapter could be viewed as partly satirical of our love of American football here in the US, like the opening paragraph and Cynthia and Josh’s obsession with their college days. I bet Dickens never wrote a soliloquy on panties, though - so there!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on June 27, 2021, 07:02:20 PM

Quote from: Texaskid on June 27, 2021, 05:01:21 PM

Sure she didn't kill you and send you to hell lol

No she didn’t, but sitting at the table listening to their stories all night sure felt like hell. Lol. I bet Dante never thought of that one.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on June 27, 2021, 09:25:45 PM

Quote from: Kiva on June 27, 2021, 07:00:00 PM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on June 27, 2021, 03:45:48 PM

And it's funny too! That couple are like something out of Dickens.

I’m certainly no Dickens but I appreciate some of his work was social satire for his time. This chapter could be viewed as partly satirical of our love of American football here in the US, like the opening paragraph and Cynthia and Josh’s obsession with their college days. I bet Dickens never wrote a soliloquy on panties, though - so there!

Dickens is no Kiva, but the lad has talent. Not good with titles though: 'Bleak House' - who'd read a book with a title like that? 'Martin Chuzzlewit'. Be serious! 'Nicholas Nickleby'. FFS!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on June 28, 2021, 12:27:18 AM

Quote from: Kiva on June 27, 2021, 07:02:20 PM

Quote from: Texaskid on June 27, 2021, 05:01:21 PM

Sure she didn't kill you and send you to hell lol

No she didn’t, but sitting at the table listening to their stories all night sure felt like hell. Lol. I bet Dante never thought of that one.

Shouldn't laugh, I know, and feel really terribly for you, Kiva, you know that, but not the least amusing aspect of the story is that you've ended up actually reinforcing their craziness. As Robbie Burns so beautifully put it: "The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley …"
https://twitter.com/Lenniesaurus/status/1409193696143233025?s=20

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: snw on June 29, 2021, 05:20:15 AM

Very nice fight and for a first loss it was very well fought. This matchup could become a real rivalry. Would love to know what Tom’s take is on Cynthia now. Being she sounds pretty hot even if she does live in the past. I always wonder when another woman defeats a rival in in front of their men if he’s thinking damn she’s pretty smokin at that moment. Amber though seems to want to have a go as well.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on June 29, 2021, 08:31:56 AM

Quote from: snw on June 29, 2021, 05:20:15 AM

Very nice fight and for a first loss it was very well fought. This matchup could become a real rivalry. Would love to know what Tom’s take is on Cynthia now. Being she sounds pretty hot even if she does live in the past. I always wonder when another woman defeats a rival in in front of their men if he’s thinking damn she’s pretty smokin at that moment. Amber though seems to want to have a go as well.

Good questions. What does my husband really think? Should I be worried he now offers to drive our daughter to cheerleading practice? Is he trying to spare me the awkwardness of seeing Cynthia? Is it something else? I’m hoping to get into more couples dynamics soon. And yes, Amber needs behavioral modification.

On a fun note, I like all my stories to be verrry realistic  ??? So I do extensive research when writing ??? ??? ???. I wondered if the Boston Crab is legit or only a pro wrestling thing. Apparently, it is real and potentially dangerous. In MMA, it is considered difficult and impractical to apply to a resisting opponent and a skilled ground fighter shouldn’t be in a vulnerable set up for it. Nevertheless, here’s an MMA fight ending in a Boston Crab submission. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=GMMigjW3q78

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Brandiprowstls on June 30, 2021, 10:39:29 AM

I love this story!  Beautiful writing. 

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: BarbaraUK on June 30, 2021, 03:36:22 PM

I like Cynthia.

She is competitive as hell  but not actually villainous as far as I can see.

Except maybe the trophy collecting, but perhaps picking up trophies just comes natural to Cynthia and Josh?

What makes you enemies is your individual insecurities which is a nice touch. I hope she makes a reappearance.

Also, how often do you come across a greek chorus around here?

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on June 30, 2021, 07:43:52 PM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on June 30, 2021, 03:36:22 PM

I like Cynthia.

She is competitive as hell  but not actually villainous as far as I can see.

Except maybe the trophy collecting, but perhaps picking up trophies just comes natural to Cynthia and Josh?

What makes you enemies is your individual insecurities which is a nice touch. I hope she makes a reappearance.

Also, how often do you come across a greek chorus around here?

Hi Barbara  :) Thanks. I thought Cynthia was a good character and will make an appearance in the next chapter with more aftermath of the fight. You are correct. Our insecurities escalated the hostility. My concept of Cynthia is that she’s quirky but not necessarily villainous, although I hope everyone was rooting for me and wanted to see her get her ass kicked. :-\
Greek chorus?  ;D. Lol. Don’t get me started. Just think what I could do with Oedipus Rex!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Texaskid on June 30, 2021, 07:57:33 PM

In the words of Barney Fife Josh and Cynthia are nuts.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on July 07, 2021, 05:11:34 PM

  I thought this was such a brilliant chapter. The introduction of an interesting character (actually 2 characters), a lot of exploring of what makes people tick, the first, heartbreaking loss, the establishment of a pecking order.... there was so much going on. I also really enjoyed how you wrote both fighters as "regular" women (odd quirks aside). There was no "bad" person, just two women with a conflict.

And the fight was also great as well. Lots of emotion and fire from you and and Cynthia- I really "felt" the fight and your loss. I loved the whole thing.

-Kelli

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Texaskid on July 07, 2021, 08:17:44 PM

Even though she has your school colors, you have something more important, Kelli. A reputation. Your a fast gun waiting to be taken down. So becareful should you Cynthia cross paths

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on July 08, 2021, 03:21:52 PM

Quote from: Texaskid on July 07, 2021, 08:17:44 PM

Even though she has your school colors, you have something more important, Kelli. A reputation. Your a fast gun waiting to be taken down. So becareful should you Cynthia cross paths

Also, Cynthia should be qualified to fight at Valkyrie’s Palace where she could meet Kelli. It’d be funny to see her mask display her school logo or, just simply, the number 18 (if that’s no too much of a giveaway to her identity).

I appreciate every reader. I’m very glad this chapter generated so much interest and discussion. Thanks to all!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Texaskid on July 08, 2021, 04:37:21 PM

Cynthia could collect masks from every state lol

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on July 14, 2021, 06:40:57 PM

Quote from: Kiva on June 29, 2021, 08:31:56 AM

Good questions. What does my husband really think? Should I be worried he now offers to drive our daughter to cheerleading practice?

Short answer: No. Not unless he has zero taste in women. At least, that's my take. It may be blasphemy to say this on a catfight site, but even though Cynthia kicked your sweet butt, she isn't fit to kiss it; you're a thousand times more woman than she'll ever be – more intelligent (by far!), more stable emotionally, witty, kinder, and I still think: sexier. She's the better fighter, that's all. But only because you ruled out punches to the head. I know why you agreed to that, but admit it: it was a mistake. You could have knocked her on her stupid cheerleader backside and trod on her neck.
Or maybe you couldn't. Because she has one thing you don't have: a giant ego. That's mega-important in a fighter. You don't have a giant ego. You know your worth, but that's not the same thing. Nor does Kelli have a giant ego. But she's hard as nails, isn't she?
You're going to do this for us, Kelli, aren't you? That giant ego of Cynthia's is gonna make a sound like thunder when it cracks. She'll be worse than Luanne. She'll be a total mess!
Shouldn't wish that on her, I know, because she's not a bad person, but I'm a vindictive little shit – and besides, there has to be something in the Geneva Convention about making your adversary sit at a kitchen table for four hours, in a football jersey 11 sizes too big, looking at photos and videos of your past triumphs and telling you how wonderful you were.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on July 16, 2021, 09:49:30 PM

Quote from: Kiva on June 26, 2021, 02:46:09 AM

“Well, she’ll certainly learn a lot about me tonight,” Cynthia replies, “because I plan to teach her some very painful lessons.” Her self assured expression and acid tone give me a brief chill. “I know,” she adds, “Kiva might be interested in seeing my special trophies. Why don’t you show her, dear?”

“You mean...?” Josh begins to ask.

“That’s right.  THOSE trophies. After all,” she says with a smirk. “Kiva will be adding her own contribution to it. We may as well let her see the company she’ll be joining.”

“Very well,” Josh responds. He leads us to a large walk-in closet containing a cherry wood cabinet. He unlocks it and retrieves at least a dozen...panties. Each undergarment is sealed in a clear zip lock plastic bag and appears in a variety of different colors. Most panties are of a small to medium size but a few large ones are included. Each bag is dated and bears a label. I read.

Susan-Purple-Texas Christian U-submission, body scissors
Jackie-Maroon-Texas A&M-submission, belly punches
Tracy-Green and gold-Baylor- long pin, face sit
Jeannie-Tiger stripes-Clemson-submission, tit claw

I see a name I recognize.

Deanna-Red-Rutgers-submission, head scissors

OMG! There has to be a way of winding back time so we can watch these fights! I have a real problem when it's my heroine, Kiva, on the receiving end, but I'd have no qualms at all about watching Tracy (whoever she is) being face-sat into submission, Jackie (of Texas A&M) succumbing to a barrage of belly punches, or Jeannie (of Clemson) to a tit claw. Nor – since we've seen her already and know she's a total bitch – would it pain me unduly to watch Deanna (of Rutgers) with her neck trapped between Cynthia's vicelike thighs, turning purple and writhing like a serpent in a frying pan before tapping out, and surrendering her panties to, the Cherubic Cheerleader from Hell. That (for whomsoever had the outrageous good fortune to be present) must have been a fun evening!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on August 09, 2021, 12:27:34 PM

What annoys me about this, Kiva, is that you had the dumb cheerleader bimbo at your mercy and you let her go!!! She was on her back, with her confidence shattered, her panties around her knees and her arms trapped, and you grabbed her hair and pulled her face into your muff. The woman was suffocating, Kiva! You just had to hold her there until either she tapped or you were absolutely certain she'd passed out. Instead you let her go, which was not only a profound disservice to every man on this board but completely unnecessary. Her brain had already gone without oxygen, from the sounds of it, for 30-odd years. Another 30 seconds wouldn't have hurt.  ;D

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on August 10, 2021, 12:44:45 PM

Quote from: papillon on August 09, 2021, 12:27:34 PM

What annoys me about this, Kiva, is that you had the dumb cheerleader bimbo at your mercy and you let her go!!! She was on her back, with her confidence shattered, her panties around her knees and her arms trapped, and you grabbed her hair and pulled her face into your muff. The woman was suffocating, Kiva! You just had to hold her there until either she tapped or you were absolutely certain she'd passed out. Instead you let her go, which was not only a profound disservice to every man on this board but completely unnecessary. Her brain had already gone without oxygen, from the sounds of it, for 30-odd years. Another 30 seconds wouldn't have hurt.  ;D

Yes, some big mistakes in that fight. You live and learn.

Tiberius: I haven’t found a video of the Cynthia-Deanna fight. They haven’t posted it on the cat-pin website. Cynthia may have a copy of it but I’m in no position to ask her for it. I see Deanna at work but we don’t talk much. There’s a rumor Deanna’s boyfriend wrote his account of the fight. If I can track it down, I’ll post it.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on August 10, 2021, 03:52:29 PM

Quote from: Kiva on August 10, 2021, 12:44:45 PM

Tiberius: I haven’t found a video of the Cynthia-Deanna fight. They haven’t posted it on the cat-pin website. Cynthia may have a copy of it but I’m in no position to ask her for it. I see Deanna at work but we don’t talk much. There’s a rumor Deanna’s boyfriend wrote his account of the fight. If I can track it down, I’ll post it.

Well, I thought the reappearance recently of the lost manuscripts of Louis-Ferdinand Céline, stolen from his apartment in Paris at the end of WWII, was certain to prove the literary find of the 21st century, but if you could track that down (assuming the boyfriend can write), Kiva, your memory would be doubly blessed for all eternity (or what remains of it).
She was the tall Italian woman from New York who was unwise enough to tell Kelli that Texas was full of losers. She also said that the Dallas Cowboys sucked (a point Kelli was prepared to concede) and that Ted Cruz was a moron (would that he were!).
That was just after your arrival in Texas, right, Kiva? You both wrote up the fight:
Page 6 here: https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=78153.75
Fyre's Fight Journal, Chapter 22: Welcome to Texas
And the first page of this thread, Chapter 1: Deep in the Heart of Texas
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=90742.0
*
I won't reveal the outcome but I loved that fight. While we're waiting for Kelli to take Cynthia down, a blow-by-blow account of Cynthia vs Deanna would make a mouth-watering starter.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on August 22, 2021, 06:27:54 AM

Chapter 9: Love, Death, and Lies 1

A life is time, they teach you growing up
The seconds ticking killed us all
A million years before the fall
You ride the waves and don't ask where they go
You swim like lions through the crest
And bathe yourself in zebra flesh
-Primitive Radio Gods


I’d rather be anywhere but here today. I prepared myself mentally the best I could. It’s hard. After all, this is where it started. I take another deep breath and exhale. Think happy thoughts, I tell myself for the hundredth time today. I’ll get through this. Remember why you are here, Kiva. Remember, it’s all for Clarissa. Yes, my daughter Clarissa, she’s the reason I’m here - the only reason. Another Saturday, another Texas town, another Pee Wee football game.

Give me a B! Give me an E!
Give me an S! Give me a T!
What's that spell? Best! Best!
Put us to the test!
We'll beat the Panthers
We won't give 'em a rest!

Cheerleaders. The sweet innocent voices chill my blood like the sound of fingernails across a chalkboard. Yet, I endure. They’re not the problem. “Great job, Clarissa,” I shout.

My back had been feeling much better, but the bleachers are making it worse today. Tom is next to me. The air fills with the sounds of elementary school boys clashing on the field, referees blowing whistles, and 7- to 9-year old cheerleaders chanting. I see Clarissa and her little teammates go through their routines with remarkable precision and synchronicity. After all, they practiced hard and were trained well, and I see the woman responsible for their impressive performance. I see … Cynthia.

In her shorts and tank top loosely covered by an opened warm-up jacket, she looks beautiful. With her hair tied into a ponytail, the muscular legs stride gracefully along the sidelines as she encourages her students. We haven’t spoken since the fight. Tom has been driving Clarissa to practice to spare me the awkwardness. Perhaps I should have known better than to fight someone connected to my daughter. I can’t deny that Clarissa loves “Miss Cynthia” as her coach. A wave of maternal pride washes over me as I watch my daughter perform her routine. I reach my hand out to join it with my husband’s. “Isn’t she beautiful?” I breathe. “Tom?…Tom?” I turn to see he is preoccupied … looking at … Cynthia. “What the fuck?” I mutter to myself as I jam my elbow into his ribs.

After being defeated and humiliated before my husband’s eyes, I find it impossible not to wonder what he really thinks. He says he’s proud of me in my effort against Cynthia. Indeed, since the fight, he’s been even more virile in bed. If my back wasn’t so sore, I’d be having a wild time. But what does he really think of me compared to her? He certainly didn’t complain as we sat across the table from her until dawn.

The game is over. Cynthia wraps things up with her girls. Clarissa is so cute as she runs to rejoin us. “Mommy,” her little voice announces, “Miss Cynthia wants to talk to you.”

“Kiva? Tom?…Do you have a minute?” I hear Cynthia’s voice. I see Josh beside her in his red jersey. Shit, now what?

“Well,” Cynthia starts, “I just want to say that Clarissa is doing exceptionally well. I’d like to try her as a flyer. I think she’s perfect for it. And…I want to let you know that we’ll be holding a cheerleading camp next month. There will be workshops. Some of my old teammates will be there as instructors. We’ll be going over new techniques and stunts. It’ll be great. I hope you’ll consider sending Clarissa. Registration will start next week.”

“Thanks,” I reply. “We’ll check our schedules and consider it.”

“So how YOU doin’, kiddo?” Josh asks.

“Fine.” I look at Cynthia and I think of the hundreds of ways I could have taken her. I instinctively size her up like I would any woman, but it’s so strange. I’m looking at a woman who already defeated me. I wonder if, when she sees me, does she say to herself, “I own her”?

“You know,” Cynthia adds, “it’s so cute seeing Tom bringing Clarissa to practice. I don’t often see dads getting involved. But Tom comes early, helps us set up the floor mats, and then he stays late to help us clean up. He’s the last parent to leave. It’s so cute. We gave him a nickname. We call him ‘The Roadie’”.

“Yup,” I sigh. “That’s my husband. Mr. Helpful.” I give him a quick sideways glare.

“Well,” she says, “Josh and I are going out for a late lunch. Why don’t the two of you join us?”

“Sure, we’d love to,” my helpful husband is quick to answer. This can’t be happening.

“Sorry,” I interject, my voice overpowering his. “We have to leave. Clarissa has a school project to finish. But thanks.” My backbone is returning figuratively and literally. I settled all debts with this woman. She will not control my life.

We exchange polite goodbyes and head to our car. “Are you fucking kidding?” I grumble to my husband under my breath.

The weekend is past and I’m back to work. I no sooner step into my office when I hear a tap on the door.

“Hey.”

“Yes, Tori.” This day is already starting badly.

“I heard….my sister was there. She’s one of the cheerleaders.”

“Oh?”

“So,” the pharmacist asks, “what will you do next?”

“Take a break,” I explain. “I need a little more time to recover….Uh…how about you?” Please Lord, let her tell me she’s not fighting again.

“I’ll be fighting again soon.” I feel my heart sink as I groan. Tori continues, “Billy thinks he found the right opponent for me.” Okay, my heart just dropped to the floor.

“Billy?…really, Tori,…Billy?…you mean fucking BILLY?”

“Well, yeah,” she responds, “Billy says he has the perfect opponent for me.”

“And you believe that?” My voice is agitated. “Is this the same Billy that said Kelli was your perfect match. That you could take her?”

“Well,” she says with a slight stammer, “I could have taken Kelli. I just made one tiny mistake.”

“I’ll say,” I snap. “Your mistake was showing up. Why, Tori, on God’s green earth, would you ever listen to anything Billy says after he set you up for disaster like that? How can you be so gullible?”

“Well, Billy knows a lot about fighting….He’s training me himself.”

Now it’s my jaw that’s on the floor. “Billy?…Training?….You?”

“Yeah,” Tori replies. “He’s teaching me everything he knows.”

“I bet he is,” I snark. “For fuck’s sake, Tori, I can’t possibly make this warning any stronger. Billy is using and abusing you. The dickhead is going to fuck up your life. Break it off with him immediately. Stay away from that club. Do not let him book you for fights. If you want to fight, find a trainer who only has your best interests at heart and find opponents suitable for your level.”

“Will you be my opponent?”

“Seriously, Tori, you want to fight … me?”

“Yeah,…Amber says you don’t have much.”

“Amber?” It can’t be.

“Yes, Amber. My sister. The cheerleader. She says she can take you easily.”

I’m done. “Tori, this conversation is over. I’ve said all I can say. The rest is up to you.” As she leaves, I give her a parting message. “Tell your little shit sister she can meet me in the cage anytime.” Idiot.

My patient care shift starts. I grab my stethoscope and receive report from the night nurse. One patient in particular is very familiar to me.

“Good morning, Elena,” I say in an upbeat voice.

“Why hello, Kiva,” she smiles. Her voice is weak and barely audible but disarmingly cheerful.

Elena is now in her third month of hospitalization. She managed to recover enough from her latest pulmonary infection to be removed from the ventilator. However, that fact does nothing to change her grim prognosis. Her leukemia is back in full bloom, overcrowding her bone marrow, circulating through her blood, infiltrating organs. She won’t survive a second stem cell transplant. She’s reached the limit of the radiation and there are no additional chemotherapy treatments known to be effective. Simply put, Elena is out of options. Yesterday, she and her husband met with her doctors and interdisciplinary team to discuss home hospice. The plan would be to have her die peacefully at home under the care of hospice nurses.

“How are we doing with your pain level, girlfriend?” I ask.

“Good. I don’t have any pain.”

“I see you haven’t taken much breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.” She looks at me like she has something important to say. “I may be going home tomorrow…if all the hospice equipment is ready.”

I immediately sense that I’m about to have one of those special nurse-patient moments. It’s those times when the two of us connect in a very profound experience. And what can be more profound than a thirty-year-old wife and mother coming to the end of her life. Elena sits up in her bed. Her white patient gown hangs on skin covering bare bones. Her 95-pound frame, down 30 pounds since her illness is emaciated. Her beautiful black hair is pulled back. Her cheek and temporal bones are prominent due to the loss of flesh. The large brown eyes are sunken into their orbits. But despite her vitality slipping away, there is an unmistakable dignity and tranquility about her. When she smiles, her straight white perfect teeth still shine. Her laughter infuses a flash of life, the brown eyes still dance. If just briefly, the drawn and wasted face transforms into a messenger of hope,…and strangely, of happiness. I pull a chair beside her bed and sit with her, holding her bony fingers with the palm of my hand.

“I’m ready,” she says softly. “It’s hard to leave Ramon and the boys. But I won’t really leave them. I’ll be there for them even if they don’t realize it. My love will always fill their house. I’ll be there when they laugh, when they cry, when they celebrate, when they marry, when their babies are born. I’ll do my best to encourage them, to inspire them, to comfort them. I will always, always love them…And…I will wait for them.”

I squeeze her hand and wipe my watering eyes. Moments like this are the best and worst parts of being a nurse. It’s the joy of the privilege of sharing in the most intimate personal time of a patient’s life mixed with the obscene travesty of death. In nursing school, they teach us the Kubler-Ross five stages of dying. But absolutely nothing prepares us for these types of experiences.

“Kiva,” she whispers, “you’re not yourself. I can tell. You don’t have your swagger. What’s going on?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I tell her. In these circumstances I can’t think of anything more absurd and self-centered than to whine to her about my loss to Cynthia.

“No,” she persists, “something is bugging you. Say it, girl.”

“Oh Elena,” I respond, “it’s really no big deal. It’s just that…I lost my first fight…But it’s okay.”

The large eyes stare at me intently. Her expression doesn’t change. She slowly nods as if in contemplation. “Tell me about it,” she appeals.

“No, really. …You have more important things on your mind,” I reply, immediately realizing the awkwardness of that comment.

“Kiva, you’re important. And I have time. Please tell me what happened.”

Elena seems to be changing by the minute, transforming from a frail dying woman into some kind of ancient wise sage. I have no doubt her interest in my well-being is genuine … and very moving. I cave in. I find myself reciting the whole affair with Cynthia, from the initial challenge, to the fight, to the humiliating finish and aftermath. Throughout my entire sorry story, she says nothing, the face remains still and expressionless, the eyes are firmly fixed and attentive. I am aware of the irony of the situation. My terminally ill patient has become my therapist.

“So that’s how it went down,” I conclude my tale. “You know, I just didn’t think I’d lose like that. I let these old insecurities that I thought were long past rise up…and it cost me…it’s crazy…I don’t know why. And Cynthia really didn’t do anything to provoke it. I just pushed it all on her….I made mistakes in the fight that I don’t think I would have made otherwise.”

Elena stares straight ahead like a Sphinx, draws a few deep breaths, then finally speaks.

“You learned something about yourself,” she exhales.

“I suppose,” I said, “but it’s not anything good.”

“But it’s good that you recognize it,” she replies. “We all have dark traits inside us. We think we’ve outgrown them and they’re no longer part of us, until they resurface again. The first step in removing them for good is to know they’re still there. We need to realize we’re not as wonderful as we think we are.”

She pauses to catch her breath as even speaking seems to wear her out. “Heaven is within us,” she continues. “The Promised Land is you. The Canaanites are all those jealousies, greed, and selfishness we have inside that destroy our peace. When they’re driven out and destroyed, we’ll know love and true joy.”

“I don’t know, Elena,” I reply. “I got kicked out of Sunday school at age seven for asking too many questions. So where did all this wisdom come from?”

“When you become close to death,” she explains, “the veil becomes thinner. You see things you couldn’t before. You’re a good person, Kiva. Someday, you’ll understand.”

“So,” I ask, “should I quit fighting?”

“No, I’m not saying that. If you want to fight, that’s where you are on your journey. You’re still growing even if you don’t realize it.”

It’s not uncommon for dying patients to report spiritual experiences as they approach death. Ask any hospice nurse. Some feel they’ve gained new insights. Some believe they were visited by deceased love ones. Others see religious figures. Are these supernatural experiences? I doubt it. I don’t think we understand how the brain affects us as it goes into shutdown mode.

I finish up my shift and fight back tears saying goodbye to Elena, perhaps for the last time. Heading back to my office, my cell phone rings. I see the name on my caller ID and feel like I just went from heaven to hell.

“Yes, Billy?”

“Kiva, I have a favor to ask you…But first I want to say ‘no hard feelings’.”

“What?”

“Well, you cost me a good chunk of change with the Destiny fight…but…I’m not going to hold it against you.”

“Thanks.” Douchebag.

“Listen, maybe you can help me out. Would you be willing to fight a rematch with Ginger?”

“Not really. Why?”

“She wants it. She feels she was unprepared last time and you bullied her into a fight.”

“She should have thought of that when she lied and sent me into the men’s room.”

“Well, she’s really embarrassed about that fight and she’s still stewing about it. It’s, uh, affecting her work performance.”

“Her work performance?”

“Uh, yeah. She’s just not putting out…I mean, uh, the effort is just not like it used to be.

“Hmm. I see,” I respond. “And how’s Tori’s work performance?”

“Tori’s doing great,” Billy explains. “She’s a fast learner. A real eager beaver. Uh, I mean, she doesn’t really work for me. I’m training her.”

“I bet,” I sigh.

“Hey,” he shoots back. “Do you want to fight Tori?”

“No I don’t. And leave her alone. She’s just a kid, Billy. She doesn’t need you fucking up her life.”

“You can have your choice, Ginger or Tori. I’ll need your answer by tomorrow.”

“You can have my answer now. No and no.”

We end the conversation and I work on the staffing schedule. Another tap on the door and I look up as Tori enters.

“Guess what?” She beams. “I just got off the phone with Billy and guess who he booked me to fight?”

I straighten up and stare at her with utter dread.

She can barely restrain her excitement. “I’m fighting … Jolene!”

I’m about to faint. But at this point, I’m hardly surprised. “Tori, are you out of your fucking mind? Do you have any idea what Jolene is going to do to you? Wasn’t Kelli enough of a disaster. How delusional can you possibly be?”

“Billy says I’m ready.”

“Haven’t we heard that before?”

I cannot even visualize the horror of a Jolene vs. Tori fight. I realize the futility of reasoning with her. I wish Tori luck and as she departs, I reach for my cell phone.

“Hello, Billy, I’m begging you do NOT let Tori fight Jolene. OK, OK, Billy, I’ll tell you what. I’ll take Jolene’s place and fight Tori. If I win, promise me you will never book her again and you will stop seeing her. I’ll do it, just please cancel the Jolene fight.”

“You got a deal, darlin’” the slime-ball responds. “It’s Kiva vs. Tori tomorrow night.”

“And you’ll stop seeing her if I win?”

“You got my word, sugar.”

Finally, the day is over and I pack up to leave. In the hallway, I barely lock the door when I hear a male voice, “Kiva, do you have a second?”

“Yes Frank, what is it?”

It’s impossible not to notice the charisma oozing from this man. The heartthrob resident approaches and my eyes are drawn to the dark skinned classical face, the curly short black hair, the thin mustache, and the perfect dimpled smile. His long white coat can’t quite conceal the shape of the killer body underneath.

“Did you get the minutes of the residency meeting I sent you?” He asks. “We’re proposing a resident-nurse liaison model. You know, to promote teamwork and efficiency.”

“I received it but I haven’t had a chance to look it over yet,” I answer.

“Ok, well when you do, let’s set up some time to discuss it. ...Or…” So predictable. I know what’s coming. “Or ... you and I can head out tonight for a few drinks and a bite to eat and go over the proposal.”

“You don’t give up, do you?,” I admonish. “When are you going to get it through your head I’m a wife and mother. I don’t have the time or interest to be shmoozing with young turks like you.”

“Well,” he replies, “it’s just that you’re the smartest and most clinically brilliant nurse I know and I just can’t wait to hear your analysis of the proposal. If there’s any nurse who I’d want as my liaison, it’s the phenomenal Kiva.”

“Goodnight Frank.”

Finally, I’m home. I inform Tom of the planned fight with Tori tomorrow night at Billy’s. The douchebag himself texted me to confirm that Tori is fine with switching opponents. It’s now late and I seize a few minutes of quiet alone time. I’m actually glad to be fighting again after the Cynthia debacle. I can’t take Tori lightly. She’s has a size advantage and she’s athletic. And who knows what dirty tricks Billy has been teaching her? And my back still isn’t completely healed.

I’m going over some strategies. It’s clear that I’m best as a standup striker but I’d like to change that. After this fight I’ll focus on wrestling and submission holds. Still, if Tori flails wildly like she did against Kelli, I should be able to end the fight quickly.

I check my messages on the catfight website. First is from … Paige. What the fuck does she have to say?

“HA! How did Cynthia’s school logo taste? You’re a nobody, alright. That’s the first intelligent thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth. Lol!”

Someday, I’ll shut that bitch’s mouth. I just don’t know when. But…how did she know about the Cynthia fight? Prior to the fight, Cynthia and I agreed we would each have a video copy and would not share it without the other’s permission. I guess word of mouth gets out quickly.

Next message is from…Gloria?

“Listen good, skank. Stay away from Frank or you’ll be crying. He’s MINE!  THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING!!!”

For the life of me, I have no idea who Gloria is. She’s sent me similar messages before. Her face is hidden in her profile pic. Obviously, she knows me from work and must have seen me talking to Frank. I don’t know a Gloria and can’t think of who this could possibly be.

“Who are u, bitch?,” I type. “Identify yourself. What ru afraid of? And for the last time, I DON’T WANT FRANK!”

Finally, I see a return message from…Cynthia? That’s funny. I didn’t message Cynthia. The thread is subtitles “Thanks”. The OP is…Shit…it’s Tom from a few weeks ago. What the f-.

“Thanks for hosting Kiva and I. We had a wonderful time and enjoyed sharing in your memories. The fight was great. Kiva is my queen but the better woman won. Congrats!”

Christ! He makes it sound like we attended a garden party. He didn’t tell me he sent this. The original post is missing in the sent file. Did he delete it? Cynthia’s responded.

“Thanks and our pleasure. Tell Kiva no hard feelings.”

What. The. Fuck. No hard feelings? That phrase again. I’ve never doubted my husband. Communicating with Cynthia behind my back? I know there’s no threat there. Cynthia and Josh are practically melded together. Still, I think I’ll start taking Clarissa to cheerleading practice again. “The Roadie” is finished. I’m tired and need to get to bed. I grab a pillow and blanket and curl up to sleep - on the couch.

My fatigued brain ruminates on the characters I’ve interacted with today: Tori the gullible fool, Billy the immoral opportunist, Frank the vain womanizer, Paige the controlling and vindictive trophy wife bitch, Gloria the mysterious psycho. And my fucking husband. And … Elena…dear Elena.

I almost forgot how beautiful the apple orchard is in late summer. I haven’t been here in years. The grass and patches of clover create a tapestry of green hues. At the edge of the orchard, the horses hang their magnificent heads over the wooden pole fence. When I was a kid, I would feed them apples until I got scolded by the owner. In the fall, the long grass would turn brown and ripple like golden waves in the late afternoon sun. This is all so vivid.

Who is this coming from the field beyond the orchard, gliding through the grass dotted with yellow buttercups? Her white summer dress flows out as she passes the monarch butterflies pausing to feast on the milkweed during their annual migration. The white jasmine flower in her jet black long hair is as bright as her dress. She’s coming closer, as she enters the grove of trees. I think she knows I’m here. Is it? It can’t be?…Elena?

Oh Elena, look at you. You’re gorgeous … so vibrant. You’re not sick anymore. The leukemia is gone. Come closer so I can see you better. There’s so much more I want to tell you.

A white bird, a dove, descends from an apple tree bough and flutters circles around her until she extends her hand and invites it to perch on her finger….Petey? Is that you? My parents were right. You really are waiting for me. Oh God, Petey, I’m so sorry for what happened to you. I should have protected you…No…Wait a minute…This isn’t real…None of this…This is a dream.

When I was an eight-year-old girl, my parents gave me a white dove, actually a pigeon, for a gift. I named him Petey. We kept him out back in a pigeon coop. Every day I fed him, gave him water, cleaned his cage. After school, I’d take him out of his cage. He’d sit on my hand or shoulder and I’d walk around with him but he never tried to fly away. My parents said he was bonded to me.

One morning, I brought him his food but saw he was missing from his coop. A large hole was torn through the wire and a chaotic pile of feathers lay ominously on the ground. My parents explained I would not see Petey again. To console their tearful little girl, they told me Petey had grown to be very strong and broke through the cage. He decided to fly around so he flew and flew until he was so high in the sky that he reached heaven. He was so happy in heaven that he decided to stay but he always thinks of me and some day when I’m really, really, really old, I will go to heaven too and Petey will be there waiting for me.

Of course, when I got a little older, I realized the bitter truth that Petey became dinner for a fox that chewed through the pigeon coop wire. I felt so guilty that I should have prevented it. I was so angry at my parents for feeding me a delusion. But I guess I couldn’t blame them.

Elena and Petey and the apple orchard are fading. I don’t want them to. I want this to be real. Stay…please stay.

“Kiva?” My husband. “Kiva, are you coming to bed?…Why are you crying.”

“Uh, I was just watching a dumb sad late night movie. You go on to bed. I’ll just sit out here and read for a little while.”

It’s Saturday morning and I’m off work. I insist on taking Clarissa to cheerleading practice. I keep a polite distance from Cynthia. At one point, she smiles and waves at me and I manage to  insincerely return the gesture. The day drags. We drop off Clarissa at a friend’s house for a sleepover and head to Billy’s. This time, it feels different. I have no butterflies in the stomach, no nervous energy. I am totally relaxed and supremely confident. There is not the slightest doubt I will defeat Tori. The only question is how I will finish her. The fight can end by submission, knockout, or ten second pin. Like it or not, she is a coworker. I want this to be quick and humane. I’ll spare her the post-match humiliation. Like Kelli, I don’t want her panties.

Tom and I enter the dark foreboding edifice known as Billy’s Sports Bar and Fight Club. We embark on the familiar trek to the changing rooms in the back, through the air, heavy with smoke, lust and violence. We pass Jolene and Paige with their husbands at their favorite corner booth. I brace myself for their barbs and insults but, surprisingly, there are none. The two of them look at each other and snicker as if they’re in on some joke.

In the dressing room, I strip and get into my favorite turquoise bikini. There’s no risk of losing it tonight. Not with Tori. It’s nice to not have the jitters. I spend some time stretching. Finally, I’m called to walk the aisle to some lame music. My name is called. This time I have some fun with the crowd, high fiving and fist bumping. I seem to have picked up some fans after the Destiny fight.

I walk through the creaky, ill-boding cage door and into my corner. I’m a bit offended that  I entered before Tori as it’s customary for a rookie fighter to be the first in the cage. Then I recall Billy did the same thing to Kelli. Last time, Tori gave the fans a ridiculous pre-fight show before Kelli destroyed her. I’m expecting her same bullshit but I’m prepared. I shake and stretch for a few minutes. I do a little posing for the crowd, something I don’t ordinarily do. I’m waiting for Tori…and waiting. I’m getting annoyed. The crowd is getting restless. It’s been fifteen minutes since I entered the cage. Who does this dumb bitch think she is? The nerve of that twat to be playing head games making me wait. Forget humanely beating her. Now I want to knock the crap out of her. The crowd is getting worse. Are they going to riot? They chant, “We want a fight. We Want a fight.” Trash is getting thrown. Aluminum beer cans are now striking the cage. My back just got splashed with beer. This is unsafe. Im getting out of here. Damn, the cage door is locked. “Billy, open the door now,” I demand. “If your girl can’t be on time, too fucking bad.”

The bald bastard waves his hands as if he’s issuing assurance. “It’s OK, Kiva,” he shouts as he enters the cage. “We’re ready for the fight.”

He walks to the center of the cage with the microphone. Thankfully, the crowd dies down. The music starts as the spotlight illuminates the back of the aisle. A figure emerges. “Ladies and Gentleman, Kivas opponent…” Wait, that doesn’t look like Tori. Someone tall and thin is walking toward the cage.…At five foot nine and 130 pounds…Paige…The Princess Punisher…Parkerrrrr.”

“What the FUCK!” I shriek. BILLY! The big dickhead runs out of the cage as I storm after him. He slips to the outside before locking the padlock with me inside. “BILLY, you piece of shit. I said I’d fight Tori. I didn’t agree to this.”

The six foot five inch pile of worthless humanity smirks at me from outside the cage. “You should have thought of that before you cost me a fortune in the Destiny fight,” he sneers.

“Wha-,” Did he plan this? The big pant load takes his seat at cage side. Next to him is…Tori? Next to her is…Amber? Next to her is…Ginger? And next to Ginger is…Jolene?  It is! It is…a set-up. I’ve been set-up! I’ve been fucking set-…The crowd erupts. I hear someone yell, “Look out!” I hear a bell. A force hits me from behind between the shoulder blades. I stumble into the cage off balance. Something strikes me in the back again, then on the side of the head. They are fists. It’s Paige. She has attacked me from the behind

The blows keep coming as I fall to one knee. I crouch and cover my head with my arms. A kick lands on my ribs, then my back. I’ve got to get out of here. I’m pulled up by the hair. I have no time to react to a punch to the chest which sends me off balance again and on my back in the center of the ring. I finally get a good look at my attacker, dressed in a black bikini, her light brown hair tied into a ponytail. Her eyes blaze with a mission to destroy me.  She’s been wanting me in the cage for weeks.

Paige circles around me, then moves in as I attempt to rise. More kicks to the back, the ribs, the butt. Punches land to my back as I cover up again. She drives a hard knee to the ribs sending me reeling to the cage. The bitch doesn’t let up.

I curl up in a fetal position as stomps and kicks rain down on me. She pulls me up by the hair and flings me across the cage into the chain link fencing. The trophy wife charges in as I’m off balance, throwing a shoulder block into my chest, smashing me again into the fence. I manage to grab the chain link with my fingers to prevent going down. But I’m vulnerable and The Princess Punisher grabs me with her arms trapping me against the fence with her body. Her hands seize both sides of my head and I feel her nails digging into my scalp. She pulls my head forward, then slams it back against the cage. A second time. Then a third. “This beat down has been a long time coming little girl. I never was very impressed with you.”

I’m able to grab onto her arms and temporarily resist the onslaught. I dig my nails into her skin. She does the same and we’re scratching at each other’s arms. We briefly pause for a second, then as if we both had the same thought, we go for each other’s hair. We’re pulling and swinging in circles until we both release our right hands and start punching while keeping our left hands full of hair. I’m a better puncher. I should win this bitch clench but I’m having a difficult time landing a clean shot. I stop punching and grab her ear, dig in my nails and pull. She shrieks, let’s go of my hair and I slam my elbow into her jaw. I thought there were a few rules, but as far as I’m concerned, when Tori was switched with Paige, rules went out the window. This is a street fight.

Paige backs up several steps, rubs her jaw and sneers, “You fucking bitch”. She puts up her fists and I do the same. Boxing? Ok, fine with me. We circle each other jabbing and feigning. We both land blows but nothing very damaging. I realize she’s not a bad boxer. I look for the opening for my right hand but Paige doesn’t give me much of a target. She landed a stinging jab above my left eye and I begin to feel it swell. Finally, I connect my right hook to the side of her head and she stumbles backwards and falls down. Fortunately for me, this is not a boxing match and I don’t intend to let her up.

I jump on my opponent as she’s lying on her back. I mount her, and start throwing punches at her head. This is it, I’m thinking. I can finish her now. No sooner did I think that, then the crafty woman gets her hands around the back of my neck and presses me onto her chest, largely neutralizing my attack. To Paige’s credit, she’s an experienced fighter and she just demonstrated her defensive savvy. She pulls me off of her to the side and we both roll across the cage in a catball, scratching and punching and pulling hair. We rip at each other’s bikini top. I successfully get hers off and her large surgically enhanced breasts become unencumbered. I mount her again. This time I hope to get my fingernails into silicon so I dig into her pair. She screams and tries to pry my hands off until she throws her knee up, nailing me in the back, then bucks me off of her. We roll away from each other and stand up. I realize that somewhere in the mixup, my bikini top went missing. This is the first time I’ve been topless in front of a crowd but at the moment, modesty is not one of my priorities.

On our feet, we grab onto each other and grapple in sort of a test of strength. It’s pretty much a stalemate until Paige gets one hand under my crotch and another arm under my armpit and lifts me off my feet. Suddenly, she shifts and turns, then throws me on my back in a sloppy type of body slam. I quickly roll out from under her. I get to my knees when a pair of thighs encircle my head, then squeeze. Helplessly, I’m forced to my side, trapped in a head scissors. This is familiar territory for me. Cynthia had me in the same hold and could have choked me out if she wished. I know I have only a little time. And…I don’t know my way out. I claw and punch at her thighs to know avail. I try to stay calm. I try to tuck my chin against her thigh. Then, I see an option. I’m not proud of this maneuver, but I wasn’t the one who changed all the rules tonight, so fuck it. I tuck my chin down enough, open my mouth, reach Paige’s flesh, then chomp down. “Fuck,” she screams as she releases the hold. Again, we roll apart, then stand.

This is by far, the most vicious fight I’ve had so far. Paige has a crazed look in her face. I’m exhausted. I realize she’s a better ground fighter. If I’m going to win, I will again need to rely on striking. I resolve to make this a stand up fight until the finish. I circle around Paige and jab. She appears fine with this being a fist fight. Then, like a crazy woman, she charges at me with both arms swinging. Her punches are wild but she swings with fury and some of them land. I try to be selective with my blows, but with the intensity of Paige’s onslaught, my technique goes out the window.

The two of us are standing toe to toe, swinging at each other in a frenzy. Blood trickles from Paige’s nose and my left eye is swollen. We’re both tired. Our punches are looping. I’ve got to land my right hook. One shot and it will be over. “Dumb cxnt,” she growls. We’re breathing heavily and starting to stagger. Then, I see my chance. I will feint a right-left combination, then nail her in the jaw with my right hook. Here we go. Feint right. Feint left. I see her right hand is also cocked. I throw the right hook as hard as I can. I miss. My arm swings through the air. My body turns around. I’m off balance. Shit. I know I’m vulnerable. I need to get back into position…then….a flash of light.

What..happened? Where…am I. Everything is white. Like a bedsheet. That’s it. I’m on my bed…face down. I can’t move. My eyes are open. I see the white sheet but I can’t move at all. Everything is silent. Now I know. Sleep paralysis. When I was a little girl, I suffered from sleep paralysis. That’s when your mind wakes up from your sleep before your body. You’re conscious but can’t move. I would try to scream but couldn’t. It was so…terrifying. It would only last a few seconds but it seemed so…long. The doctor told my mom that sleep paralysis was normal and I’d probably outgrow it. When it happened, I’d calmly wait and count numbers in my mind. After a few seconds, it would pass. It wasn’t so scary anymore. It occurred less frequently over time, then it stopped altogether.

I stare at the white sheet and count..”One…Two”…Wait, someone else is counting. A lot of voices are counting. They’re distant but I hear them….”Three...Four..”

My mother would turn on Sesame Street in the morning before I’d get up. That must be why I here counting. “Five.”

The paralysis is lifting. I can lift my head a little off the white sheet. The sheet? It’s NOT a sheet.   I’m not a little girl in bed. I’m in a CAGE….I was in a FIGHT….with PAIGE.  And I’m lying FACE DOWN. And I’m being COUNTED OUT….And I CAN’T MOVE!…This isn’t SLEEP PARALYSIS…FUCK…I’ve been KNOCKED OUT!

“Six”

My head feels like it’s underwater. There’s a humming sound in my ears. I hear the crowd go crazy. They sound closer now. I’ve lost. I can’t get up. I don’t want to get up. I just want to die here. I close my eyes. I see white again. It’s a bright white that takes the form of a person. It’s coming together. The black hair. The dazzling white gown. She’s so beautiful…Elena?…You came back to me..and you have Petey again!

“Seven”

Oh Elena, take me with you…It’s so awful. It’s all lies and deceit. So, this is what the world is really like. We’re just bugs eating each other. I’ve had enough…Elena? Did you…?…Are you…?  Elena? Don’t go. You’re fading again. There’s so much I want to ask you.

“Eight”

She left. I’m more awake. I can move more but I can’t get up. I’m aware now something is under my chest and belly, like a huge pillow.

“Nine”

I drop my head down to the mat again. I need help getting up.

“Ten” Ding..ding..ding. It’s over. I’m aware I lost. I know it will brutally hurt me emotionally but I’m too cognitively impaired at the moment to feel it.

The cheers are louder now. The pillow beneath me moves and I thought I heard it moan. Several hands are on me. On my shoulders and hips. I’m being rolled over. I roll off the pillow and onto my back. The overhead lights hurt my eyes. I smell the familiar smoke and stale beer.

“Kiva?” Several men’s voices call my name. One is my husband.

“Kiva, stay down. Don’t get up yet,” my husband says. “You got knocked out. We’re treating you for a concussion.” He shines a light in my eyes, checks my reflexes, completes the neurological exam.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I lost again.”

“You’ll be fine. And don’t be sorry. And by the way…you won.”

He points at some activity several feet away. I turn my head and see a few men kneeling over Paige, who is on her back in the same situation I’m in.

“What happened?” I now suspect that the pillow that was underneath me was Paige.

“The two of you clashed heads. She went down on her back. You dropped to your knees, then pitched forward on top of her. You got the ten second pin count.”

“Holy Sh-“

“Congratulations love. I think you’re ready to stand now. Put your arms around our shoulders and…lift.”

It’s the day after. Thank goodness I was off work. I slept all day. The headache is better and the ice helped with the swelling. I amuse myself thinking how I thwarted Billy’s evil plans again but the price was too high. I am done fighting at Billy’s.

I killed time in the evening watching TV after Clarissa went to bed. I’m wide awake now so I check my emails. I watch the video of the fight and replay the end. We both swung our right fists hard. We missed as are arms went flying through the air. We both spun off balance and while trying to recover, our heads collided. I don’t remember falling or crawling on top of Paige. Concussion can be a serious thing. I recall being out of it, not knowing where I was. And I remember seeing…Elena?..Elena!…Did I really see her? Is she …gone?

I call my colleagues on Elena’s floor. “Hi Cheryl, it’s Kiva. I had a weird experience. What time did Elena pass?

“Elena?” the nurse answers. “Elena didn’t pass. She was transferred out to a cancer center on the west coast yesterday. Her doctor found an experimental treatment protocol and they offered it to Elena. She said ‘no’ at first but then changed her mind. Poor thing. It’s such a long shot. I hope it’s not unpleasant for her. She’s already been through so much.….But..she told me to say ‘goodbye’ to you and she expects to see you again.”

“Ok Cheryl, thanks.” Hmmm. The mind is a funny thing.

For some reason, the tab bar on my internet isn’t showing. I go into Settings to fix it. What’s this website in the browser history? It looks like one of those amateur porn websites where ordinary people load their own video clips. Why is it on here? I click the link. The videos seem to be arranged by category according to the type of kink. Interestingly, there’s a Catfight section. Let’s take a look.

OH MY GOD!!! NOOO!!! It CAN’T Be. Under recent downloads is a thumbnail with an image of …me…and Cynthia. It’s a shot of me submitting in the Boston Crab. The title of the video is “My Wife Gets Humiliated”. I think I’m going to pass out. The video is a few minutes long. It starts with me spitting on Cynthia’s logo, then goes on to the end of the fight, then Cynthia’s victory pose. NOOO!

The video was downloaded by username “catfighterhubby”. 4,139 views. There are comments.

BigMoe78: “man, your wife got owned”

TxDick69: “how about your wife and my wife in a sexfight”

Cooldude34: “nice tits but I would have liked to have seen more bush”

Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God. Somebody please tell me I’m dreaming.

I slump in my chair, I turn my head to face the ceiling. For thirty minutes, I do not move.

“Kiva,” my husband asks, “are you coming to bed?”

“Kiva?…Kiva, are you alright? Kiva, what’s the matter?”

“I want a divorce.”

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on August 25, 2021, 03:14:53 PM

A real kaleidoscope! Hilarious one moment, deeply moving the next, the fight itself by turns exciting and farcical, and - like bookends - the ongoing struggle, more psychological than physical now, between you and Cynthia (or is it between Kiva and Kiva?) for your marriage, your dignity, your life.
If I had to choose, though, I’d rather Elena’s life was spared, and your marriage went down the tubes. He doesn’t deserve you anyway.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: BarbaraUK on August 26, 2021, 12:57:01 AM

I have to say I found the ending to this episode pretty shocking.  :o

Generally I think most men are dick led scumbags, but I thought your marriage had more solid foundations. It just goes to prove you can't ever really know anyone else, or depend on them.

Because just like that, one day it's gone.

Maybe the West Coast would have cleaner air?

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: snw on August 26, 2021, 03:34:29 AM

Loved the story and the ending was quite different. I’d been wondering if you would talk about the loss to Cynthia with him. I’m assuming that wasn’t a real divorce request or at least I would hope no. Talking about or seeing you lose probably was pretty hot. Cynthia seems pretty hot and friendly but it doesn’t sound like anything would be going on. Most likely since it was your first loss it was pretty hot being different. Not to mention the fact that it was actually you that was the aggressor expecting to beat her made it even more surprising and exciting. I know I can’t wait to see how the conversation goes. I think it’s pretty hot when your wife or gf loses too. Doesn’t necessarily mean you want the other woman but it certainly makes you play out fantasies in your head. Sort of like Kelli and Kim’s rivalry. She won and lost both of which her husband didn’t seem to mind. It was pretty hot both ways. The conversation coming is one I hope is part of the next chapter. Look forward to it anyway, and good story.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on August 26, 2021, 12:41:02 PM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on August 26, 2021, 12:57:01 AM

I have to say I found the ending to this episode pretty shocking.  :o

Generally I think most men are dick led scumbags, but I thought your marriage had more solid foundations. It just goes to prove you can't ever really know anyone else, or depend on them.

Because just like that, one day it's gone.

Maybe the West Coast would have cleaner air?

Thanks Barbara. Hey, if you want to come to the U.S., I’ll be looking for a roommate.  ;)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: BarbaraUK on August 26, 2021, 04:53:45 PM

Quote from: Kiva on August 26, 2021, 12:41:02 PM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on August 26, 2021, 12:57:01 AM

I have to say I found the ending to this episode pretty shocking.  :o

Generally I think most men are dick led scumbags, but I thought your marriage had more solid foundations. It just goes to prove you can't ever really know anyone else, or depend on them.

Because just like that, one day it's gone.

Maybe the West Coast would have cleaner air?

Thanks Barbara. Hey, if you want to come to the U.S., I’ll be looking for a roommate.  ;)

Careful, if Bellator ever offer me a contract I might take you up on that.

It would be like Two Broke Girls With Big Right Hands

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on August 27, 2021, 02:16:29 PM

Personally, I think cheerleading’s an abomination! There was a time, it’s true, in the Christian world, especially in the catholic countries, when it was considered perfection in a woman to be characterless: the role of women was to churn out babies, keep house, and weep for their menfolk when they were lost in battle. But how this idea could persist in the 21st century anywhere outside the Muslim world, and of all places, in the United States, is a total mystery to me.
Not all women are athletically gifted, of course not, but for those who are to waste their talents standing on the sidelines chanting doggerel and waving pompoms while men alone bathe in the limelight is an affront to Nature herself: an insult to her boundless variety and bounty. Sport, as I see it, is a form of self-expression. This isn’t just true of ice skating and gymnastics. Every soccer player, every skier, every fighter has a style that is uniquely theirs. And a fight is an expression not only of the athletic prowess, but also of the intelligence, the courage and the will-power, of the men and women who subject themselves to what is surely among the harshest of tests.
As a teacher, apparently adored by little Clarissa, Cynthia has my respect; as a fighter (sorry Kiva) she’ll remain pretty much queen of the heap, until Kelli rips her down from on high and scatters her feathers in the dung: but as a cheerleader? As the French would say, boff!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on August 31, 2021, 06:18:45 PM

Greatness. So much treachery and drama!  Plot twists and fight scenes... this is my favorite soap opera!  This chapter definitely asks more questions than it answers.... and I love it!

I know Paige (and probably a host of other characters) won't be able to let that fight settle your issues. It's sad, but not unpredictable, that Tori is trying to take the easy path to climb the ladder. It's also interesting to see how much "Douche-ier" Billy can be when he doesn't like someone. He and I have a slimy but workable relationship while I think he really hates you lol.

And then there's poor Elena. Which adds so much depth and realism to your character. I'm an eternal optimist and think that Elena has a fighter's heart, so she still has a chance!

And finally..... there's the issue with Tom. Oh my! Having a catfight fetish and being married to a catfighter is probably akin to having a cocaine addiction and living with Pablo Escobar- it's gonna be nearly impossible not to indulge too much. I don't know what's going to happen but I can't wait to find out.... also, we do have a spare room and a pullout sleeper couch for the little one if you need to crash while you sort it all out!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on September 21, 2021, 08:48:27 AM

I'm so desperate for this story to continue (What are you doing, Kiva? Cat got your iPad?) I'm beginning to have my own revenge fantasies (not for the faint-hearted) over on the Catpin Universe thread:
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=92428.msg662680#new

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: BarbaraUK on September 21, 2021, 03:23:19 PM

I'm thinking the last chapter's ending was a bit of a cliffhanger.

Quote from: h_k on September 21, 2021, 08:48:27 AM

I'm so desperate for this story to continue (What are you doing, Kiva? Cat got your iPad?) I'm beginning to have my own revenge fantasies (not for the faint-hearted) over on the Catpin Universe thread:
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=92428.msg662680#new

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on September 21, 2021, 09:43:37 PM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on September 21, 2021, 03:23:19 PM

I'm thinking the last chapter's ending was a bit of a cliffhanger.

Quote from: h_k on September 21, 2021, 08:48:27 AM

I'm so desperate for this story to continue (What are you doing, Kiva? Cat got your iPad?) I'm beginning to have my own revenge fantasies (not for the faint-hearted) over on the Catpin Universe thread:
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=92428.msg662680#new

It was. Hopefully, you’ll like what’s coming up next. I do appreciate y’all waiting for the next chapter (see I’m starting to sound Texan). In the meantime, here’s a pic of me and Chase in Central Park, NYC.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on September 21, 2021, 10:43:18 PM

I'm feeling pretty stupid now. For the last however many weeks, whenever I've signed in to FCF, I've seen you and the cat there burning the midnight oil, and I've said to myself: "Either this is going to be the longest chapter in the whole history of literature, or it must be just about finished now", and all this time you and the pooch have just been sunning yourselves in Central Park!
What I'm not seeing in this picture are:
  1) an iPad
  2) a banjo
  3) any sense of urgency from either of you
Even on the supposition that the cat made off with the iPad and the crocodile with the banjo, which I'll admit are perfectly possible, one would still expect to see either or both of you on the phone to your insurance companies trying to see about replacements.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on September 21, 2021, 10:53:41 PM

I've just noticed that unless you're signed in, you don't see the photograph, so I expect there are one or two puzzled readers.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on September 26, 2021, 05:18:17 PM

Quote from: Kiva on September 21, 2021, 09:43:37 PM

It was. Hopefully, you’ll like what’s coming up next. I do appreciate y’all waiting for the next chapter (see I’m starting to sound Texan). In the meantime, here’s a pic of me and Chase in Central Park, NYC.

You know, I can’t speak for everyone, and I wouldn’t pretend to, but I do feel that if you two were to come clean with us and say: “Listen, guys, we’re somewhat hampered in our creative endeavours at the moment by the fact that the cat’s made off with Kiva’s iPad and the alligator broke Chase’s banjo trying to play the F min 7 / Bb chord at the end of Ain’t Misbehavin’” (could happen to any saurian), most of the readers of the forum, I’m sure, would understand your predicament and try to be patient.
It’s the silence we’re all finding a little difficult to come to terms with.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on November 03, 2021, 06:23:29 PM

Update

So, I’ve been getting emails and text messages asking where I’ve been. People want to know if I quit fighting. The answer is no, I haven’t. After my concussion from the Paige fight, I had been on a strict protocol that forbid me from fighting for at least three months. Honestly, I needed the break. After the Destiny fiasco, the devastation at the hands of Cynthia, the brutal Paige cage fight (not to mention a little scrap I had with the daughter of a wrestling promoter I work for on the side https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=97456.0 ), I really needed the break. Add to that, work demands and, oh yeah, my crumbling marriage, I’ve simply been exhausted. Tom and I are still in the same house. I moved him to the guest room until I decide what to do next.

The good news is that I passed all the neurocognitive tests and I am cleared to fight again. I’m doing more in the gym. My boxing coach Hector, a former world lightweight champion, set me up with a three round fight with a tall blonde named Tanya. She is an athletic woman from Oklahoma and was using my gym while staying in my town for two weeks. We didn’t get along. I thought she was selfish and arrogant. She didn’t like me either and pressured Hector into setting up a fight. He actually got us a prelim spot on a professional fight card at the arena down town. I even got paid a small amount, so yes, I had my first professional boxing match.

The first round was slow. Tanya had a height and reach advantage, so I kept my distance and fought cautiously by staying low and circling to my left. By the middle of the second round, I landed punches repeatedly. I completely dominated the third round making her eat right hooks and uppercuts. Unfortunately, I didn’t put her away but I won an easy decision. The dumb bitch had a strong chin and barely managed to hang on. Thirty more seconds and she would have been out. But overall, I was pleased with the fight. The thrill of the ref raising my arm while he holds hers down to her side and the dejected look on her face was pure gold. It was a nice restart to my fight career. I attached pics below. I realize I need to improve my wrestling and street tactics to go along with my striking. I can’t be a one dimensional fighter. I’ll be training differently now.

I’m looking forward to what’s ahead. I’m trying to stay positive. My nursing staff has been supportive and they repeatedly invite me to go clubbing with them. I’m thinking that I just might do it one of these nights. After all, I’m single again…well, sort of. I keep getting weird messages from a mystery woman named “Gloria”. Frank has offered to mediate but I don’t think I trust him. Something has to give. Finally, I need to catch up on what Kelli’s been up to. We haven’t been in touch much since her incredible brawl at the tree farm. I’m sure she’s healed up by now and heading into a new wild adventure. And Cynthia?, Ugh. I still struggle trying to get her out of my mind. But that’s life, right? One day at a time. Stay tuned.


Pics by daz3d

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Dude64 on November 04, 2021, 03:45:23 PM

Always a treat Kiva! Question for you and Kelli would you guys ever take on two bitches at the same time? Maybe something similar to what Kelli and make did in a couple that preys?

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on November 05, 2021, 12:24:12 AM

Quote from: Dude64 on November 04, 2021, 03:45:23 PM

Always a treat Kiva! Question for you and Kelli would you guys ever take on two bitches at the same time? Maybe something similar to what Kelli and make did in a couple that preys?

Yes, a 2 on 2 fight would make an exciting story. We like to hear what type of fights, opponents, settings, etc. readers would like to see. Thanks for sharing that idea.  :)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Jaquan on November 05, 2021, 01:26:41 PM

Quote from: Kiva on November 05, 2021, 12:24:12 AM

Quote from: Dude64 on November 04, 2021, 03:45:23 PM

Always a treat Kiva! Question for you and Kelli would you guys ever take on two bitches at the same time? Maybe something similar to what Kelli and make did in a couple that preys?

Yes, a 2 on 2 fight would make an exciting story. We like to hear what type of fights, opponents, settings, etc. readers would like to see. Thanks for sharing that idea.  :)

I chatted with Kiva and she is very nice. Smart, funny and a class act.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: BarbaraUK on November 05, 2021, 04:45:23 PM

Hi Kiva,

Glad to see everything is good with you.

I mean, if you've got a good right hand what else do you need?

And you obviously have a good right hand because you are sticking it in Tanya's face so much in those Daz3D pics. [Excellent work, by the way.]

As far as relationships go, I always say men are like dogs except dogs are more faithful.

Barbara x

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on November 05, 2021, 09:11:30 PM

Quote from: Jaquan on November 05, 2021, 01:26:41 PM

I chatted with Kiva and she is very nice. Smart, funny and a class act.

OMG! You are so sweet! Honestly, I would have been happy with one of the three. Thank you so much! :) :) :)
And I enjoyed chatting with you as well.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on November 05, 2021, 09:15:15 PM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on November 05, 2021, 04:45:23 PM

As far as relationships go, I always say men are like dogs except dogs are more faithful.

Thanks Barbara. Another difference between men and dogs is one you have to always clean up after and the other has four legs and a tail! ;)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on November 06, 2021, 09:51:39 AM

Quote from: Kiva on November 05, 2021, 09:15:15 PM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on November 05, 2021, 04:45:23 PM

As far as relationships go, I always say men are like dogs except dogs are more faithful.

Thanks Barbara. Another difference between men and dogs is one you have to always clean up after and the other has four legs and a tail! ;)

And a banjo. And I hope you remembered in your victory speech to give Chase full credit for the physical conditioning that made all the difference in that last round. Without him dragging you out of bed at 5.30 am every morning to keep you company when you were doing your roadwork (and make sure you didn't get lost again and end up in Chihuahua!) it might have been a very different story.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on December 10, 2021, 03:32:02 AM

Chapter 10: Love, Death, and Lies 2

How can one become so bounded
By choices that somebody else makes?
How come we've both become a version
Of a person we don't even like?
We're in love with the world
But the world just wants to bring us down
By putting ideas in our heads
That corrupt our hearts somehow
When I was a child
Every single thing could blow my mind
Soaking it all up for fun
But now I only soak up wine
-Adele

The laser lights flicker and pulse to the beat of the hip hop music. From his elevated platform, the rotating DJ gazes on the increasingly crowded dance floor below. We snake our way past the bar, and through the crowd, guided in the dark and smoky air by the lasers and neon lights. Beneath us, the floor vibrates with the thumping bass. We are in a single file, all six of us, with me in the rear. The place is starting to fill up, but we manage to find an empty booth.

“Here girls,” Caitlyn, our fearless leader announces as my five companions and I pour into the booth. One by one, we take our sitting positions; Caitlyn, Brittany, Jen, Bethany, and Taylor, all single twenty somethings…and me.

I rarely socialize with my younger nursing staff. As a middle manager, I’m professionally responsible for them. I look out for them while holding them accountable. I’ve learned it’s best to maintain boundaries. This is their usual Friday night ritual - clubbing and dancing. Tonight, I finally accepted their invitation. The stress has been overwhelming. I’ve been sleeping in the guest room until I find an apartment. Tom keeps going over the same lame excuses; he’s sorry, it was a lapse of judgment, he loves me, he was overwhelmed by my sexiness during the Cynthia fight, he begs me to stay, blah, blah, blah. Maybe that’s why I’m here tonight. With no social life at all, maybe I just need to be with girls and have fun for one night, even if the girls are a decade younger.

I haven’t been to a night club in years. I had to dig through the back of the closet to find my favorite party dress, a navy blue satin, spaghetti strap, backless mini dress. Fortunately, my figure hasn’t changed since the last time it hugged my body. The half cup push-up bra complements the low neck line. With my long dark hair flowing down, light makeup and dark red lipstick in place, I added the silver hoop earrings, and strap high heels. I ditched the matching clutch purse for a wrist wallet that holds my cell phone, key, ID and credit card, a little cash, and I was ready.

The young nurses slip into our booth, three on one side, then I join the two opposite them. The waitress takes our drink orders. My friends order those fruity high alcohol content cocktails. Caitlyn orders Sex On The Beach, Brittany wants an Alabama Slammer, Jen orders a Long Island Iced Tea. I order the respectable …White Zinfandel. From the end position of the booth bench I’m facing the crowd of people walking back and forth between the bar and dance floor. A young man, must to be early twenties, eyes me over as he approaches. Clean shaven with a large bulk of hair slicked back in a pompadour hair style, he can’t be older than the minimum drinking age. My friends notice as the guy with the Elvis hair gives me a sly smile as if to let me know he is God’s gift to women.

“Listen up, girls,” Caitlyn announces. “We can’t compete with Kiva in the guy department tonight, so the rest of us will just have to settle for her rejects.” The girls whoop and cheer and offer me high fives.

“No worries,” I assure them. “You can have them all.” Our drinks arrive with our bowl of nachos. We talk loudly over the music blaring from the speakers. At first we laugh at some of the lighter moments at work. All of them are good nurses, if not relatively inexperienced. Away from the workplace, I get to see another side of them. Bethany wants to be in a committed relationship but is frustrated she hasn’t yet found a man who feels the same way. Taylor has a crush on a surgery resident. Jen is considering ending her relationship. Caitlyn already ended hers and is in no hurry to jump into another one. I take on the role of the big sister of the group dishing out advice for whatever it’s worth. Already, I’m relaxed and enjoying this. I sip wine and laugh with them, listen to their stories, tell a few jokes and remember that I was exactly like them at their age. With Tom at a conference and Clarissa at a sleepover party, this is just what I needed. The crowd is growing, the dance floor is filling up. The DJ is on a run of 80s music. The drinks flow and our revelry rises as we chit chat, laugh harder, and rate the guys passing by our booth.

“Alright, ladies,” Caitlyn informs, “time to dance.” With my wrist wallet firmly in place, the six of us rise. Again, I take my place at the rear as we form a six member train winding through narrow passageways, squeezing and pushing through densely crowded bodies in a serpentine formation past the bar, beyond the tables, until we’re under the lights of the dance floor. We claim our own private corner, form ourselves into a circle…and we’re off.

Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” reverberates all around me. Instinctively, I move to the jingle jangle rhythm, stepping, turning, shaking, clapping. It’s a bit awkward. My young party mates smile and give me looks of approval as if to say, “Kiva is actually here…Go girl!” We circle in more tightly as we belt out together,

Some boys take a beautiful girl
And hide her away from the rest o' the world
I wanna be the one to walk in the sun
Oh girls, they wanna have fun

Ok, not bad. Continuing with 80s segment, the DJ segues into Laura Braxxxxn’s “Gloria”, then Whitney Houston’s “I Just Wanna Dance With Somebody”. Now I’m warming up. Next is Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy.” Now I’m really enjoying this. My worries and tension fade. I’m relaxed. My body synchronizes with the rhythm and fast tempo. In my blue dress, my hips sway and shimmy to the beat. I forget I’m still wearing high heels as my feet keep perfect cadence. The six of us pair up, swinging, holding hands clapping, pumping our fists in the air as we belt out the chorus:

Are we gonna let the elevator
Bring us down
Oh, no let's go!
Let's go crazy

Tonight, I’m in a night club and I’m happy. Right now, nothing else matters. We continue on the dance floor for another five or six songs before returning to our booth for a break…and more drinks, as we pack our sweaty bodies together. The girls congratulate me for a successful return to clubbing after a lengthy hiatus with high fives and fist bumps. The waitress brings us another round of drinks. We laugh and chatter but can barely hear each other as I put away my second White Zinfandel.

Brittany asks me a question but I do not hear it. Something straight ahead has caught my attention. I see a line of people sitting and standing at the bar. There is one woman in particular.  I can only see her back, but she looks chillingly familiar. About my size, fit, shoulder length light brown hair. She’s talking to another woman. A handbag is strapped over her shoulder. A button is pinned to the bag. It looks like the button of a university logo….HOLY SHIT!…IT CAN’T BE!…Cynthia? Why would she be here? I don’t see Josh. I can’t see her face. Is it her?

“Kiva?” Brittany asks, repeating her question “what’s your favorite restaurant?”

“Uh…Alfredo’s,”…best authentic Mexican food in the city”, I reply without diverting my eyes from their target straight ahead….Cynthia? Really?…Can’t be.

“Come on, ladies,” Caitlyn urges as she springs out of the booth. “Time for round two.” This time, I leave my shoes and I go along with the flock, back to the dance floor which is now a little more crowded than when we left it. We find a relative clearing near a corner of floor and stake our claim. The DJ has now moved on to an eclectic mix. My body is moving but this time, I’m not quite into the spirit of it. My eyes scan the bar. The woman who is possibly Cynthia left her spot. I try looking around the club but the large size of the room and the density of dancers make it very difficult. I notice a guy standing off to the side, next to a male friend, eyeing me. He looks thirtyish, not bad looking. We make eye contact briefly and he gives me a little smile. I do not reciprocate and look away. Now is not the time to be meeting new men. I hoped it wouldn’t happen but he cuts between Bethany and I. He’s in my space and asks with a toothy grin, “Mind if I cut in?” Actually, I do mind but my indifference doesn’t stop him from getting into my space as he begins dancing with me. I respond with the most disinterested uninspired dance in the history of humankind, being careful not to make eye contact. Finally, the song ends and he moves on.

The music selection has now shifted to international styles. Jen, a pretty Latina, takes my arm and we dance the salsa. I’m sure she’s dumbing down to accommodate me as she assumes the male role and I follow her lead. The other girls circle around us and clap. Now I’m having fun again. Really? Cynthia here? What was I thinking? Come on, Kiva, get a grip.

We dance through several more Latin style numbers when the DJ announces it’s time to line dance. My companions and I scramble into formation as The Electric Slide begins. The Electric Slide? I danced to that at weddings and clubs years ago. I didn’t know it was still around. Nevertheless, it’s fun. I’m surprised I still remember how to do it. Right, close, right tap. Left, close, left, tap. Back four steps, tap, step forward, tap, back tap, step forward, kick, turn right, repeat.

You can't see it
It's electric!
You gotta feel it
It's electric!
Ooh, it's shakin'
It's electric!

From my shifting positions in the line, I view the club from changing vantage points. The temptation is too great. I can’t resist the opportunity to look for Cynthia. I survey the bar but I don’t see her. Maybe she left. I look among the tables but there are so many bodies here. Right, close, right, tap and…there she is! Or at least someone who might be her. At a table with her female friend. As I move and other people move in front of me, I only catch fleeting glimpses. Is that Cynthia? Why? It doesn’t make sense.

The Electric Slide is over and the DJ comes up with another line dance, Cotton Eyed Joe. Fuck that. There’s no way I’m dancing to Cotton Eyed Joe. Besides, I have more important things to do. As my party lines up, I break off and head back to the booth alone where I order another wine. I’m a little sweaty in my blue dress and the break feels good. My eyes lock into the table of interest. I watch…and I drink. Right now, I hate the world. I hate My husband. I hate Cynthia.

Once again. I can only see her from behind. Her shape, her hair is just like Cynthia’s. There’s the unmistakeable college logo. How can she not be Cynthia? Easily. A lot of people are from that school. A lot of women have light brown hair like that. I’ve got to find out.

As I finish my current glass of wine, I see a man approach the two women. A big rugged guy. Dark hair. A beard. A button up shirt and Chino pants. Maybe they know each other. No. They’re introducing themselves. The women stay seated while the guy is standing. The three of them are chit chatting. Interesting. He seems to be paying more attention to Cynthia. Where is Josh? This could be juicy….That’s not Cynthia, Kiva. Stop being stupid.

Their conversation goes on for several minutes as I put down another glass of wine. The man motions with his hands that he’s going to the bar and asks what would they like to drink. As he leaves the two women alone, I see my chance. Is that Cynthia? I’m going to find out once and for all.

As I leave my booth and head toward this woman, I feel a twinge of unsteadiness. I know I’ve already had more than enough wine. As I get closer, it is still difficult to tell from behind. Now she is only fifteen feet away, then ten, then five, then one, then….”Excuse me,” I call out. She turns. The moment of truth is here. We are face to face. And she is….definitely NOT Cynthia. What the fuck is wrong with me? There’s nothing else to do now except try to socially salvage this one.

“I noticed your school logo,” I tell her. “Are you a student there?”

“I was,” she answers, “but I’ve graduated.”

“I see,” I reply. “You remind me of a friend who went there.”

“Oh really? What’s her name?”

“Cynthia Garrison. She was a cheerleader. Do you know her?”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell. When did she graduate?”

“About twelve years ago.”

“No,” the woman giggles. “That was wayyyy before my time.”

Well, that was awkward. Looking even more like an ass, I engage in small talk for another minute. As I turn to leave, I literally bump into the man who here a few minutes ago.

“Well hello, ma’am,” he says with a full glass in each hand.

“Hi,” I return.

Up close, I can see that he looks to be about 40 years old, 6 foot and powerfully built but with a protruding beer gut. The hair and beard are brown and later I’d notice a bald spot on his crown. Not really my type.

“Here ya go ladies,” he says as he places their drinks on the table. The two of us are standing as he turns to me.

“My name is Mac.”

“I’m Kiva.”

“Well Kiva, excuse me while I call the cops,” he says as he mock calls on his cell phone. “You know it’s illegal to look as good as you.”

Oh, cringe.

He continues, “I thought this place was a club but now I see it’s a museum because I'm looking  at a lovely piece of art.”

Double cringe.

“Would you mind grabbing on to my arm so I can tell my friends I’ve been touched by an angel.? I see your glass is empty. Hey bartender, give this beautiful lady whatever she’s drinking.”

Before I know it, I’m holding another full glass of Zinfandel. The two women invite us to sit with them. Now the situation is really awkward. I’m in a foursome conversation with three strangers. I decide to chat for another minute, then gracefully leave. The wine is really kicking. I’m laughing loudly at bad jokes. Crazy thoughts are running through my head. I think of Tom and how he betrayed me online and his attraction to Cynthia and how he secretly enjoyed seeing me humiliated. I think of Cynthia and what she did to me. As I’m howling it up with my three new friends, I look at the woman resembling Cynthia. Now my alcohol fueled mind imagines she IS Cynthia. Through the smiles and laughter, I fantasize jumping across the table and tearing her apart. Pulling out her hair. Scratching up her face. The bitch.

I notice Mac is directing most of his attention toward me. Of the three women in his company, I can tell I’m the one he prefers. Ha! I’m winning. A guy thinks I’m more attractive than Cynthia. I know it’s not Cynthia but she’ll do as a stand in. If the real Cynthia were here, I’d beat her do.

Mac is starting to look more attractive to me. He said he’s divorced and runs a business selling tractors. I try to avoid giving information about myself but I’m thinking maybe I should meet more people outside of my sphere. He is so focused on me now, the other two chicks may as well disappear. Finally, it happens.

“Kiva, would you like to dance?”

I nod. Ha! Point, set, and match. Take that, Cynthia. I bet I could steal Josh if I wanted.

Mac takes my hand and we carve our way into what is now a throng of people dancing and bouncing, until we find our space on the floor. The song selection seems to be R&B. We face each other and dance to Arethra Franklin’s “Respect”. It’s pretty much standard stuff. Mac’s not a bad dancer. We move in rhythm without any physical contact. Next was Tina Turner’s music. For some reason, I found myself stretching my face just inches to his and mouthing the chorus:

“You Better Be Good To Me”

The DJ calls a break. We head back to my booth where I left my shoes. I try to hide that my gait isn’t normal. The booth is empty. I have no idea where Caitlyn and my group have gone. Mac hands me another drink. I sip about half of it as we talk some more. Finally, I tell him it’s been nice meeting him and wish him a good night. I hadn’t realized the music restarted.

“One more dance?” Mac asks.

The music is now some loud techno/electronica. The atmosphere feels much more frenzied than before as the lights and lasers flash frantically, splashing over the packed surging bodies.
My partner and I clap and sway our hips in front of each other. The music thumps right through my body. I look up and see the the tiny twirling spots of lights on the ceiling. My tensions melt away. My limbs move, my hips gyrate as if under a hypnotic spell. I feel great. Mac and I pick up the pace. Delirious bodies close in from around us. It’s all so dizzying.

Mac has moved behind me, placing his hands on my hips as we sway together. I can feel his beard like prickle on the back of my neck. The beer belly presses onto my lower back. He reeks of sweat and cheap cologne as he whispers something about how beautiful I look. I feel something else as he tries to grind his crotch against my ass. I pull his hands apart from my hips and slip away from his grasp like a wrestler. We continue dancing to the pulsing, throbbing, ear splitting music for another fifteen minutes. Lights relentlessly flash everywhere. It doesn’t feel right. I’m getting this foreboding feeling. My movements are uncoordinated and I’m stumbling everywhere. I’m lightheaded.

“Excuse me, sir,” I tell the man. “I have to leave now.”

The electronica music stops. The DJ announces a slow dance.

“Can you stay for one more, darlin,? My I have the privilege of a last slow dance?”

“Last one,” I tell him. I latch my hands around his neck. I feel one of his big sweaty hands on the upper bare part of my back and the other hand on my lower back over the dress. His hot breath blows on my collarbone as our hips sway in unison. I see now that this guy is actually pretty gross. I think I had six glasses of wine but I’ve lost count. I know I’ll hate myself tomorrow, but right now, I can barely stay awake. He kisses me on the top of my head while he slides his hands onto my ass and kneads it. He pulls my butt closer to him while grinding his cock against my crotch. That does it.

“We’re done,” I tell him as I once again pull away from his arms. I can barely see straight as I wobble back to the booth to retrieve my shoes. The idiot follows.

“One more?” he asks.

“No,” I firmly respond as I put on my heels.

“Just one more?”

“I said, NO!”

I walk past the bar and toward the exit trying my best to not look like the inebriated mess that I am. Finally, out the door and into the night air. I take a deep breath and try to figure out how I’m going to get home while intoxicated. I can handle it, I tell myself. Fuck, who am I kidding? I was an ER nurse. That’s what all the drunk drivers say. I’ll wait for one of my girls.

“Kiva?” A male voice calls. Oh fuck, it’s Mac. He followed me outside. “Look,” he says, “I had a very nice time tonight and would very much like to see you again. If you had enough of dancing, I thought we could go back to my place. You know, we can talk where it’s quiet and get to know one another better.”

“I told you,” I snarled. “I’m leaving. I’m going home.”

“Well sugar, I don’t think you’re in any shape to drive. Here, let me take you home.”

He reaches to grab my arm but I pull it away and try to scurry down the steps to the parking lot. The heels and the alcohol take over as I trip on the last step and fall on my ass, letting out a shriek.

“I got you, honey,” Mac declares. “You’ll be just fine.”

A large pair of hands descends and lifts me up by the arm pits. The next thing I know is that I’m upside down. My hair is hanging straight down toward the asphalt and I see the parking lot beneath me moving. That’s when I realize that I’m hoisted over his shoulder and being…carried.

“My Ford F-250 truck is over here, sweet cakes. I got plenty of room in the cab.  I’ll take you back to my place where you can get some rest and freshen up.”

I try to scream but can only get out some weak moans. “No, please put me down,” I beg.

“No worries, honey. We had fun tonight but the night’s still young.”

I’m in a cold panic. I can’t make a sound. I feel like I’ll pass out.

“Kiva?” a woman’s voice calls. “Kiva, is that you? Kiva, ANSWER ME!”

I’m not sure who’s voice it is. I don’t think it’s one of my nurses. I see a pair of long legs and boots. I can’t see further.

It IS Kiva! What the FUCK! Kiva, what’s going on? Do you know this man? KIVA, ANSWER! DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN? SAY SOMETHING.

I suck in air and try to find my vocal cords before gasping out the word, “HEELLLLP”.

“Alright, mister,” the woman scolds. You let her go immediately. I got a picture of your face and license plate. Put her down, NOW!

“What’s your problem, lady? I’ll take good care of her.”

“I’m done talking,” she growls. Next, I hear a smacking sound of a fist crashing into a jaw. Mac’s grip on me loosens and I’m sliding down his back. A long leg with a boot kicks upward and my captor doubled over, letting out an “Oooommph” as I tumble onto the asphalt.

Lying on my side, I’m confused and disoriented. I here a man say, “Holy Shit, did you see that. That chick just kicked some guy in the balls.” Mac is doubled over. Then I see…her. I see, the long legs, the blonde hair, the statuesque figure….It’s Luanne?  Luanne? Yes, no doubt about it. She takes a step back, then delivers a roundhouse kick to the head, sending Mac sprawling on his back. She plants her boot on his neck and screams, “YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU SO MUCH LAY A FINGER ON HER, I’LL TAKE YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!

She heads over to me. “Kiva, are you ok? Let’s get you up.”

I don’t understand it. This makes no sense. I’m not even sure I know where I am. I’m in some kind of neverland. Now I get it. Luanne wants to fight me. I stagger to my feet. My slurred words are barely intelligible.

“Luanne,” I garble, “if you wanted a rematch, you could’ve just called me. You didn’t need to beat up my man.”

She stares at me and says calmly, “Kiva, you’re drunk. Richard and I will take you home. He’ll be out here in a minute. Clarissa and Madison are at a sleepover party. This was our night out. I’ll pick up Clarissa and bring her to you in the morning. Let’s go. I’ll let your friends know you’re with me.”

“With you? The great Luanne? The perfect mom? My son won this. My daughter was first place in that. Aren’t we just the greatest?  Alright Luanne, you want a rematch, you got it. Let’s do it right now.”

I stagger to my feet make a fist, then teeter around. “Get ready, Luanne. I’m coming at you.”

“Kiva, please stop. You need to get home.”

I stumble toward Luanne with my right hand cocked. I see three Luanne’s. I throw a big looping punch that travels aimlessly through the air. Luanne doesn’t even move as my fist misses her by a foot. The momentum of the swing spins me around before I topple back into the asphalt to the laughter of several curious onlookers. I look up to see Luanne with a sad expression shaking her head.

Flat on my back, I tell her, “I don’t  know what you hit me with, but I guess we’re even.”

**************

It’s morning. I’m in my bed and I feel like shit. I smell like dirt and sweat. My head is pounding. I’m wearing just panties. My blue party dress is folded over the chair. I vaguely remember Luanne putting me to bed. She’ll be here with Clarissa soon. I force myself out of bed and into the shower. I don’t remember everything from last night. I just know that Luanne saved me and I made a complete horse’s ass of myself. I take a shower, drink some coffee, pop some ibuprofen, and wait. The doorbell rings.

I barely open it when Clarissa gallops in. “Mommy, we had fun. Come on Maddie, I’ll show you my bedroom.” The girls scamper off. The two of us are alone, face to face.

“Look, Luanne,” I say, “Let’s get this over with. I’m a whore. I’m a cheap skank. Go ahead. You can say it.”

She pauses, looks at me and softly replies, “No, I’m not going to say it. I don’t believe it’s true. Something happened. You’re going through a rough spell. I can tell.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“You don’t have to say anything. If you ever want to talk, you have my number. I’ll buy you lunch.”

This is hardly the same Luanne I fought at the dance studio. I’m genuinely touched by her concern. “Thanks,” I say to her, “I think I’d like that….Luanne? Why did you rescue me like you did last night. I was almost unconscious. God knows what that guy would have done. I mean, you put yourself out there and beat the shit out of him.

Luanne stands expressionless as we look at each other’s eyes. I see her eyes begin to tear. After a few moments, she breaks the silence while keeping her voice low.

“I was date raped once.”

Again, there is silence. My eyes now tear. Slowly, we approach each other. We hug.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on December 10, 2021, 09:27:06 PM

Tremendous! Really interesting and fun.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on January 13, 2022, 02:29:50 AM

Chapter 11: Love, Death, and Lies 3

Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before
Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar
And you'll live as you've never lived before
Softly, deftly, music shall caress you
Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight
The darkness of the music of the night
-Andrew Lloyd Webber, from ‘Phantom of the Opera’


“He’s just a friend,” I explain. “That’s all. A friend…And I don’t mean a friend with benefits…I don’t do that…. But Good Lord, Kelli, you should see this guy. He’s got this gorgeous face and a killer body. I mean it’s a body to die for…We’re just friends. I wouldn’t even consider dating him. He’s several years younger than me and a womanizer. I know he has banged some of the girls at work. But that’s his business. We’re just friends.” Kelli slowly nods as the waitress places down two glasses of ice water. I hadn’t seen Kelli in awhile so it was nice to catch up over lunch.

“You know,” I continue, “I couldn’t stand the guy. He had been chasing after me for months, even though he knew I was married. And I kept telling him to get lost. Then one day, we were both working on the Rapid Response Team. I was having an awful day. He could tell I was stressed out and invited me to lunch. I thought, why not? Maybe it’d help to just talk to someone. So the two of us went down to the cafeteria and…ya know what? We had a really nice conversation. I learned some new things about him and he was so attentive to me. Just a really nice guy. And Lord knows, I can use a new friend, so we exchanged cell phone numbers.”

“He called me a few days later to play tennis. And Kelli, you should’ve seen him. He showed up in these cute white shorts. His legs and his butt we’re just adorable. And the way his tennis shirt showed off his chest and arms, I said to myself, ‘Whoa Kiva, slow down girl.’ But we had fun. He asked if I’d go see a movie with him that night. I told him I’d go only if he could beat me in a tennis match. So we had this little friendly competition. Well, he beat me two sets to one. No wonder. He was so hot, I had a hard time focusing on the tennis ball. But hey, at least I had something to do Saturday night.”

“I’m sure you really wanted to win,” Kelli responds, although I’m not sure why she sounds sarcastic.

“Well, we had a nice time at the movies. Afterward, we had a few drinks, then Frank took me home. He was a perfect gentleman. Nothing happened. I repeat, NOTHING HAPPENED. If Frank planned to boink me, he would have tried a while ago.”

“Does Tom know you’re spending so much time with your new..um…friend,” Kelli asks. Clearly, she’s not getting it.

“Who cares?” I retort. “It’s my life now. I’ll spend time with anyone I want.”

“Does Frank know about your fight hobby?”

“Yes, I told him, but I suspect he already knew….Here’s the funny thing. Last week, Frank and I went to the gym to work out together and…Kelli, why are you shaking your head?…Well, anyway, we both went through our workout routines and…Good heavens, you should have seen him in his tank shirt, all sweaty and muscles bulging and all…Ok, here’s where things start to get really interesting. After our workouts, Frank informs me he’s a member of a fight club. It’s guys who get together and wrestle or box or fight MMA. Well, Frank was a college wrestler, and he tells me he has a wrestling match the next day against a guy from another club. They reserved the combat room at the gym and Frank is going to go up against this guy. And he’s telling me all this and then he says that…he wanted me…to be there.”

“Well, I couldn’t believe it. He said usually only guys watch the fights but sometimes they let fighters bring one female each to come and watch. And he chose me. The fight was the next day, so I said, ‘Of course I’ll be there’.” So that night, I’m lying in bed and all I can think about is Frank in his scivvies wrestling another man and me at the side of the mat watching him. I couldn’t sleep. I got these images in my mind. I’m tossing and turning. I’m sweating. Well, the next thing you know, I’m changing the sheets.”

“The next day at work, I had a hard time concentrating. All I can think about is Frank wrestling in front of my eyes and me being his invited guest. At one point at work, Frank and I briefly passed each other and…get this,…he winks at me.”

“After work, I put on a floral pink V-neck top, cropped designer jeans, and casual sneakers, let in the babysitter and went to the gym. I’m so nervous as I open the door to the combat room. Inside, I see a group of seven or eight guys. And there’s Frank in his warmup suit. He comes over to me and introduces me to his friends. There’s something sexy about being the lone woman in a group of male fighters. I can tell they’re eyeing me over as if to say, “So this is Frank’s girl.” I overheard one of them say to him, ‘you got a nice babe.’” There’s this huge mat spread across the floor and I’m thinking, this is it. This is where they’re going to settle it.”

“We’re all just standing around waiting for Frank’s opponent to show up when the door swings open and a group of guys swagger in. They’re all wearing street clothes except one guy in a sweat suit. He’s about Frank’s size, maybe a little bigger. He’s blond, high cheek bones, looks powerfully built. Behind him is a woman, the only female in their group. She’s also blonde, and quite pretty. The two groups meet and we all introduce each other. I learn Frank’s opponent is named Sven and I presume he’s Swedish.

“‘Hi, I’m Elsa,’ the woman informs me. ‘I’m Sven’s girlfriend’”

“‘I’m Kiva. I’m Frank’s gir-…uh,,,friend.’ Oh, man, I can’t believe I almost said that.”

“‘Well, it looks like our boys are going to tangle,’ she said with a pleasant soft voice. “How long have you and your man been together?”

“‘Uh,..we’ve been friends for awhile but we recently started exploring our relationship,’” I said. “Well, that was awkward.”

“‘Well, Good Luck,’ Elsa said. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Kiva…and may the better man win.”

“I wanted to be nice to this woman. I was cordial. But it hit me. We are two women from opposing tribes. We were brought here specifically as representative females to witness which man will be the alpha male. One of us would see her man raise his arms in victory. The other would see her man defeated on the mat. I got so nervous, I was almost shaking.”

“So Frank is your man?” Geez, Kelli seems so incredulous.

“No, no, no. As I said, he’s just a friend. But he invited me to come watch him. He could have asked any girl but he chose me. I was there for him.”

“And you haven’t wondered why? He’s spending all this time with you for a reason. You haven’t thought about his intentions?” Kelli asks.

“Look, we’re just having fun and enjoying each other’s company. That’s all….Soooo, Kelli, let me tell you about the match. So, Frank sets up a folding chair for me on his side of the mat. I mean,..he is so considerate. Then, I’m sitting there with his gym bag. He starts stretching. Across, the mat, I see Sven doing the same with Elsa beside him. Then…then…then..Frank takes off his warm up suit…and…he’s standing in front of me…in these tight little black briefs…I don’t even know how to describe it. The body is absolutely ripped. Not an ounce of fat. So svelte, so sexy. Everything just perfect. The dark skin, the body, the fluid movement….And the face! Classic cheekbones, the dark hair is grown out and now flows behind him, the soft goatee around those luscious lips. And the hazel eyes, so piecing but gentle. He does a few more stretches in his briefs, then bends over and whispers in my ear, ‘You’re the best nurse ever. I couldn’t have asked for a better cornerwoman. Thanks for coming.’ Can you believe it? He thanked me for watching him wrestle. The guy who was the referee motions the wrestlers to go to the center of the mat. I see Sven is already there with Elsa behind him. And then, Kelli, wait till you hear this…Frank takes me by the hand, directs me up out of the chair, and leads me to the center of the ring with him. I’m trying so hard not to look giddy but I’m like floating on air as we go to meet his opponent.”

“So there we were, the four of us. Two gladiators and their women. Sven was also stripped down into black briefs. He looked like a strong guy but his body didn’t have great muscle definition and his pale and pasty skin was absolutely no match for Frank. I almost felt sorry for him. The referee gets between the couples and runs over the rules. The match would end in submission or a long ten second pin. As the ref is talking, I’m behind Frank. I didn’t even think about it but I start massaging him with my hands. I’m squeezing and kneading his neck, his traps, his deltoids. I never had my fingers on a specimen like that before. But, you know, I’m the cornerwoman. I’m just doing my job.”

“The referee orders Elsa and I off the mat and I reluctantly leave my warrior and return to my chair. But before I left, Frank gives me a kiss. It wasn’t much, just a little peck on the top of the head. But it was so sweet. I mean, I really, really couldn’t believe this was happening. I sat down and watched the two warriors face each other waiting for the ref to give the signal. I couldn’t stand the anticipation. My heart was racing. It’s funny. There I was watching a fight instead of being in it. Now I know how my soon to be ex felt. Except that piece of shit secretly wanted me to lose. Then I thought what if Frank loses? I couldn’t bear the idea.”

“Then it happened. The referee blows a whistle and the two men circle each other. It was like the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen. Frank moves like a cat. The guys are feeling out each other, then they lock up. You should have heard the grunts and groans as their faces grimaced and they pushed against each other, grabbing, struggling, maneuvering for control. With neither one taking charge, they released and backed up, then they lunged at each other. So, Frank completely ducks under this guy’s arms, swings behind him, lifts him up by the waist, and takes him down. And I just scream out, ‘Go Frank! That’s it baby doll!’. It like just kinda came out. A little embarrassing ‘cause, y’know, we’re not really dating.”

“So, Sven is face down on the mat and my guy is on top of him. The Swede tries to get away but Frank is just riding him. No matter what he does, Frank is all over him. He tried standing up, but Frank scissors a leg and he falls on his belly again. He tries a sit out, but Frank outmaneuvers him and he goes nowhere. Frank is just swarming all over this guy. I see Sven’s face getting red. He’s frustrated and knows he’s getting dominated. I look over and see Elsa and she has this worried expression on her face. But me? I’m just loving it!”

I’m not sure why Kelli doesn’t seem particularly enthused but I continue my story. “Frank is wearing this big blond guy down and everyone knows it. As soon as the poor schmuck escapes, Frank takes him down again. It’s just a matter of time. We can all tell. At one point, Frank had him down on his belly with both arms hooked and Frank’s hands behind his head in a full nelson, driving the head into the mat. I thought ‘Oh my God, this is it. We’re going to have a submission. Then…Frank looks over at me and guess what he does?…He smiles and winks at me. And I’m just bouncing up and down unable to conceal my excitement.”

“You don’t say, Kiva,” Kelli deadpans. “You need a cold shower just thinking about.”

“Oh Kelli, you had to have been there.”

“So, we’re waiting for big ol’ Sven to cry ‘Uncle’ but the Swede manages to get some wiggle room and rolls to his side, relieving pressure off his neck. Frank releases and the two guys are rolling on the mat, then Frank went for some kind of choke hold, then…and then,…that bastard Sven elbows Frank in the balls. Nobody but me saw it. The dickhead. Cheating was the only chance he had. Well, I see Frank doubled over on his knees. So the blond asshole gets behind Frank, seizes his head in a reverse chin lock, and jams his knee between my man’s shoulder blades. I look at Frank and I see his beautiful face being squeezed. And I know he sees me. And then I hear, ‘Do you give?’. I thought, No…No. I’m sweating profusely and I think I’m about to pee myself. It can’t be. I start screaming over and over, Frank! Frank, FFRRAAANNNK! And that fucking Sven, he looks right at me and gives me this evil grin like he’s saying, ‘Look at your man suffering.’ And I see Elsa screaming, ‘Oh yeah, baby. You got him.’ Oh no, Frank. This can’t be happening. I put my hand out to him. I cheer for him. I have to do something. Anything. Oh baby, be strong for me.”

“Well, it seemed like it took forever, but…Frank escapes. He arched his back, wriggled, got his arm under his opponent’s arm, and got loose. But it wasn’t over. Sven still had the advantage. He gets on top of Frank in a cross body press trying for a pin. Frank’s on his back with this big lug lying across his chest who keeps trying to immobilize him grabbing for a leg hook, pinning the arms. But Frank keeps fighting it. He digs his feet in, pushes up and slides a few inches. Repeatedly, his shoulders go down and the referee counts causing my heart to palpitate with each near pin fall. But Frank keeps fighting, struggling, pushing, sliding. A few inches here. A few inches there. Each thrust getting his body closer to the edge of the mat. Closer to…me.”

“I see him huffing and gasping, groaning and moaning. Every muscle contracting. Getting closer to the edge of the mat. Closer. ‘Come on Frank. You’re almost there. Come to me, my love, er friend.” Closer, closer, then…he does it! He reaches out his arm and touches the bare tile floor beyond. ‘You did it! You’re home with me! Now, go finish him off. I’ll wait for you here.”

“Well, Frank wasn’t still out of the woods. The ref brings them to the center puts them in a referee’s position and orders Frank on his hands and knees and Sven on top of him in the offensive position. He blows the whistle and just like that, Frank spins out in a flash and escapes. He and Sven spring to their feet. Sven charges, but Frank is ready. He does his patented duck under, gets behind the dumb blond guy, wraps his arms around his waist and arches back into a German suplex. Frank’s friends and I let out a big cheer. Frank springs to his feet. Sven is stunned. When the Swede gets up, Frank moves right it with one arm in the crotch and another hooking the armpit and he lifts the big dumbass off his feet. As I’m biting my nails, Frank is holding this hunk of meat chest high. He looks unsteady at first, then twists and slams the pant load into the mat while coming down on top of him with his own weight. Sven let’s out this big, ‘OOOOMMPH’ as he gets crushed. The room went pretty silent for a moment. We all knew big Sven was not getting up. Frank finishes him off. He hooks the leg, wraps an arm around the neck, then clasps his hands together into a tight cradle pin. The ref and Frank’s friends start the count. I felt this enormous relief, like all the tension just melted away. I’m screaming out the count. I see Frank grind his teeth as he has his man locked up. I see Elsa with her hands over her face. I see Sven helplessly tied up. His head is pulled forward. The free leg just lies there uselessly. The hooked leg is in the air with the foot feebly waving back and forth like it’s waving bye bye to Elsa. Ha Ha, sometimes I crack myself up with the ideas I come up with.”

“The count reaches ten and I scream my head off. Frank gets off his man and the ref raises his hand. I was wondering if these guys do victory poses. Well, I didn’t need to wait long to find out. Frank looks down on the pale defeated man and ….places his foot on the chest and raises his arm. Well I thought I was going to lose it. I get these body blushes right before an orgasm where my skin turns red and I feel warm and tingly all over. Well, right there I get the blushes. Honestly, Kelli, I had to look away and hold my breath to calm myself down. Imagine how embarrassing that would be, exploding at that moment with those guys around.”

“It gets even better, if you can believe it….Well, Frank has his foot planted on the loser’s chest. Then he looks at me and…waves me over to him. Yeah, I mean, he wanted me to join him. So,..I walk out onto the mat. I had already taken my shoes off. Then, I’m standing next to Frank alongside Sven who’s lying on the mat. Well, Frank puts his arm around my waist, points at my feet, and instructs me to place a foot alongside his, joining him in the victory pose. So, I lift up a leg and place my bare foot on the victim’s chest right next to Frank’s foot. I couldn’t believe it. I’m doing a victory pose over a man alongside my man…friend. Frank pulls my body against his and I rest my head on his chest. It was indescribable. The alpha couple. I look at Elsa and she looks like she wants to take my head off. I look down at the humiliated Swede, flat on his back, the eyes were closed but I saw them open a slit. Then I remembered the taunting look he gave me when he thought Frank would submit. So, I gave him a wicked sneering smile like the one he gave me. Next, I slid my foot across his chest and pinched one of his man nipples with my toes. Ha ha, I know, I’m bad but the jerk deserved it.”

“I wished that moment could’ve lasted forever. But it wasn’t to be. Frank and I picked up his belongings. Sven’s friends scraped him off the mat and he and Elsa high tailed it out the door. After Frank washed up, we went out for drinks with his friends. One woman and eight guys, all of us fighters, partying it up. I had to pinch myself to make sure it all wasn’t just a dream.”

“Look Kiva,” Kelli finally responded. I’m glad you had a good time. I get the hotness of watching guys go at it. Believe me, I hadn’t even lived until Jake started fighting nude. I just think a lot happened to you in a short time. You might want to slow it down some.”

“What do you mean?”

Kelli takes a deep breath and is silent for a moment. “Kiva, obviously, I’m not going to tell you what to do. I’m only going to say that when it comes to women fighting, guys can do some really stupid shit. Jake and I went through it. You don’t need me to remind you of the Jolene incident.”

“I know.”

“I guess I’m just hoping you’ll give it some time and try to work it out.”

“I can’t get over what he did to me.”

“Before you go head over heels into a relationship with Frank, you might want to first…”

“I’m not in love with Frank,” I argued. “He’s just a fr…”

“Really?” Kelli looks at me with one eyebrow raised. I know the incredulous look.

“I said I’m not in lo-“ Kelli’s single eyebrow remains fixed.

“Oh shit, you’re right,” I answer. “Who am I kidding?”

For several seconds, neither of us said anything. “Kelli,” I began. “There’s more.”

“When I went home that night, I logged onto the catpin website. There was another crazy message from Gloria. It said, ‘THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING BITCH! STAY AWAY FROM FRANK OR I WILL TEAR YOU APART.’”

“I had been ignoring the Gloria messages. But this time, it just set me off. I replied back, “I’LL SEE ANY GUY I WANT, WHORE. IT’S TIME TO PUT AND END TO YOUR BULLSHIT, YOU PSYCHO SKANK. I CHALLENGE YOU TO A FIGHT RIGHT IN FRONT OF FRANK SO HE WILL SEE WHO THE BETTER WOMAN IS.’”

“I received a response back, “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.”

“Really?” Kelli asks. “You’re going to fight this woman?”

“Yep,” I reply. “Next Saturday in Frank’s apartment.”

We’re silent again for a minute when Kelli asks, “Are you sure you want to meet this Gloria chick after all the stress your under. She sounds like a psycho.”

“I must,” I answer. “I challenged her.”

“Be careful, Kiva,” Kelli suggests. “We can’t always fight every crackpot out there. Sometimes you have to take the high ground. She’s not worth your time or energy.”

“I know,” I respond, “but she works at my hospital. I’m dying to know who she is.”

“Let me get this straight,” Kelli said. “Gloria works at your hospital but you don’t know her.”

“Apparently not.”

“And she sees you?”

“It seems that way. She always knows when I’m talking to Frank.”

“And you don’t see anyone around that could be her?”

“No. Frank thinks she may be his girl he dated who works in security. We have surveillance cameras all over the hospital. She may be watching me on the monitors.”

“So report her,” Kelli suggested. “She’s misusing surveillance data to personally harass you.”

“I called security,” I explained. “Plenty of women work there but none of them are named Gloria.”

“Creepy, Kiva. This is creepy. And you think going to this apartment is safe?”

“Frank will be there.”

“So,” Kelli summarizes, “You’re going to fight a crazy woman you’ve never seen, who is spying on you, in front of a hot stud who hasn’t made a commitment to you. What attire are you wearing for the fight.”

“Bikini,” I answer as Kelli lets out a groan. “Gloria insisted on it. But after all, Frank wrestled in front of me in these little briefs.”

“Look,” Kelli replies. “Something about this smells bad. If you feel you must fight since you already made the challenge, I understand. But I’d feel better if someone was there to watch your back.”

Why does Kelli have a knack for making sense? I want to trust Frank but…what is our relationship?

“You’re right,” I say to Kelli. “Could you, um…come with me?”

To be continued….


Pic: That’s Frank and I on the right. Sven and Elsa are on the left…Isn’t Frank a dreamboat?

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on January 16, 2022, 04:57:27 PM

Er, … Kiva? If she works in security, she'll have had self-defence training, you do realize that, don't you?  And she's hardly likely to be petite either. And if in the end Kelli has to pull her off you, you're going to look weak and pathetic in his eyes – and pretty silly too, seeing that you were the one that issued the challenge.
Speaking personally, I'm sure you'd look perfectly adorable, buck naked, slumped with your back to the wall, sobbing your little heart out, the mascara streaming down your cheeks, while Kelli finishes what you started, but I can guarantee you it's not a look he'll like. He likes the strong, confident, cooly efficient Kiva. In fact, if this woman whips you, he'll probably forget about you altogether and hit on Kelli instead. Unless this 'Gloria' whips her as well…
But that's not even the worst that could happen: this woman says Frank enjoys watching her beat up other women. What if she's telling the truth? What if he's setting you up? What if he intercepts Kelli as she's rushing to rescue you and holds her while this woman beats you senseless?
Kelli's right. It smells bad, but you've issued the challenge, so you've more or less got to go through with it. Just make sure you win. That's all I'm saying. Tell Chase I'm counting on him to have you in peak form on fight day. And it wouldn't hurt to ask Kelli to roll with you for a few hours to weed out any weaknesses in your game. You obviously have a huge crush on this guy, and so, evidently, has she, so you've both everything to play for. The prospect of making her crawl, of making her admit you're the better woman, of making her tell him that, may be an appealing one but she's going to be just as determined to do the same to to you, and probably disfigure you into the bargain.
So make sure you win!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on January 18, 2022, 01:48:23 AM

  I didn't think I'd have to deal with this for several more years when my daughter get to be of age to want to start dating. But here I am with Kiva, easily the smartest and most mature of all of my friends, and she sounds like a damn schoolgirl smitten with the captain of the football team.

  I don't even know what to say. Kiva is an adult, her marriage is disintegrating and some man...evidently, a drop dead gorgeous man, with a killer body.... who also happens be a doctor.... and is cool with her fighting.... and who, himself, fights. Hell, this seems far less stupid that a lot of the shit I've done in the past and most likely will do in the future.

  As she continues on, I know that I'll never be able to talk her out of... mostly because, I know wouldn't be talked out of it and as opposite as we are in many ways, we do share some traits. Although, I never figured lustful impulsiveness would be one of them.

  Kiva, then, tells me about, for lack of a better word, a competitor. Shit. This woman works at the hospital with Kiva and she has no idea who this woman is.... and surprise, surprise Dr. McSteamy has no idea either. For the love of God, Kiva, don't try and get in a fight with the woman... Fuck. Too late. This maybe a bad idea... oh, it's definitely a bad idea... a really bad fucking idea, but short of talking her out of it- unlikely, the best I can do is to persuade her to take someone to watch her back. Normally, I'd suggest Tom, but I guess that isn't going to work.

  After dismissing my pleas for caution, Kiva fills me in on the details of her impending fight with the mysterious Gloria. Shit. It's next Saturday..... and she just asked me to tag along. I would have preferred if Jake was able to at least be in the area, but he is taking our daughter and a few of her friends on a camping trip.

  Looks like I'm still impulsive even if it's not due to lust. I volunteer to go and watch my friend's back. Hopefully, I'll be enough. I'm kind of a bad ass, aren't I?  At least that's what I tell myself. Why in the hell am I getting excited about this? I mean other than Kiva fighting some unknown psycho bitch for what I can only assume will be the rights to Doc Hottie's undivided attention.

  As soon as I get in my Jeep I call Jake. "Hey... I.... ummm... sort of .... got myself into... a thing for next Saturday night...." I begin the call with. "No... no, big guy... it's an all girl thing...No! shut up! No you're  not missing out on fight like the one with Hannah- I'm not even fighting... just there for moral support...thanks for understanding, I'll see you at home..." a few small omissions won't hurt anyone... will they? 

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on February 12, 2022, 03:34:03 PM

Now I'm worried. We've had neither sight nor sound of Kelli or Kiva for weeks now. I'm beginning to think this Doctor Cool's got the pair of them chained up in some dungeon where not even Chase will ever find them, suffering untold torment and affliction. All we can hope now is that one of Elon Musk's duff satellites comes down on top of them and puts them out of their misery.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on February 13, 2022, 11:25:08 AM

Quote from: Tiberius J.C. on February 12, 2022, 03:34:03 PM

Now I'm worried. We've had neither sight nor sound of Kelli or Kiva for weeks now. I'm beginning to think this Doctor Cool's got the pair of them chained up in some dungeon where not even Chase will ever find them, suffering untold torment and affliction. All we can hope now is that one of Elon Musk's duff satellites comes down on top of them and puts them out of their misery.

I hear you. A few of you have asked why my story posts have been less frequent. It’s simple. My daily life is a major source of inspiration but sometimes drains my time and energy. I should have the conclusion to this chapter out next week. I think it will be worth the wait. Yes, it will be sexy and exciting, but it will also be so much more. In fact, it’ll be the kind of story that changes lives. Once it’s out, art and literature will never be the same. The story will offer new insights into human existence. Philosophers and theologians will be studying it for centuries. Those willing to plumb its depths may find hidden clues in understanding the origin of the universe, medical discoveries, world peace, reversing climate change and ending global hunger………..Or maybe not.

For those of you who have been waiting, here are a couple of pics in appreciation: an autographed pic of yours truly and a scene from a neighborhood ladies fight club.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on February 13, 2022, 12:24:41 PM

Well that's a relief! The dearth of new insights into human existence has been keeping me awake at night. At last I can sleep soundly, clutching my walnut-framed, autographed portrait of our heroine, my lips pressed to her sweet cheeks.   :-*
(Great outfit, by the way! That's what I want you wearing when you stuff those red panties of Cynthia's right back down her throat.)
Er, and Kelli? Did you just leave her there, chained to the dungeon wall, or is she, too, busy piercing the mysteries of the universe (or the "complex conundrums of the cosmos", as she would doubtless describe them)?

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on February 14, 2022, 03:49:21 PM

I know what must have happened: Doctor Death's left Kelli and Kiva tied up in the basement under the watchful eye of his adoring girlfriend, Gloria, while he returns to work as normal. Their plan is to make our heroines fight to the death and for Gloria to finish off the survivor. Only Chase has become suspicious when Kiva hasn't returned home the night before, so he goes to the hospital and follows the doctor home on his lunchbreak. When the doctor returns to work in the afternoon, Chase sneaks past the half-witted Gloria, who's too engrossed in the National Enquirer to hear his paw-steps, and down the stairs where, after four or five hours of dogged chomping, he manages to gnaw through the rope binding Kiva's hands together and release her.
Just at that moment, though, the doctor returns from the hospital sounding his horn (da-da-dee-da-dadada-dee-da-dee-da – Dukes of Hazzard style) to announce his arrival. Gloria runs down the stairs to greet him, and Kiva and Chase sneak out the back, realising they've no time to untie Kelli.
"We'll call for help," they tell the beautiful bound blonde, before running off into the woods to a nearby cabin to call the cops.
Only before the police can surround the building and rescue the sumptious scrapper, the dastardly duo have escaped to Mexico in their Hummer, with our helpless heroine tied up in the boot.
So now we have Kiva back but Kelli's still missing. All we can hope is that in the meantime the devious doctor has developed enough of a crush on the dishy diarist to give her a fighting chance of freedom: "You and Gloria, one on one, no rules, no interference, but you'll have to kill her to go free."
My money's on the lone star lovely but in a fight to the death, as we know from a thousand kung-fu trailers, there can only be one winner, and we have to assume the jealous jezebel will fight tooth and nail for the psycho physician and her place at his side.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on February 27, 2022, 12:30:03 PM

Quote from: Kiva on August 22, 2021, 06:27:54 AM

I’d rather be anywhere but here today. I prepared myself mentally the best I could. It’s hard. After all, this is where it started. I take another deep breath and exhale. Think happy thoughts, I tell myself for the hundredth time today. I’ll get through this. Remember why you are here, Kiva. Remember, it’s all for Clarissa. Yes, my daughter Clarissa, she’s the reason I’m here - the only reason. Another Saturday, another Texas town, another Pee Wee football game.

I've thought of a way of making these Pee Wee football games more fun, Kiva. Why not invite Kelli to join you on the touchline for the next game and tell her to wear those "maroon undergarments" with the number "eighteen" embroidered on them on the outside of her pants like Superman?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pOhQlqrp2oM
Oh, and another thing: could Kelli perhaps get hold of a 'Go Tigers!' sticker you could put on your car just to remind Cynthia (not, I"m sure, that she needs any reminding) of the cheer Kelli wrung from her throat the other day as though twisting a wet towel?
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=78153.210
Of course, if you start yanking Cynthia's tail, she's liable to scratch. I imagine there's still a spark somewhere in the pit of her belly despite the dousing it got from Kelli.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on February 27, 2022, 07:54:38 PM

Much as I like Cynthia (in spite of myself), what I'd like most would be for her to fight Luanne (of "Dance Mom Dust-up" https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=90742.30) or Jaymie (of 'A family affair' https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=78153.90) and win, just to rebuild her confidence before you take her. Twice or even three times (to leave the question in no doubt as to which of you is the better woman).

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on March 24, 2022, 01:32:29 AM

Chapter 12: Love, Death, and Lies 4

You're only just a dream boat
Sailing in my head
You swim my secret oceans
Of coral blue and red
Your smell is incense burning
Your touch is silken yet
It reaches through my skin
Moving from within
And clutches at my breast
-The Corrs


“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

Never in my life have I heard a more horrifying scream. It’s like the sound of a cat being eviscerated alive. She’s done it several times now. I’m not scared. I’m way past the shock. We dig our feet into the carpet, hunch our shoulders with our hands up and fingers spread like claws and prepare to tear into each other…again.

This is not what I expected. I knew Gloria was a crazy bitch but I had no idea she was this extreme a lunatic. Her brown eyes are wide open and maniacal. She bares her teeth like fangs. The stringy black hair hangs down in her face. A clump which I pulled out by the roots is attached by sweat to her shoulders. This is easily the most brutally vicious fight I’ve ever had. We started the fight with rules but mutually discarded them as the battle went on. Our bikinis have long been separated from our most intimate parts and lie torn on the floor. Nude, we circle each other. Strands of our hair, engulfed in the carpet stick to our sweaty soles.

Gloria looks awful. The left side of her face is puffy. Her left eye is nearly swollen shut. The surrounding tissue is becoming more purple by the minute. Blood trickles from her nose. I’ve hit her with so many punches, I’m surprised she’s even standing. Her breathing is heavy. I know it hurts her to breathe after I’ve pulverized her ribs. My right hand is swollen and throbbing from all the punishment I’ve dished out. Surely, she can’t take much more.

And me?…I’m in no better shape. My back is scraped raw as if I’ve been flogged. Linear scratch marks criss cross my shoulders, arms, and belly. My face has been raked on both sides. Both of my breasts are full of puncture wounds. Blood oozes out of my skin from several sites. Deep teeth marks from human bites are on my thighs. There’s hardly a square inch on my body that hasn’t been damaged.

Gloria is not a skilled fighter. Her insanity makes her aggressive. Her nails have been sharpened into blades. I’ve been clawed, scratched, and bitten. My hair has been ripped out. My tits have been tortured and my pussy has been mauled. It’s her nails and teeth vs my fists. Despite the pounding I’ve given her, she keeps coming back. Frank asked us three times if we wanted to quit and call it a draw. We refused. I came here to rid my life of this woman. I’ve invested too much time and flesh to not finish the job.

The two of us screech as our naked sweaty battered bodies smack together. We grab onto each other, grappling for control. Gloria manages to get inside my arms and once again sinks her razor nails into my left tit flesh. I can barely scream as five little daggers pierce my skin and penetrate into my mammary tissue. It is the worse pain I’ve ever felt in my life. Salty tears sting my abraded face as I drop to my knees. Gloria let’s out the strangest, most evil laugh as she stands in front of me, twisting her talons to the right, then the left, before ripping them away, pulling off more of my skin with her nails. She positions herself behind me. An arm wraps around my throat. Before I realized what happened, my trachea is cut off. My mouth opens but inhaling air is impossible. Stay calm, I tell myself. Gloria grasps her right arm with her left hand to apply additional pressure. My face feels warm from impeded venous flow and I’m sure it must be turning purple.

“Die bitch..Die,” she squawks out in a shrill raspy voice.

I try not to panic. After all I’ve been through with this kook, I can’t lose the fight from strangulation. Frank moves his face in close and asks if I submit. Oh no, I never wanted him to see my face like this. I wave him off with my hand. I’ve got to do something.

“Take a good look at Frank,” Gloria squeals, “because you’ll never see him again…Frank is mine, you broken down cxnt…Say it.” She positions my face to align with Frank’s. “Tell him…Tell him…TELL HIM!..TELL HIM THAT YOU’RE NOT WORTHY!…TELL HIM THAT HE’S MINE…MINE…MINE…MINE…MINE…MI..OOOMPH!”

My elbow connects to her ribs, shutting up her maniacal voice. I fire it again…and again. I’ve smashed these same ribs so many times tonight, I know she’s in severe pain. Gloria releases her chokehold and I fall forward on all fours and gasp in precious oxygen. I see she’s still on her feet but nearly folded over in two, clutching her ribs. I replenish my oxygen enough to continue. It’s time to end this.

Shifting into a crouched position, I lunge at Gloria’s legs, easily taking her down. I manage to get her on her back and mount her. The legs furiously kick every which way. The arms swing wildly, the claws extended, searching for flesh. The arms. It now comes down to the arms. If I can pin her down in a schoolgirl pin, I know I’ll finish her off. Her hands reach for my face. I attempt to grab them but she slaps them away. I bounce my weight on her chest to wear her down. I’ve got to get those arms down.

Her face looks hideous. Bruised, swollen, and bleeding, one eye is closed but the other is wide open and wild looking. She bares her teeth and gnashes them like a rat fighting for its life. We continue to fight for control of her arms, then…suddenly, I catch a fingernail to my left eye. The sudden pain is excruciating and I’ve lost my vision in it. Now it’s my time to snap.

“You crazy bitch,” I scream. I rear back and drill my right fist into her already swollen cheek. It makes a sickening sound of solid striking solid. Pain jolts from my hand up to my elbow but I ignore it. I punch Gloria in the face again. The blow knocks her head to the left before it recoils back to its original position. I punch again and a tooth flies across the room. I punch her again…and again…and again…and….

“Kiva, stop,” Frank orders. “She’s out.”

So she is. I sit atop my unconscious victim for a minute. I wonder how many facial fractures I’ve caused. She looks like a car accident casualty reminiscent of my ER nursing days. I feel no guilt or remorse. A fight is a fight. I sit on her for a few moments panting. I know it will take me weeks to months to recover. My right hand may never be the same. I look at my many scratches and puncture wounds. Small rivulets of blood ooze from my breasts and trickle down my belly. I need prophylactic antibiotics from the bite wounds. I try to rise but it’s so hard.

A male hand holds me by the arm and pulls. I lift myself up fighting through the searing pain in my legs from the bites. “Are you…Ok?”

“Yes, Frank, I’m fine.” I’m lying. I hurt everywhere, I can barely stand. My face and body are marked up. I feel a little lightheaded. Frank helps me to my feet. Gloria is still lying on the carpet, motionless. I stand over her body, then wobble as I lift my right foot. Struggling to keep my balance, I press my sole onto her face. It’s too bad she’s unconscious and can’t experience this humiliation. This is one crazy bitch who won’t bother me again.

Frank takes me by the hand and I step off of the sorry heap of humanity named Gloria. He turns me to face him, still holding my hand. Suddenly, I become acutely aware that I am…naked. I mean, of course I knew I was naked. Our bikinis came off awhile back during the fight. I knew there was a possibility that might happen. But this is different. I’m standing naked with the man I love. I’m exposed. Nothing about me is hidden from his eyes. He sees me now as I truly am. Completely uncovered.

He places his other hand on my back and pulls me into him. I press my body against his, resting my head against his chest. I begin to sob. I feel a torrent of emotions right now. I begin to feel my burdens lifted. The sobbing gives way to a deluge of tears, their salt stinging the scratches on my face. My tears are more about joy and hope. A new future. A new me. A new…man?”

“It’s ok, baby,” Frank whispers. He runs his hands up and down my back and kisses the top of my head. I wrap my arms around him and we hug. For a minute, we stay that way, slowly swaying in a sort of slow dance. I don’t want this moment to end. Finally, he speaks softly, “Let’s get you cleaned up…Wait here, I will get you a drink of water.”

Frank pulls away and I reluctantly let go of him. He walks away leaving me with Gloria. It’s been several minutes and she still hasn’t moved. As I walk toward her, my bare foot steps on something hard in the carpet. Gloria’s tooth. Her face is a horrifying site; purple, swollen, bloody. I didn’t realize I could cause such destruction. I note that she’s breathing but her respiration’s are slow and shallow.

“Frank, do you think we should call 911 and get EMS for Gloria?”

He doesn’t hear me. “What did you say, babe?”

“I think we need to call….Aahh! Oh my God!” As I speak, I see myself in a wall mirror. I knew my face was scratched but now I see it. Red tracks of nails and splotches of blood everywhere. I look hideous.

Frank returns. “Did you say something?” I let out another gasp. There are red stains on the front of Frank’s white polo shirt. Blood…My blood. Blood still oozes from my breasts and shoulders from scratches and nail punctures. I now see that I pressed blood from my tits onto his shirt when I hugged Frank. I cover my face and again burst into tears.

“Don’t look at me, Frank,” I wail. “I’m ugly. I’ve been disfigured. Please don’t see me like this. Look at your shirt!”

“No worries,” he coos. His voice sends tingles and shivers through my body.

“Really? You’re Ok with how I look?”

“I think you’re beautiful no matter what. You see, the fact that you shed blood today, it’s a sign of what’s to be…for you…for me….for us.” I’m feeling faint but I try to fight it. I try to speak but lost the ability to formulate words. I don’t understand it.

Frank removes his shirt and moves closer to me with those beautiful bare shoulders and chest. He gently wipes the shirt over my breasts, dabbing the scratches and puncture wounds, sopping up little droplets of blood. His comely face is the very picture of grace and compassion as he lovingly tends to my wounded tits. My breathing and heart rate become uncontrollably faster.

He then rubs the shirt across his own magnificent chest, leaving faint smears of crimson across his pecs. My blood. “Frank, what are you doing,” my voice barely able to articulate the breathless words.

“Let me show you,” he reassures. He reaches into his pocket and shows me a penknife attached to his keychain. In seconds, he flips open his blade and points it at his right index finger. After applying pressure, to my shock, a drop of his blood appears. I gasp while my body recoils.

“Let me explain,” he continues. “In some ancient societies, people made agreements with blood oaths. Those agreements could be about property, allied relationships, keeping promises. But sometimes they were about marriages…a bond between a man and a woman.”

“So, are you saying that we…um, you and I are…”

“Yes,” he whispers. “Let the mixing of our blood be a sign of our union. Our joining together. Our becoming one.”

He presses his bleeding finger onto my forehead, stroking over Gloria’s claw marks. “The forehead represents the mind,” Frank tells me. “Our thoughts, our wills working together, complementing each other, united.” Now I understand this.

I take hold of his hand with both of mine and with his lacerated finger outstretched, I directed it to my face and streak it down one cheek, then the other. A face is what we present to the world, the external part of us that women spend so much time, work and money to beautify. My beauty now belongs to him. It means little now if my face ends up scarred after today’s battle. His love for me is all that matters. I need not be pretty anymore for anyone but him.

Next, I bring his finger down to my belly and press his vital fluid into my navel. The belly button. The site of the umbilical cord, that precious sacred link between a child and its mother…All I can think of is how badly I want to bear his children. I know he will be a wonderful stepfather to Clarissa. We will be a family.

I lift his hand up to my chest. Expressing more blood from his finger, we both anoint each of my nipples with his liquid life source. What are a woman’s breasts, if not nourishment? I see my purpose now. I will quit my nursing career. He can be the breadwinner. I will be the homemaker, the nurturer. I will be there to take care of them. Our babies…Him.

Frank pulls me close to him as I again burst into tears. I clasp my hands around his neck and rest my head on his chest as we resume our slow dance, my bare feet gently marching on the carpet. He gingerly kisses the top of my head. I never dreamed my life would come to this and I feel like the luckiest girl on the planet. I don’t ever want this moment to end…and it won’t…This is the beginning…only the beginning.

I take Frank’s cut finger back into my hands and hold it up to my chin, then my mouth, my lips. I kiss the wound, licking up the precious red substance with my tongue, then placing the entire digit in my mouth, allowing his blood to enter me. I feel his tongue on my face, lapping up my own streams of scarlet. He works his way down my neck, then onto my breasts where Gloria has torn my flesh. From my lacerated mammaries, he takes in my cells, my hemoglobin, my oxygen, everything that keeps me alive. We drink each other, sharing our essence of each other’s life, our very existences. I didn’t know it was possible to ever feel connected to another human being. My consciousness is heightened, as though I’ve been awakened.

But now, another feeling is stirred. Every nerve ending feels his soft tongue on my nipple. My brain processes it and my body responds. That response is…desire…My nipples arise to meet the emissary from his oral port. The tongue dances with them, entertains them, thrills them. They are electrified, their excitement sending a current that reverberates throughout my body. There is no controlling it. My heart rate and breathing speed up, my skin tingles, my womanhood gapes with craving…He knows it.

Frank bends his knees and I respond accordingly falling into his arms. He lifts up my legs while supporting my shoulders, holding me across his chest. A flood of emotions rise inside me as we move toward the bedroom. This is it, I tell myself. The time to consummate our bond has come.

The bedroom chamber. I’m greeted by the aroma of lavender oil. How did he know lavender is my favorite scent? A dozen lit red candles surround the bed. And the bed! Beautiful white satin sheets covered with rose petals await us. “Frank, how did you…?” I ask, unable to complete my question.

“I knew you would win,” he explains. “I only prepared for you.”

We kiss as he holds me. I close my eyes and relish his perfect lips, his mouth. My tongue searches and finds his. They become acquainted, dance, then lie together. Frank gingerly lays me down on the bed and I’m floating on a sea of satin and rose petals as I breathe in the lavender. Perfect peace. All tension is gone. So is the pain. I forget I am covered in sweat, blood and grime. Nude and on my back, I see him undressing beside the bed. With only the tiny black speedos left on his sumptuous body, he joins me in bed. We kiss.

His fingers and mouth explore me as if I were a previously undiscovered enchanted island. He roams my neck, the swells of my breasts, my abdomen. And he watches my reaction. Ask a woman what makes a man a good lover and she’ll tell you it’s his attentiveness. Rare as they may be, some men have the ability to read a woman’s cues and act on her desires. And Frank plays me like a master musician hitting all my right notes. Surges of electricity encircle me. I open my eyes. Instead of the ceiling, I see endless galaxies of scintillating spirals and ellipses extending into eternity. He’s a magician transforming my body. My blood flow is redirected. My skin is flushed. My nipples longingly reach out to him. I burn with anticipation.

His hand runs up my inner thigh, the fingers are like an entourage of scouts from another land, sent ahead to prepare for the arrival of a visiting king. My knees separate from one another as an open gate to welcome the band of travelers. The chamber doors have enlarged for this moment. The guests have entered to search for the queen. Their search is short, for the queen has risen to greet them. She embraces them. She flirts with them. One by one she dances with them. First slow, then fast. They please her. The chamber is prepared, the walls are lined with sweet nectar and female fragrance. Her visitors have left her but she won’t be alone for long.

The king has been unveiled. And what a magnificent king he is, such radiance and splendor. The queen stands at the door and waits. She aches for him. Come to me, my beloved, she implores him. He approaches, slowly at first, then he runs, charging to the door, faster and faster,…breaking through…HE’S HERE!

Uh…Oh…Uh…I never imagined this…Frank inside me…Uh..Ah…Uh…I feel you, my love…Uh…Uh…I rock my pelvis in unison with his…Uh…Uh…I feel his pubic bone grind on mine…We are totally synchronize…Uh..Oh…Aaaahhh…Now I know what I’ve been missing all these years…Oh…Uh…Oh….Everything is perfect…his timing…his pacing…his mouth on my neck. His hands stroking my face…Uh…Uh…The thrusts now come faster, and seem even deeper than before….yes, baby, faster and harder…give it to me, honey, Uh, Uh..AAAH…AAAH…AAH.

I open my eyes and look up, but I see no ceiling. Instead, I see endless galaxies of scintillating spirals and ellipses extending into eternity. It’s all so beautiful. They say the atoms in our bodies came from exploding stars. We are literally made of stardust. In our tiny insignificant speck of the cosmos, we share the energy of our electrons as they merge and mingle. His, mine, they’re all one. We are one. One with each other. One with the universe.

“AAAAHHH…..AAAAHHHH….AAAAHHHH…The rhythm is faster than ever. We are perfectly synchronized. The moment is almost here…..AAAAAAHHHHH……….AAAAAAAAAHHHH. We will climax together, both of exploding as one supernova sending our own stardust across the cosmos….We are about to arrive my love, AAAAAH…..AAAAAAAAHHHHH.  I’m ready. He’s ready….and………

Beep….beep…..beep.

Don’t stop my love. We are at the threshold….AAAAAH……AAAAAHHH.

Beep….beep.

Just a little longer dear.

Beep….beep…beep.

Frank, is that your pager? Who is calling you now! Ignore it.

Beep…beep…beep.

Frank, why did you stop? Frank where are you? Fuck, you’re not here. Who is the nurse calling you? I’ll have her fired. You didn’t have to answer. Frank, come back.

I’m…alone. I climb out of bed. He’s not in the bedroom. I check the living room. I see…Gloria. Oh shit, we forgot about Gloria. She’s standing. That’s a relief. Her back is turned to me.

“Gloria?”

She turns toward me. She’s a mass of rotting smelly flesh. The eyes are empty sockets, the nose is gone. Strips of muscle hang from her face and bones. “You bitch, she shrieks. You killed me. You went off to fuck Frank and you left me here to die….It’s not over, whore. I will haunt you every day of your life and when your time comes, I will kick your ass for eternity,”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE”

Beep….Beep…Beep..

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

“Beep…Beep…Beep…My iPhone alarm.

“I’m okay, Clarissa. Mommy had a weird dream.”….Really weird….really…fucking weird.

*************************

We haven’t spoken for the last fifteen minutes. I stare out the front passenger side window of Kelli’s Jeep subconsciously watching the passing sidewalks, telephone poles, parked cars and people. In less than thirty minutes I will be in a fight…with a woman I’ve never seen.

Sure, I’ve seen her profile. According to her stats, she’s about my size. Gloria posted a picture of her body but, like many women, blurred her face for the public. Kelli focuses straight ahead with her hands on the steering wheel. She’s a fighter. She knows. She understands the mental turmoil a fighter faces just before a fight, the nerves, the emotion, trying to quell fear. She gives me my quiet and space.

Dressed in my favorite hoodie and sweatpants, I sit. I want the time to quickly pass but yet I don’t. I see my face in the side mirror and I try to make a tougher expression. I don’t exactly have an intimidating face so I scrunch down my eyebrows and make a scowl. Yes, that will scare Gloria. My hair is tied up in a bun. I check again to make sure it’s stable and secure. I pull down my golf visor. I’m sure Gloria will go for my hair. What else does she do? Does she have training? Or is she a crazy scratching and clawing catfighter? Is she a grappler? Does she strike well? I have no idea. There will be rules. No blows to the head except slaps. Scratching and clawing below the neck only. Once again, I won’t have my best weapon, a right hook fist to the head. Not many women want rules that allow that.

The head game escalates. Who is this psycho bitch? Why do I never see her? What if she’s a much better fighter than me? What is she destroys me? Humiliates me? In front of Kelli? In front of Frank?…Frank…No, I refuse to even think about that. A fighter never considers losing an option. When I told Frank that I challenged Gloria, he said he’d make all the arrangements. All I’d need to do is show up at his apartment. He was ok with Kelli coming as my second. My mind swirled with conflicting emotions all week. One minute, I want Frank. The next minute my rational mind tells me to slow down. Know him better. Find out his intentions. But the fact is, I’m in it deep. I’ll be fighting another woman in front of his eyes. Why did I agree to bikinis? My top will probably come off and he’ll see my tits. That’s not so bad, is it? I mean, I saw him in these little briefs. What happens if…no, when I win. I think of sending Gloria home crying. He’ll see I’m the better woman. Will Frank and I then be a couple. Is Frank the prize? Yes, he is. I’m fighting a woman I don’t know…over a man.

And just how good a fighter am I? I ask myself. I only have one defeat. But I could have beaten Cynthia had I not made mental mistakes.

“Kiva, are you still here?” Kelli asks.

“Yeah, I am,” I answer. “There it is. That’s the apartment building,” Kelli pulls up to the security gate. “We’re visiting room 122,…Frank Romero,” we tell the guard.

He looks down, “Yep, you’re on the guest list,” he informs us as the gates open.

Kelli pulls into the parking lot. Now it’s time for the long walk. I open the car door and pick up my gym bag. The walk to the arena begins. As we proceed over the blacktop, the butterflies are as bad as they’ve ever been. This fight is different. An unknown opponent. A man. What did I get myself into?

The apartment complex is arranged around a lovely courtyard, with grass, flowers and benches. Frank’s apartment on the first floor opens to the outside. As we enter the courtyard, I’m struck by the quaintness and tranquility of it on this beautiful Saturday afternoon. There are only two other people here. A man I don’t recognize is walking a dog. The second man, sitting on a bench, seems strangely out of place.

“Look at the size of that guy,” Kelli exclaims. Hard to say for sure as the man was seated but I imagined he was six feet, five inches and close to 300 pounds. He looked very intimidating, dressed in jeans and boots and only a leather vest on top showing off massive, heavily tattooed arms. The large head featured sunglasses and a very impressive long forked beard, like the leaders of ZZ Top. He appeared focused on his cell phone screen.

“Scary looking guy,” I reply. “Looks like a biker type. Hey let’s ask if he fights…in case Jake needs an opponent.” We laugh.

“I dunno,” Kelli says. “Jake might think twice before messing with that guy.”

“I’m gonna call him ‘Skull Splitter’” I joke.

“Skull Splitter?”

“Yeah, I saw a documentary on Vikings. There was an actual warrior king called Skull Splitter. I imagine he looked like that.”

We follow along the side walk, reading apartment numbers. 119, 120, 121, here it is…122. Right in front of Skull Splitter’s bench. I find the doorbell button, and experience one last bout of butterflies. Well, here it goes. I reach for the button and…

“Is one of you Kiva?” A deep voice asks behind me. How does Skull Splitter know me? This is weird already.

“Ignore him,” Kelli advises.

“If one of you is Kiva, they’re waitin for you inside…You’re here to fight another girl, aintcha?”

That does it. “Who wants to know?” I shot back.

“I’m just a friend…of your opponent. I drove her here and I’ll drive her home,…after you ladies are done with each other. I was just wonderin what ya looked like.”

I don’t like this. I don’t want to fight Gloria in front of a big scary guy she brought with her. This is supposed to be about Frank. “Are you…coming in…to watch us?” I ask Skull Splitter.

“No, ma’am. While you two chickies are rollin around, settlin yer differences, I’ll be right here waitin, watchin y’all on livestream…that is, unless anything funny happens…Well, good luck and may the better woman win.”

Livestream? Oh that’s right. Gloria and I met on the website. We’re expected to record and post the fight. I really gotta win this one.

The door opens and we’re welcomed by Frank, dressed in jeans and a beige T shirt hugging his ripped upper body. “Hello, ladies,” he greets us. I introduce him and Kelli and his eyes walk all over her. We follow him in and Kelli gives me that single raised eyebrow look. Ok, Frank likes to look at women but so what.  After today, he’ll be mine. His living room is what you’d expect from a young single male. Not very furnished. A TV on the wall, and a table, a chair and a love seat, all pushed to the side to make a clearing on the carpet for Gloria and I. We make small talk for a minute.

“Gloria, Kiva’s here,” Frank calls out.

The bedroom door opens, and out steps an alluring olive skinned woman in a cheetah print bikini. She pretty much looks the way I imagined her. About my size. Thick black hair waving past her shoulders, brown eyes. She looks fit. Not rock solid but feminine and athletic. My eyes focus on her hands. Her nails are…short. She looks at me with a slight smile.

“Kiva, this is Gloria. The two of you finally meet. And this is Kelli.”

“Well Kiva,” she says, obviously sizing me up. “It’s very nice to meet you. So we’re going to have a tussle today. Let’s try to have a safe sane fight and may the better woman win. And Kelli, I understand you’re an accomplished fighter. I’ll give you my card and if you ever need an opponent, feel free to contact me.”

Okay, this is NOT what I expected. The woman who messaged me was a lunatic. In person, she’s relaxed and cordial. Safe and sane? Fuck, she threatened to rip out my eyes and tear my tits off. Frank also looks confused.

“Oh, and before we start, could I ask for a little favor? Would one of you happen to have some extra hair ties? And if you have an extra hair brush, that’d be great. This is embarrassing. I totally forgot I removed all my hair products from my gym bag.”

Kelli and I look at each other. “Uh…sure,” I offer. “You can have mine.”

“Well, ladies,” Frank says, “Shall we get this started? Kiva, you can change in my bedroom. Come out when your ready and we’ll let the fight begin. He directs Kelli and I to the bedroom. I quickly notice that there are no candles or rose petals. The room is very plain. What does stand out, however, are mirrors on the ceiling. I open my gym bag and begin stripping down.

“So that’s your psycho?” Kelli asks.

“I’m not buying her act,” I respond. “Psychopaths can appear perfectly normal when they want. People thought Ted Bundy was a charming guy. I’m preparing for the worst. Gloria is a skank. And she can keep my brush. Hell, I’ll get head lice if I use it after her.”

Frank at least has a full length mirror. I examine my nude reflection and strike a few poses. “So, what do you think of Frank,” I ask Kelli. “Isn’t he the most gorgeous thing ever? And after I get Gloria out of the way, the two of us can have peace together.” Kelli gives me the single raised eyebrow again. Fine. I don’t care. She’ll see.

“Well this is interesting,” she says, reaching her arm under the bed.

“What is it?” I ask. Keeping the eyebrow raise in tact, Kelli shows me a woman’s panties.

“So, uh, so,” I stutter. “Maybe his sister visited, stayed overnight and she misplaced one of her panties. You know how things get knocked under the bed.”

“Would she have signed them?” Kelli shoots back, showing me the words, “To Frank, Love Danika” written in marker on the fabric. I know a Danika. She’s a radiology technician at the hospital. Kelli directs me to the waste basket, where I’m shown several used condoms and wrappers at the bottom.

“Well, you’re quite a detective, aren’t you,” I reply as I slip on my black bikini. “Well, Kelli, I know Frank slept around. But maybe that’s all in the past now, y’know, since he started seeing me. And who knows how long this stuff has been there. You know how men don’t clean much.”

“Then I suppose he hasn’t changed his sheets in a long time either,” Kelli remarks, lifting the pillow up to reveal a few strands of long blonde hair.

“We’ll look,” I insist, checking out my bikini body in the mirror. “Once Frank and I are officially a couple, he’ll change. I’m going to change him.” I get another silent raised eyebrow. I know she’s wrong. I’ll make Frank mine and prove everybody wrong. And I’ll start right now making Gloria submit. Then, everyone will submit when they see how much Frank loves me. “Let’s go,” I said, “I wanna kill that bitch, Gloria.”

We enter the living room to see Frank and Gloria engaged in a rather serious looking discussion. Frank’s back is turned to us. He’s doing most of the talking while Gloria nods. I don’t like this. Is he giving her fighting advice? She sees us and alerts him. Their conversation ends.

The four of us meet in the center of the room. Gloria’s face contorts into a scowl. Her upper lip quivers like a snarling dog. “Well bitch,” she growls. “Take a good look around this apartment because you will never be here again.” I remember her saying something like that in my dream and my blood momentarily chills. “I warned you and warned you but you would not listen. You couldn’t stay away from Frank and now I will rip you apart limb by limb. You could have walked away but now I’m going to fuck you up!”

Kelli and I look at each other and I give her a look that says, “I knew this woman is nuts.” This is the Gloria I was expecting. What happened to safe and sane fight? Gloria and I stand chest to chest and nose to nose. Kelli fades into a chair on my side of the room while Frank slips into the love seat.

“Gloria, are you ready?” She nods. “Kiva, are you ready?” I nod. “Okay ladies….FIGHT!

I react first by giving her a shove to the chest. She backs up a few feet, then shoves me back. For a second we stare at each other. I have no idea what she will do. She’s crazy so I anticipate her wildly charging in but she looks cautious with her knees bent and her hands up. I do the same as we circle each other. I wait for her to shoot first but she doesn’t as if she expects me to make the next move. Fine, if that’s what she wants.

I rush after her to try to tackle her to the floor. In a flash, she sidesteps me, maneuvers herself behind me and runs me into the wall. I press my hands onto the wall to push back from her pressure. Quickly, she takes my arm behind my back into a hammer lock and pushes my face into the dry wall. “Get used to it bitch,” she taunts. “After I finish with you, me and Frank will be in the bedroom on the other side of this wall fucking our brains out, while you sit here listening to our moans.”

Pain sears through my shoulder as she has the hold in tight. “Fuck you, bitch,” I snort out, but I realize this will be a difficult escape. Escape won’t be needed. Gloria releases the arm, goes behind my knees and suddenly, I’m falling backwards, hitting the carpet on my back. She picks up my ankles and I kick furiously as she seems determined to fold me over. I crab walk backward, kicking and squirming with everything I got. Finally, I manage to pull one leg free and kick away at her hands until she releases the other. I roll away, and quickly try to stand. I have no time to react as Gloria sweeps low and I feel my feet go flying up and I crash to the floor on my ass. She dives on top of me and we lock arms and legs and go rolling on the floor. I grab her hair for control as we alternate which one of us is on top. Abruptly, we stop rolling and I realize I’m trapped in a body scissors. Gloria is underneath me with her legs wrapped around my belly and her arms across my chin as she tries for a choke hold. My chin is the only protection from me being choked out so I keep it tucked in tight as Gloria tries to slip her arms underneath to get to my neck.

“Bedtime, sweetie,” the psychopath sings. “While you sleep here dreaming about Frank, I’ll be fucking him for real.”

My breathing is getting harder. I’m not getting choked but I can’t find a way out of this hold. I dig my nails into her arms and try to scratch my way out. Finally, she releases and pushes me to the side. I roll out of the way and begin to stand, but she tackles me back down. The loon mounts my back and pulls my hair back as I get to my hands and knees. “Give me a ride, pony girl,” she laughs as she slaps my ass. I go down on by belly, but the attacker swarms all over me. I can’t outmaneuver her. I can’t get to my feet. I can’t get away from her. I feel like I’m wrestling an octopus with eight arms. She controls me on the floor, transitioning through a myriad of holds: full nelson, chicken wing, three different versions of headlocks, head scissors, guillotine, leg traps. I’m getting stretched, twisted, squeezed…and thoroughly humiliated.

Finally, I manage to wriggle away and get to my feet. Gloria pauses and I try to take advantage by stretching and catching my breath. This is definitely not what I expected. Gloria may be a nut job but she is a very skilled wrestler. I’m thoroughly outclassed and out of confidence. I see the concerned and puzzled look on Kelli’s face and Frank’s intense expression.

I try to gather myself before we clash again. I can’t match her wrestling skill. But this isn’t a wrestling match. It’s a catfight. I’m confused by how clean she fights. I don’t have a single scratch. Even my tits have been untouched. Maybe that’s her psychology. She’s destroying me without such tactics. That doesn’t mean I have to fight clean.

We face off again. I go up on my toes and circle around her. I get within range and fire a slap to the face. As she recoils, I drive a knee into her belly, doubling her over, then follow it up with another hard right face slap. But slaps don’t win fights. I have to do something. I need to inflict pain. I need her to submit.

Taking advantage of her vulnerable state, I wrap my arms around her and trip her feet, tackling her to the floor. With us on our sides and my arms around her chest, I realize I’m in a perfect position to cause some tit damage. I dig my nails into her bikini top cup and squeeze. I hear her howl as I squish her boobs while attempting to pull the top off. A little more. A little harder, then….”Oowwwww!” Sudden severe pain shoots through my left hand and wrist as Gloria applies an expert wrist lock, forcing me to free her boobs. Gloria rises, holding on to my left wrist. She pulls me to my feet, flinging me across the room by my arm as she lets go. My hand throbs. We look at each other. “Had enough yet, whore?” she asks.

The realization sinks in that Gloria is the better fighter. I’m worn out and exhausted, I’ve been completely fooled and seriously underestimated her. I just can’t quit. If I lose, I’m going to go down fighting. I’m still a good striker, even if my right hand is all I have left. “Bring it, bitch,”

We circle each other again. I throw a flurry of slaps at Gloria’s head with most of them missing. She slaps back, striking me hard on the left cheek. A slap fight is fine with me. It beats getting tied up on the floor like a pretzel. We assume boxer stances and dance on our toes. I’m faring better, not losing but still not winning. We feign, flick jabs, and swing hard. It’s clear that Gloria knows something about boxing. If I can just stay on my feet, I’ll be fine I tell myself.

We go toe to toe peppering each other with open hand slaps until I finally land the hard right hand that spins her head around. Eyeing her exposed ribs, I close my fist and prepare to land the game changer. I position my body, turn, throw and….nothing.

Gloria backs out of the way as my fist sails through the air. Exposed and off balance, the skank grabs my right arm and dives for my right thigh. Before I realize what happened, she lifts me off my feet in a fireman’s carry. With my body across her shoulder, she transitions me into an upside down bear hug. With no place to go but down, I’m in a perfect position to be dropped on my head. I sense her taking a few steps, and before I can wonder if I’ll be the next admission to the neurosurgical unit, I’m flat on my back on the carpet.

Oddly, my head is fine. I felt Gloria cradle my head, actually protecting it when she slammed me. But the damage is done. The wind is knocked out of me. I can barely move. She sits on my chest. Her knees press on my arms in a tight schoolgirl pin. I know I’m done. I kick up with my legs but it is useless. It’s over. Any second now, she will scoot her ass up to my face and either sit on my face or suffocate me with her pussy. There’s nothing to do now except await my fate…and more humiliation.

“So go ahead, Kiva,” she starts. “Tell Frank who is the better woman. Say it and I’ll spare you. Look at you. Totally helpless. That’s how I like to leave all the women who think they can get between me and Frank…Ha ha…ha ha ha. The crazy laughter escalates until she arches her back to laugh at the ceiling. This careless move is what I need.

I lift my hips and legs, hooking my ankles around her neck, pulling her off to the side. The maniacal but puzzling fighter rolls to her side, exposing her back to me. I scramble to my knees, grab her left arm and left leg while planting my foot into her lower back. I pull the limbs back and push forward with my foot executing a bow and arrow hold.

Gloria screams. “Give up?” I ask.

“Yes, stop. Let go, please.”

“Tell Frank who is the better woman.”

“You are. Please let me go.”

“Are you going to leave me alone and stop sending messages.”

“”Yes, I promise. You can have Frank. He’s yours.”

I stand. The rush of victory gives me a new energy. Gloria rolls on her back as a sign of submission. I oblige by placing my foot on it and flexing my biceps, looking down on my defeated foe. I’m stunned and confused by this fight. I know I’m very lucky and will do a lot of reevaluation of my fight career after this.

No sooner do I step off of my victim, when I feel a gentle tug on my arm. It’s Kelli. “Very nice”, she says as she hands me my sweat clothes and shoes. “I have your gym bag. Just throw these on and let’s go now….I think we need to talk.” That’s it? Really, Kelli? I just beat my insane rival and she won’t let me bask in my win? I feel another soft pull on my arm.

“Leaving so soon, Kiva?” Frank asks. “But first, may I speak to you for a minute…in private…in my bedroom?”

I glance at Kelli, who doesn’t appear to approve of this meeting. “It’s ok,” I reassure her, “I feel safe.”

“Be out in two minutes,” she whispers to me. “Keep your trigger finger on my cell phone number if anything happens.

By now, Gloria is on her feet and stretching. “I’m leaving too,” she tells us, “right after I clean up and change in the bathroom. Good luck with Frank, Kiva. He’s yours now. Please take good care of him. I wish you both well…Uh, I’d like to give Frank one last goodbye kiss…for, y’know…old time’s sake.” I roll my eyes. Come on, bitch, I want to say. You lost. Now move along.

Gloria and Frank embrace and kiss. With her arms still around his neck, I see her whisper into his ear and he responds by nodding. What a nutcase. She walks off to the bathroom as Frank leads me by the arm, to his bedroom. It’s not at all like my dream. There are no candles or lavender fragrance. Just a plain old bed with blonde hair in the sheets and old condoms in the trash basket. But yet, I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of anticipation. What will Frank say to me? Is this our defining moment? Sweaty, achy, and still in my bikini, I stand before him and feel a tingle as he places his hands on my shoulders.

“That was amazing,” he tells me. “I heard about you as a fighter, but now that I’ve seen it, I know it’s all true. You are a talented fighter. Gloria had you several times but you fought through it and won…And so…I’d like to make a proposition to you.”

My heart ripples like jello. A proposition? THAT kind of proposition? It can’t be. “Whaaat?” I ask with a weak voice.

“I’d like for us to be a couple,” he says in matter of fact tone.

“Really?” I reply, my lower lip quivering. “You…and…me?”

“Let me explain,” Frank responds. Some of the guys in my fight group are now doing couples fights, competing with other groups. You know, men against men, women against women, as couples. I’d like to ask you to be my fight partner.”

I feel a mix of confusion and excitement. The very idea of Frank and I fighting side by side stirs me like nothing else. “B..b..but,” I stutter, “aren’t the couples in a relationship? Isn’t that the whole point of couples fights. It’s not about business relationships, it’s about romantic bonds. Like husbands and wives and boyfriends and girlfriends.”

“I know that,” he responds, hands still on my bare shoulders. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

I gasp. I warm flush washes over my face. “F…f..Frank, are you asking me to…”

“That’s right…I want us to be a real couple…in a real relationship.”

My hands shake and now both of my lips quiver. Tears run down my cheeks. My words choke up in my throat. “Yes,” I finally manage to get out. “Yes, Frank, I’ll be your girlfriend…And yes, I’ll be your couples partner…in fights and in life, I’ll be there beside you…Yes,,,Yes…YES!!!.”

Our faces draw to each other like two high powered magnets. Our lips seal together. He removes his hands from my shoulders and wraps them around my back, over the bikini top strap. He pulls me into him as I hug his neck, my lips holding on to his. We begin a slow dance, as in my dream. I haven’t felt this way since the night Tom proposed. I’m older now. This will be different. A new start. A new man.

There’s a knock on the door. “Kiva, are you alright?” Kelli asks.

“Yeah, Kelli, I’m good. I’ll be out in a minute,” I answer before our lips rejoin.

Knock, knock, knock. “Frank,” Gloria asserts, “I must leave now. We need to talk before I go.”

“Oh, what the fuck does she want?” I groan. “She promised she’d leave us alone…the crazy bitch.”

“Coming, Gloria,” Frank replies. “I’ll be right there.”

“That loser can wait,” I grumble while Frank and I resume our embrace and I suck his face.

He caresses my back, his hands running up and down over my bikini top strap. I work my way under his shirt, kneading his back muscles, lightly gliding my nails over his skin like a cat claiming its territory. I pull the shirt up to his neck, while his hands briefly leave my body to remove it over his head. I nearly gasp at the sight of Frank shirtless. His amber eyes are mesmerizing as they gaze into my blues. With our eyes still connected, his fingers release the strap clasp on my back and I feel my breasts drop with an exhilarating sense of freedom. He unties the strings behind my neck and our hands join together as we both participate in the unveiling. The cups peel away and fall to the floor as my boobs, still moist with sweat, celebrate in the free air. My bare breasts stand before him like puppies meeting their new master for the first time. Palpitations form inside my chest as I stand before him in just my bikini bottom. Frank places his hands gently on my shoulders and tilts his head forward to where are foreheads touch. “Kiva, you are so beautiful,” he whispers.

Stealthily, he wraps his arms around my waist, and rotates me in front of him. From behind me, he places his hands on my belly and holds me. Together, we sway back and forth. He caresses my belly, my hips. His lips find my ear, my neck, my shoulder. My hand reaches back and runs through his hair. Yes, this is what I imagined. It’s all so right. Straight ahead, I see us in the mirror. The image is…perfect. My new lover and I. He sees it too. Are faces are cheek to cheek. His hands glide up my belly and delicately cup my breasts. I see it in the reflection. I feel the blush, the tingle. “Frank,” I coo in his ear, “I want this moment to last forever.”

“I can make that happen, gorgeous,” he replies. One hand leaves my breasts, then returns second later with a cellphone held in front of us for a selfie. Click. “There, now it’s ours forever.” I giggle like a schoolgirl. “Let’s take another. Click. The still image of me topless with my man heightens my excitement.

He holds the phone out as we look at it together. “Send it to me, love,” I plead. “It’s so beautiful.”

The phone pings. Our lovely pic becomes partially covered by a message window.

From Charlee: ‘Hi Sexy. Been thinking about last night.’

Charlee? That’s the name of a respiratory therapist in my ICU. A cold chill sweeps over my entire body. I feel like I just crashed back down to earth with a thud. Is this another dream? No, it’s not. I’m here with Frank in the flesh. And I’ve just been slapped with a hard reminder that I’m about to be the latest in a long line of his conquests…And he has pictures to prove it. He resumes kissing the back of my neck. I brush him away.

“Frank, stop,” I tell him. “Those pictures…let’s delete them.” He looks confused. “I know I allowed it, but it’s a mistake. It’s just that…I’ve never done that before. I’ve never let a guy take nude or topless pictures of me. Not even my husband…Please let me have your phone so I can delete them. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’d just feel better if I did it.”

He looks at me with half amusement and gives me an understanding nod. “Uh…Ok…Sure,” he says, handing me his phone.

“Thanks for understanding,” I respond as I delete the first image, then the second. The screen returns to Frank’s photo roll as it was before our pictures were added, revealing a nude blonde. Holy shit! That’s Payton, one of the emergency department nurses. I swipe it away, uncovering the next pic - a naked Tori from the pharmacy with those familiar big tits she proudly displayed in the cage at Billy’s. Swipe. Next is Tori’s sister Amber, the cxnt who attacked me at Cynthia’s house, naked with her legs splayed open. Swipe. Another nude woman. I’m done. I hand Frank his phone.

“What’s the matter?” He asks.

“Did you really need to ask that, Frank? What woman around here haven’t you fucked?”

“Look, Kiva,” he begins, his voice smooth and low. “I’m not going to lie. I’ve had plenty of girlfriends. I didn’t take these pictures. The women sent them to me…We all have our past. We all have baggage. I dated girls. You’re married with a child. That’s what a relationship is about. We grow. We make concessions. We change.” ….Did he say “change”?

“And all the women I’ve been with,” Frank continues. “Well, it was all really about you. It always was, even before I met you. You see, I was always looking for you. I just didn’t know it at the time. You could say that I had a Kiva shaped hole in my heart and I tried to fit other women into it. But none of them fit. No one can. Only you. Every other woman was just a charade of you. You’re the only one that can complete me. You’re what I’ve been looking for my entire life.”

Every woman - a charade of me. I’ve never come close to hearing words like that before. I can’t find the words to speak.

Frank continues. “I can’t change the past. Every woman I’ve been with, every dead end relationship, every one night stand, I think of it now as a garbage heap. But trash can decompose into fertile soil. Now that you’re here, I can build on the mistakes of the past. Out of that soil can grow a beautiful tree. That’s us, beautiful.”

I can’t even think of what to say. His voice is exquisite poetry. My knees feel weak. My eyes tear up. I feel like I’m going to melt.

“So what do you say, angel? Are we a couple? Will you try it? You’ll see that I’ll be everything I promise for you. Are we together? Is it you and me?”

“Yes, Frank,” my voice strains out as tears return running down my cheeks. I again hug his neck, pressing my bare tits into his chest as he kisses my forehead and my wet eyes. For a minute, we stand there embraced until we’re disturbed by a forceful wrap on the door.

“Frank, I need to see you…NOW,” Gloria bellows.

“Be right there,” he answers.

“Fuck, Frank,” I complain. “Tell her to get lost.”

“Kiva?” I hear Kelli call. “Kiva, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, Kelli,” I assure her. “We’re just…talking. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Now, where were we?” I ask my newly minted boyfriend. We lock lips again but after the start-stop-start cycle, it will take time to build up the momentum. Gloria is acting nuts again, and I don’t want to keep Kelli waiting, but I know we can do this. During my marriage, my husband and I went through long periods of time seeing other briefly in passing only, due to our busy schedules. Out of necessity, we perfected the practice of the quickie. Quickies are usually satisfying only to the men, but I learned to make it into an art form.

I unbuckle Frank’s belt and slide his trousers down his legs as he steps out of his shoes. I strip away the little black Speedos barely covering his bulge…and there it is! Slightly larger than average but magnificent. The desire of so many women…and it’s all mine now. And it’s ready.

Taking both of my lover’s hands, I lead him to the bed. As I fall on my back, he bends forward, covering me. His tongue finds my nipples. He dances with them, nibbles them, wets them. I look up at the ceiling mirror, I find the new view exciting. I feel his fully erect member on my thigh.

“Frank, I mean it!” Gloria again. “We have to finish our business…RIGHT NOW!”

Business? What the fuck is she talking about? This chick is so freaking delusional. I’ve had enough.

“Gloria, go away,” I shout. “You lost. Leave us alone.”

“Kiva, this has nothing to do with you,” she yells back.

She wishes. She wants Frank and I got him. If she wants to even talk to him, she will wait until the alpha female allows it. The alpha female…that’s…me. It hits me. I defeated a woman, and took a man. The reality of it gives me an intense body blush and a tingling everywhere. My blood engorges to where it’s  needed and the aroma of my own musk tells me my pussy gets the message. It’s time.

I direct Frank’s hand to my bikini bottom, and lift my hips as he dutifully strips it past my knees and I use my feet to remove it entirely. So this is it. I’m naked. He’s naked. It’s not exactly how I imagined it but it’s a start. Our start. Our consummation.

My desire swells. I dig my nails into Franks shoulders and wrap my legs around his waist. The anticipation is overwhelming. He positions himself. My mind and body yearns. My womanhood is an enlarging tent. Give it to me my love. I want you so much. I’m yours. Your mine. Take me, Frank. Come into me. Fuck me. Let’s do it now, baby. Let’s fuck. Yes, let’s fu…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“This is your last warning Frank, let me be clear. This is Diane.”

Fuck! Gloria is now calling herself Diane. She’s crazier than I thought. Perhaps she has multiple personality disorder.

“I’ve warned you three times,” says the loud stern voice of Gloria or Diane or whoever. “You only paid the deposit. I need the rest now. I usually demand payment up front but I trusted you. I’ve done everything you asked. I played Gloria like you wanted. I jobbed to your girl. I have another session in an hour and you’re making me late. Get out here now and pay up!

“Wha..What?,” I gasp. “Did she say ‘session’?…Session?…Gloria is a session wrestler?…OH FUCK, FRANK!…YOU SET ME UP WITH A SESSION WRESTLER?…And you hired her to JOB TO ME?…YOU SON OF A BITCH…GET OFF OF ME!”

I’m still on my back in bed trapped beneath this bastard. I squirm to escape as he tries to hold me down. “Wait Kiva,” he starts with his fake as fuck voice. “Let’s talk about this.”

We struggle in bed until I knee him in the balls. We both roll on to the floor, then stand facing each other. All of a sudden, I feel naked and embarrassed, as I glare with burning hatred at this equally naked dickhead.

“Then who?,” I resume. “Then who sent me those crazy emails if there’s no Gloria? Oh FUCK! It was YOU! YOU WERE GLORIA! You sent those yourself. YOU’RE A FUCKING POSER!”

“No Kiva,” Frank tries to explain. “I did it for you. To make you a better fighter…And I did NOT tell her to job. You beat her on your own…Really. Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

“I will not listen to any more of your lies and I will NEVER be part of your PUSSY PARADE!…I’m outta here!

He reaches out to place his hand on my shoulder and invites me to talk using that condescending paternalistic voice. “No, Frank, I’m done talking,” I snarl as I clench my fists and send my right hook into his jaw. I watch him as he stumbles backward into the wall. I become more cognizant of the sounds of chaos from the other side of the door. I hear Kelli screaming my name. I hear an eardrum breaking sound of something like a hammer striking metal. The doorknob falls to the floor. The wooden door violently swings open, the force breaking the stopper on the wall. I have no time to react. I’m knocked to the floor by a charging Goliath.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Skull Splitter says. “I got some business here.” My last image of the room is a naked Frank, lifted off his feet and pressed to the wall by a Viking barbarian. “You heard the lady, Mack..You’re gonna pay her NOW!”

I feel a hand pull my nude body up off the floor. “Come on Kiva,” Kelli urges. “Get out of here, now.” We run out to the living room, where I hastily slip into my sweatpants. Panicked, I run out the door without my top or shoes. Covering my boobs with my arms, I follow Kelli’s lead out the courtyard, into the parking lot and into her Jeep, hoping I don’t get recognized.

I sit topless and in my bare feet in the passenger front seat of Kelli’s vehicle, too numb to speak. So I stare. Finally, Kelli breaks the silence. “You’re not ok, are you?”
 she says softly.

“Uh…No.” Just then, my iPhone pings a text message. From Frank: ‘I want you back, baby doll. Let’s talk.’ I shake my head. The fucking piece of shit.

The phone pings again. From Tom. Oh great. Can this day possibly get any worse? I read his message. ‘I want you back, my love.’ How lovely. Who’s he kidding? I am so fucking done with men. Another ping. Tom again. “Oh please,” I groan. “What the fuck now.” My eyes turn to the phone screen.

‘I want to fight for you.’

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: AndrewScott on March 24, 2022, 04:21:53 AM

Simply amazing! The visuals you create are extraordinary!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Jaquan on March 24, 2022, 09:32:03 PM

I’m beginning to think that Kiva hates men.  :'(

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on March 24, 2022, 10:55:22 PM

Quote from: Jaquan on March 24, 2022, 09:32:03 PM

I’m beginning to think that Kiva hates men.  :'(

That's a rather weird take on the story. Josh (Cynthia's husband) is an extremely sympathetic character. So, of course, is Kelli's (Jake). Skull Splitter (Diane's minder) seems a decent enough sort of chap. Frank's a sexaholic but I wouldn't say he was evil; he hasn't asked Kiva to do anything for him that he hasn't already done for her. That leaves Tom, who's no different, I expect, from most of us; he's attracted to winners. Kiva could have won the fight with Cynthia, but she didn't and the image that's stuck in his mind is of an equally (I don't believe more) attractive woman totally owning his wife. But that was the risk Kiva took by taking him along to watch. Sure, he should have thought 'wife, daughter, family …', but he did, didn't he? It was Kiva that dumped him for what amounts, at the end of the day, to nothing more than a thought crime. And it looks now (if I've understood the last part here) as though he may be prepared to make amends: to fight for her; to let her watch him, if the worst comes to the worst, getting his butt whipped.
I don't see Kiva at all as a man hater. There are just as many flawed women in KFJ as flawed men, and just as many sympathetic men as sympathetic women. And a few characters (of both sexes) that are frankly ludicrous. But being something of a ludicrous character myself …

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on March 25, 2022, 02:52:05 PM

Hi Jaquan and h_k. Thanks for reading. It’s understandable that readers would notice that men have caused me a lot of grief in this series. (As have women). Often, my characters (even the ludicrous ones) are created to fit a certain theme I wish to explore. Because relationships and sexuality are frequent themes of mine, male characters can represent particular aspects of the theme. A few examples:

Tom - an otherwise good husband who takes his fetish too far and publicly exploits his wife’s low moment without her knowledge or permission. Can such a marriage survive?

Frank - a seductive, promiscuous man who goes to elaborate dishonest means to bag the prize he wants. Even women who are smart enough to know better can fall for it during a time of vulnerability in their lives.

The General - authoritarian with conservative “traditional” values. He values women catfighting for his pleasure but can’t accept society’s changing gender roles.

Carl - story Kiva’s introverted coworker. She’s thoroughly disgusted to learn she’s the object of his fantasies. Later, she accepts that fantasies are part of everyone’s life and allows him to indulge in his, provided they always remain private.

Josh and Cynthia - a couple who remain tight despite major disappointment and they cope with the present by reliving the past. Although Josh seems at peace with his failures, Cynthia is very defensive and will attack his critics. It seems to work well for them. And why should anyone criticize them?

I’ll stop here. Although I want my stories to be sexy, I think I’m more of a storyteller who uses fantasy female fights as a literary device than I am a fetishist. My profile has more in depth on how I view this genre. Again, I’d like to thank all of you for reading and appreciate all of your comments and feedback.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: BarbaraUK on March 25, 2022, 03:21:57 PM

Quote from: Kiva on March 25, 2022, 02:52:05 PM

I’ll stop here. Although I want my stories to be sexy, I think I’m more of a storyteller who uses fantasy female fights as a literary device than I am a fetishist. My profile has more in depth on how I view this genre. Again, I’d like to thank all of you for reading and appreciate all of your comments and feedback.

Personally I'm looking forward to the Frank/Tom fight, I bet they slap and pull hair like the little bitches they are.  ::)

Kiva's portrayals of men as perpetually 13 are pretty accurate, I'd say.

Also you left out the delightful Mac from chapter 10, a human trapdoor spider minus the charm.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on March 25, 2022, 03:37:43 PM

Quote from: BarbaraUK on March 25, 2022, 03:21:57 PM

Quote from: Kiva on March 25, 2022, 02:52:05 PM

I’ll stop here. Although I want my stories to be sexy, I think I’m more of a storyteller who uses fantasy female fights as a literary device than I am a fetishist. My profile has more in depth on how I view this genre. Again, I’d like to thank all of you for reading and appreciate all of your comments and feedback.

Personally I'm looking forward to the Frank/Tom fight, I bet they slap and pull hair like the little bitches they are.  ::)

Kiva's portrayals of men as perpetually 13 are pretty accurate, I'd say.

Also you left out the delightful Mac from chapter 10, a human trapdoor spider minus the charm.

OMG!!! How did I forget Mac?…and Billy?  Thanks Barbara.  Forget about all that literary crap from my last post. You’ve convinced me…I CAN’T STAND MEN!!,  :D ;D  ;D

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Altered Ego on March 25, 2022, 04:04:04 PM

Great work on the last chapter. Supremely entertaining and well written.

Speaking of your characters. Honestly, as a man, I find Cynthia to be damn near as perfect a woman as I could imagine- scrappy, unafraid to fight, intensely loyal- and beautiful to boot (plus I like a little bit of crazy to keep things spicy  ;) ).

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on March 25, 2022, 09:28:00 PM

What's hilarious here is the contrast between the first part and the second; between dream and reality; between the fight Kiva's dreading and the one that actually transpires; between the Frank her girlish heart dreams of and the frail paragon of human weakness that exists in real life.
The fight in the nightmare sequence is stomach-churning, internecine, gory to the max, and against a woman who's barely human to begin with and a zombie by the end. The fight that actually takes place is bloodless, anodyne, by the book; it's hardly a fight at all, in fact, if her opponent really does let her win (though I'd rather believe she just got cocky and Kiva beat her fair and square in the end), and her opponent is perfectly sane.
The first fight is atavistic, there's no holding back, the rules (the law even) are soon forgotten, it's a fight to the death for the love of the man with whom Kiva plans to share her life, whose children she intends to bear, whom she hopes will prove a caring and loving stepfather for the child of her first marriage, and she's confronted by a woman (a fiend!) equally in love with the same man and maddened by jealousy. The second fight is simply an audition; Frank might have been looking for a bridge partner; it so happens his hobby isn't bridge but couples wrestling, and though she herself is blissfully unaware of it, all Kiva's actually fighting for is to be Frank's new wrestling partner. A role that's of no interest anyway to her opponent who wants her money and nothing more.
The contrast between the two love scenes is the funniest part. What in the dream is a bed chamber is simply a bedroom in real life. In the dream, a dozen lit red candles surround the bed, the white satin sheets are strewn with rose petals, and the air is heavy with the scent of lavender. In real life, the sheets are dirty, some other woman's panties are under the bed and there are used condoms in the wagga. In the dream, time stands still and the ceiling melts away to reveal endless galaxies of scintillating spirals and ellipses extending into eternity. In real life, time is hammering on the door, the room is small and squalid, and the ceiling's a mirror – nothing more claustrophobic than that – as if to seal the squalor in.
In the dream, the two lovers are alone, Kiva's vanquished rival lies motionless and forgotten on the floor; nothing intrudes on the intimacy of the two lovers as they swear eternal devotion to one another and seal their oaths in blood. In real life, for all the privacy they get, they might just as well be making love in a phone booth; as well as the two love birds, there's Diana, the session wrestler (demanding the rest of her fee), Skull Splitter, her minder (who's there to make sure he coughs up), Kelli (a joy to be around on most occasions but here a bucket of cold water with hair and teeth), another woman messaging him on his phone even as Kiva's trying to get him into bed, and (as she discovers) the lion's share of her female colleagues buck naked in the Photos folder of his iPhone, not physically present admittedly but very definitely present in spirit.
Amid all the chaos, Kiva's attempts to make the reality accord with the dream become increasingly desperate and risible.
The whole chapter's brilliantly structured and reminds me of the way in the theatres of Ancient Greece, after the tragedy – Oedipus Rex, or whatever – that made up the first part of the programme, there would be an interval followed by what was in effect a parody, a comic version of the play that had been performed earlier. This is perhaps where Karl Marx got the idea that history repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.
And that is what we've got here. The love scene in the dream sequence with its beautiful language and imagery and its quasi-religious solemnity – the scene Kiva is hoping for – is a sacrament of which the scene that actually plays out is a sacrilegious parody. What Kiva wants is romantic fiction. What Kiva gets is Whitehall farce.
This manages somehow to send up the private wrestling scene, romantic fiction and life in general – all at the same time. It is to modern romantic fiction what Don Quixote was to the chivalric romance genre of the middle ages. Where Don Quixote sees a giant, Sancho Panza sees a windmill. Where Kiva sees a hero, Kelly sees a scuzz.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on March 26, 2022, 09:08:03 AM

@Tiberius J.C.: You’re making me cry. That was easily the most thoughtful, most in-depth, most comprehensive response to anything I’ve ever written (including the time I once won a short story competition). Yes, you nailed it. The contrast between dreams and reality is a major theme in this story. As I get older, I’ve come to learn that a stable loving relationship is really coming to terms with what we desired and expected in our partner and who are partner really is. I’m deeply honored and humbled that you took the time and effort to explore the motifs in this story and share your thoughts.
With much appreciation,
Kiva

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Brandiprowstls on March 26, 2022, 10:41:23 AM

Dreams vs reality, huh?  Heck!  And here’s me thinking this was just a really great story. Mind you, I also think Moby Dick is a bit of a boring book about a guy and a whale, so what do I know?

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on March 26, 2022, 11:29:38 AM

Quote from: Brandiprowstls on March 26, 2022, 10:41:23 AM

Dreams vs reality, huh?  Heck!  And here’s me thinking this was just a really great story. Mind you, I also think Moby Dick is a bit of a boring book about a guy and a whale, so what do I know?

Thanks Brandi. That’s all I really want - for readers to enjoy a good story. I’m always thrilled when some people see themes and devices in my stories but I never want to be pretentious about it. I write stories for the community here, not English literature professors (unless, of course, the professors have a catfight fetish. I bet there’s some out there  ;D).

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Brandiprowstls on March 26, 2022, 12:55:57 PM

Quote from: Kiva on March 26, 2022, 11:29:38 AM

Quote from: Brandiprowstls on March 26, 2022, 10:41:23 AM

Dreams vs reality, huh?  Heck!  And here’s me thinking this was just a really great story. Mind you, I also think Moby Dick is a bit of a boring book about a guy and a whale, so what do I know?

Thanks Brandi. That’s all I really want - for readers to enjoy a good story. I’m always thrilled when some people see themes and devices in my stories but I never want to be pretentious about it. I write stories for the community here, not English literature professors (unless, of course, the professors have a catfight fetish. I bet there’s some out there  ;D).

Oh I bet there are quite a few out there!  Mmm…now if I’d been taught English Literature by one of those guys, maybe I would have got on with it more  ;D

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Frank on March 26, 2022, 07:21:19 PM

Excellent !! Very well written stories !

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on March 27, 2022, 12:35:21 PM

Quote from: Altered Ego on March 25, 2022, 04:04:04 PM

Great work on the last chapter. Supremely entertaining and well written.

Speaking of your characters. Honestly, as a man, I find Cynthia to be damn near as perfect a woman as I could imagine- scrappy, unafraid to fight, intensely loyal- and beautiful to boot (plus I like a little bit of crazy to keep things spicy  ;) ).

I agree. Cynthia's a fox. I'd have been really torn watching her fight Kiva. Perhaps not so much during the fight. Then I was definitely rooting for Kiva. It was the “I don’t want to choke you out sweetie. You’re coming with me … to learn better manners.” and the wickedly funny stuff that followed that had my allegiance wavering.
You know she's fought twice since then, don't you? With all the different threads, it's a bit hard to keep track
There's this one in the 'Catpin Chronicles' thread, in which she fights another of Kiva's colleagues from the hospital (it actually predates the Cynthia-Kiva fight but the story appeared more recently):
Chapter 2: Cynthia vs. Deanna by Joe Hallahan
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=99518.0
and then down and dirty with Kelli in Fyre's Fight Journal, Chapter 38: That's the Spirit
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=78153.210
Jaymie, Kelli, Kiva, Cynthia, Luanna, Deanna, Vanhi, Miss Candace, the Doshis … Is there something in the air down there in Texas, do you suppose, that turns demure young ladies into crazies?

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on March 29, 2022, 05:18:46 PM

I was very entertained by this chapter. I thought the using of the dream was a perfect set up piece for two things- 1. It sets the tone for the "perception vs reality" themes that I found throughout the whole story. 2. The erotica part (I loved the metaphorical "royal envoy" very hot) is akin to some mental foreplay, getting the readers all hot and bothered... while also showing Kiva's mindset and infatuation.
The whole first half is really good by itself but really shines as it sets up the real story (you have a talent for doing that).

I also liked how the story version of me kind of serves as the voice of reason and provides the outside observer perspective. Most of us had that friend that was doing something stupid and we could see it coming but couldn't do anything other than be in a position to help them after the inevitable crash. At least that's my take but I might be biased, lol.

Another thing I liked was how the "not real" fight was actually the real fight (as far as action goes... it was brutal and visceral) and the fight that actually happened (it served its purpose to advance the actual story brilliantly) wasn't really that much of a fight. You found a way to give everyone everything. :)

And finally, the fight and subsequent scenes with Frank did a great job of showing how reality will drag you kicking and screaming out of fantasy land eventually despite our best efforts to keep living in what we want the world to be. A great story showing the pitfalls of ignoring reality and deluding yourself to keep the fantasy running in your mind.

Such a great chapter.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on March 30, 2022, 07:12:56 PM

Quote from: papillon on March 27, 2022, 12:35:21 PM

Jaymie, Kelli, Kiva, Cynthia, Luanna, Deanna, Vanhi, Miss Candace, the Doshis … Is there something in the air down there in Texas, do you suppose, that turns demure young ladies into crazies?

Jolene!!! How did I forget Jolene? And her sister? Have we all got Alzheimer's on this board? When are we going to see Jolene whipped and stripped, Kelli? I'm dying to find out whether she's a real redhead (or, as James Bond would say: "whether the collar and cuffs match").

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on April 05, 2022, 12:06:35 PM

Quote from: Kiva on March 24, 2022, 01:32:29 AM

The phone pings again. From Tom. Oh great. Can this day possibly get any worse? I read his message. ‘I want you back, my love.’ How lovely. Who’s he kidding? I am so fucking done with men. Another ping. Tom again. “Oh please,” I groan. “What the fuck now.” My eyes turn to the phone screen.

‘I want to fight for you.’

So Tom wants you back now? I wonder what's brought about this change? Has he seen the video, do you suppose, of Kelli knocking Little Miss Perfect off her perch? (Fyre's Fight Journal, Chapter 38: That's the Spirit)
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=78153.210
Or has he heard about Frank?

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on May 09, 2022, 09:34:24 AM

If you and Tom are separated now (where's he living - a motel?) who's taking Clarissa to cheerleading practice? You? Did you happen to run into Cynthia? Was she able to look you in the eye? Does she know you and Kelli are besties - and that she tells you everything?  ;D

Title: Re: Kiva's Fight Journal
Post by: Silent Watcher on June 18, 2022, 04:30:59 PM

I prefeer not to engage at the forum and just read the stories; but after finishing the Journal I will make an exception.
To put it simple: your journal is one of the best stories I have read here in FCF and outside.

The effort you put both in the characterization of the characters and in the fights is oustanding, and in this last chapter you even allow yourself to experiment with some paragraphs of Erotica. In a tastefully way and with beautiful metaphors that expressed all the dreams, hopes and desires of Kiva in a way that reminded me of Ana Rossetti's erotic poetry.

Altough your descriptions are drunk with words and images, the icing of the cake are the characters. Altough Kiva takes the lion's share I think almost, if not all of them, are wonderfull characters. I wish we could see more of Luanne, I think she's very representative of the way you writte characters that in the surface are in a way but deep down are much more complex and nuanced. I'd love to see more of her interacting with Kiva, not perhaps as friends but with more respect and even a rematch if it is possible. I think both of them can learn of the other and it would be great to see.

Seeing Kiva after all she has endured after the Cynthia defeat has been tough. I really wish we get a chance in the future to see our favorite nurse in a better place and healed. Perhaps finally coming to terms with the distance between reality and dreams, between strength and weeknes: if I had to do an interpretation, Kiva before Cynthia felt powerful like never before in her life, but after that the dreams came crashing down. Your exploration of defeat has been masterfully, perhaps know we'll see how she rebounds from that. I don't know, but I trust your writting to guide us trough new and exciting paths.

You said you wanted to know the oppinion of a teacher of English literature. Altough not one but just a future teacher of literature I can say that your Journal is good as it gets and helps compensate the sad lack of catfights in the Literary Canon. Your prose is exquisite and shows an even better reader (all good writters are good readers).

You could've been just a great writter of catfights, just a great writter of characters or just a great writter of Erotica: you decided to be just Kiva, just a nurse, and be all of that at the same time wich is no easy task.

Excuse me about the rambling, I wish you the best and I hope you continue this Journal when you can.Macedonio's quote of how "With open eyes not all is vigil" becames somehawt sensical in "Kiva's Fight Journal"

P.S.: I don't know but there is only one way I can picture the General speaking: https://youtu.be/VeImiF0jUVs

Title: Re: Kiva's Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on June 19, 2022, 02:32:56 AM

Quote from: Silent Watcher on June 18, 2022, 04:30:59 PM

I prefeer not to engage at the forum and just read the stories; but after finishing the Journal I will make an exception.
To put it simple: your journal is one of the best stories I have read here in FCF and outside.

The effort you put both in the characterization of the characters and in the fights is oustanding, and in this last chapter you even allow yourself to experiment with some paragraphs of Erotica. In a tastefully way and with beautiful metaphors that expressed all the dreams, hopes and desires of Kiva in a way that reminded me of Ana Rossetti's erotic poetry.

Altough your descriptions are drunk with words and images, the icing of the cake are the characters. Altough Kiva takes the lion's share I think almost, if not all of them, are wonderfull characters. I wish we could see more of Luanne, I think she's very representative of the way you writte characters that in the surface are in a way but deep down are much more complex and nuanced. I'd love to see more of her interacting with Kiva, not perhaps as friends but with more respect and even a rematch if it is possible. I think both of them can learn of the other and it would be great to see.

Seeing Kiva after all she has endured after the Cynthia defeat has been tough. I really wish we get a chance in the future to see our favorite nurse in a better place and healed. Perhaps finally coming to terms with the distance between reality and dreams, between strength and weeknes: if I had to do an interpretation, Kiva before Cynthia felt powerful like never before in her life, but after that the dreams came crashing down. Your exploration of defeat has been masterfully, perhaps know we'll see how she rebounds from that. I don't know, but I trust your writting to guide us trough new and exciting paths.

You said you wanted to know the oppinion of a teacher of English literature. Altough not one but just a future teacher of literature I can say that your Journal is good as it gets and helps compensate the sad lack of catfights in the Literary Canon. Your prose is exquisite and shows an even better reader (all good writters are good readers).

You could've been just a great writter of catfights, just a great writter of characters or just a great writter of Erotica: you decided to be just Kiva, just a nurse, and be all of that at the same time wich is no easy task.

Excuse me about the rambling, I wish you the best and I hope you continue this Journal when you can.Macedonio's quote of how "With open eyes not all is vigil" becames somehawt sensical in "Kiva's Fight Journal"

P.S.: I don't know but there is only one way I can picture the General speaking: https://youtu.be/VeImiF0jUVs

I am very honored and humbled that you broke your silence to share your thoughts on KFJ. It means a lot to me to know readers enjoy these stories, so thank you so much for taking the time to post. You are very insightful in how I like to use  this series to experiment in writing techniques. You’ll make a wonderful literature teacher. Thank you so much. I sent you a pm.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Leeann54 on June 23, 2022, 02:10:00 PM

Thank you Kiva for taking your time to write your wonderful stories for the freecatfight members to enjoy 

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: katietay on June 25, 2022, 12:20:55 PM

It's just plain good writing. :)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: coachzzz on June 25, 2022, 02:49:31 PM

Kelli and Kiva:

I have just “binge read” both of your Fight Journals over the last 6 days.   While I was aware of how well received your work was, a lack of time and my significant interest in other writers on this site led me to procrastinate on reading your works.   I started last weekend and finished yesterday.   

I am exhausted.   Not so much physically (although I did lose some sleep one night on one of your cliffhangers), but more emotionally.   The twists and turns your characters have gone through over the span of these stories are remarkable.    Your descriptions are so vivid, I feel the emotional roller coaster of the triumphant highs and the despairing lows.   The fights are brutal and mostly the competitive, back and forth fights I enjoy.  The supporting characters are excellent.   

There are fight stories on this site, and then there are stories with fights in them, where the fight is part of the device to tell the story.   Your stories are clearly in the second group, and they are superb.  Your individual styles are different and your emphasis is different, but you are both talented and a delight to read. 

I have been a reader of this site for well over a decade.   I remember the past of this site when writers like Jonica, Gemma Rox, Laurie Breeze, the Scribbler, Jenn, Braveheart, and many others. all produced epic works.  I would recommend that those readers who love long-form storytelling should search back into the depths of this site to find much of their great stories.    Your Fight Journals are right up there with the best of their epics. 

I hope you both continue these stories, but I understand life moves on and time becomes short.   I just want to say thank you for the last few days of pure storytelling joy.  I know I will read these stories over and over again in the future.    It was a privilege to read them all.   

Thank you again.

P.S. Kiva:   You are an imaginative and innovative storyteller.   Whether it is using dream sequences, internal monologues, or surprise endings, you have a knack for storytelling that is rare.   You allude to Jungian concepts (the Shadow in chapter 2 and the collective unconscious in chapter 3), which I think has a lot to do with why we all are so attached to this area of interest.   For you the fights are clearly just a very effective device to show the human conflicts we all deal with, and you do it so well.  You balance the themes of the stories with the description of the fights with great care.   As a full-time nurse (and one who is clearly quite good at her vocation), you bring us into the hospital setting, the technicalities of the job and its emotional toll, yet is does not feel overdone.   Lastly, your compassion leaps out from the pages.   

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on June 25, 2022, 07:44:51 PM

Quote from: coachzzz on June 25, 2022, 02:49:31 PM

Kelli and Kiva:

I have just “binge read” both of your Fight Journals over the last 6 days.   While I was aware of how well received your work was, a lack of time and my significant interest in other writers on this site led me to procrastinate on reading your works.   I started last weekend and finished yesterday.   

I am exhausted.   Not so much physically (although I did lose some sleep one night on one of your cliffhangers), but more emotionally.   The twists and turns your characters have gone through over the span of these stories are remarkable.    Your descriptions are so vivid, I feel the emotional roller coaster of the triumphant highs and the despairing lows.   The fights are brutal and mostly the competitive, back and forth fights I enjoy.  The supporting characters are excellent.   

There are fight stories on this site, and then there are stories with fights in them, where the fight is part of the device to tell the story.   Your stories are clearly in the second group, and they are superb.  Your individual styles are different and your emphasis is different, but you are both talented and a delight to read. 

I have been a reader of this site for well over a decade.   I remember the past of this site when writers like Jonica, Gemma Rox, Laurie Breeze, the Scribbler, Jenn, Braveheart, and many others. all produced epic works.  I would recommend that those readers who love long-form storytelling should search back into the depths of this site to find much of their great stories.    Your Fight Journals are right up there with the best of their epics. 

I hope you both continue these stories, but I understand life moves on and time becomes short.   I just want to say thank you for the last few days of pure storytelling joy.  I know I will read these stories over and over again in the future.    It was a privilege to read them all.   

Thank you again.

P.S. Kiva:   You are an imaginative and innovative storyteller.   Whether it is using dream sequences, internal monologues, or surprise endings, you have a knack for storytelling that is rare.   You allude to Jungian concepts (the Shadow in chapter 2 and the collective unconscious in chapter 3), which I think has a lot to do with why we all are so attached to this area of interest.   For you the fights are clearly just a very effective device to show the human conflicts we all deal with, and you do it so well.  You balance the themes of the stories with the description of the fights with great care.   As a full-time nurse (and one who is clearly quite good at her vocation), you bring us into the hospital setting, the technicalities of the job and its emotional toll, yet is does not feel overdone.   Lastly, your compassion leaps out from the pages.

Wow! I can’t think of a better complement to a writer than to hear a reader spent a week binge reading their work! We often don’t receive a lot of feedback, so please know that I’m deeply moved by your thoughtful and insightful comments. It’s my pleasure to share these stories and it means a lot to me to know that others are enjoying them. Thank you!

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on September 03, 2022, 04:45:54 AM

Chapter 13: Little Miss Perfect

No, I can't risk falling off my throne
Love is something I don't even know
Straight hair, straight A's
Straight forward, straight girl
Little Miss Perfect, that's me
-Taylor Louderman


“I could never please my parents. Anything I did was never enough.” The woman sighs, her green eyes looking down at the restaurant table. With her light makeup and long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, there was a simplistic beauty to her that I hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was her willingness to expose her vulnerability to me that made her seem so genuine. Choosing her words with great care, she continued.

“We weren’t allowed to have the usual toys kids play with. Being the only girl, I think I had it worse than my brothers. When I was eight years old, I begged my mom for an Easy Bake Oven until she finally brought one home. Do you remember those?”

“Yup, I had one,” I reply as we both slightly giggle as if we both recaptured some long-hidden childhood affection, if only for a brief few seconds. “The heat source was a light bulb,” I recall.

“Yeah, that’s right,” she responds. We both laugh a little harder. Then, her face again takes on a more solemn expression. “Well, I made my mother a cupcake with my Easy Bake. Remember those packets of powder? You put it in a cup, add water, then stick it in the oven.”

“Been there, done that,” I answer.

“Well, I made my mom a cupcake. She took one bite, spit it out in the kitchen sink, and said, ‘Goddammit! I can’t eat this! This is AWFUL!’ I ran to my room and cried the rest of the night.”

“Well, Luanne,” I suggest. “Those Easy Bake Oven cakes really did taste like chalk.” She smiles for a few seconds when I realize my attempt at humor might not have been the most appropriate response. “I’m sorry, Luanne. That must have been horrible,” I offer, changing gears.

I couldn’t deny Luanne’s request to meet for lunch. Since our fight in the dance studio, I have thought about her often. It was clear to me that her perfectionism and obsession with winning at everything was a cover for some deep-seated issues. Her bizarre meltdown after the fight removed any doubt. Yet, after that encounter, she was cordial. She was good about not letting our conflict interfere with our daughters' friendship. She’s had Clarissa in her home several times, as I’ve hosted Madison in mine. Luanne babysat for us and drove Clarissa to dance class on days I worked. Then, there was the incident at the nightclub when she came out of nowhere and saved me from…God knows what. I don’t like to think about it. But Luanne took a risk and put herself out there …for me.

I assumed the nightclub fiasco would be the topic of conversation. I was willing to discuss it with her. After all, I didn’t think I thanked her enough, and after what she did, I felt I owed her an explanation. So far, she hasn’t mentioned it. Luanne seems to have come to this meeting with a different agenda. She came to tell me about…herself.

“I wasn’t allowed to watch TV,” she continued. “Not even Sesame Street. My parents said it would impede my intellectual development. And Disney films? Forget it. Poison for the mind, they said. When other kids were playing outside, I was in the house practicing the piano or the cello. Or reading books. I read “Oliver Twist” at age nine. The following year, I was studying Shakespeare. Eventually, other kids stopped inviting me to play dates.”

“Excellence was paramount when I was growing up. In school, a grade of B was tantamount to failure. I learned I had to be the best at everything I did. Second place was not an option. My parents never praised me. They rarely ever hugged me or said that they loved me. It was always compete, compete, compete. They said that was the only way to success in this world.”

“I skipped a grade. That made things worse. I was already socially underdeveloped; now, my classmates were older than me. At age thirteen, I wore glasses and braces. The other girls in my class were turning into women. I was ugly. I hated how I looked. Then, finally, puberty hit. I became tall, my body filled out, curves appeared, and of course, these showed up,” she explained, pointing to her boobs. The braces came off. I wore contact lenses. Later, I got LASIK surgery. But now, boys noticed me. They talked to me. They flirted. Everything changed. I now had a new world to compete in. I was determined to be the most beautiful girl in every class. No, the whole school. That continued through high school.

“My parents wouldn’t let me date. By my senior year, I was allowed out if my suitor passed their requirements. He must be an accomplished young man from a prominent family. I didn’t mind at the time. After all, I was out to be better than everyone else, and that included having a guy that other girls could only dream about. That was me, Little Miss Perfect. I didn’t see it at the time, but it’s no wonder I had very few girlfriends.”

“I was the high school valedictorian at graduation. I was awarded a scholarship to a well known university. During my sophomore year of college, I entered the Miss Texas pageant and finished third. I was crushed. I convinced myself the winner cheated. It was silly, but I couldn’t accept someone finishing ahead of me. I formally filed a complaint with the pageant directors. It was dismissed, and I only succeeded in making a fool of myself. But I was sure I was right.”

“I majored in political science. I was doing just fine, earning all As. Then one night, everything changed. A guy named Chris, that I worked with at the school newspaper, invited me to an off-campus party at a house he was sharing with a group of other guys. His father was a CEO of a chain of banks and president of the university's board of trustees. My parents would’ve loved him. He was nice and well respected, so I went. There were a lot of people there. I remember mingling, and then suddenly, I felt lightheaded and unsteady. I was drinking a plastic cup of punch Chris had given me. I wondered how much alcohol was in it because I hadn’t drunk much. I felt very sleepy and couldn’t stand. I told Chris. He took me to his bedroom and had me lie on his bed. I blacked out. The next thing I remember, I was on my back, nude. Chris was on top of me. I tried to scream but couldn’t. I kept saying ‘no’ over and over but could barely get the words out. Then, Chris went into me as I kept saying no. I felt like I was underwater. I blacked out again.”

“I woke up alone in the bed the next morning. Chris came into the room and said we both had a great time, but now I must leave. I was shocked. I ran back to my dorm room and cried. I knew I had been drugged. I called my doctor, who advised me to go to a hospital ER. There, I gave them a urine sample which tested positive for Rohypnol, a date rape drug. The police asked me if I wished to press sexual assault charges. I was so confused; I said ‘no.’ I would report it to the university.”

“The university started the investigation process if you could call it that. I was interviewed by a committee and had to answer humiliating questions. I hated Chris. I hated myself. I quit the school newspaper. I didn’t want to be anywhere near Chris.”

“One day, when I was alone in my dorm room, I heard a forceful knock on the door. I opened it.
‘Bitch! Whore!’ a curly-haired brunette named Angela screamed at me. ‘You’re a fucking liar making shit up about my boyfriend, Chris.”

“‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘You mean Chris the rapist?’”

“‘Fuck you, bitch. If you say that again, I’ll fuck you up.,’ she shot back.”

“I told her to leave, but it was no use. She called me a slut, a skank, and a whore. I said Chris was a sorry excuse for a human being and a worthless piece of shit. That’s when she slapped me, and the fight was on.”

“I snapped. A sudden rage overwhelmed me. I didn’t know how to fight then, but it didn’t matter. I ripped into this woman like a force of nature, doing anything I could to hurt her. I punched, slapped, kicked, scratched, and pulled hair. She did the same to me, but I was stronger and got the best of her. We rolled across the floor, thrashing at each other with everything we had. Finally, I got on top of her, pinned her down, and finished her off. I punched her in the face, her belly. She begged me to stop, but I didn’t at first. By the time I was done, her face was swollen, her lip was split, and she ended up with a black eye. I remember her running across the campus, wailing loudly.”

“The following day, I was notified to appear before another investigative committee. I was accused of assault and battery. I explained everything. I told the truth that Angela was the instigator and attacked me first.”

“A week later, I was summoned by the administration. Conclusions were reached in both cases. Charges against Chris were dropped due to ‘insufficient evidence.’ I, on the other hand, committed an unlawful act of violence and was expelled.”

Luanne’s last sentence hit me like a sack of bricks. “Oh…Luanne…I’m so sorry…I had no idea….That’s terrible,” I awkwardly struggle with my words.

“Yeah,…well, when you’re up against the son of the president of the board of trustees, you’ve already lost.” After a pause, she continued. “Just like that. My life was gone like a puff of smoke. Perfect me. Finished. I had nothing. My parents practically disowned me. I moved into an apartment. I waited tables. I worked as an office receptionist. Sometimes I held down two jobs.”

“Did you apply to another school?” I ask.

“I assumed I would eventually, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was in pain. I was angry. Very angry. My life was ruined. I thought about my fight with Angela. I thought about it a thousand times. I remembered how I defeated her, how I dominated her, how I punched her. Do you know something? I have no regrets or remorse for that. For that moment, she was at my mercy. I owned her. I was superior to her. For that time, I was actually in control of something. And you know what? I wanted to experience that again. I wanted to fight. I wanted to hurt another woman trying to hurt me.”

“So I learned how to fight. I was bitter and had a chip on my shoulders. I’d challenge any woman who looked at me the wrong way. I got in a few scraps that were broken up quickly. This was before the catpin website. I had a few arranged fights with women I contacted on the internet. I won them all. I realized when I was fighting, I felt good about myself again. I was good at it. Once again, I wanted to be the best at something. I was determined to be the best catfighter in Texas, and I wanted all the other women to know it.”

Luanne sighs. “Then I met Richard. I was a cocktail waitress, and he was sitting at a table with his law firm colleagues. We flirted. I gave him my phone number. Our relationship took off. We married two years later. Financially, I was in good shape. He was in a top law firm. We had a good income, a big house.”

“Did he know about your past?” I asked.

“Yes, I told him everything. The rape, the fight, me getting expelled. He accepted it. What surprised me the most was his fascination with my fighting. He asked me questions about it over and over again, wanting all the details. He begged me to arrange a fight and let him watch. It took a while, but we traveled all the way to Loredo for me to fight this Mexican girl named Gabriela in front of our husbands. I won. Richard got so turned on…I got no sleep that night, let me tell you.”

“After we got married, I had a few more fights. Opponents weren’t easy to find. Then, I already had kids—first the boys, then Madison. I retired from catfighting undefeated to devote myself to being a full-time wife and mom. My parents warmed up a little bit, enough to see their grandkids, but I was still a failure in their eyes. I was a failure to myself. No college degree, no career. I had nothing to show for my life. Catfighting was the only thing where I excelled, and now that was gone. So, I found where I could now be the best, where I could excel and be perfect. That was…my family.”

“Yes, my family. That was my new vocation, to be the perfect wife, the perfect mom, and raise perfect kids. My husband was increasingly recognized as one of the city’s best attorneys. My children all had the talent to be the best at whatever they did. I would guide them. I would mold them. I would drive them hard to study and get them to the top of their class. I put them in music lessons and personally watched them practice. The boys played sports. And you know what? They succeeded—they're still succeeding. My kids get straight As. They’ve all won numerous awards. My family’s perfection was my perfection.”

“Except,…I still wasn’t satisfied. I was very proud of my family and everything I’ve done for them. But what about me? I wasn’t completely fulfilled. The bitterness of my wasted talent swelled up again. I still had this drive to be the best at something. My desire to fight was reawakened. I found the catpin website. It had been years since my last fight, and I was now in my thirties. Richard and I talked about it. I joined the site, fought a few women, and earned my catpin. I discovered that I still had it. I loved that rush of victory, of breaking another woman’s will, of her admitting my superiority. I ran my catpin record to an undefeated 7-0. Miss Perfect was back. Once again, life was wonderful. And then…and then…then…I met you at the dance school.”

“Again, everything changed. I was a failure. I failed myself, my family, my parents, All the anger and bitterness from my college years came back.”

“Luanne,” I interjected. “Maybe that’s your problem. Fighting and winning all the time isn’t going to cover up the past. And if perfection is your only acceptable outcome, you’re guaranteed to be disappointed. The best we can do is to strive to be better tomorrow than we are today.

“That’s what my therapist tells me,” she says. “Therapist?” She smirks. “I never thought that would be a word applied to me.”


“You know,” Luanne continued, “when I first saw you in the waiting room, I was so unimpressed. And when you showed me your catpin, I wanted to laugh in your face. I thought you had no chance against me. I underestimated you. But, there’s something about you I don’t understand…Is it OK if I as you something?”

“Um…OK.”

“You said you went to Yale, and you were in Phi Beta Kappa.”

“That’s right.”

“So…why did you…why are you…”

“I know what you’re asking,” I interrupted. “Why am I just a nurse?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like that…But I thought people go to Ivy League schools to become senators, judges, Wall Street wizards, and Fortune 500 CEOs. Didn’t you at least want to be a doctor?”

“Yale actually has a large nursing school,” I replied. “I briefly considered applying to medical school. It’s just that it would have been a massive life commitment and there were other things I wanted to do with my life. As I’ve said before, nursing gives me purpose and meaning. I love it.”

“But why Yale? Wouldn’t it have been a lot cheaper to go to a nursing school somewhere else?”

I smile. I know Luanne’s question is out of ignorance rather than an intention to insult, so I answer. “To me, college is much more than preparing for a career. At Yale, I studied literature, theatre, and world history. I loved it all. I still enjoy those things. Yale was definitely worth it. You see, Luanne, I was never about trying to impress anyone.”

“Yes, that’s what I picked up about you. You’re obviously very smart and have talent, but you just do your thing and don’t care what anybody thinks. And you’re doing what makes you happy. I guess I felt…jealous…that maybe you found contentment that I never did. Then I saw you with your daughter, and I could see the bond the two of you had. Then I started to realize something horrible. My daughter Maddie reminded me of myself as a girl that age. And I…was just like my mother. I married a man just like my dad. I was horrified. Was I just as distant from my daughter as my parents were to me? Did Maddie feel as unloved as I did? That’s when I went into therapy…For the sake of my kids.”

Luanne again turns her eyes to the table and resumes her monologue, “But then, I saw you at the nightclub, and I thought maybe she’s not OK. Maybe she’s just as fucked up as I am.”

I feel comfortable explaining the whole mess to Luanne. After all, she poured her heart out to me. I tell her about my loss to Cynthia and all the fallout that followed. She gives me an empathetic ear. We conclude that we are both women who made mistakes trying to cover our wounds, and we’re trying to figure things out, although my hurts are nothing compared to Luanne’s. We pay our checks and hug. I’m glad to have Luanne as a new friend and hope I can help her in her struggles to find inner peace and stability. And maybe she can help me too. She and I plan to work out at the gym tomorrow.

It’s Saturday morning. I drop Clarissa at Luanne’s house, where Richard offers to watch the kids while Luanne and I head off to the gym in my car. Luanne looks great in her pink tank top with black gym shorts, while I’m in my matching blue seamless sports bra with booty biker shorts. Entering the gym, we make our way to the weight machines.

I begin with the butterfly press, working my pectoral muscles while Luanne watches. I’m not sure why she’s looking at me instead of finding her own starting point. I finish as Luanne takes my place and goes to work. I head to the bench press. As I finish, Luanne is standing next to me.

“Kiva,” she says, “you did 20 reps on the butterfly, and I did 25. And I used 50 lb, 10 lb more than you.” I’m not sure why she told me that, but I nod. Luanne takes over the bench press and adjusts the pin to add weight. “How many reps did you do?” She asks.

“Another twenty.”

I watch her vigorously pump the handles. “23, 24….25..there…5 more than you.”

The rest of our weight routine follows the same pattern. I go first and Luanne ups the weight and reps, then proceeds to tell me she outperformed me. It’s getting annoying.

We take our places on two treadmills next to each other. As I listen to music with my air buds, I notice Luanne constantly comparing our readouts. When I speed up, she speeds up. She checks our speed, distances, and caloric output. I stop after forty-five minutes while she continues for a full hour. She cools off, then informs me she beat my time, distance, and average rpm.

“Luanne,” I respond, “What’s the point? Are we having a competition?”

“I’m sorry,” she offers. “I just can’t help myself. Old habits die hard, you know.”

“Let’s get a drink,” I suggest.

We sip energy drinks while sitting on bar stools at the snack bar. We talk about our kids, our neighborhoods, and hairstyles when I hear familiar but unwelcome voices behind me.

“Look, it’s Kiva.”

“Yep, that’s her. She’s the one that got her ass kicked by Cynthia. Then I taught her a lesson myself.”

I turn around to see Tori, the unwise pharmacist who double-crossed me at Billy’s Sports Bar Fight Club, and her smaller sister, Amber, a bratty college cheerleader who ambushed me the night I fought Cynthia. I have a bad history with both of these weasels, and right now, I have no time or patience for them. Now, here they are, dressed in red and black tank tops and gym shorts.

“What’s up, Kiva,” Tori says. “We hear you’re doing the boinky boinky with Frank these days.”

“Yeah,” Amber adds. “What took you so long? Frank is old news to us. He’s so cheugy. He used to be hot, but now he’s stuck chaser older skanks.”

“I’m going to give you idiots the chance to finally make a good decision for once in your lives and leave now,” I warn.

“Or maybe I should say Frank likes weak old skanks,” Amber adds. “You should have seen her at Cynthia’s. Before the fight, she’s in her bare titties, kissing her husband with her nips sticking out, strutting around like she’s some kind of sex queen. After the fight, she’s bawling in the bathroom. I tried to get her into a wrestling match, but she’s too chicken, so I showed her what I can do.”

“That’s not true, jackass,” I shot back.

“I had her pinned and begging for mercy.”

“You’re a liar, you little twat.”

“Hey!” Tori barks. “No one talks to my little sister like that. If you mess with Amber, you mess with me!”

“I’m shaking in my shoes,” I sarcastically shoot back.

Tori pauses for a few seconds. “I think Amber and Kiva need to settle this now.”

“Finally,” Amber responds, “No more excuses from this loser.”

“And what about your friend?” Tori inquires. “Does she fight?”

“This is Luanne,” I inform.

“I asked if she fights,” Tori repeats.

Luanne fishes through her gym bag and flashes her catpin. “Does this answer your question?” she deadpans.

“Perfect!” Tori exclaims. “Amber against Kiva. Me against Loony.”

“Tori,” I say in a solemn voice. “I tried once before to spare you from a painful humiliation. You didn’t listen. I have no expectations that you’re any smarter this time, but I’ll try anyway. I strongly advise you not to fight Luanne.”

“Nice try, Kiva,” she replies. “Your friend has no idea what she’s in for. Billy has been teaching me everything he knows.”

“I don’t doubt that. I’m sure you’ve learned a lot of new floor positions,” I slyly answer.

“So,” Tori confirms. “Amber versus Loser. Tori versus Loony. What rules shall we have? Amber wants catty wrestling.”

“None,” I snap decisively. “No holds barred. Anything goes. Wrestling is an athletic contest. I want a fight. The objective of a fight is to hurt someone. I want to fuck up Amber’s face so badly that her friends won’t recognize her. She won’t be able to eat for weeks. Her meals will be liquid pumped into her stomach through a plastic tube. You are ok with that, aren’t you.”

“Damn, Kiva,” Tori says, looking slightly startled. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“The two of you have called me weak, a loser, and chicken. So I should be an easy opponent for Amber, don’t you think?”

The sisters look at each other. “Fine, no holds barred.”

“Both fights go on at the same time,” I add. “There will be no interference in each other’s fight. Where can we fight?” I ask. “The combat room won’t be available.”

There’s a Best Western two miles from here that charges an hourly rate,” Tori informs.

“Why am I not surprised you know that?” I respond. “Losers pick up the tab.”

After all parties agree to my proposal, we leave the gym to head to our motel arena. “You have nothing to worry about,” I tell Luanne. “Tori is not in your class.”

The four of us arrive and head to our room. We move as much furniture as possible to maximize our space on the sitting area’s typical nylon carpet, creating a large enough empty central area, and leaving the most oversized objects like a sofa pushed against the walls. We set up our cell phone video recorders in various parts of the room. As the four of us stretch, I’m reminded my gym clothes are already sweaty.

“I say we fight in panties only,” I suggest. The other combatants agree. “Losers' panties go to the winners,” I add. “After the first fight is decided, the naked loser must give the winner a pony ride in a walk of shame to the bedroom where she will wait. The winner may watch the rest of the second fight but may not interfere.”

We each strip, removing our shoes, socks, tops, and shorts. I prefer microfiber or some combination of nylon and spandex panties when I work out, as cotton gets soaked with sweat rather quickly. But even my workout panties are uncomfortably moist. Fortunately, I have a pair of blue dress cotton panties in my gym back, so I switch. Luanne does the same, wearing a black lace bikini brief. I glance across the room and see Tori and Amber naked except for, unsurprisingly, red workout thongs.

We stretch for a few minutes until the four of us, clad only in our panties, prepare to meet in the center of the room. Like Cynthia, Amber, the cheerleader, performs a series of splits, handsprings, and back walkovers. As Luanne and I approach our foes, our bare breasts jiggling, Tori and Amber greet us with mockingly awestruck expressions as they look up and down our nearly naked bodies. I can’t deny that they are the picture of youth and vigor. They know it and begin posing for us in an attempt at intimidation. I’m giving up about 12 years to Amber, and Luanne is around 15 years older than Tori. Their contemptuous body language and looks of disdain are precisely what I expected from these two young self-absorbed bitches.

I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Luanne as we fix our eyes on our Generation Z opponents standing in front of us. We all place our hands on our hips as we size up one another.

There's not much resemblance between Tori and Amber, and I wonder if the two sisters have different fathers. They have different facial features, hair, and body types. Amber seems smaller than I remember from that night at Cynthia’s house. She looks to be about 5’3” and around 110 lbs. Her pixie face is framed by shoulder-length dark brown hair. Her body is petite but tight. Her boobs are small but not unusual for the size of her frame. The legs are muscular. As a varsity cheerleader, she’s obviously athletic. I have a 4-inch and 15-20 lb advantage. She eyes me head to toe and giggles in disrespect, giving me haughty looks as if I’m not worthy of her efforts.

Tori, at age 24, with her girlish face, topped by pulled back light brown hair, and her glowing skin, radiates the strength and vitality of a natural athlete. Physically, she matches up to Luanne at 5’8”, one inch shorter than her opponent but an equal 140 lb. They both have generous D-cup breasts, with Tori’s being rounder and looking a little more firm, like fresh grapefruits in summer. Her facial expressions and mannerisms display the carefree and reckless foolishness of her immaturity. She preens and cups her breasts at Luanne as if to establish she has the better body.

I look to my right at Luanne as she stares down Tori. Gone is the arrogant, obnoxious dance mom I once fought. In contrast to Tori’s clowning, her posture, stance, and fierce look in her eyes say she is all business. There is an unmistakable power, dignity, and femininity in her countenance. Perhaps I hadn’t realized the first time I met her the magnificence of her body. She raises her arms to tighten her ponytail, then placed them back on her hips without taking her steely gaze off her opponent. The look of determination is striking. When I look at her eyes, I see the Celtic Queen Boudica avenging her flogging and the rape of her daughters, ready to dismantle the Roman legions in the countryside of southern Britannia. Luanne was the Amazon Penthesilea, preparing her female warriors to sack Troy. She was Joan of Arc just before leading the French army into Orléans.

But yet, I see more. There is so much to Luanne one could only see by peeking beneath the surface as one peels back the layers of an onion. I feel like I am looking at an exquisite masterpiece of art full of subtle conflicting themes and emotions skillfully placed by a virtuoso artist. Luanne’s face and body are a mass of contradictions. Her eyes share ferocity with sorrow, pools of sadness of unfulfilled potential and lost opportunities. She rolls back her shoulders and deeply inhales, projecting her breasts outward. Her nipples aim at Tori like a pair of turrets in the act of war. As she deflates her lungs, these same breasts, which nurtured three children, slightly dip downward in self-doubt and parental misgivings. The lacy black panties, a symbol of female sexual power, cover her womanhood like a funeral curtain, lamenting a part of her that was taken and forever lost. The powerful legs are lithe killers, as I’ve experienced firsthand. With her eyes still fixed on Tori, she massages her calves with her perfectly pedicured feet as if to relieve the cramping and tightness from years of running from her past. I notice her subtly shifting her weight from one foot to the other as someone unsure of the very foundation on which she has built her life.

I feel a twinge of nervousness for Luanne. She’s changed so much. She’s been through so much. Is she still the same fighter? Has life beaten the fight out of her? What if she loses? To Tori, no less. Tori is younger and likely stronger. Maybe she is right, and Billy has turned her into a dangerous fighter. What will another defeat do to Luanne’s fragile psyche? Right now, I can’t think about it. I have my own fight with Amber.

The matched-up pairs walk to opposite ends of the room and face each other. Tori gives the signal, “One…Two…Three…Fight!”

Amber and I square off with our hands up. I know she fancies herself a wrestler and her stance shows it. She crouches low, eyeing my legs as targets. I’m a better striker than a wrestler. I plan to look for an opening and not give her the chance to tie me up.

My younger, smaller opponent shoots for my right leg, but I sprawl out of the way. We resume our neutral positions, and I expect her to try again, and I plan to counter. She shoots in again faster than I can blink. She seizes my right ankle, but I pull away, stumbling backward. Before I fully realize what is happening, she lifts my leg up, holds it, and drives me back further. I just learned this girl is very quick.

The little twat drives me back further, and I fall into the sofa in a seated position, slumped, with my bare back and head upright. Amber jumps up and straddles my lap as her arms reach for my head. I’m at a disadvantage in a very awkward position up against the upholstery as I try to push her back. She lunges closer to where our upper bodies are pressed together with my face against her petite Generation Z-aged tits.

I can barely react when I feel her arm wrap around the back of my head, forcing my neck to flex downward. Then I realize what she is doing. Amber nearly has me in a front guillotine choke. She’s trying to work her arm under my chin. She digs and wedges, but I clench my chin against the sternum and resist. I know if she completes the hold, my only options are to submit or pass out. I try not to panic. I knew she liked wrestling, but I didn’t realize she was this good. For a second, I consider how humiliating it would be to be put to sleep by this tiny shit who had already humiliated me at Cynthia’s. I’d likely never fight again.

We continue struggling for control of my vital neck structures. As I’m trapped in a seated position, my legs are not of much use. Amber raises herself higher, trying to gain additional leverage. I see my only way out of this precarious position. I wrap my arms around her trunk and push forward as hard as possible. We both tumble off the sofa and onto the floor, holding on to each other. I’m on top, but she still has control of my neck as I hold on to her waist.

Despite my efforts to keep my foe under control, Amber makes a series of maneuvers, and the next thing I know, our positions are reversed. I’m now flat on my belly with Amber situated on my back. I feel my left arm being pulled behind my back, pain shooting up my arm and shoulder as I now realize I’m caught in a chicken wing. I tell myself I’m still bigger and stronger than this wrestling twit; I try to power out of it. Again, Amber wraps an arm around my chin. I’m unsure if she’s trying for another choke or a crossface chicken wing submission. Either way, I know I’m in trouble. I tuck my chin down and try to resist. The pain in my arm is becoming unbearable.

The cheerleader persists. She scissors one of my legs and rolls, taking me along with her. From her back, she holds me face up on top of her; my arm is bent high up my back; I fail to prevent her other arm from wrapping across my chin and gripping her other arm as she locks in the crossface chicken wing. Intense pain now sears up my arm. I try to kick, but she has one of my legs trapped.

“Ready to give up and give me your panties? Cynthia has one of yours, and I want my own,” she taunts. “Give up!”

I try not to panic. I’m disappointed and angry with myself that I let this bratty turd do this to me. I’m already thinking I don’t belong fighting. She’s humiliating me in a one-sided fight. I haven’t even thrown a punch, my best weapon. I need to get better at wrestling. If I survive this fight, I tell myself, I’ll train in submission wrestling.

“Come on…”She adds. “Give up and give me a ponygirl ride….This is easy. Admit I’m the better wrestler.”

Wrestler? If this were a wrestling match, I’d be losing. But it’s not a wrestling match; it’s a no holds barred fight. With my free right arm, I bend my elbow and drive it down into her ribs. Amber squeals and releases the hold, allowing me to roll off of her.

I get to my feet and collect myself as Amber is on her knees, holding her side.

“FUCK!” She screams. “You fucking BITCH!”

She slowly stands, still rubbing her knees. Her teeth are clenched. Her face reveals her rage. “You dirty BITCH.” The furious college student tightens her fists. She has clearly lost her composure as she storms toward me. “FUCK!”

Abandoning her wrestling stance, Amber appears intent on dishing out violence. She cocks back her right fist and attacks. Using my boxing training, I easily deflect her wild right and counter with my right fist in an uppercut to her wide-open chin. It wasn’t my best punch, but it was effective, sending the insufferable punk stumbling several feet backward until she hits the wall, which prevents her from falling. For a few seconds, she looks stunned, then stabilizes her wobbly legs.

Amber’s face changes from confusion to hatred as she puts up her hands and prepares to attack. She rushes at me and seems to be returning to her strategy of aiming for my legs. This time, her movements are clumsy, and I knee her in the forehead. She lurches back into an upright stance. My young opponent seems dazed and is unprotected. I take advantage of the situation and fire a hard right hook, just like Freddie, my boxing trainer, taught me, punching from the shoulder and putting my weight behind it. My fist strikes Amber’s jaw, making a wet socking sound.

The dislikable woman tilts to her right, then falls like a bent tree onto her side. For a few seconds, she is motionless; then, the legs twitch involuntarily. Her head lifts upward from the floor. The eyes are widened but clueless, like a newly hatched baby bird poking its head out of the egg and seeing the world for the first time. The neck stretches as the vacant eyes scan the room before the head drops back to the floor again. Amber will not fight again today.

I take some deep breaths, stretch, and massage my sore arm and shoulder. For the first time since the start of the fight, I turn my attention to Luanne and Tori, who are in a standing position locked in mutual hair pulling with neither having a clear advantage. I walk over to Amber, place my foot on her chest and give the cameras my best “I’m a badass” pose.

Whether I like it or not, nursing is my affliction. It’s not my job; it’s my blood. And I know a concussion is no joke. Amber is awake but still foggy. She can state her name and place but doesn’t seem to know me or why she came here. I instruct her to lie still. Hopefully, she’ll clear up in a few minutes.

I quickly wash my face, grab a bottle of water and watch Luanne and Tori. Luanne has Tori trapped in a body scissors, but the solid young pharmacist powers her way out of it. I’m surprised this has been a close battle and has lasted so long. I expected Luanne to win easily. Has Tori really improved? Has Luanne declined? Or is it a combination of both? The topless women, separated by at least 15 years of age, roll around the floor, struggling and grunting in an entanglement of arms, legs, hands, feet, and tits. The tussle results in Tori pinning Luanne on her back, spreading her legs apart in a double grapevine. Luanne looks tired, and I fear this could be the beginning of the end. Tori had seen Amber knocked out on the floor and now seems to have turned her aggression to a new level. “Come on, Luanne,” I encourage. “You know how to escape this, girl. Fight her off. Be strong, girl, Be…what the FUCK!

Someone or something attacked me from behind, pulling my hair. “AMBER, what the FUCK.”

“We’re finishing our fight,” my knockout victim explained.

“Our fight is OVER!” I scream. “You LOST!”

“The fight is not over until one of us gives up!” She argues. “I never gave up.”

“Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME? Let go of me NOW!”

“Are you submitting?” the stupid shit asks.

I ignore the pain in my scalp as Amber pulls and twists my hair. I maneuver in close to her body and bury my right fist, already sore and swollen from the knockout punch, into her belly. She lets go of my hair, doubles over, and drops to her knees.

“Now, is the fight over?” I demand an answer.

“No,” she answers defiantly.

I’ve had more than enough. I tackle her to the floor and mount her in a schoolgirl pin. I hold my fist up to her face and warn, “Either give up now, or I promise this fist will go through your nose and out the back of your head!”

“Don’t,” Amber sobbed. “I quit.”

I stay on her for a minute with my fist pressed on her nose to drive home the message. “Panties, please,” I order. I dismount to let her strip, keeping my fist cocked, so there is no further chicanery. She peels off her thong under my watchful eye, then flings it onto a lampshade, still trying to be as difficult as possible.

“Now get on all fours, ponygirl,” I demand.

As Amber lifts herself onto her hands and knees, I see Tori nude and flat on her back, with Luanne standing on her, holding her panties overhead in a victory pose.

“What happened?” I ask.

“She made a huge mistake,” Luanne explained. “She shot in on me, and I spun around behind her. She lifted up her head, and I choked her from behind.”

“I see the old Tori finally showed up,” I chuckle before my inner nurse reappears. “Is she…”

“She’s fine,” Luanne assured me. “She tapped, and I gave her a chance to confirm it. She was never completely out.”

I saddle up on Amber’s bare back and watch Luanne do the same to Tori. Luanne smacks her horse on the ass and orders her forward. I instruct Amber to follow her sister. Wild West music plays in my head as Luanne and I hit the Oregon Trail to the bathroom.

We dismount and face our conquests. The two sisters pout like petulant children who were just told they couldn’t have ice cream before dinner. I see the side of Amber’s face is swollen, and I offer to bring her ice.

“Fuck you,” is her response.

“Fine,” I reply. “Well, I guess our business here is over. The two of you will not leave this room until Luanne and I have left the motel. And don’t forget to stop at the desk to pay for the room.”

“Shut the fuck up and get out!” Amber squawks.

Amber and I leave the bedroom, closing the door behind us. We take our gym bags and change into our shorts and extra T-shirts we carry with us. I notice four nail marks on Luanne’s right breast. “She had her moments,” she dismisses, “no big deal.”

“I would have destroyed you if this was wrestling,” Amber shouts from behind the bedroom door.

“Keep telling yourself that, Amber,” I call back. I retrieve her thong as my prize as Luanne and I collect our gym bags and cell phones. Amber still isn’t finished.

“Kiva, Kiva, biggest loser in town
Cynthia beat you up and threw you down
She made you cry, and you felt her spit
She left you lying in the ring like a piece of shit.”

“Good one, Amber. Feel better now?” I ask.

“Kiva, Kiva
You really suck
You can’t fight
And you probably can’t fuck.”

Luanne giggles. “Who knows? Maybe with some practice, she’ll be a successful songwriter someday,” she suggests.

I gather up Tori’s and Amber’s gym clothes and shoes, holding them in my arms with my gym bag strapped around my shoulder, and head out the door. “What are you doing?” Luanne asks.

“Housekeeping,” I answer.

The motel door shuts behind us as we walk into the parking lot. I stop at the trash dumpster. “Luanne, will you assist me, please?”She obliges, lifting up the large metal lid. I throw Tori and Amber’s clothes into the odorous abyss as Luanne lets the lid drop with a resounding clang.

I start the car as we head back to Luanne’s house. “It was an honor fighting beside you,” I tell her.

“We both did pretty well,” she says. “Tori was tough, but I knew all along I’d get her. I had a plan, and she fell into it. It was a matter of time. I just had to wait. My plan worked…perfectly…What about you? I was worried about you. When I looked over, that little pip-squeak had you tied up like a pretzel. I think I was the best fighter in the room today.”

“Luanne,” I suggest, “maybe it’d be more useful to say we’re both glad we won today, but we can both improve for next time.”

“Yeah…” She tilts her head as if in thought. “We can get better.”

That’s my girl, I’m thinking. I notice Luanne in the passenger side tapping her cell phone.

“Richard, hey honey, Kiva and I are done working out. I’m on my way home. And I have a surprise to show you….Um…could you put Madison on?”

“Hi, Maddie, what are you doing, sweetie? Studying geography?… I want you to know that Mommy loves you very much….And I thought for tonight, instead of flute practice, you and I could spend time together. Yes. We’ll make some popcorn. We’ll sit in front of the TV and watch “The Little Mermaid.” Sound good? Me too. I can’t wait…Mommy’s coming home.”

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: bigfan877 on September 03, 2022, 06:35:23 AM

Another great story Kiva,

 The sisters had that coming to them, glad you and Luanne were able to teach them a lesson. The first half of the story was very interesting as well, peeking into Luanne's mind and a bit into yours. Thank you for another wonderful read.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Frank on September 03, 2022, 03:14:01 PM

Wonderful story. As always, very well written, with an interesting plot. I liked the first part when Luane and Kiva talked about themselves (mostly Luane) and Kiva's thoughts were shown. The wrestling match was good, couldn't be otherwise.
NOTE : If I were Kive, I wouldn't trust Luane's friendling feelings for me. I think that the woman Luane sees (the word "feels" may be more appropriate) as an opponent, the one she wants to beat before to calm down and to and to relax for good is Kiva... All the rest are a not-so-well-hidden camouflage. She does not care to hide it. She wants to prove better than Kiva at any kind of contest.



 

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: coachzzz on September 04, 2022, 02:59:30 PM

Kiva, another excellent story.   Every person, every "character" we meet in life has a backstory, and it is critical in how they got to where they are.  While we may not agree with their current actions or attitude, knowing something of that backstory helps us to understand them better.   I think a decent chunk of the problems we have as individuals and the world has in general could be diminished if we could just put ourselves in the other person's shoes more often.    Some other thoughts:

Corruption is evil.  When the rich and powerful do something unethical or immoral, and then use their power and wealth to get away with it, evil perpetuates.  I fear Luanne's character was not Chris' last victim.

Kiva, you do need to learn some submission wrestling if you want to continue with the catpin.  Otherwise you will lose and lose often to more versatile and experienced fighters. 

I wonder if there will be some seeds of conflict between Tori and Amber.    While they are both brats, Tori at least is a bit more mature and observant of her surroundings--note the reaction to Kiva's monologue about bashing Amber's face in.  Furthermore, while Amber was chirping away from the bathroom after the fight and continued to taunt Kiva, Tori was quiet.  I don't think Kiva would have taken Tori and Amber's clothes away and dumped them in the dumpster if Amber had stayed quiet too.  Tori may not approve of how little sister's big mouth created even more embarrassment for them in trying to retrieve their clothes. 

Luanne made a great point about Kiva's character.   Kiva is totally centered and content in her place in the world.   She is a smart, caring individual, who is a great friend, a loving parent and a consummate professional as a nurse.   And she is happy with that role in her life, and does not really aspire for more.  Yes, her love life is a mess.  But no life is perfect.   

Finally, Frank (the prior poster)  has a point in that Luanne's competitive streak is still there.  But it is also clear that she is trying to tone it down, especially with her relationship with her daughter.   Kiva can and will be supportive of her new friend.   But a lifetime pattern of needing to be better than the next will take time to heal, and it may take continued encouragement and moral support by Kiva to keep Kiva off Luanne's list of "women she needs to be better than".

Thank you for another great story.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Tiberius J.C. on September 05, 2022, 01:27:18 PM

Well, I like Luanne even if no one else does and I think your portrait of her (especially in the moments immediately prior to the fight) is superb. I love her for the fire in her belly and that competitive streak. Gotta love Amber too, though. She takes a whipping and she keeps on ticking. Reminds me a bit of the Black Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmInkxbvlCs

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on September 07, 2022, 06:53:26 PM

It's the details:

Quote from: Kiva on September 03, 2022, 04:45:54 AM

There’s a Best Western two miles from here that charges an hourly rate,” Tori informs.
“Why am I not surprised you know that?” I respond. “Losers pick up the tab.”
…
I saddle up on Amber’s bare back and watch Luanne do the same to Tori. Luanne smacks her horse on the ass and orders her forward. I instruct Amber to follow her sister. Wild West music plays in my head as Luanne and I hit the Oregon Trail to the bathroom.

Best Western … Oregon Trail …  :D

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: FyreCracka on September 07, 2022, 09:01:56 PM

I really enjoyed the exploration of Luanne. I find her character more interesting every time she makes an appearance. I also love how you've been developing her in a very "natural" way that doesn't seemed forced or rushed. Every tidbit seems to be important to your (Kiva's) story while building Luanne's as a interesting side project. It's really neat- I probably would have cheated and gone the "Catpin Chronicles" route to develop her, lol. But I don't think it would work nearly as well. Plus, the way you did it also leaves her as still a bit of an unknown. She has done some true blue friendship stuff, but her competitive nature is always lurking just below the surface. Very good chapter and character development. A complete story that built up several possibilities for future interactions but it was still manages to feel complete if nothing else ever happens.

I also have to say that I really love to hate that little bratty cheerleader. Lol.

I can't wait for your next masterpiece :)

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on September 08, 2022, 04:33:08 AM

Quote from: h_k on September 07, 2022, 06:53:26 PM

It's the details:

Quote from: Kiva on September 03, 2022, 04:45:54 AM

There’s a Best Western two miles from here that charges an hourly rate,” Tori informs.
“Why am I not surprised you know that?” I respond. “Losers pick up the tab.”
…
I saddle up on Amber’s bare back and watch Luanne do the same to Tori. Luanne smacks her horse on the ass and orders her forward. I instruct Amber to follow her sister. Wild West music plays in my head as Luanne and I hit the Oregon Trail to the bathroom.

Best Western … Oregon Trail …  :D

To give you a deeper reading experience, here are some sound effects you can play when you reach that part of the story

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=dwtRIC_Un08

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on September 08, 2022, 04:46:37 AM

Thank you all for your thoughts and kind words. This was a fun story write. I’m glad everyone picked up that Luanne made a lot of progress but still has internal struggles. She’s realizes her perfectionism and hypercompetitiveness has a negative impact on herself and family. She’s trying hard but you wonder if she’ll relapse into the old Luanne at any time. Good point Tiberius. She needs to have a competitive streak if she’s going to fight. Can she find the right balance? Is she now a lesser  fighter as shown by her tough battle with Tori? Or did Tori just get better?

Anyway, I can now cross beating up Amber off my bucket list. :)
Thanks everyone for reading.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on September 08, 2022, 06:23:30 AM

When you've got a cheer, you gotta cheer:

Amber, you pathetic twat,
Kiva whipped you, suck on that!
And (while you were out of it)
Luanne made your sister quit.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on September 08, 2022, 08:59:59 AM

Quote from: Kiva on September 08, 2022, 04:33:08 AM

Quote from: h_k on September 07, 2022, 06:53:26 PM

It's the details:

Quote from: Kiva on September 03, 2022, 04:45:54 AM

There’s a Best Western two miles from here that charges an hourly rate,” Tori informs.
“Why am I not surprised you know that?” I respond. “Losers pick up the tab.”
…
I saddle up on Amber’s bare back and watch Luanne do the same to Tori. Luanne smacks her horse on the ass and orders her forward. I instruct Amber to follow her sister. Wild West music plays in my head as Luanne and I hit the Oregon Trail to the bathroom.

Best Western … Oregon Trail …  :D

To give you a deeper reading experience, here are some sound effects you can play when you reach that part of the story

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=dwtRIC_Un08

Great! Now every time I hear someone riding past on a horse, I'm going to see Amber and Tori on all fours, butt-naked, and you and Luanne, stripped to the waist, sitting on their bare backs, and hear Luanne spanking Tori to make her crawl faster …
And those sounds are meant to help us relax and go to sleep ???

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: papillon on September 09, 2022, 08:50:48 AM

Someday Luanne's going to have to give us a first-hand, blow-by-blow account of her fight with Gabriela in Laredo. Turns out, it wasn't the first such encounter the place had ever seen:
https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x28wd60

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: Kiva on November 04, 2022, 12:28:15 AM

Chapter 14: I Hope You Dance (Part 1 of 2)

My friends, they're all growing up
Think they realized that nothing's as good as it seems
While I try to live off of my dream
Sleeping off a headache from the night I had
Just to get away and pretend I'm free
From responsibilities
Oh, I'll stop making excuses
And start making it better
But I'm too immature for that

-Ashe


“STACY! STACY! That was a red light! You just ran through a fucking red light!”

“No worries, Aunt Kiva,” my nineteen-year-old niece giggles. “There were no cars around.”

“I don’t CARE,” I scream back at her. “NEVER go through a red light. I hope there wasn’t a cop around.”

“Relax,” she dismisses me. “No cop saw us, and I know what I’m doing.”

This wasn’t the best time for Stacy to come and stay with me for the week, but I hadn’t seen her since I moved to Texas. We had always been close, ever since I’d babysat her when she was an infant. I felt more like a big sister than an aunt. With my soon-to-be ex-husband away for the week at a cardiology conference, I could take over the house again and accommodate her.

I love Stacy to death, and I know she idolizes me. She took a year off to work before attending college. She’s been calling and texting me for months, saying she wants to follow in my footsteps and become a nurse. She asked me to write a letter of recommendation for her. To be honest, since her arrival here, I’ve been disappointed by her immaturity and irresponsibility. Two days ago, I brought her into the hospital for volunteer work. I had to pull strings to approve it, but all she does is goof off and flirt with boys. Frankly, she’s embarrassing me. Later that night, she went to a party with a group of nursing students and came home at 2:00 a.m. drunk, puking her brains out. Today, I agreed to let her drive the Lexus, and I get…this.

“Seriously, Stacy, if you can’t learn to make better decisions, I will have to…Oh, Shit!”

The unmistakable blue and red lights flash from behind us. So much for no cops around. “Dammit, Stacy, pull over.”

“Driver’s license and vehicle registration, please,” the large man in the blue uniform orders. He sternly lectures Stacy as she nervously smiles like an idiot. As the policeman heads to his patrol car to write the ticket, I exit the passenger car door.

“Excuse me, officer,” I say softly as I approach the lawman, dressed in my blue work scrubs, dangling a stethoscope around my neck. “I can explain. It’s not my niece’s fault. It’s mine. You see, I’m an ICU nurse, and I got called in for emergency coverage. We’re short-staffed. My colleagues have been working for fourteen straight hours. I need to relieve them before it becomes too dangerous for patient safety. So, I was in a hurry. I let my niece drive me because she needs the car for later. And, well, I told her to run the red light. I mean, no one was in the intersection, and they’re waiting for me at work. I know that’s no excuse, but yeah, it was my fault, officer. I put Stacy up to it.”

The burly patrolman looks at both sides of my hospital badge. “Kiva Raines CCRN, huh,”

“Yes sir, that’s me,” I reply as he compares my face with the ID photo.

“Well, look,” his gruff voice says, “I’ll give your niece a warning this time. We want to support our front-line healthcare workers. But please obey the law next time.”

“Yes, officer, I will.”

He hands Stacy the warning slip, and we watch his police car take off.

“What did you tell him?” Stacy asks.

“Shut up and move over,” I demand. “I’m driving.”

I’m not proud of the fact that I slung Grade-A bullshit at a law enforcement officer. The truth is, I am working today, but not in the hospital. I’m an organizer for this year’s community health fair. The uniform is only for show while I interact with the public. I’m not sure why I tried to get Stacy off the hook. I’m already regretting my acting performance.

The hospital grounds are bustling with activity as exhibits and screening stations are set up. I set up my cardiac risk calculation table and send Stacy on a mission to distribute brochures and flyers. As one of the organizers, I look over the proceedings. Stations are set up for blood pressure readings, cholesterol levels, vaccines, early cancer detection, smoking cessation, information on alcohol and substance dependency, depression, suicide prevention, and PTSD. There are fun things as well. Next to me is a 15-foot-high walk-through replica of a human heart, complete with upper and lower chambers. There are rides, games, face paintings, and door prizes. I decide to take a stroll, starting with the sponsors' area.

“Thank you for your support, Mrs. Stanton,” I say to the large woman who looks to be in her mid-fifties, standing at a display marked with a banner, “Stanton Landscaping and Tree Farm.”

“My pleasure, honey,” she smiles through her leathery, weather-beaten face. “And call me Agnes. You people do good work. And if you come to our farm, I’ll give you half price on crepe myrtles, southern magnolias, and cottonwoods. And I’ll throw in a live oak for free. We’re located off Route-.”

“I know where your farm is. I was there once” The truth is I once saw more of Agnes than she would ever care to know.

“You have? When?”

“Um…that was…a while ago. I’ll definitely come back. Thank you for your offer.”

“No problem, sweetie.”

I hear a man’s voice behind me. “Hey there, kiddo.”

“Josh!”

“Hey, great job getting all this set up.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you could sponsor us.”

“Anytime, kiddo. And Cynthia sends her regards.”

“I’m sure.”

“And just so you know, I can get you a special Josh Garrison VIP discount on a 2019 Ford Fusion at the dealership. All you have to do is show up wearing this jersey and … here, take it.”

“Um … I already have one. But thanks, I’ll give it some consideration.”

I scan the crowd and see Stacy talking to a male medical student. She still hasn’t placed the flyers. I give her one task, and she fails at it. As I approach her, I bump into a large bald-headed man.

“Billy? I didn’t expect to see you here. I think you want to go around to the back. They’re doing free testing for sexually transmitted infections.”

“Real funny,” he mutters. “I’m here with my girl Tori. She’s giving vaccine shots. And when are you coming back to the club? We can use another punching bag.”

“Is that all you got, Billy?” I retort. “I could outwit you with half my brain tied behind my back.” I move on rather than waste my time trading barbs with this clown.

I lose sight of Stacy. I notice a new sponsor has arrived. A group of Indian women is setting up a banner over their table which reads, “Doshi Real Estate.” I walk over to introduce myself. I’m greeted by a pleasant middle-aged Indian woman named Ishita, who presents to me her daughters, Damini and Uma, and granddaughter Advika, who appears to be in her late teens. I know about the Doshis from Kelli. I find it amusing that the Doshis and Agnes Stanton are both here as sponsors. All we need is Kelli, and we’d have a reunion of the tree farm brawl. Today, however, the catpin holders are here to support a common good cause.

I exchange pleasantries with the Doshis. Advika hands me their promotional packet, complete with Doshi pens, writing pads, keychains, and their listings of properties. She’s a beautiful young woman, distinguished from her family by her lighter-toned skin, pretty blue eyes, and blonde-streaked long black hair.

After meeting the Doshis, I resume my search for Stacy. My eyes skim through the growing crowd until I partially see her. The reddish-brown hair is bobbing as she is talking to someone. Another man. Not surprising. As the two conversationalists come into view, my heart nearly stops as I recognize the man. I try to deny it, but there he is. Frank.

Oh fuck, I say to myself as I break into a gallop. I seize my niece by the arm, jerking her away. “Stop,” she protests. “What are you doing?”

I turn angrily to Frank. “If you go anywhere near her again,” I growl, “so help me, I’ll have you castrated!”

“Aunt Kiva, what's wrong with you?” Stacy asks with indignation. “Let go of me.”

“You’re coming with me!” I tell her as I lead her by the arm like she’s an ornery toddler.

“Stop, why are you acting like this?” she complains.

A gruff male voice calls my name, “Kiva!”

“Well, hello, General,” I say to the distinguished-looking elderly man. “Very nice to see you here.”

“Well,” he explains. “The old general was nearly dead as a fence post until you people fixed me up. I’m here to do what I can to give back. You’re all fine warriors. And…who is this lovely lady?”

“General, this is my niece, Stacy.”

He gives Stacy a salute. “Well,” he says, “I see the womenfolk in your family are of high-quality stock, like prime Angus cattle. I hope you’ll do some more breeding soon cause we need more fine people like you….Uh, is your husband here?”

“No sir, he’s at a meeting.”

“Oh,..uh.” He scratches his craggy face as if in deep thought. “Kiva, may I have a word with you in private? Pardon us, young lady,” he says, turning to Stacy.

The old man holds my arm and tilts his head toward mine. His low, raspy voice begins. “Listen, sugar dumpling, I think you’re a mighty fine woman. But, you see, well, you have one weakness. Now I’ve seen ya out in public without your man watching over ya. Your eyes start rovin’; your female blood gets overheated. Well, the next thing ya know, yer chasin after anything that has the ability to piss on a wall. And I’d hate to see ya settin a bad example for that pretty niece of yours. So, I suppose it’s up to me to keep an eye on you today. If I see ya doin anything to a man that might lead to hanky panky, the General is gonna execute an intervention. I’m gonna call it Operation Cool Off Kiva. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, good. Godspeed, have fun, and behave yerself.”

“I will, Sir.”

I’m alone again with Stacy as we part with the General. Boy, is my life crazy, I tell myself.

I give up on Stacy as I continue to work the health fair. I can’t rely on her, and I don’t have time to waste hoping she’ll do something productive for me. I let her have her fun socializing. Finally, it’s closing time, and I take my station down without her. As I say goodbye to some of my coworkers and fellow organizers, I see her engaged in conversation with the Doshis. Earlier, I noticed her and Advika talking for quite a while. It makes sense. They’re about the same age, and Advika seems quite westernized. As I call her to leave, it looks like the two of them are exchanging contact information. If there is one thing Stacy does well, she's good at making friends.

There is clearly tension between us on the drive home. Our conversation is superficial. The two of us need to sit down and talk. We arrive home and order a pizza. She sits across from me, pouting like a petulant child. Our discussion starts.

“Aunt Kiva, I’m disappointed,” Stacy begins. “I came here to see you and talk about your letter of recommendation for me, and you treat me like a baby.”

“Oh, is that the reason you came here? For a letter?”

“No, not just that.”

“And what am I supposed to write? That you're mature? That you're responsible? That you’ll make a wonderful nurse?”

“So you’re not going to write the letter? Is that what you’re saying?”

“What I’m saying is that you’re nineteen years old and haven’t been responsible for anything in your life. Do you have any idea what nurses actually do? Nothing about nursing is fun and games.”

“I know that. Why are you telling me that?” Her voice gets louder and cracks as I notice tears forming in her eyes.

“Because I think you need to grow up and show some responsibility,” I answer.

“I am grown up,” her voice louder than ever.

“Is that why you slipped out of your volunteer job, making me look like a fool? How about coming home drunk, puking all over my bathroom? Or running a red light? Or ignoring the tasks I gave you at the health fair?”

“I thought we were going to have fun,” she whined. “What’s wrong with you? You used to be my favorite aunt. You used to be cool? Now, you act like an old lady.”

“We can have fun, but in the appropriate way. It’s not like when I used to babysit you. You’re an adult now. Act like one.”

“I AM an adult!” Stacy screams at me at the top of her lungs.

The discussion goes nowhere. For thirty minutes, we argue in a circle. Stacy seems to have little insight into her behavior. Maybe my brother and sister-in-law caused this. I always felt that they never let Stacy pay the consequences for her mistakes. She has never experienced the fallout from her bad decisions. She sits at the table sobbing as I finish giving her my assessment of her.

After several minutes, Stacy composes herself. Her green eyes are bloodshot from crying. Her voice chokes as she attempts to sound assertive. “Okay, Aunt Kiva, I’ve sat here and listened to you dumping on me. We’ll now, I’ve got something to say to you. So tell me, do you never make mistakes? Don’t you get crazy sometimes? Don’t you ever just let loose?”

Now she’s really annoying me. “I never said I don’t make mistakes,” I shoot back. Of course, I do dumb stuff sometimes. But I try my best to make the right decisions. It doesn’t always work out. I have to be responsible for a lot of people. I can’t be taking stupid risks.”

“Say that last part again,” my belligerent niece demands.

“I said I don’t take dumb risks.” I’m getting fed up with this smartass.

“Oh really,” she sneers. “You don’t do stupid, risky stuff. Did I hear that right?”

“Yes, that’s what I said. What are you getting at.”

Stacy starts a strange cackling laugh. “Care to show me your catpin?”

I sit in stunned disbelief as Stacy gives me a smug “I gotcha" look.

I could barely speak. “My…cat…pin?”

“Yes, I know all about it.”

“Uh…How…did you…find out?”

“I’ve been thinking about fighting for a year now. One of my coworkers fights. She has a pin. She told me about it. We’ve been working out. She taught me some stuff. Before I left for Texas, I searched the site for fighters in this area. Imagine how shocked I was when you came up. I couldn’t believe it. Aunt Kiva fighting other women. Holy Shit! Then I thought about it, and it kinda made sense. Remember when you babysat me that time when I was ten, and Erica Cooper came over to play and cut her knee? Her mom came over and got in your face. I thought you were gonna slug her. You never did take too kindly to fools.”

“Do your mom and dad know?”

“Nope.”

“Grandmom and Grandpop? Who else knows?

“Just me …. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s really cool you have a catpin, and you fight.”

“Um…look, Stacy. Fighting is something I do on my own time. I’m still a mom and a nurse. My responsibilities come first.”

“Okay, I get it. I really do…In fact, there’s something I need to tell you.”

After the bombshell revelation that she knows about my catpin, what she’s about to tell me must pale in comparison, I thought.

“I have my first fight tomorrow.”

It takes me a while to process what I just heard. “WHAT?!”

“Yeah, I’m fighting another girl. Can you believe it? I want a catpin too. That’s another reason why I came down here to see you. I want you to be at my first fight.”

I sat frozen for several seconds until I could wrap my mind around what Stacy had just told me. “Oh God, Stacy,” I shout. “Of all the crazy…I’m afraid to ask this, but who? Who are you fighting?”

“Advika Pennington. She’s one of the Doshis.”

Again it took me a few moments until I could speak. “Advika? … Did you say you’re fighting Advika?”

“Yeppers,” Stacy says with a grin. “I saw her profile on the website. I recognized her at the health fair, so I walked up to her and challenged her."

“Oh, Stacy,” my exasperated voice belts out. “Of all the dumb things you’ve done this week, this really takes the cake. Advika will destroy you.”

“No, she won’t. She’s only had a few fights. I watched her videos. She’s not very good.”

“She comes from a family of female fighters. I’m sure she trains all the time. Have you ever been in a fight?”

“Twice, but they got broken up quickly. I know how to fight. I’ve been doing jiu-jitsu for a few years, working out with my catpin friend. I know how to fight.”

“Oh, do you? Really? Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into? I’m calling the Doshis. There will be no fight. It’s getting canceled.”

“You are NOT canceling my fight,” Stacy screams at me. "You have no right. I’m an ADULT! I make my own decisions.”

“Seriously, Stacy,” I admonish. “When have you ever faced adversity or taken responsibility for yourself? Are you going to be an adult when you get slapped in the mouth, punched, thrown down, and tied up? When you get dragged around by the hair or grabbed by the boobs? Are you going to handle it, or are you going to run to Aunt Kiva? Are you going to feel like an adult when I have to scrape your broken bawling body off the floor? And what do I tell your parents? I’m responsible for you while your here.”

“You are NOT responsible for me!” she protests. “I told you. I can take care of myself. I can’t believe this! You’re such a hypocrite! … Okay … fine … Fine …Then don’t come. I’ll arrange for a ride and go by myself. I’m sorry I even told you about it. .. I’m going to bed … GOODNIGHT!” she yells as she slams the door to the guest room.

I wake up early the next morning while Stacy is still asleep. As I sip coffee, I try to think of better ways of reasoning with her. At eight o’clock, I put in a call to Doshi Real Estate. A short time later, I receive a return call from Uma, Advika’s mother.

I express my concerns to Uma. I make it clear that Stacy hasn’t fought before and has a propensity for making foolish decisions. Uma is remarkably forthright. She explains that Advika was an enthusiastic fighter who tried to follow her female elders. She had a couple of fights. However, the beating she received from Agnes Stanton at the tree farm left her shaken. That brawl created a rift between Advika and Damini to where they are still not on speaking terms. Advika lost her confidence and announced she was quitting fighting. Then she felt she had let the family down and had second thoughts. When Stacy challenged her in the presence of the other Doshis, Advika felt pressured to accept.

“I think we should let them fight,” Uma suggests. “It seems they both need it. Advika wants to know if she still has a fighter’s heart, and she wants to heal the family. Your niece is very spirited and wants to fight and prove herself. If she loses, it would still be better than if she never took the chance. The fight might be good for both of them.”

Uma’s rationale seemed to make sense. At least she persuaded me to approve the fight, for better or worse. She promised they would stop the fight quickly if Stacy seemed in danger of any injury.

I hand Stacy a mug of coffee as she comes down to the kitchen table. “Good morning, girlfriend,” I smile. “We have a fight to go to today.”

“Really?” her face lights up. “You’re going to be there.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Oh, thank you, Aunt Kiva,” she beams as we hug. “That means so much to me.”

“I’m the cool aunt. Remember?” I smirk back.

Stacy fills me in on the specifics she and Advika agreed upon. A few basic rules: no biting, gauging, etc. The fight will occur in a large empty, carpeted room of one of the Doshi model homes that haven’t been staged yet. I wasn’t thrilled when she said the girls would fight in bikinis, but at least I know only women will be present.

As the morning goes by, I feel the familiar butterflies in my stomach. It’s even worse than my own arranged fights, knowing it’s my niece’s first battle. I try hard to block out negative thoughts and worries. I know Stacy is nervous, so I try to be upbeat and distract her. I brush her wavy, light auburn hair, which she keeps short, stopping just above her shoulders. I offer a few tips, but trying to teach her at this point is like cramming for the SAT exam in one hour.

As she changes into her green bikini, I realize this is the first time I have seen her naked since she was a baby. It was my first babysitting experience. I was fifteen years old. My brother and sister-in-law trusted me. I was scared shitless; I was alone with her. Her skin was so soft and fair; she was so delicate and helpless. My parents would call several times as a backup precaution, but she and I were alone. And I was responsible for her. And now, here we are, alone again. Her skin is still soft and fair. For a brief second, I imagine her as still fragile and totally dependent on me, but I know that's just sentimentality. The tiny naked body I remember from nearly nineteen years ago is now that of a grown woman, complete with the physical sexual characteristics that the universe bestows on adult female humans. I see the 5’7” frame, the mammary tissue on her chest, the pink areolae and nipples, the reddish bush, and the hips, and I am reminded that time and nature wait for no one and couldn’t care less about my emotions and memories.

“Aunt Kiva, you look like you’re zoning out.”

“Sorry, I was just thinking about … something.”

Stacy slips on an oversized T-shirt and gym shorts over her bikini. We pack up the essentials in her gym bag and head out to the car. It’s a twenty-minute drive to the upscale gated community at the address supplied by the Doshis. We come to an enormous 6,000-square-foot, two-story brick house. We pull into the driveway, past the sprawling lawn. I turn off the car engine, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed with nerves. Stacy unbuckles her seat belt. “Come on, Aunt Kiva, let’s go in.”

We exit the car, I lock it, and we begin the climb up a flight of stone steps to the front door. Suddenly, a thought flashes through my mind, stopping me in my tracks. Was Uma telling the truth about Advika losing her confidence and heart for fighting? Or did the Doshis just bag themselves a fat pigeon?

After I push the doorbell button, the wait seems to take forever, like a rollercoaster ride before the big drop. The door swings open, and we are warmly greeted by Ishita, the matriarch, appearing stunning in her festive red sari. Damini and Uma, dressed in blouses and jeans, stand behind her. Already, I sense the three of them sizing the pair of us up. “Welcome,” Ishita smiles at us. We follow her inside to a large empty living room with an intricately designed brown and white wool carpet. “This is where the fight will take place,” she tells us. “Advika is upstairs preparing herself. I’ll let her know you are here. You may use the guest room over here,” she says, directing us to a first-floor bedroom.

We sit in awkward silence as Stacy strips to her bikini and starts to stretch. We hear the front doorbell ring a few times and the sound of voices. Who is here? I wondered. I struggle to find the right words for Stacy. What do you say to a loved one about to enter her first fight? The truth is that I have no idea how this fight will go. Despite Stacy saying she’s been training and the fact that Advika hasn’t yet had an impressive win, I see Stacy as the underdog, based on sheer inexperience. I try to mentally prepare myself for seeing her defeated. A knot forms in my chest. I hold her hand and tell her that I will be there for her. I tell her it’s okay to quit and avoid injury. I hug her.

Fifteen minutes later, Ishita summons us. As we head to the living room arena, I’m immediately struck by the number of people present: men, women, young, old, all Indian, at least fifteen of them. The older women and some younger ones are adorned with brightly colored saris and bindis, while the others are in regular, western-style casual clothes.

“What’s going on in here?” I demanded to know.

“It’s our extended family, aunts, uncles, cousins,” Uma explained. “They’re visiting from California. We asked Stacy if it was okay for them to watch the fight, and she approved it.”

I glare at Stacy. “Is that true?” I ask her

“I don’t mind,” she answers casually. The fight hasn’t started yet, and she’s already making bad decisions.

From behind us, I hear a man’s voice. “Hey, Stacy.”

“Hi, Travis! I’m glad you could make it.” Stacy chirps.

WHAT? Travis? What the f-.

“Aunt Kiva, this is Travis. He’s my friend. I met him yesterday at the health fair. I invited him to come and watch me fight. He works in the mail room at the hospital.” I turn to see a clean-shaven, thin, brown-haired man around Stacy’s age.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he addresses me politely. “I’m a junior at UT, majoring in Business.”

Okay, I’m getting totally stressed out now. I turn to the college-aged young man. “Look, Travis,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’re a great guy, and I’m sorry you wasted your time coming here, but you see, this is only for families.”

I take Stacy aside and grumble in her ear, “Are you out of your mind? Inviting a strange boy to watch you fight? In a bikini? What is wrong with you?”

Her eyes glare right back. “Travis stays,” she growls. “I’m an adult. I. Make. My. Own. Decisions.”

I feel my throat tightening. “Fine,” My raspy voice manages to get out. I can only hope the consequences of her decisions aren’t too severe.

“You can stay, Travis,” Stacy assures him.

I hear the commotion as all eyes point to the top of the spiral staircase. Advika, in her red bikini, is flanked by Uma as she begins her descent to the arena. The extended Doshi family applauds. She looks graceful as she makes her way to the bottom of the stairs. I give Stacy one last hug before she heads to the center of the living room to meet Advika. The Doshis move into a sitting room area off the main living room, providing an excellent view of the battle. I stand alone on the opposite side … with Travis. I look down at Stacy’s gym bag which is open. I see her bottles of water, towels, hairbrush, shorts, T-shirts, first-aid kit …

“Kiva, this is Stacy’s bottle and formula. The towels are here. This is her baby bath soap. The diapers and wipes are here. These are her pajamas. Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“The numbers for the police and fire department are on the refrigerator. You’re welcome to the snacks in the kitchen. You have my number. And of course, you can call mom and dad. So, if you’re all set, I guess we’ll be going.”

I hug my brother and sister-in-law and watch them leave the house. Their red taillights disappear down the street. Stacy seems content as she babbles. “It’s you and me, kid,” I tell her. I playfully tickle her as she giggles and tries to grab my fingers. So little. So young. Stacy is my responsibility now. And I’m scared.

Stacy is my responsibility. She looks almost naked in her green bikini as she stands nose-to-nose with Advika. Their sizes are nearly identical at 5’7” and 125 lbs. Advika’s coffee-with-cream skin tone contrasts with Stacy’s fair complexion. Her black hair with light streaks is tied up in a bun, while Stacy’s light auburn hair is pinned back. Both women puff out their B cups, each pair of tits preening in front of the other.

Ishita instructs them to back up several feet. “Stacy, are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Advika, are you ready?” She nods. “Okay, ladies, FIGHT!”

To be continued.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: snw on November 04, 2022, 04:33:13 AM

Looking forward to the next installment. Excellent to this point.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: bigfan877 on November 13, 2022, 09:30:48 PM

Another great chapter by Kiva, its much harder to let ones you care about to something dangerous than doing it yourself. The additions of past stories is great, makes it feel like a real world.

Title: Re: Kiva’s Fight Journal
Post by: h_k on December 01, 2022, 08:52:16 PM

I know you're almost invincible, Kiva, but on the one occasion when you really needed him, WHERE WAS CHASE??? Perhaps if you show him, this it'll ensure the Cynthia debacle is a one-off:
https://twitter.com/Yoda4ever/status/1598319445549932544?s=20&t=eqJtLreWCAwJii_VQYGozg