FreeCatFights
General Category => Catfight , Boxing & Wrestling Stories => Catfighting => Topic started by: sinclairfan on November 29, 2016, 03:41:22 PM
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My name I'd Diane. I'm in my 50s now. Where did the time go? I grew up in New England in the 1980s. At least in my neighborhood, girls didn't really fight back then. At least not in public, and certainly not "good girls". I mean, we fought psychologically. But not physically.
But looking back, there was a girl I should have fought. Even an all-out catfight would have had less drama than eventually happened between her and me. I find myself thinking about what could have happened, what should have happened, between us.
First, the tale of the tape. I had maybe 2 inches on her, but she was a tad stockier, so we were in the same weight class. I had long straight brown hair; Darlene was Portuguese and had jet black hair, straight and thick. We were both attractive and popular. I moved into her neighborhood senior year in high school, when we were both 18.
Almost immediately, there was miscommunication between us. Darlene was trying to exclude me from neighborhood parties, which in the pre-Facebook era, we're always arranged by word of mouth. So, when I would find out and show, Darlene would always snap at me with snide "surprised to see you here" sarcasm". If this was today, a clear-the-air scrap would have eventually ensued. Instead, we spent the next 5 years, counting college, driving each other crazy. Dumb, really.
I recently find myself fantasizing. What if, instead, I had just knocked on Darlene's door and asked her what her fucking problem was with me. And what if she invited me in to "talk about it"?
What if I had gone in? What if we had sat on a couch in her living room, just the two of us in the house, her parents not due home for 3 hours?
What if our eyes looking got our juices flowing? What if we got jealous of each others' pretty faces and hair? What if Darlene's primal territoriality instinct kicked in, sensing my "invasion" of her neighborhood? What if I told her she was a bitch?
What if she asked me why I was shaking? Was I afraid of her? What if I said it was because she made me angry? What if she asked me if I wanted to "work out" my anger? What if I asked her how?
What if she asked me if I had ideas? What if I was so aroused, I forgot that good girls don't fight in 1980s New England? What if I remembered a fight 2 "bad girls", Sandy and Lisa, had at out school? What if I remembered that that fight, too, was over social snubs?
What if I remembered a girl slap I saw on a daytime soap? What If I slapped Darlene in the face? What if my face was weak, and then she backhanded me hard in the face?
What if we both stood up? What if the slapping exchange outcome discouraged me from that tactic? What if I always wanted to dig my nails in her thick black hair, and did it now? What if she headlocked me, we went to the floor, and wrapped our legs around each other?
What if I was afraid now, and started scratching Darlene? What if my long hair wrapped around her wrists, and she tugged as hard as she could, tearing out whole handfuls? What if we started kicking on the floor?
What if the kicking broke our hold, we leaped to our feet, and both verbalized the unthinkable: "You wanna fight, Diane?" "Yes, Darlene, let's fight!"
What if?
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YEAH! What if....?
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INTERLUDE--MY ACTUAL FIRST FIGHT
Diane, here, again. Now, I'll tell you how my "do over" neighborhood catfight ends. But before doing so, some necessary "additional data". You'll recall that if I had fought Darlene when I was 18, it would have been my first fight. Instead, IRL, my actual first girlfight would not occur for another 9 years.
By the time I was 27, I was living in Las Vegas, working as a blackjack dealer. I had this stupid idea that Las Vegas was growing and would never stop growing, so I would go out there, get rich, marry a prince, retire at 35 in a McMansion, etc. Needless to say, the reality was quite different. Most pertinent to this topic, my prince wasn't a prince. He was a lot of fun, but he had baggage--in the form of a jealous ex. Her name was Susan, and she was a bleach blonde bitch. She was in my face constantly.
One day, Susan "cornered" me alone in my home. She told me to stop seeing her ex. I had been mentally preparing for this ultimatum for months, although I confess I expected it to be by phone or snail mail, not in person. Nevertheless, there was no way I was backing down. And I told her I never would.
The next 10 minutes seemed like some sort of vodka-buzz dream. I heard the distinct thwacking sound of a fistfight--but could it be coming from Susan and me? We're we actually fistfighting? The disorientation fed my adrenaline. There were no witnesses, but that's just as well. If there had been, they would have demanded their money back. All our punches were to useless pieces of each others bodies, mostly the heads. And we didn't pace ourselves at all--we were gassed after 5 minutes of flailing and finished with 5 more minutes of exhausted ground fighting. Draw.
And a moral victory for me--Susan never again issued her ultimatum.
But here's the point. When I fantasize about a fight with Darlene, I'm always self-aware that a piece of technical beauty it would not have been. It would have been a clutching, grabbing, wrestling match.
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INTERLUDE 2 - MY ACTUAL FIRST WIN / MY ACTUAL FIRST LOSS
It occurs to me that so far, I've painted a bit of a pathetic picture of myself as a fighter. A genuine enemy lives down the street for 5 years, and we never fight. I roll around inconclusively with a romantic rival who challenges me. Well, fear not, I did eventually come into my own as a catfighter. You see, unlike 1980s New England, in 1990s Las Vegas, girls did fight, even good girls. And so did I.
After my throw down with Susan, my inhibitions were loosened just enough to begin sizing up potential opponents. I saw there were actually many situations in my everyday life which presented fight opportunities. I also recognized the importance of controlling my emotions during the actual fight, and pacing myself, so that when my opponent's initial burst was used, I could move in for the takedown.
Like a hot rodder with a shiny new car, my confidence and experiences were always fresh in my mind, and I wanted to use them. About six months after Susan and I went at it, I was out on the strip with 2 girls from work. We were looking good in our office-type clothes and look-at-me hair, eating wings and drinking beer after watching Cirque de Soleil. We had a 3-top table, and found ourselves next to 3 women about our age and looks, who were in town for the week from Los Angeles.
One of the women at the table was an auburn-haired number, and we started eyeing each other. As catty tourist-vs-local remarks began being lobbed, first playfully then a bit more barbed, the tension between her and I began to be apparent to all six of us. I could tell she was a fighter, and told my table that I wanted a go at her. My friends decided that the matchup was a sufficiently intriguing way to end the evening, and acted as seconds with my prospective opponents' 2 escorts. After 5 minutes of negotiations, we agreed that the six of us would drive out to a spot in the desert, and Angela, as I find her name to be, and Diane (moi) would catfight for the amusement of our four witnesses.
I remember out short trip to the car and then to the fight spot. I went through a checklist in my mind--was I hydrated? Did I care if these clothes got shredded? How much longer till my next workday did I have for any bruises to heal? But mostly I was hoping Angela wouldn't back out--I wanted to throw down.
And I got my wish. Angela and I got down to business, grabbing generous chunks of each others hair. We tested each other with knees, kicks, and slaps, searching for vulnerabilities, but both holding energy in reserve. My 2 friends cheered me on, providing real time coaching and encouragement. The atmosphere--the desert sand, the steak surroundings--was primal and intoxicating, and the grunting and moaning from Angela made me want to destroy her. Our hands found each others chests, and we diligently went about grabbing and twisting in a deliberate but vicious fashion. We slammed down in a ball onto the desert floor, kicking up dust and desperately trying to avoid being on the bottom. Our hate for each other increased with each new name we hissed at each other, and each new twist. Angela had underestimated me, and we both new it. Her friends considered interfering, but we're held back by mine. For an instant, the 1on1 fight poised ready to become a 3on3 free for all. But cooler heads prevailed, as I secured the pin in Angela. My knees on her shoulders, I looked down at her face and hissed insults, asking if she gave. She sensed the ugly situation potentially developing with our 4 spectators, and gave. My friends got in the car, drove home, and talked about the fight, my victory, and girlfighting till sunrise. (Fun fact--my should-have-been fight with Darlene was a discussion topic.)
Angela was my first win, but little did I know the my first defeat was close at hand. I began dating a biker. Something to know about Vegas/Nevada bikers: they like watching their girls fight. I was at a rally one Sunday afternoon, and the boys had been pairing me up, physically and experiences wise, with a girl named Peg. I have to admit, they did a good job. Peg and I were a match from a looks and height/weight perspective. We were brought to a spartan (pun intended) ring under a tent, given 2 water bottle and a towel, and told to, at our leisure, "go". I found the instructions bewildering but effective--the type of fight about to occur was clearly at our discretion from a tactical perspective (boxing? grappling? bitchfighting?), but would not be over until the crowd had had its fill--there would be no Susan's Tyler draw, clearly.
Peg and I had a long, fistfight style fight. Wow, that girl was tough--I ground-and-pounded her three times, and she withstood it and escaped it each and every time. I didn't even know you could get out of a ground-and-pound. She covered up, gathered herself, and then used her feet to get ahold of my shoulders and throw me off. Damn, it got frustrating. And then my first mistake, she exchanged the favor, and began ground and pounding me. And didn't make the mistake of letting me up. She beat me up good, and I'm lucky the crowd intervened when it did.
So, hopefully I've painted a picture of myself as a woman who eventually developed into a bona fide catfighter. Not a superwoman, but not someone you can steamroll over either. I'd like to think that woman would have shone thru that weekday afternoon in Darlene's house, over three decades ago.
And I like to think it would have gone like this.....
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Darlene and I square off for a girlfight, knowing there is so much at stake. The winner will be the neighborhood alpha and participate in senior year events, the loser will be shunned.
And we are both about to have the first catfight we have ever been in. A catfight. I can't believe it. Two girls trying to destroy each other, no rules, no mercy. Anything can happen.
The living room suddenly seems so small, the 8 foot ceilings so claustrophobic. Maybe this is why people "take it outside" when they fight. My head seems so vulnerable to the walls, the floor. Will the winner even be standing at the end? (Clearly the loser won't--that's not even a question.)
Darlene and I are on each other and hit the couch right away, tumbling uncontrollably, both hanging on to each other for dear life. I attempt to hide my fear. My objective is to get my knees onto Darlene's shoulders and straddle her, like I saw Lisa do to Sandy at school a couple months ago. Goodness, what an un-feminie position I suddenly realize that is. Is that why girls so rarely fight, even though our hormones are whispering to us to slap each other.
Ow--slapping. That stings like crazy. Darlene is hitting my face hard. That passes me off even worse than I already am. How will this fight ever end if with each second we're only getting angrier?
I hate everything about you, Darlene. Did you hear me? Answer me, dammit!!
We're on the hard floor now, pulling hair furiously. Every part of my body hurts at once. I'm so thirsty. I'm so angry. So many sensations to process. I can't focus.
Darlene and I, locked together, lift each other onto our knees. Our arms are free to swing now, and we're flailing hard, hitting each others faces. The sound is like sleet or hail on a window. And my face feels like sleet is hitting it.
I headlock Darlene. That brings relief from the slapping. I clamp on the headlock around her neck. Her breathing gets more labored. The fighting slows down for the first time to a speed I can process.
I semi-mount Darlene, elbowing and kneeling her back. Her sweat is all over me, which grosses me out, I hate her so much. The fight slows down even more. I can hear cars outside. How will this look if her parents come in? How long have we been fighting? What if we keep fighting and she gets on top of me? I give her wraparound smacks to her face. And scramble out.
And home. I run in--no one home, thank goodness. I lock the door and set the alarm. I look in the mirror--I'm a mess, my hair not even recognizable. I strip and get in the shower. I go to sleep--parents can't see me tonight. I wake up at 2am. Was I just in a catfight? Yes. Was it worth it? Yes.
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FAST FORWARD: 2016 DIANE VS. 2016 DARLENE??
I'm sure all of you ladies out there, at least the feisty ones, have figured out where this is going next. The 1983 versions of Darlene and me would of course never have that catfight, where and when it should have happened. That fight, between those two girls, would forever remain the stuff of fantasy.
But there was something else that maybe, just maybe, could still happen. Couldn't it? It's 2016, and we have Google and Facebook. And while, at 52, I'm not what I used to be, I've kept myself in very good shape--I still turn heads. If Darlene had done the same, and if she was sufficiently unattached from men and kids, maybe, just maybe, we could finally have that "chat". At the very least, I didn't want to regret trying ten years from now, when I would definitely be beyond the catfight mandatory retirement date. It was worth a shot.
A girl with regrets, free time, and a fast Internet connection is a dangerous thing. Despite numerous name changes through marriages, divorce, and remarriage(s?), I found Darlene on LinkedIn, then Facebook. She was now living, like me, in Texas. My pulse quickens. Driving distance. Her marital status said "divorced". Her photo album of pictures was minimal, but if the pictures were current, as they appeared to be, then she was, like me, quite fit. My pulse quickens again.
You know who she actually looks like now? She looks a lot like her mom looked in 1983. Her straight black hair was now a bit wavy, and had a highlights theme going. (Too hide gray no doubt--he he. Goodness, do I still hate her that much?) Still about the same weight, though, just like me. Still the same weighclass. So far so good.
I played through, in my mind, different scenarios for approaching Darlene. Get close to her, not saying who I am until she trusts me, and then "surprise" her? Nah, too Lifetime. Just "invite myself" to her house, and issue a challenge? Exciting, but what if she's spent time in the military or law enforcement and is a martial arts expert? Too dangerous.
I ended up taking the cautious approach. I sent a Facebook friend request, under my current (divorced) name, but putting in parenthesis my maiden name. And waited. And waited. Accepted. My pulse quickens again. I sent a Facebook email, asking if I could call some time, convenient for her. And waited. And waited. Yes, I can call some Monday night between 9 and 10. My pulse races, my palms sweat.
I call Darlene. She answers.
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Her: Hello?
Me: This is Diane, from Massachusetts in high school. Am I speaking to Darlene?
Her: Ya, this is Darlene. How are you, Diane? Everything ok?
Me: Oh, you know, as good as can be expected--time marches on. Darlene, this is so cool, how long have you been in Texas?
Her: Awhile, actually. 1998? Wow, 18 years? My company moved me here then fired me. How 'bout you? What brings you here?
Me: Oh, a guy. Who's not in the picture, anymore. Of course. Came here with him 4 years ago after we got foreclosed in Vegas. We were in subprime, lost our jobs in '08, squatted for four years. Then the bank caught up with us. We thought here would be a fresh start. Sorry, by the way, I'm not calling to ask for money--you had just said you lost a job. Anyways, I don't want you to think that's why I'm calling.
Her: Oh, don't worry, it's ok. I didn't think that. Just coincidence we're in the same place. Second time that's happened, huh?
Me: I know!! Funny, huh? So, Darlene, since you bring it up, why DO you think I'm calling?
Her: Hmmmm, let me think. Well, like me, sounds like you're between guys, perhaps even done with them. So you're building up your network in Texas, and came across me. Now, I admit, unless by a huge coincidence you found out about that by accident, I must admit I'm intrigued as to why you LOOKED for me. Not to be crass, but did someone die? Is someone sick? But that's my answer. How'd I do?
Me: No, no. Nobody's sick. But, yes, Darlene, actually you're right. I looked for you. I should probably just tell you why. And, first off, I am between guys, but that doesn't have anything to do with it. This is actually just a you and me thing, Darlene. Can I explain?
<<<<<<I struggle to control my breathing. This has gotten to the point way faster than I planned. I don't want to scare her off.>>>>>>
Her: Please do, Diane.
Me: Ok, I didn't rehearse this, and didn't expect to be having this conversation tonight. But I don't want you to think this is something else, so let me try to just get to the point. Darlene, I don't know why, but lately I've been thinking a lot about the old neighborhood. Like, I mean a lot. I don't think anyone was at fault, but we didn't get along.
Her: We definitely didn't. I hated you. But no biggie, everyone doesn't need to be friends. This isn't one of those 12-step AA calls, is it?
Me: See, that's exactly what I mean. I should just come out and say it.
Her: Oh, boy.
Me: No, no, I doubt it's what you think. Darlene, here's the thing. Darlene, I wanted to fight you back then. Like, I mean, a girlfight. And we didn't. But I want to now.
Her: Wow.... I'm here....ummmm.....I'm, like....
Me: Too weird?
Her: No, no. Not weird. I mean, to start with, yeah, I totally wanted to fight you back then, too.
Me: Darlene, why didn't we fight then?
Her: Just never worked out, I guess. Diane, there were days I totally would have started swinging if out paths had crossed. I mean, without ant pleasantries at all. But then the day and time came and went, and it was back to us just giving the cold shoulder, you know.
Me: I know, and I didn't was to cause trouble for my parents. You know, with you mom.
Her: Yeah, there was that too. It's hard. Like when you want to fight someone.
Me: So, what about it Darlene? Do you think we could, you know, fight?
Her: I think we most certainly should.
Me: Ok, good. I'm glad it's settled then. You and me, finally.
Her: Finally. I think we should do this quickly.
Me: As do I. But done right as well. I want to be able to change before and after. And clean up.
Her: I know what you mean. I have access to two condos at a park outside Irving, if you can get yourself there. Non-adjacent, if you know what I mean, I'll give you your own key. But running water, a bed for the night. Bandages, etc. If you know what I mean.
Me: I do, and I can get there. The sooner the better.
Her: Wednesday afternoon work for you? I'll give you your key at 2. We take an hour to get ready. Fight at 3.
Me: I like it. Send me the address.
Her: Oh, I will. I will.
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TUESDAY--THE DAY BEFORE THE FIGHT
Darlene and I spent the next day messaging on Facebook, establishing ground rules for our catfight. We agreed that above all our chemistry would drive how we fought, but that given this fight was 33 years in the making, it would be a shame if it last just 33 seconds. So we agreed to, at least at first, to mutually abide by no clinching/minimal hairpulling standup rules, and that we would back off and let the other up if we achieved a knockdown. Kicking would be allowed, but to the shins--no high kicks.
There was a subtext that the final takedown would be No Holds Barred, but we would attempt to control our emotions and save that for the final round. We wanted a fistfight to remember before it came to that inevitable conclusion. There was no namecalling in the messages. It's interesting how superfluous all that is once you've already agreed to fight.
We posted pictures to each other of different clothes to wear. We toyed around with elegant, with office clothes, even lingerie. But we agreed that a serious fistfight called for fistfight clothes--jeans and tank top, no bra. Hair would be down, of course--no braids.
I considered asking Darlene about her fight history. But that would require sharing mine. I didn't want her to know about my biker chick fights--I wanted her to underestimate me, like Angela had. Let's find out the hard way what type of fighters we are, Darlene.
How did Darlene have access to 2 condo? Did she own them? Was she wealthy? How was she able to be free on a Wednesday for a fistfight?
What did women do before the Internet? How did they find an old high school rival and arrange a fight?
So many questions.
One of them would be answered tomorrow, finally: Who was the better woman, the neighborhood alpha? Diane? Or Darlene?
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FANTASTIC! Cannot wait to read more.
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TUESDAY EVENING--A BITCHY PHONE CALL
Tuesday night. Less than 24 hours to go before my fight with Darlene. I eat dinner early--pasta, for the carbs. I shower, get into my pajamas, and slip into bed, but leave the light on to read.
My phone rings. Caller ID says it's Darlene. Wonder what she wants.
ME: Hello, sweetie.
HER: Ya. So, anyways, I'm calling to stir the pot a little. Thought it would make tomorrow more interesting.
Me: Stir the pot. Ok. Tell me more.
Her: I'm thinking we could take the opportunity now, instead of tomorrow, to tell what about each other we didn't like. I can go first, if you'd like.
Me: I'm listening.
Her: Diane, that feathered hair thing you had going on in high school. You didn't think that actually worked for you, did you? How long before you got rid of that.
Me: Um, so ok Darlene, every boy I was with wanted to touch it, and it was the style at the time like, oh I don't know, the frosted hair your mom had then. That YOU have NOW. What's up with that?
Her: Ya, so ok, this was supposed to be why we hated each other then, not now. But since you bring it up, ....
Me: No, no, you're right. Here's one. Darlene, it was disgusting, do you know, the first time I saw you in the school hallway, you were tongue kissing that sophomore Eric Poff? When you were a senior, Darlene? In the hallway? Really? A sophomore?
Her: And you had to watch, right Diane? Diane, do you know what everyone would ask me about you, once they knew we were neighbors? They would ask why you were so "awkward"?
Me: Awkward, how? That doesn't even mean anything.
Her: Awkward, as in, you would laugh in the middle of a conversation. Just, weird to talk to, I guess.
Me: Well it would have helped to have someone standing up for me, not bringing me down. I was the new girl.
Her: Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn't...you were standoff ish with me, not the other way around.
Me: Darlene, you were so, like, icy to me. But whatever, what were you going to say about how I look now. I think I'm damn hot for 52?
Her: Well, Diane, let's just say that you haven't been in Texas long. You're hair isn't layered at all. It's just this, sort of a helmet-head-with-extensions thing. You don't actually see other women doing that, do you?
Me: I, .... well I haven't changed it in awhile, but I thinks it works for me...I didn't think I needed to...
Her: And the Botox in the forehead. You don't think you're fooling anyone, do you?
Me: Darlene, you busy body bitch, ...
Her: So vain.
Me: Darlene, you hypocrite, you obsess over looks but then tsk,tsk anyone doing something about it. Let me guess, you roll out of bed beautiful every morning.
Her: Well, after working out, eating righ....
Me: Oh, and you think I don't work out?
Her: Cardio, maybe, but Diane, honey, there's not a lot of tone there, granted this is just going by online pictures, but...
Me: Oh, your face will be feeling lots of "tone" tomorrow.
Her: Ah, yes, about that. I want to address something for the record, so there's no confusion. We didn't fight back then, partly because I was afraid of trouble. But I definitely NOT because I was afraid of you. Because I wasn't, Diane.
Me: Well, good, because I WAS afraid. Of what I would have done to you?
Her: Give me a break. Like, what, Diane?
Me: Like if we had ever been home alone? Darlene, it woulda been bad.
Her: Bad for you, maybe.
Me: I highly doubt it, Darlene.
..... <silence> ......
Her: So I suppose you think you'll win tomorrow?
Me: I do. And I can...not...wait.
Her: I can't wait to see the disappointment on your face when you lose.
Me: You'll still be waiting, trust me.
Her: I doubt it.
Me: Good night Darlene. You cxnt.
Her: Good night, slut Diane.
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Just keeps getting better and better
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WEDNESDAY MORNING--UPPING THE ANTENNA
I sleep fitfully until 8am Wednesday, wondering how the afternoon catfight will go. I get up and shower. I lather my shins, my thighs, my chest. How beat up will they be the next time I shower, later tonight? Even if I win, Darlene will not be going down without a fight. As I won't if she wins.
We both want a long fight. We have, in effect, agreed to "rounds". If you're stunned, winded, you take a knee. The other woman needs to back off. That's the hitch in a standup fistfight.
But I'll take that over a first round KO. I have a ninety minute drive in front of me. And the same drive back home. I'm not driving three hours for a 2-minute fight.
I dress. The fight clothes are jeans and tank top. But those are in my duffel bag, with two fresh towels and water bottles. The towels are for sweat. And blood. If your nose isn't busted, a little pressure for a couple minutes will work.
What if my hands are better than Darlene's but she catches me one on the nose or mouth, and I can't close it? What a sucky way to lose that would be.
What if I lose to Darlene? There's no bouncing back from this , losing a fight you've waited 33 years for.
When Darlene and I meet in the parking lot for her to give me the key for the condo for me to change in, we won't be in our fight clothes yet. What should I wear for the meet up? I want to impress her. I want her to be jealous of what I have to show for the last 33 years. Living well is the best revenge.
I put on my best work clothes outfit. Flannel skirt, matching blouse and jacket. I overdo it with the scent.
I get an idea. Stir the pot, Darlene said last night. Stir the pot, my ass. I'll stir the pot.
I get out my jewelry chest.
I get out my best bling. Bracelets. Necklace. Pearls. Two anklets, even. But best rings.
When Darlene and I fight, there will be stakes. I'm putting my best jewelry up as stakes. Whatever she can match. In her own jewelry or clothes. Or cash.
And if she can't match me, so much the better. She showed up to fight, empty-handed. Let her think about that.
I look amazing. I mean, I'm my own worst critic, but I look good right now. I'm not cocky about the fight. But Darlene will have to admit that I look good.
It's 10:30. I need to be there by 2. I should leave my noon.
What if I get hurt in Irving? What if I spend 3 days in the condo after the fight? I make sure all my bills here are paid.
I eat a banana and drink an orange juice.
I get in my car. I'm leaving early.
Twenty minutes into the drive, I pull over at a rest stop. I can't help it, but I need to rub one out. Or maybe more. I haven't done this, at a rest stop, since I was 35. What's happening with me? I'm so turned on. Will I be able to keep driving there?
But I have to. If my car broke down, I'd pull over and thumb a ride to Irving, even if I had to get in a cab with a garbage truck driver, and give him three blowies on the way. I have a catfight I need to get to.
I suspect Darlene feels the same. I call her.
Her: Yessss??
Me: Less than an hour away.
Her: Good. I left early too.
Me: I can't wait.
Her: Me neither. If you're in the lot early, we can talk if we want to move up the 3 start time. Or just prep longer.
Me: Good. Let's decide there.
Her: Fine.
Me: Fine.
Her: Fine. <hangs up>
Won't be long now.
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mmmmmmmmmmmmmm...it is becoming intense.
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WEDNESDAY MID-AFTERNOON, DARLENE AND I FINALLY MEET
After hanging up on Darlene, I finished the final 70 miles of the drive to Irving, but only after making 2 more roadside stops to furiously rub myself off. Is it true that boxers abstain from sex before a bout? Was I weakening the endurance in my legs with my behavior? But I needed to do it so bad--the past 2 days, 2 months, 33 years, had put my libido at the breaking point. I was turned on like a teenager.
I arrive at the address and pull into a safe looking spot. I touch up my make up in the car mirror--need to look my best. I want to make Darlene jealous. I look damn hot. This territoriality battle is doing my complexion good. I could easily pass for 37.
I text Darlene, saying I'm here. She responds that she's in the sales office at the center of the condo complex, at a private table in the back. I realize this is my last opportunity to turn back and pretend this never happened. A girlfight is unstoppable once we set eyes on each other.
I decide to go into the sales office. My hand shakes as I jiggle the handle. I need to calm myself.
Two receptionists look up as I enter. I say, "I'm here for Darlene." Here to fight her. Would they believe me if I said that? Would they want to watch? They nod me to a long hallway with a large office at the end. It had a wall-size window. Darlene, it must be her, is visible, facing away fromm us. I recognize her hair, that frosted, wavy Portuguese black hair. Which I'll be pulling later today.
I take a deep breath. I walk down the hallway. This is like walking a gauntlet. Can't get my damn breathing under control.
Darlene's clothing comes into form. A leather jacket, tight fitting slacks. Fucking bitch, trying to all-that. I hope she's overcompensating.
She must hear my footsteps by now. Why isn't she turning around? Chicken.
I walk into the office, and shut the door. I can tell it's soundproof--conversation will be private. Darlene flips her hair and looks at me, saying nothing. I go to the opposite side of the table and pull out a chair. She's wearing knee-high leather boots. She smells, umm, slutty. But, shit, she looks beautiful.
I sit. Me: "Been a long time."
Her: "Too long. They're gonna think you're a real estate agent, dressed like that."
Me: "They're gonna think you're looking for trouble."
Her: "All kinds of trouble, honey. All headed your way."
Me: "Those two girls out front would get quite a show if we just started here. What do you say?"
Her: "Tempting as that is, I like our first idea better. Fistfight at 3. In private. Here's your key, Unit G-1622. Has a full shower, hot water, furished, bed with sheets. You'll need all of those tonight. Hope you weren't planning on driving home for at least a day. Get changed like we agreed. Then meet me in C-3862. Private, no one will interrupt us."
Me: "There's something you forgot. I want stakes. I'm wearing at least four grand of jewelry. Beat me and it's yours. What do I get?"
Her: "My lucky day. I get to kick your ass and take your bling. Fine. You could wonder what you would have spent this on. I'll bring this to the fight room"
Darlene writes out a check to "CASH" for $4,000.00. And signs it.
We sit staring. Darlene kicks me under the table. I kick her back. Her boots make her kick feel 10 times worse. Haven't even started our fight yet, and I have my first bruise.
Good. I'll use it to motivate myself between now and 3. Not that I needed it. I pick up my duffle bag and head to my condo, my dressing room.
I undress.
I'm soaked like a 20 year old. I resist the urge to rub another one out. Need to focus.
I put on my jeans and tank top. The crotch of my jeans soak thru. Will Darlene notice? Is her crotch the same.
I put the towel and water bottles into the duffle bag. 2:52. Time to walk over to the fight condo.
I have a catfight in 8 minutes.
-
There is no telling who will cum out on top.....but at this point that is moot. Cannot wait for the real battle to begin.
-
DARLENE AND I FINALLY FIGHT
Almost exactly 3. I knock on the door of the fight condo. I'm less nervous than I was an hour ago--the pre-fight meet up was a good idea.
Darlene lets me in. She 's wearing jeans and a tank top, just like me. Her shoes are already off. I bring my duffle bag to a corner, put it down, and remove my shoes. I take out a clean towel and a water bottle, and put them on the kitchen island, where Darlene has already put hers, as well as the check for $4,000.00. My jewelry and rings are in a plastic baggie--I ostentatiously place them on the island. Whoever gives will be forgoing eight thousand dollars. Darlene locks and latches the front door. It won't be opened again until Darlene and I have resolved our 33-year old feud.
Darlene and I go to the center living room. The floor plan is open, and there is no furniture in the unit. Darlene and I face off, 10 feet away, hands on hips.
Darlene: "So, three things. Two to stir the pot some more. First, this unit is going to be gutted next week--including carpeting and walls. So blood on the floor and slamming into walls is permitted. That ok by you."
Me: "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Her: "I figured as much. Second, I spoke to the two girls in the sales office after you left. They had noticed our little tension convention. I told them I thought you and I might being going toe-to-toe someday, and asked them who they thought the victor would be. The brunette picked you, but the blonde picked me. I expect to gloat to the brunette on the way out tomorrow if this goes my way right now, and wanted to give you the opportunity to do the same to the blonde."
Me: < heart races again> "Thank you for informing me of that. I expect to follow up." <That will be sweet, making the blonde eat crow.> "And how fascinating that they think the matchup is even."
Her: "I agree. So, finally. Let's bare knuckle box, rounds end with knockdowns, if any, for, what do you say, 20 minutes? Then if neither has had enough yet, we'll not rules catfight till a decisive finish. If you're agreeable, the set the microwave timer for 20 minutes, and come out swinging. I'll wait right here."
I walk over to the microwave. Goodness, the not rules catfight sounds delicious. I'm tempting to just start that part now. But, no, having that prospect lingering in the room will make the preliminary fistfight even more primal. If that's possible. I set the timer for 20 minutes. I return to the living room. Darlene's hands are already up.
Darlene and I jab with lefts, measuring each others speed and strength. Shit, she's clearly fought before. Not quite biker chick style though--her elbows are higher, like she's done cardio kickboxing at a gym. We now use our feet, kicking each other in the shins. We punch each others tits, each scoring audible grunts. The hatred is raw between us. Good.
Darlene comes at my midsection with a running knee. I grab and hold, awkwardly trip her. Darlene lands on her butt. I back off. Was that a knockdown?
Her: "No grabbing, bitch. This is bare knuckle boxing." She goes for her water bottle. I do too.
Me: "I was blocking your knee, slut. I thought we said no high kicks." I'm thirsty as hell already. This break was well-timed.
Her: "A knee isn't a kick, bitch."
Me: "Ok, smart ass, let me come at you with my knee, and show me what you do."
We slam our water bottles down, and return to the center of the room. We resume jabbing, and I start lining her up. After 2 fakes, I aim a knee direct at her belly. She blocks me by crossing her hands, and then before I can regain my balance, I lean forward, and her hands tangle in my tank top shoulder strap. I break free, my tank top loose, my right tit out.
I continue bare knuckle boxing, pretending to not be flustered. Darlene's eyes clearly are attracted to the new target presented to her, and she starts swinging harder and faster at my tit, connecting with half the swings. But she's becoming careless, and I continue swinging to, connecting to her face. But a particularly direct jab from my enemy scores a direct hit. I'm stunned, Darlene notices, and she put me on my butt with a right cross to my jaw. I'm up right away, but she's retreated to the island for water. I do the same, starting to repair my tank top.
Her: "No repairing clothing damage between rounds, bitch."
Me: "Excuse me?"
Her: "That would be like putting on a new shirt. No way."
Me: "Then you leave me no choice. Let's go. The fistfight part is almost over."
We return to "center ring." The jabbing is fast and furious now. But mine has a purpose. I get under Darlene's tank top strap with a left hook. I grab it, and tear down hard. Both her tits pop out. I push her against the wall, half jabbing, but half leaning. I step back, plant a left in her gut, and upper cut her with a right. She drops. The microwave timer rings. I walk over for water.
Darlene slowly stands, glaring at me. I glare back. "Well. Do something about it bitch."
We are both thinking the same thing. A rules fight between us won't work. The only way to fight is all out. Even the microwave timer seemed to know.
We both know something else. Our clothes, at this point, are a distraction from the fight. We stare and begin to strip ourselves, the shredded remains of our tank tops first, then our tight jeans. We inspect each others naked bodies, probing for sensitive targets. Our hatred is palpable. We sarcastically toss the jeans to the side, and strut to center ring.
Her: "You and me at last, no rules."
Me: "Long time coming. Hurt me."
We go for each others head hair with our left hand, and our pussy hair with our right hand, pulling as hard as possible. Pain racks my body, and we drop to the ground in a catball. Both of us refuse to release out grips.
We begin rolling on the carpet, sweat pouring out in proportion to the many quarts of water we have been drinking. Our scent has turned from penthouse to outhouse. Darlene grabs my head with 2 hands, slams it into the wall, and mounts me. She grabs both my breasts, I grab both of hers.
It no longer matters what our life fight experience is. This has no become the type of fight two women have once, ever. It should have occured in 1983. But it's happening now.
I realize now why we both spent a lifetime trying to avoid this fight.
We realize this will be a breast squeezing contest until one of us gives or passes out. And neither woman is going to give.
We squeeze with all our might.
Minutes pass.
I realize both of us are trickling blood from our noses and mouths from the fistfight. Good.
My nails dig into Darlene's flesh. I feel my strength subsiding, but her subsiding faster. I log roll her and now I mount her. I slap her face mercilessly. I ignore the pain from her clawing me. More minutes pass. I'm winning.
Darlene is defeated, and she releases her grip. I roll off, unable to get up on my first attempt. I want to get out of here. I gather myself. I take the jewelry and cash. I get dressed, and go back to my condo to shower. I'm scratched everywhere. I shower and go the sleep.
I wake up the next morning. Did that fight just happen yesterday?
I pack to drive back home.
I stop in the sales office.
I see the blonde. She recognizes me.
"You were wrong, blondie. I won."
-
Very good enging to a hot story
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At first I was doubtful about the 1st person style, but the more I read the more I got into it. Nice job Liv d the insight to their emotions and thoughts. I thought the fight itself might go longer and get even nastier. Who knows maybe Darlene will call in a few weeks and want another go.
Hmmm maybe we should let this guy write a story called Vanessa vs Trudy.
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That would be an epic tale Trudy...and sorry honey but the ending would not be good for you though. But a fantastic story in any case.
Vanessa
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I enjoyed this story. I particularly liked how they set up the fight so matter-of-factly. Nice job!
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Vanessa my dear, Epic indeed! I wonder if Sinclair has enough virtual ink in his cyber typewriter to get us to the end.
I think it would involve us somehow crossing paths semi publicly, and realizing that a fight right then and there would not suit our needs. What we need is a hotel suite where we can sort this out in private, woman to woman. It might take all night and part of the next day.
What do you think Sinclair ?
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Vanessa vs Trudy would be a fantastic story. I know it would be hard to pick a winner.
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Sinclair....if you are willing to take the time and put your amazing talent to another fantastic tale such as the one we have all read and enjoyed,and it happened to involve Trudy and myself, well all I can say is I would be in your debt and would be truly grateful.
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Sinclair....if you are willing to take the time and put your amazing talent to another fantastic tale such as the one we have all read and enjoyed,and it happened to involve Trudy and myself, well all I can say is I would be in your debt and would be truly grateful.
Yes, Vanessa vs Trudy is on the way.
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It's been a few days since Diane and Darlene Had their fight. Now that they are both home and have had time to think about what happened I wonder what's going through their minds now...
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TWO WEEKS LATER: DARLENE AND I "HAVE A CHAT"
My drive home from my fight with Darlene was uneventful, but let me tell you, the next day, I felt pain every inch of my body. Was it because I was 52? Was it because of how vicious the fight had gotten? Was it because Darlene was a skilled fighter?
Probably all three.
For relief of the pain, I started day-drinking. For the first time since my biker days. It fixed the pain. But, wow, did it make me feisty.
I kept flashing back to the day of the fight. The nerves leading up to it. Seeing the back of Darlene's hair, her sitting in the sales office. Closing the sound proof door, wanting a catfight right then and there with her, with the two young receptionists watching, showing them how experienced women fight. The bare knuckle boxing match. And then stripping for the catfight, seeing all the parts of Darlene's body I've been wanting to destroy for 33 years. And then the final sweaty, bloody (I'm pretty sure one or both of us even peed) catball on the floor. The rush of the whole day.
Telling the receptionists the next day that I had won. In my boozy, day-drinking buzz, I needed to tell more people--2 weren't enough. I go onto Darlene's Facebook profile. I post, "Attention Class of 1983. The Lisa-Sandy Catfight is no longer our Class's most vicious event. Darlene and I topped it last week--for reals, not for fun. And I won!!!!" It takes a couple days, but Likes and Shares accumulate. Our Class now knows about the fight.
Seemed like a good idea at the time. When my buzz wears off, I consider removing it. Nah, I'll do that later. Let a few more people share it first.
Wednesday night, 2 weeks after the fight. My phone rings. Caller id says it's Darlene. Should I answer it? Hell, yeah.
Me: Well, well.
Darlene: Well, well, my ass. Our fight needed and audience because, why, now? Some of us have jobs.
Me: We ALL have jobs, dumbass. I guarantee half those people don't believe there was any fight.
Darlene: Takes the post down, bitch.
<<<<<I suddenly realize I still have no idea what Darlene does for a living. I've clearly hit a nerve. This will be fun finding out why this is so damn important to her. We're 2,000 miles from where we grew up--who cares?>>>>
Me: Why should I? You can't make me, cxnt. I thought we clearly esblished that.
Darlene: You won, Diane. But you can't seriously want to go through that kind of fight again, do you?
<<<<<<Maybe I do.>>>>>
Me: If YOU don't want to, why would you call her trying to boss me.
Darlene: Because I don't want that damn post on Facebook.
Me: It's staying.
Darlene: You couldn't quit while you're ahead. Eight thousand dollars, satisfaction of winning, it wasn't enough.
Me: Because the whole point all along was bragging rights, bitch. And I'm exercising them.
Darlene: I know where you live.
Me: You knew where I lived in 1983 and didn't do anything.
Darlene: Well, this time is different.
Darlene hangs up on me.
Looks like I'll be getting a knock on my door soon. 33 years too late, but that's fine.
It's more than fine. It's great.
-
Looks like there is going to be a round 2.....and I for one can't wait.
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WAITING FOR DARLENE TO KNOCK
Over the course of the next few days, I realized Darlene had a tremendous advantage for our impending round 2. Since she would be exclusively choosing the timing, she would be prepared when the fight came, but I wouldn't be, necessarily. In effect, I needed to be prepared for that knock at my door, 24/7.
There was one beneficial outcome from this situation--my day-drinking habit came to an immediate end. The last thing I needed was an angry, primed Darlene banging down my door and finding a loopy, buzzed Diane, kicking my ass, taking what she wanted out of my house, and posting on Facebook she had gotten revenge on me.
Was that a mistake in Irving to show Darlene my jewelry? Does she want to come here and take it? I hide it in a kitchen cabinet till Darlene comes.
How is Darlene planning on driving home from our next fight? She must remember that both of us were beat up pretty badly in our first one. The next one, if anything will be worse. If she comes at me, she'll probably make arrangements to stay at a nearby hotel. And in the small town I'm in, the only hotel you'd stay in, at least if you don't want bedbugs, is a Crowne Plaza about 3 miles from my house.
As I return to my daily routine of managing my investments and buying groceries, I add to my daily list a drive by and walk thru of the Crowne Plaza. It's a long shot, but maybe one day I'll bust Darlene there. Anything to neutralize her advantage of surprise.
Plus, it helps pass the time. Let me tell you, there sure are a lot of hours in the day when you're waiting for someone to drop by. Should I go out right now? If I do, what if Darlene comes by when I'm out? What if she's bluffing and messing with my head? What if she wants no piece of me after our first fight, but wants me to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder?
I go to Darlene's Facebook page. She's been posting news stories and non-related conversations so that the posts about our fight will move off the page. There's still the occasional "WTF! Tell me about it!" inquiry from an old classmate--but the buzz is waning. I look at the names, wondering is Lisa or Sandy mind if I brought up their fight. I don't notice any posts with those names. I wonder where they are these days.
Lisa and Sandy. They were definitely growing up faster than most of the girls at our high school. And the boys--the boys our age couldn't handle either of them. Lisa and Sandy both dated boys who had already graduated. I would notice them getting picked up in pickup trucks after school, never needing to take the humiliating school bus ride home that the rest of us took. Lisa would get in a blue Ford truck, Sandy in a red Datsun. Day after day. Until one day, Lisa got in the Datsun, and Sandy in the Ford.
How mature, how cosmopolitan, how sophisticated of them, all the girls at school said. Still in high school and already "swapping partners". Without any drama.
Until the day there was drama. I remember sitting in the cafeteria at lunch one day, and Lisa at the next table telling a couple people, "Are you coming to the fight Friday night? I'm fighting Sandy." I remember getting soaked immediately. Two girls planning a fight? And telling other people about it? This was happening at our high school?
I was at the fight. There were about 10 boys and 35 girls in a circle at a softball field. Why were there more girls than boys here? Don't boys love to watch girls fight? None of the girls are even friends with Lisa or Sandy. Why is Darlene here? I could ask her, except she and I don't really talk, remember? Even though we're neighbors.
Lisa and Sandy have a three-round catfight, to the delight of their audience of 40+. Does it hurt to get hair pulled like that? Where did they learn to fight like that? By watching fights? By being in them? After round three, the crowd scatters as a patrol car swings by. I get home, obsessed with the fight I've just witnessed. I can see myself fighting, but not in front of that many people. Not in front of other girls. So.....humiliating. So....trashy. What did Darlene think of the fight, I wonder. Is that how she and I would fight, pulling hair and kicking? Is she imaging herself fighting? Against me?
The next day at school, everyone talks about the Lisa-Sandy fight. Some of it true, most of it not, or at least most of it exaggerated. (No, their tops did not come off.) People ask if I saw it. I deny I did. Why am I denying being at the fight?
I think back to the fight in Irving, the 2 receptionists. Why did the brunette think I would win? Why did the blonde think Darlene would win? Once they knew a fight happened, did they picture in their minds what it was like? Did they wish they had seen it?
These visits to the Crowne Plaza are a waste, I decide. I don't even know what kind of car Darlene drives. "Can I help you ma'am?", the hotel employees ask me. "Yes, I'm looking for a woman I'm having a rematch catfight with. Have you seen her?", I'm tempted to answer.
I want to text Darlene, but I can't show her that I'm getting anxious, that I'm on edge. If anything, that will cause her to drag this out more. If it's even going to happen. What if our first fight scared her off? We did get pretty vicious. What if she had been assuming I couldn't fight, and was surprised to find I can?
I need to keep this pot boiling. For whatever reason, the Facebook posts appear to be Darlene's hot-button. Those don't set well with her. I decide to post one.
"Class of 1983: Diane-Darlene might not be over yet. Unless Darlene wants it to be."
And I sit back and wait.
-
ROUND 2 IS ARRANGED
The Facebook post does its job. Later that night my phone rings. Caller id says it's Darlene.
Me: Backing out?
Her: Fuck you, I did all the work setting up the first fight, and I'm doing all the work setting up this one.
Me: What work are you doing, wise ass?
Her: I'll be on your turf for this one, and I need someone to watch my back. I'm bringing Sierra, the blonde girl from the condo sales office.
<<<<<My heart races. I'm thrilled with the idea.>>>>
Me: I'm fine with that idea. Your idea, or hers?
Her: What, do you like her or something? Diane, truth or dare: Are you straight, bi, what? We haven't talked about that yet.
Me: Truth. I'll answer, but then I have a question for you. I've felt attracted to women, dated them. But, no, once we were in bed, no, there was nothing there on my end, no matter how many different things we tried. No response from me. Maybe I never she'd my upbringing hangup, but to answer your question, for whatever reason, I'm straight. My question for you is different.
Her: Ask away <<<<sarcastically>>>>....
Me: Darlene, what did you think of the Lisa-Sandy catfight in high school? Or, what do uou think of it now? You weren't friends with either of them. Why were you there?
Her: Same reason you were, dumbass.
Me: That's not an answer. You don't know why I was there.
Her: Ok, fine. I wanted to see how girls fight. How do you beat a girl in a fight.
Me: Because there was a girl you thought you would fight.
Her: If that cop car hadn't come, I was gonna ask the crowd to stay and see if they wanted to see another fight. One between you and me.
Me: That's easy to say now. Lisa and Sandy took breaks between their rounds. You weren't doing anything to make a move at me.
Her: Did you want me to?
Me: I wanted you to get close enough for me to ask you why you never talk to me. That woulda started an argument, and then a fight.
Her: God, that fight was hot. I was so horny, I was scared to get close to you.
Me: I want to fight you in my house. Bring Sierra if that will make it happen.
Her: Sierra can get off work Friday.
Me: Text me when you're on the way.
Her: Oh, I will.
-
I just love how they work together to make sure the fight happens. Like they are setting up a book club meeting.
-
This is some great stuff.
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THE NIGHT BEFORE ROUND TWO
I get into bed early Thursday night. There's a sharper edge to my fight anticipation this time, knowing Sierra will be witnessing my fight with Darlene. The feelings I had about Lisa and Sandy catfighting in high school in front of a big crowd, their trampiness for being willing to do that--I feel a little bit of that feeling now about myself. I've been dressing trashy the last couple of days. I get out my jean cutoff shorts from my biker days. They still fit. Good. I'm wearing these for the catfight tomorrow.
Or, at least, I'll be starting in them. Darlene and I will be nude before the fight is finished. What will Sierra think? Does she already know an all-out grudge fight is in no clothes? That every part of the body gets scratched and twisted and punched? Has she ever seen a fight like that? Or been in one? Does she have an enemy?
I log onto Facebook. I wonder what Darlene is up to.
This is weird. A message to me. From a Lisa--"Lisa from high school. Oh, wow, I apprehensively open her note. I hope she's not upset I posted about her 1983 fight with Sandy on Facebook. Phew! It's a nice note. "You go girl! Glad you got back at that bitch Darlene for her beating you in that private fight you two had night after Graduation. She bragged so much about that, always wanted to see someone take her down a notch. Glad you didn't let it go."
My heart sinks.
?? WTF ??
I read Lisa's note at least 5 more times, to make sure I'm reading it correctly.
Then I get pissed. Like, I'm talking, really really pissed.
That bitch Darlene lied 33 years ago to the high school class. She told them she and I fought. And that she won.
For 33 years, the whole high school class thought Darlene beat me in a fight. She took credit for a fight that never happened. No wonder I never had any real friends in the class after school was done.
And no wonder Darlene doesn't want me posting about our fights now. She doesn't want her 1983 lie exposed.
Half of me wants to confront Darlene with her lie right now.
But she'll be here tomorrow.
I'll confront her with her lie. And after our fight, I'll force her to admit on Facebook that her whole life has been a lie.
I'm the better woman. I am now.
And I always was.
-
MY SECOND CATFIGHT WITH DARLENE
I wake up at home the morning of the day Darlene and Sierra are driving here for me to fight Darlene. The house feels different this morning, in a good way. Darlene will be in my house -- I want to fight her in my house. But she better not use my bathroom; Darlene grosses me out. Sierra better not use it either. On second thought, Sierra can use it-she's a cutie.
I start to worry: What if this is a setup? What if Darlene and Sierra are here to rob me? Is it not breaking and entering if I'm the one who invited me into the house? What if Darlene wants her $8,000 back from our first fight? I hide all my valuables. And then I decide not to worry--if Darlene wins, she wants me to take down my Facebook posts about us fighting. She doesn't care about my house. I hope.
I get into my cutoff shorts. Shame these will get destroyed in our fight. I put my hair down and straight. I look even better than last time. I drink less water than last time--I don't want to pee on my floor during the fight, like I think I did at the condo. My damn 52 year old bladder--getting old sucks.
Darlene texts that they're 30 minutes away. My jean shorts soak thru. I think I sort of just came.
A new, white Acura SUV pulls into my driveway. Sierra is driving. Is that Sierra's car or Darlene's? If it's Sierra, she is one spoiled rich bitch. Hot.
Sierra and Darlene ring. I answer, and ask them to come in. They're both in miniskirts, Darlene wearing one she clearly doesn't mind having shredded. Sierra's is nicer. They both smell damn good--I smell like I just came; I wish I had freshened up. The tension between Darlene and me is so taut, we'd probably be fighting already if Sierra wasn't here. But I'm glad we're not (yet); I have 2 questions.
Me: I have 2 questions, one for each of you.
Sierra: Oh goodie, me first.
Me: Sierra, why did you think Darlene would win our first fight?
Sierra: Well, in fairness, I thought it would be close. But I thought Darlene has a lower center of gravity and could bull-rush and take you down. But I'm guessing it wasn't that kind of fight.
Me: Well, it did start that way. And Darlene did pin me. Except she never pinned my hands, so her tits were nice and available for me. Is that the kind of fight you came to watch?
<<<<<Sierra clearly is not a fight rookie like I was at her age. Hot.>>>>>
Sierra: Hellz, yeah. You guys are really gonna do that?
Me: Keep your pants on, babe. I still haven't asked Darlene her question.
Darlene: This oughtta be good.
Me: Darlene, why did you lie to the girls in our class, way back, and tell them we fought the night after Graduation.
Darlene: Ok, whoa, time out. I totally got egged into doing that, and was obviously kidding. I never brought it up again.
Me: Obvious to who? The people who heard it believed it all this time. And still believe it today. Is that the real reason we never fought? Because you built a lie that we already had, and you couldn't muck up your story??
Darlene: Or maybe I assumed it would get back to you, and that would finally start something. Did you ever think of THAT?!?
Me: Well, it got back to me now. Sierra, I'm opening my Facebook account now. I want you to make sure the loser of this fight posts what REALLY happens here today. And what REALLY happened in 1983.
<<<<Darlene ostentatiously straps completely nude.>>>>>
Sierra: Yee-haa. Go for it, ladies.
I strip completely nude. Darlene and I approach each other standing, double-fisting each others hair. We pull down as hard as we can, and kick and knee each other multiple times. We each move our right hand lower to each others backs, and scratch as hard as we can, digging our nails deep into flesh. We pull in, our equally sized tits lining up, and rub furiously.
I'm conscious of Sierra's presence, and try hard not to let the fight fall to the ground. I want to look like I'm winning the fight, even if I'm not, so I'm hyper-conscious of maintaining my footing. Darlene and my clits find each other and rub together; the half-cumming sensation I had while waiting washes over me, and I groan uncontrollably, unable to resist rocking rhythmically of Darlene's full front side. Darlene is slightly shorter than me, and I feel her tongue on my neck. My half-cumming waves now become all-out orgasms, rolling over me in waves.
Darlene and I sink to our knees, and our hands find each others pussies. We alternately pull pussy hair and scratch. My waves of pleasure switch to excruciating pain. Darlene's tongue is still firmly on my neck, and I can feel her mouth sucking it. I feel her teeth on my neck--is she going to bite me? My pussy is gushing fluid--I feel like I peed again.
Darlene and I release our grips, and dig our nails into each others breasts. I remember that this is what Sierra wanted to see. I look over at her. She's masturbating rhythmically, trying to watch us but periodically looking up at the ceiling, apparently involuntarily. I can't let her see me lose.
I grab Darlene by the hair, and knee her repeatedly on the crotch. I remember what Sierra said about pinning, and go for the pin, remembering to pin Darlene's hands too. My knees are on her shoulders now. I put my right hand behind me and mercilessly torture Darlene's pussy. I curse taunts into her face. She tries to knee my back, but I lean forward, my tits now smothering her face. I rip out pussy hair from the roots.
Darlene literally starts crying. And gives.
I go to Sierra. We tongue each other furiously. We finger fuck each other repeatedly.
After we clean up, Darlene posts on Facebook: "This is Darlene. Diane and I never fought in 1983. We fought twice in 2016. She beat me both times."
The End.
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WE BOTH KNOW THIS ISN'T OVER
My second catfight with my old high school neighbor, and enemy, Darlene, and Darlene's Facebook posting setting the record straight about what did, and didn't, really happen in 1983, generated some buzz back in New England. High school classmates came out of the woodwork, both female and male, who wanted to reconnect on Facebook. And SnapChat. Did you know SnapChat is used for nude selfies? Honestly, I didn't know that. 53 years old, and still naive in some things, apparently. A few guys claimed they had crushes on me. But I'm in Texas, and they're not. Gosh, still in New England 34 years later, dudes? Grow up and move on. I mean, I admit I'm sorta broke. But, gheezh, and least I lived somewhere else during my life.
So, no, none of the Facebook posts ever went beyond SnapChat "sex". Kinda pathetic. Guess my prince is never coming. Is this what it's like to feel old?
I'll tell you what makes me feel the opposite of old. The two fights with Darlene. I replay that whole 2 month episode back in my mind. Me using Google and finding her on the Internet. Finding out she and I both lived in Texas. Contacting her on Facebook, and the night I called her. Telling her I wanted to fight her. Her saying yes. Driving to a condo development, and meeting in a conference room to set up rules. Rules to a catfight. Seeing her for the first time in 33 years. Still hating each other like we did all those years ago. Meeting in a condo being remodelled. Fighting her. Beating her. Then a rematch at my place.
Any one of those things would have made me feel young again. And I did all of them. With her.
Late at night my mind starts thinking. One fight with Darlene was exhilarating. Two was, I don't know, dangerous. What would a third be like? I'm not getting any younger.
I wonder if Darlene has a SnapChat account.
She does. My heart races.
I wonder if she's online now.
Shit. She's not.
I feel sad. Empty.
Do I still have her cell number? I do. I call.
Shit. Voice mail.
She's probably asleep. Maybe I should text.
Me: U there?
Shit. What if she doesn't remember it's me at this number.
Me: It's Diane.
I wait.
Nothing.
I feel empty again. 53 years old. This is what my life has come to.
I go to sleep.
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At 6am, my cellphone rings. It's Darlene's number. My heart races.
Darlene: Somebody was drunk texting last night, Hmmmm?
Me: <<<half with attitude>>>> I wasn't drunk. You must be projecting.
Darlene: Attitude. Always a bitch.
Me: Now who's projecting?
Darlene: I don't get a good morning?
Me: Not from me.
Darlene: You enjoying this?
Me: <<<<touching myself>>> I hate you.
Darlene: Back at you. What are you going to do about it?
Me: So it's not over?
Darlene: Bitch, we both know this isn't over.
<<<<Silence. I'm rubbing myself furiously. I can't decide if I want her to know or not.>>>
Darlene: Bitch, you shoulda quit when you were ahead.
Me: Slut, I'm up 2 oh. You'd hafta win 3 in a row to be ahead.
Darlene: Or put you in a body cast. Maybe fuck up that pretty face.
<<<<<Silence. Rubbing>>>>>
Me: I hosted last time. Your turn now. When?
Darlene: When can you be here?
Me: You're not serious.
Darlene: It's 6:30 now. Shall we say, 10:30?
Me: <<<<<What have I gotten myself into?>>>>> Fine.
Darlene: Fine.
Me: Fine.
Darlene: Get in the car, whore.
Me: Don't you want my face pretty? You know, to fuck it up?
Darlene: I'd rather start sooner.
Me: Fine.
Darlene: Fine.
Me: Fuck you.
Darlene: Fuck you.
I hang up and finish before she can hear me cum in my hand.
Shit, that was intense.
And the morning's just started.
I have a catfight to drive to.
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Damn hon....this just gets better and better. Cannot wait to read more.
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A DRIVE TO DALLAS (or, DIANE DOES DALLAS)
In the dark of my lonely house, the decision to accept Darlene's offer of an immediate fight seemed like the right one, the only one. Back in my biker chick days, I'd have to weigh and balance how close I was to having my period (Excuse my French. Gross, I know; but, hey, it was a real concern.). One of the nice things about, ahem, mature, is that now I'm free of all that lady parts stuff. I had my hysterectomy at 48, and now I don't care what time of the month it is.
Free to fight or fuck, 24/7/365. And the fucking has been few and far between, and what little there has been, quite disappointing--may as well fight.
But as I pack a quick overnight bag, chug a protein shake, wash my face, comb my hair, roll on some antiperspirant, lock up, and head out onto the freeway, well, as the sun comes up, I start to doubt my decision.
First, if we fight again, Darlene and I are at a crossroads. Darlene seems to have come to terms with me being the better fighter. Now it's just about maiming me, or the opportunity to do so. How do I respond? Do I try and "mess up" Darlene? Do I want to?
Why was I masturbating our entire phone conversation? Am I attracted to her? Have I always been? Sierra, the spectator at our second fight, totally got me off when fucked after the rematch fight. She was the first woman to ever get me off. Am I finally over whatever girl on girl hang up I had? Will I be cumming when Darlene and I fight? Will she?
When we were setting up our second fight, why did Darlene ask if I was bi? Is she? Was she propositioning me?
Or is this is setup? Is Darlene going to have someone over? Will the two of them jump me?
There's no way I'm going straight to Diane's. I don't want my car there. I'm driving to Dallas, checking into a cheap motel, then Uber-ing it out to Darlene's place in Irving.
If that delays the fight a half hour, too bad. Darlene can cool her heels.
If I win the fight, I weigh what I can take from her house and not end up in jail. Our first fight was for $8,000. Our second ended up being for that 25 year old blonde number, Sierra. We planned the 3rd so fast, we didn't establish stakes. Does she have rings from her 2 divorces. Shit, that would be sweet to steal. Anything that fits in my purse is coming home with me, I decide.
It'll feel good being in the bitch's place. Not my problem if anything is damaged. Totally worth the drive.
Yes, it's come to this. All because we didn't settle things in high school.
So be it. Fine by me.
What am I not thinking of? Think, think, think Diane.
I'll be in a strange city with no backup. Darlene brought Sierra when we fought at my place. What if I lose a tooth? What if I need stitches? What if I break a bone?
Is this insane?
Or is it brilliant? This feels right. The first two fights were intense, without us killing each other. But were we trying to? Will we try today? What kind of revenge has been festering in Darlene's cold heart?
Or in mine? Why did I reach out to her? I wanted this--do I know why?
A trunk honks at me. The driver likes how my straight brown hair looks, blowing around in the car. I ignore him, but it feels good to get hooted at at 53.
And he's right--I do look good. Sexy. My skin has a glow when I have a fight lined up. My hair has a sheen. It did in my biker chick fighting days. And it does again since my feud with Darlene started. Restarted.
Shit, I didn't even shower this morning, and I look totally fuckable. With no makeup.
Darlene looks younger than in her Facebook picks. I hate to admit it, but she's still fuckable, too.
Us fighting has been the fucking Fountain of Youth for both of us.
I get to the Dallas suburbs. I see a Comfort Inn. This will do.
I check in. 3 nights. No maid service, please.
I go to the room and pee. I chug a Mountain Dew with a Smirnoff shooter. The vodka hits me right away. Back to day drinking.
10:00. Right on time. I set up the Uber pickup. I text Darlene.
Me: 30 minutes away. 45 minutes tops.
Darlene: Let's get right down to business. Morning kindergarten kids come back home at 12:30.
Me: 60-90 minute fight then?
Darlene: Unless you have a better idea.
Me: I don't.
Darlene: Fine.
Me: Fine.
Darlene: Fuck you.
Me: Fuck you more.
I wonder why Darlene never had kids. I wonder why she lives in a neighborhood with them.
No, I don't. I hate that bitch. Everything about her.
One of us is getting fucked up. The vibe is nastier than our last two fights.
My Uber driver arrives.
I get in.
Here we go.
To be continued.....
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Wow...impressive stuff. Thank ya for sharing :)
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This is so hot. Can't wait for next part.
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WOMEN'S INTUITION
Women's intuition. Greatest thing in the world. It's never failed me. And it definitely didn't fail me the morning of my third fight with Darlene.
Now, I knew the cattiness between us was amped up eight notches or so on the dial. Before our first two fights, the conversation between Darlene and me was, I don't know, strained, unnatural. But I sensed it was from genuine apprehension about the physical conflict which was imminent. Not so this morning. Darlene was up to something--she had a plan, a scheme. I needed to be alert to what it was.
It didn't take long.
As my Uber ride pulled up to Darlene's two-story, 5,000-plus square foot cookie cutter McMansion (shit, she sure took some guy for a ride during one of her divorces; I hope he was an asshole to her the entire marriage), even the Uber driver could tell something was wrong. It was a typical oppressive Texas morning, with worse forecasted for the afternoon, but every upstairs window was wide open. (First thought: is Darlene planning on pushing me out a window?) I half-consider asking the driver to stick around. But fuck it--I can handle this bitch alone; just stay alert, Diane, stay alert.
I go to the front door and ring the bell. And wait. Darlene is either purposely being a jerk (what else is new? I thought she wanted us finished before the neighborhood school kids started coming home from school), or something is up. As i sense the time window to get our fight over with, I flash back to 1983--if I had knocked on Darlene's door back then, we would have been trying to get a fight in before our parents came home. Why was I so self-conscious back then about fighting the neighbor girl and telling my parents? Once I told them about how Darlene was freezing me out of high school parties, wouldn't they have been proud of me sticking up for myself? Was it because I knew a fight between Darlene and me wouldn't be a schoolyard fist fight or even a streetfight, but even back then would have been a catfight? Was I afraid to let my parents in on the sexual tension between Darlene and me, even in 1983? Did I not want to have a birds-and-bees conversation that involved be being anything other than plain vanilla straight heterosexual? Darlene and I had a whole grassy yard between our houses--why didn't we just fight right there? Lisa and Sandy's fight had been outside on grass. Why were we looking for an opportunity to fight inside? Did we both want a naked brawl back then? Is that why it never happened?
Shit, I've been waiting a long time. Some thing's up. Stay on guard.
Darlene comes to the door. She's hiding something--women's intuition. And she's trying too hard to act natural. "You made it!! Come on in!!" Like I'm here for a fucking wedding shower. Bitch.
The stench of Lysol is overwhelming. "Do you fucking have cats?", I inadvertently blurt out. "No pets, why," says Darlene, way too casually. I keep my distance from her. She's fixing to jump me, I can feel it. Not that I'm opposed to the idea--that's what i drove 3 hours for, after all--just not till I can figure out this bitch's angle this morning. Then it hits me--what the Lysol is meant to cover up. It's pepper spray.
Back in my Nevada biker chick days in the 1990s, I had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time when the cops raided a biker bar, the bikers were none to happy about it, and the cops came at us full force with batons and pepper spray. If that was today, tasers would have been in the mix too, but pepper spray was their go-to weapon that day. I was young and inexperienced, and I got some to the face--I'll never forget the distinctive smell and sting, and I could tell it was coming from upstairs, which explained the open windows.
I got angry, rushed Darlene, pinned her left hand behind her back, and jammed her face into the kitchen island granite.
--Explain what's going on, you no-good lying slut, I hiss at her.
--What? Diane, let me go.
Darlene's mouth is partially covered by the countertop, so I wiggle her head sideways, but just barely, so she can talk. We are both shaking.
--Diane, let me go.
--As soon as you tell me what's up. Darlene, that's fucking pepper spray coming from upstairs.
--What?!?!?!?
I cram her face back into the granite.
--Don't lie to me, bitch, or I. Will. Fucking. Hurt. You.
I'm serious too. I almost walked into an ambush this morning. I'm as mad at myself as I am at Darlene. But I'm not telling her that.
Minutes pass. Probably seconds, but it seems like minutes. If we don't start soon, our fight window is going to close. At least at this location. Damn, and I was primed for a brawl, too. But not an unfair one. Stay on guard.
I can tell Darlene has cracked--she whimpering like after the end of our second fight. Like when a girl gives to you in an arranged fight, even though Darlene hasn't officially said the words.
Darlene's resistance lets up. I relax my hold.
--Fine, you wanna know what happened? Let me go.
--Tell me first. And one lie and this island will have your face permanently imprinted in it, you got that?
Lame, I know. But I'm pissed.
--Diane, I swear this is true. But long story short--remember when we fought before? That blonde receptionist Sierra? I brought her with me to our second fight?
Umm, ya. I remember everything about her, dumb ass. She and I finger fucked after the fight, remember? Or maybe you were more out of it than I remember. Sweet.
--Vaguely. What about her?
--Diane, I'm bi, ok? And I had been trying to date her for months. But she was hesitant because of our age difference. But when I told her you and I fought, she was interested. She likes watching catfights. But she only likes being with the winner. Well, you told her you won the first fight, but she told me if a second fight happened and I won, I could have my way with her. So I brought her with me to your house, and I thought I could beat you with her watching. But you beat me, and nothing happened between her and me the whole ride home. Or since.
Damn, I think. Hot.
--What the fuck does this have to do with pepper spray upstairs?
--Diane, I had this dumb idea that if you came here this morning, I could put you down with pepper spray, take a picture, text it to Sierra, and tell her you and I had fought and I had won. And then she would want me. But when I was getting the spray out this morning, I forgot how to use it, and the cannister exploded. I threw open all the windows before I passed out. Stupid.
I release my grip.
I back off. Darlene is whimpering.
Minutes pass in silence.
She's right about one thing. Sierra would have definitely wanted her. Shit, the blonde went crazy on me after she watched me beat Darlene at my place.
--Darlene, are you crying because you fucked up your plan. Or because you miss Sierra?
--Both.
--Because, if you miss Sierra, maybe I can help you.
Darlene looks me in the eye for the first time all morning. Shit's finally getting real.
--If she likes catfights, let's give her a show. Let's catfight in front of her. Winner gets to fuck her.
To be continued......
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I am not sure how you do it hon but this keeps getting better and better. Just when it appears to be getting good you ramp it up even more. Awesome job!
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FIGHTING FOR SIERRA
Darlene did not hesitate in texting Sierra. Something along the lines of: "SOS. Diane is here--with me. We want to fight today--you can watch. Call me." Sierra called back quicker than i expected, and said she could be at Darlene's at 6, and for us not to start without her. She said she was "sort of in a relationship, with a new guy", and that by attending tonight she was "definitely risking messing that up", but that it was "totally worth it for you two bitches". I pretended not to hear that remark, so that Darlene would not notice my cheeks turning warm.
Darlene showed me the room we would fight in--a ground floor unfurnished dining room with wood flooring. The entire house was way underfurnished--Darlene either didn't have the cash to furnish it, was getting ready to downsize someday, or was staying flexible for a future partner someday. I think of the comments she had made to me--telling she was bi, asking if I was "done with guys for good", her wanting to date Sierra. Was she hoping Sierra would move in someday? As someone who had lived 6 years of subprime hell in Nevada, ground zero of the real estate crash, the house screamed out "faking it financially" to me. But maybe I was projecting again. Or maybe it was wishful thinking.
Let's test my hunch, i think to myself as Darlene shows me the fight room. Maybe Darlene has her check register out, or brokerage statements. I'm in full-blown kleptomaniac mode, and I don't feel guilty at all--this psycho was planning on pepperspraying me. I see real estate agent business cards and slip one in my pocket--so the bitch is working as a realtor: I kind of already deduced that from the visit to the condo complex for our first fight. I notice she's doing business under one of her prior married names--something for me to research at a later time. If I still give a shit after I kick her ass tonight, and fuck her girlcrush. With her watching.
Just in the nick of time, as my aggression hormones are reawakening, Darlene offers for me to stay until 6 ("I can't go anywhere anyways with the upstairs windows open"), and I say thanks-but-no-thanks, flag Uber, tell Darlene I'll be back at 6:15 tonight (if I arrive before Sierra does at 6, and Darlene and I are alone, I can already tell we'll get into it), and go out to the sidewalk to wait for my ride. The morning kindergarten busses are just rolling thru the neighborhood, moms and grandmoms and nannies picking up the 5 year olds. If this morning had gone differently, right now I would have been walking out after a vicious catfight, hopefully victorious, but likely wounded. What would the moms and nannies have thought as they saw me standing there, I wonder. Have any of them ever gone to the house of a romantic rival while school was going on and had a catfight? Did they love it as much as I do?
I look at the grandmother's picking up the kids at the bus stops. Some can't be more than 5 or 10 years older than me. If my life had gone differently, that would have been me this time of day, every school day. Would that have been a happier life for me? Would I have been less broke? I would definitely be less lonely. And less scared about the future.
Why am I in my shoes today, instead of theirs? Why are they picking up kids at a bus stop, and I'm waiting for an Uber ride in a strange city to catfight for sex with a kinky blonde half my age I barely know? Why did I never get pregnant? Am I bi like Darlene? Did some part of me know it all these years? Am I facing now what I should have faced when I was 20? Would my life have been happier? Am I unhappy now? Or just still reeling from my foreclosure nightmare? Why don't I have any close friends? Is Darlene the closest thing to a friend in my life right now? Is this what it's like to have a frenemy?
Uber picks me up. I ask to get taken to a Panera drive through window, then back to my motel room. I'm famished. I finish eating. Shit, 2:38 already--where is the day going. I shower, but don't feel cleaner--shoulda sprung for a more expensive motel. If I had known I was seeing Sierra, I would have brought more makeup. Maybe I should have taken Darlene up on her offer to stay at her house. She had more than enough bathrooms for both of us.
Maybe she would have jumped me in the shower. I try and wrap my head around her pepper spray plan. Has she ever pepper sprayed someone? Did one of her divorces go so wrong that she felt threatened by him, and was maybe even attacked by him? Is that how she learned to fight?
I think back of my pinning Darlene on the kitchen island this morning. I learned that move, I realize now, from my biker chick days, when I got pinned by a cop during a raid. What moves are in Darlene's head that she'll use tonight? I've won 2 fair fights--is she going to keep banging her head against the wall trying to beat me fair? Or is she going to cheat? Does her pepper spray plot mean she's out of ideas, or just getting started?
What about me? What should my strategy be tonight? Fight like before? Do something different? I don't even remember--what WAS my strategy the first two fights?
What about Sierra? Use her as motivation? Or keep my focus on Darlene?
Fuck, it's 4:15. I need a nap, but too late now. The vodka for breakfast was a mistake--my body thinks it's 10pm now. Fuck, this isn't feeling right. Backing out now will be humiliating. I can just imagine what Darlene would post of Facebook.
Should I just have kicked the shit out of Darlene this morning, when I had her whimpering? Why did I let her off the hook?
Am I going to regret letting Sierra into the picture? Or is she the whole point of this? Is she the girl that finally makes me lose my hang-up, and let's me move on and have a normal sex life while I'm sill fuckable? Am I the only woman in America, straight or otherwise, not having sex on Snapchat?
I try to masturbate. I can't get "over to top", so now I'm even more out of sorts than when I started. 5:10. I need to get ready. I arrange for Uber to pick me up at 5:45. What are the rush hour traffic patterns here? I don't know--remember? I don't live here!!!
I'm tired, and the Panera wasn't enough food for today.
This has disaster written all over it.
To be continued.......
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LOVE TRIANGLE
It's 6:45pm in an Irving, Texas McMansion, and there are three bitchy, horny women sitting naked in a McMansion living room sipping white wine.
I'm bitchy because I'm hungry and tired from a long morning drive, and a nightmare Uber ride thru Dallas rush hour traffic that got me here 30 minutes late.
Darlene is bitchy because she spent the afternoon finding out the upstairs of her house has $25,000 of pepper spray damages. She's a realtor, so a contractor will fix it for cost. You and me?--we'd pay $40,000 for the same repairs.
Which makes me even bitchier. Just because she's a realtor?? Lucky tramp. I want to punch her in the tits for that.
Sierra (God, she's fucking hot) is bitchy because she stood up her boyfriend tonight to watch a catfight, and he dumped her. She's in the mood for some scorching rebound sex.
Either Darlene or me are going to give it to her. One or the other. Not both.
So the anticipation has all 3 of us horny.
Sierra has a couple of (tasteful) tattoos, a statuesque body, even longer blonde hair than when I finger fucked her 2 months ago.
Anyone would want her. Man or woman. Boy or girl. Straight or bi or transgender or gender fluid or whatever new crap they have today. Any. One. Would. Fuck. Sierra. She's pure, walking, talking sex.
Darlene and I want her. Only one will have her. She only fucks winners.
I'm late. But I'm here now. No point pretending there will be rules. The vacant dining room has French doors. Sierra will be watching thru those. Watching who her rebound sex fuck for the night will be.
I tell Darlene that the sooner we start fighting, the sooner the winner starts fucking Sierra.
I go into the dining room first, and Darlene follows and shuts the doors. Sierra takes a barstool and pulls it up to the French door to watch. She's buck naked, and crossing her legs.
Always the lady.
Nothing ladylike about what's about to happen on the other side of the French doors, in here.
Darlene and I are in each others hair instantly. I'm going to shred this bitch. My nails are in her scalp. Hers are tearing of my hair like I'm in a barber's chair. Mine move to her back and shoulders and dig deep, like a plow in farmland. Our tits are touching, hard as 20 year olds. We go to the floor, tightening our grips.
We roll into the wall, my butt up against it. Darlene's knees pound my crotch. The pain is crippling. I lose my grip on Darlene. She scrambles to her feet and starts kicking my head and face. She connects a couple times, then misses, her big toe connecting with the baseboard, her shrieking in pain and swearing. She turns away, I'm up, and I tackle her. I reach around and bury my claws into both of her tits. I twist mercilessly, and tell her in her ear what a no-good lying bitch she is and always has been. She bends backwards, and slams my head onto the hardwood floor.
She pins me, and goes into ground and pound mode. But her tits are unprotected, and I start to punch. I knee her desperately in the back, her butt slides up to my mouth, and I bite her thighs. Darlene screeches again, leaning forward, and bites my left shoulder. She reaches backwards and claws my crotch.
I roll, and slam Darlene into the wall.
We both leap up and face each other, hateful stares penetrating each others eyes.
We square up. warily circling, jabbing each others tits.
We're both out of breath.
Neither one is renewing the clinch.
Sierra opens the French doors, holding our white wine glasses.
"Ding, ding. I think that's round one ladies. I had it 10-9 Diane for the first use of biting. But I don't think this one is going to a decision. I think we'll have a KO soon."
To be continued.....
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Oh my god yes....don't you dare keep us waiting for round 2.
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FIRST INTERMISSION
Darlene and I instinctively retreat the opposite corners to be tended to by Sierra. She did the right thing choosing this fight over a boyfriend tonight--no guy is worth missing the epic bitch brawl whispy is underway. I want to sit, but don't want Darlene to think I'm tired, so I stand while Sierra dabs my shoulder bite wound with napkins and bottled water. I hiss across at Darlene " I hope you got your rabies shot." She hisses right back, "Didn't you get yours at your clinic, already, treating your STDs?" . And I'm back at her, "Bitch, your STD treatment plan is abstinence."
"Ladies, ladies," interrupts Sierra, "I appreciate the passion. But save the energy for Round 2. You're gonna need it." She continues tending my wound.
I stop, because I know that last one stung Darlene as much as any tit punch I dished out in Round 1. She's in a slump sexually, and I know why. Instead of going on a post-divorce sex bender, like any self-respecting middle aged woman (including me; hey, we've all been there), she's fixated on Sierra. Obviously ran into her one day as part of her realtor job, and was smitten. Started asking her out, and struck out. Then along comes me, her high school rival, and already scores an epic mutual finger fuck. Which Darlene had to watch. No wonder the bitch is so bitter.
As Sierra wraps up treating my wound, I survey the hair littering the floor. It's about half-and-half--half is my brown hair, but a solid 50% is Darlene's jet black Portuguese hair. Good. During the fight, it felt like I was the only one losing hair. But I got her good.
Before Sierra leaves me to treat my opponent, she whispers to me: "Keep doing what you did on that round baby, and I'll give you the best fuck you ever had." She then leans in, and we tongue kiss for 15 seconds. I know it was exactly 15--you don't forget a kiss from that girl.
Shit. I wish I could fuck her right now.
As Sierra walks over to Darlene and treats her thigh bite, I feel the glow of Sierra telling both of us that she thinks I won the first round. Sierra washes Darlene's thigh, but then stats tease-kissing Darlene's pussy. If she's trying to make me jealous, it's working. If she's trying to make Round 2 even more intense, it's working. If she's trying to turn on Darlene, it's working. I can see Darlene's tits and nipples at full arousal. Note to self: target those things early in Round 2.
My cardio is back--I'm ready to start Round 2. But Sierra is continuing to towel off Darlene. I always wondered why Lisa and Sandy, when they had their high school catfight, did it in front of us classmates instead of in front of their mutual boyfriend's. Was it because if you do it in front of the 3rd person in the triangle, that the cattiness and viciousness takes over, like is happening with Darlene and me?
I could kill that bitch right now, no lie. Even my worst biker chick fight wasn't like this--no matter how close and dirty the fight had been, no matter how long the feud, when it was over, the winner would get in maybe one last hit, or kick, but then would walk away. I have no desire to walk away from Darlene. I want to destroy her body, steal everything I can grab in her house, destroy her reputation on Facebook....
And steal Sierra from her. Especially that one. I want Sierra. And want to block Darlene from having Sierra.
Sierra is whispering something in Darlene's ear.
She leaves thru the French doors, saying, "Ding, ding. Round 2."
To be continued......
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Has the second part of this story been written, if so what title is it under? Can't wait for this to come to a finish... Maybe it is in "Deadskirts.com" for the ultimate end, a final round catball fight with the winner taking Sierra and fucking each other over her body.
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ROUND 2, DIANE VS DARLENE
Darlene's tits are bigger and harder than I've ever seen them, aroused from the between-rounds kissing with Sierra. I come to the center of the dining room with my fists cocked, jabbing at Darlene's breasts with precise, controlled swings. The flesh-on-flesh "thwap" when I connect directly thrills my senses, as does the woman-to-woman violence of a standup fistfight. At first my slight reach and height advantage gives me a 3-to-1 edge in landed punches, but after a couple of minutes, Darlene gets the measure of me and reverses the ratio to 3-to-1 in her favor. I struggle to suppress painful groans, but Darlene's face shows satisfaction at her success at inflicting pain to my body.
I drop my fists to block or at least deflect Darlene's blows, but Darlene surprises me by uppercutting my jaw, causing me to bite my tongue and taste iron in my mouth. Shit--that's why some bikerchick fistfighers wore mouthguards. I jab at Darlene's face, wanting to rearrange it. We stare hatred into each others' eye which speaks volumes.
We both miss with a pair of face punches snd come together in a clinch. I notice how sweaty we each are, and how aroused my flesh is sexually. Darlene and I pull each other together to maximize body contact. I feel flattered that a bi woman is getting aroused at contact with my body. The building sexual dimension of the confrontation between Diane and me is becoming ever more evident--the jealousy and rivalry in the 1983 version of ourselves has re-emerged, while the confidence and insecurities of our 2016 selves is stoked by the presence of Sierra.
Our clinch becomes a drunken, stumbling bearhug, as we wrap our arms ever tighter around one another. We bang into the wall, trying to drive each others' shoulders or collarbones into the hard surface. We sense each others' hands moving down our backs, grabbing each others' butt cheeks. Darlene's ass is hard is rock--shit, is there a workout exercise that achieves that effect?
We begin pushing our crotches together, trading places against the wall to maintain our balance and footing. Much of the motion is clumsy fumbling, but there are moments when our pussy lips lock together like puzzle pieces. Those moments are pure, transcendant, raw hatred. We begin hissing into each others' faces.
Bitch.
cxnt.
I win all our fucking fights.
I'm winning this one.
Fuck you, how are you winning.
Your mouth is bleeding, slut. Now you can't kiss Sierra.
Shit, Darlene is right. I notice blood smeared on Darlene's cheek, which came from my mouth. I pull my upper body away from her, but am reluctant to release our leg lock. Darlene releases a moan, the type a woman only emits in a sexual context. I'm flattered again--but is she moaning from our pussies rubbing, or because she drew blood from me--there's a big difference, and I have a sudden need to know the answer. Without thinking, I thrust my hip into hers and demand,
"You like that, baby?"
I mean it as a factual question, as in, "Are you turned on by me, or by hurting me?" But, in the heat of the moment, it sounds like an attempt at foreplay. Which it wasn't. Darlene seizes me by hair, my blood congealing on her cheek, and hisses at me, "I don't know what your game is, you sick fucking cxnt, if this is a fight, then fucking fight me."
She then pushes me away and yells to Sierra, "Can you come in here and make sure the bitch didn't lose a fucking tooth?", and retreats to her corner.
Sierra hustles into the room with towels, water, and a spit bucket, asking me to rinse my mouth do she can get a good view into it, purring something about, "This battle is so good, we want it to last as long as possible." But my head is struggling to process the strange turn of events. My lifelong sexual insecurities, or, actually, confusion, dominate my senses. Were Darlene and I acting out sexually, mutually, when our crotches were rubbing? Why did she let it go on so long if she didn't like it? Why did she get angry so suddenly? I want to ask Sierra--but, did she even notice? Why isn't she saying anything now? I want to talk, but Sierra is holding my mouth open and looking into it. She tells me, "Those were some vicious punches--let me make sure no teeth came flying out?" Wait--we were landing vicious punches on each other? Or just Darlene's were vicious? And why isn't Sierra saying who won that round--is it obvious I lost?
I feel out of sorts. Should I? Or is Darlene just playing with my head?
Sierra kisses me, and everything feels better. Will everything feel better with my life if I can have a girl like her, everyday?
Is that why I tracked down Darlene to fight her after all these years: to feel better about my life?
I watch Darlene and Sierra kissing in the far corner. Is Sierra hoping Darlene will win so she can fight a genuine bi woman instead of me?
I can't wait for Round 3 to start.
To be continued......
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ROUND 3
Darlene has me confused as hell. When I bit her earlier in the fight, she didn't even comment. But when I rubbed up against her a certain way, she got all offended; pissed off, even. I don't get it. I don't get her. I think back to 1983, when Darlene and I were seniors in high school. There was always something "off" between us. We couldn't even say hello to each other like normal people. Maybe a fight back then would have cleared the air--maybe we would actually have been friends, or at least normal neighbors, after that.
There's no chance of that now. There's someone witnessing our fight. Is that why Lisa and Sandy wanted witnesses for their fight in 1983? How humiliating for Sandy to lose a fight in front of 30 girls from her high school class. I'm sure Lisa and Sandy were never friends again after that fight--never sgain double-dated and swapped with, or got swapped by, the older men they dated.
Darlene says she wants to "really fight". Lisa vs Sandy--that was a real girlfight. It was streetfight/catfight style--both girls trying to control the other by the hair, then landing a rapid succession of punches and uppercuts to the face. I've never been a fan of that fighting style--too many thrown punches end up being useless punches to the top or side of the head. Maybe I should get Darlene into a hairpull, curl up like a hedgehog, and let her wear herself out punching me.
"Round three, bitches. Ding, ding," says a gleeful Sierra, closing the door behind her. Shit, her body, her smile are distracting. The thought of 20 years of sex with her--dayum.
Darlene and I approach each other warily. We enter into a hairpull. I begin to sonder if this is a mistake--Darlene's hair is thicker, but mine is longer. I remember this being a source of jealousy between us in the 1980s. I was jealous of the thickness and color of her black hair. She never grew it past her shoulders, though; I assume because it started to curl up and frizz out after that. Which is why my long, feathered, straight hair must have driven her crazy, even though it was a nondescript light brown color. I didn't enhance its color any--18 year old girls didn't really do that in 1983--we allocated our haircare budget to feathering and sculpting. Girls who had a distinct natural color, like Darlene, had an advantage in dating.
I know each others' hair are on our minds now, as we waltz around the room, tugging and twisting mercilessly. I'm at maximum horniness, between Sierra's mischievous smile, and pulling at the part of Darlene's body I've obsessed at most over the years.
Girls who are enemies usually obsess over each others' breasts. Maybe if I had been more obsessed with Darlene's breasts, or she with mine, that 1983 fight would have happened. Maybe I would have knocked on her door, or she on mine, one day after school, before our parents got home. Bring alone in a house, we could have done a "I'll show you yours if you show me mine", like I did with the quiet boy in the adjacent cul de sac, when he wanted to see real breasts and I wanted to see a real penis. Our sex with each other was so innocent, wd were mostly with each other to see each others' bodies.
If Darlene and I were obsessed with bressts instead of hair, we would have started arguing about whose was nicer. Is that why Lisa's and Sandy's swapping arrangement fell apart? Did their boyfriends compare each others' breasts after they had each seen and felt both of them?
With Darlene and I bending each other over by the hair, I swing an uppercut at her left breast. She crumples tl her knees on the floor, pulling me down. We are in a fully tangled catball on the floor, desperately trying to stay on top.
This is what most of Lisa and Sandy's catfight was--a tangled, grabbing, rolling cstball on the ground. I feel a desperation, a creeping fear, not to let Darlene get on top of me. I long to release my horniness into a long climactic orgasm, but fear Darlene will take advantage and beat me to a pulp. As I would do to her right now, if presented the opportunity.
The contrasting temptations, between accepting pleasure and inflicting pain, are surreal.
At long last, Darlene are having an 18 year old girl girlfight.
To be continued......
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MOUNTING DARLENE
Ok, so let me tell you something I learned that night about fighting a girl on the ground. Maybe some of you who have watched or even been in lots of chickfights already know this, but I difn't realize it until Round Three of my second fight with Darlene. Here it is, my pearl of girlfight wisdom:
As undignified as it is to be under a girl in a catfight that's gone to the ground, it's even more difficult, bordering impossible, to be ladylike when you're mounting a girl who you've got an advantage on but who still has fight in her. What I mean is, the posture you inevitably assume is one you only assume in two other circumstances in life--when you've dropped something very small and get on all fours to look for it, or when you're about to receive a cock for doggie-style sex. And unless the dropped object is damned valuable, or the guy owning the cock is damned desirable, no self-respecting woman ever "assumes the position" more times than she needs to in life.
I think back to the 1983 Lisa-Sandy high school catfight. All of us girls looked up to how "glamorous" and "mature" Lisa and Sandy were for dating older men with trucks and jobs, then for swapping boyfriends. We were also mesmerized by the site of them rolling on the ground, mounting each other and landing punches. I now realize why. It wasn't the punching--it was the mounting. Mounting a girl in the on-all-fours posture, with 20-30 girls watching. It was--sexy. Sexy as fuck. That's why I went straight home and masturbated after that fight.
I'm now fighting Darlene like that. She mounts me, and I buck her off. I mount her, and attempt to stay on top, all while landing punches to her face. I alternate between the doggie style position and the upright riding position. Sierra is watching us. Is she getting as turned on as I did watching the Lisa-Sandy fight? Is that why she likes watching girlfights?
Darlene is getting angry at spending more time under me than on top. Shit, I love being on top of Darlene. I feel better than her, sexier than her, more of a woman than her. We dig our nails into each others' flesh and twist. Hard. We punch at faces, breasts, and bellies. I grind into Darlene with my hips. We screech in pain at the clawing and scratching.
Dsrlene mounts me and retaliates. She grabs my hair and attempts to slam my head into the floor. She attempts to mount my face. Her pussy is soaked. I grab it and twist, sending her to her feet. I motion for her to catfight me on the ground. She retreats to her corner.
Sierra comes into the room. "Round three to Diane. 2 to 1 Diane. Can Darlene respond?"
Shit, that was fun.
To be continued.....
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ROUND FOUR
The only round of our catfight--both of our catfights, now that I think about it--that Darlene was able to hold her own with me was when we were having a standup bare-knuckle boxing match. A cheezy cardio-kickboxing workout course wouldn't have given her, I don't think, the striking and footwork skills thst nearly cost me a molar a few minutes ago. As we face off in the middle of the room exchsnging jabs, I decide to probe her for the source of her pugilistic expertise.
> Where'd you learn to punch like that, Rocky?
> Where'd you learn to bite like that, bitch?
> Ha ha, loser. I'm doing a lot more than biting you.
> Not really. When you called me on the phone, did you say, 'Wanna fight?', or 'Wanna bite?'. I think maybe the line was a little static-y.
> I'm flattered that call meant so much that remember it so clearly.
> I'm flattered you spent weeks on the internet searching for me.
> <<<<<Darlene has landed three times the breast-jabs I have, turning both of my boobs bright pink. Shit, she's a good boxer. I try and maintain my composure.>>>> Darlene, fuck you. At least I'm woman enough to start a fight with you. You fucking freeze me out and bully me in Massachusetts for seven years but don't have the guts to let me fight you. That's fucking bullshit.
> <<<<Our punches move up to our faces now.>>>>> You knew where I loved, pussy. You never knocked.
> <<<<<Darlene and I are punching more, and talking less. But not because we don't have anything to say. Just the opposite--we're finally getting to the core of our relationship....how it went so wrong.>>>>> Sure. Make me the bad girl. I bet you would have loved that. Mommy mommy, the bad girl next door came over and punched me.
> Fuck you, Diane. You knew we needed to fight. You knew that was my turf, and you needed to earn your place. Admit it. You were afraid to try me.
> <<<<<As Darlene and I trade jabs, I begin to wonder if Darlene is right. She was daring me to come at her--but did I know it at the time? Did I know it in 1983? Was our miscommunication because we were incompatible--or were we totally understanding each other perfectly clearly? Was she baiting me the whole time, and I just didn't take the bait?>>>>> Convenient rationalization, slut.
> <<<<Darlene and I clinch, digging our nails into each others' shoulder blades, twisting and clawing flesh from bone.>>>> I would have fucking destroyed you, Diane.
> Bull-fucking-shit, Darlene. I fucking hated you.
> I hated you worse.
> <<<<<We drive knees into each others' crotches from point-blank ranges, our bodies knotted together like ivy.>>>>
> I've tought about kicking your ass everday since 1983 Diane.
> Now's your chance bitch.
We struggle desperately, alternately clawing at fleshy, then taut, flesh, probing at which causes more pain. Without warning, Darlene sinks her teeth into my left breast. I swoon, and Darlene shoves me, the back of my head striking the chair rail. I sense a warm stream down my back.
Sierra dashes into the room.
"Shit, head contusion. Darlene, neutral corner!"
..........
I wake up 60 seconds later. Sierra is cupping my cheeks.
"Whattaya say, sport? Had enough?.....Diane?.....Diane?"
"Let me at her."
To be continued......
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