FreeCatFights
General Category => Catfight , Boxing & Wrestling Stories => Boxing and fistfight => Topic started by: sinclairfan on August 27, 2018, 10:01:40 AM
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1981 BROCKTON, MASSACHUSETTS
My name is Lisa. I'm 54 years old now, and wanted to tell my story while I still have the chance. I had to grow up fast my senior year of high school, and thought you might want to hear about it.
I was adopted in the mid-1960s under circumstances that, to this day, I don't care to investigate. I was the only child in a loving home in Brockton, Massachusetts. They made shoes in Brockton until around 1973 or so, when they didn't anymore. All the shoe factories moved, pretty much at once, to Taiwan and Hong Kong.
When that happened, Brockton became a less nice place to grow up. We learned a new word: unemployment, or unemployed. Brockton went from being famous for shoes to being famous for the World Middleweight boxing champion, Marvin Hagler. When your most famous resident is a boxer, you know your upbringing is going to be tough. The rest of Eastern Massachusetts rebounded with the "Route 128 Miracle" around 1977 or so, but not Brockton. To this day, we haven't recovered from the loss of the shoe factories.
My parents tried to shield me from the steadily deteriorating conditions in Brockton by sending me to the city's Catholic schools; Trinity Academy for elementary and middle school, then to Cardinal Spellman High School. But CSHS knew that since the competition to get admitted was fierce, they could get progressively more selective, and had an unwritten policy of identifying and shedding what they considered to be dead wood each year. It was called "Spring Cleaning".
Strike One against me was that I was adopted, a vestige of 1950s intolerance still alive in the early 1980s. Strike Two was that I never did find a solid academic or athletic niche. Strike Three came in the spring of 1981, just in time for Spring Cleaning. My parents got divorced. This was 1981. In a Catholic school. Divorce still carried with it the whiff of scandal. I was asked to leave CSHS. Not that my newly-single mom would have been able to drive me in the morning anyways. At least ..... that's what I told myself to ease the sting of rejection.
Now, this next part .... well, you're just going to have to go with me on this. I was an 18 year old blonde, with horrible academic self-esteem, no social niche, attending public school for the first time in my life. One of the largest, toughest, hardest public schools in America, Brockton High School. And I was walking there, and back home, thru some pretty rough neighborhoods. The nice girls considered me hard, and the hard girls considered me to be stuck up. I wasn't invited into either clique, and realized when the school year started I would need to keep a low profile.
Because I was painfully aware that the public school girls all knew how to fight, and I didn't. Catholic schools knew that their selling point to parents was that they shielded their enrollees from the two harsh realities from diminished Brockton: teen sex, and fighting. And they were true to their word on both counts--my K thru 10 education was antiseptically free of both. Which left me perfectly unequipped for my new environment, inside the school doors and out.
I walked to school the first day of my junior year with a senior named Craig. He had been a star on the Brockton football team until he ruined his knee two years before. He still suited up with the team and travelled with them, but knew he would never play again. And which meant that instesd of going to a big fancy college like UNH or URI on a football scholarship, Craig was going to go, next September, down Route 24 to Bridgewater State.
At least, that's what his girlfriend, a Brockton High School senior named Wendy told him he would do. She also told me she'd kick my ass after school for walking with him that morning.
To be continued.....
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Waiting for it, could be a massacre!! I hope...
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FIRST DAY OF PUBLIC SCHOOL
Although I had never been in an actual girlfight, declining Wendy's fight challenge was of course not an option, not by a longshot. Running from a fight would cement my reputation in Brockton forever, and not in a good way.
But getting my ass kicked by Wendy while 15 to 20 Brockton slack-jawed yokels stood around in a circle watching was not appealing to me, either. I needed to think of a third option, and fast.
Cardinal Spellman girls, when they fought, did do against girls from our rival school, Archbishop Williams, which was up the road in Braintree. We'd run into them either at Spellman-Williams football or basketball games, or at the new mall in Braintree where we'd be wearing gear from our respective schools. Since none of the fights ever seemed to happen in public, urban legends would go around that the Catholic school custom was to fight at home, be it inside or in the backyard. Even public school kids had heard these legends.
I decided to make this urban legend work to my advantage against Wendy. I got in her face against her locker after 4th period, and invited her to meet me in my house after school, in private, just the two of us. A vocational senior named Harry was standing next to her, holding her books, and heard every word I said.
Wendy said yes.
I couldn't believe it. Did she say yes because she didn't want to fight in public, either? Or did she say yes so she could beat me up and then ransack my house?
I went in the Brockton High School girls' room--or, I should say, 1 of 17 of them (versus just 3 at Spellman)-- and I peed. That's a lie. I masturbated. Uncontrollably, barely muffling my groans. All I could think about was pulling Wendy's straight auburn hair. Auburn. I'd always loved that word. Girls with hair that was brunette, but streaks of red underneath.
I'd always wanted to pull hair like that. Straight out of the scalp. Gitls like that from Williams who hung out at the Braintree Mall.
I never had.
Until this afternoon.
I'd do it this afternoon. Wendy's hair. In my nails. On my living room floor.
Good.
11:37 now. School gets out at 2:40.
Three hours. And three minutes.
Can't get here soon enough.
Good.
To be continued.....
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I live right near Brockton!! My mother graduated in the late 70s from Brockton High. Funny you mention the Braintree Mall...It's a great mall! I was there a month or two ago
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Great to see you back with a new story. Can't wait to see where you go with it!
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"I HEARD YOU GIRLS FIGHT TOPLESS"
My final period of the day on my schedule at BHS was science. Since it was just the first day of school, we got our textbooks, paired up with lab partners, at then waited for the last bell to ring. The teacher allowed quiet chat with our lab partners.
Mine was a cute-ish cheer girl, who was in tune with the BHS grapevine, and had heard rumblings that Wendy wanted to fight me for walking to school with a senior she considered hers. This re-affirmed the wisdom of my decision both to get the fight over with quickly and to do so privately. I remained mum as to the timing or location of the fight, but squashed any hope the cheer girl might have to pass along ripe gossip for interested potential witnesses by assuring her that Wendy and I had mutually arranged for a private settling of our dispute.
I was surprised by the cheer girl's next question.
"Are private fights one of the things Catholic girls do?"
Now, some context: the late 1970s and early 1980s were a time of convulsive change in the Catholic Church, especially in Boston. We were transitioning from Communion rails to Communion lines, from the wafer on the tongue from a priest to in the hand from a lay person, from Confession in a booth to face to face, from alter boys to alter girls, etc. For lapsed Catholics like the cheer girl, the changes only deepened the mystery of the rites and rituals of the Catholic Church, and all sorts of rumors were rife of what went on behind the doors of CSHS. I decided to see what other rumors I could draw out of her.
"Yeah, you caught us," I blushed. "At Spellman and at Williams, we sign a pledge form to fight only in private. After all, you've never seen a fight with any of us in it, right? Even at Braintree Mall? Hafta maintain the reputation of the school."
"Yeah, I did notice that," the cheer girl engaged with me. I was pretty sure I had her hooked.
"What else did you hear about our fights?", I teased.
"I heard you girls fight topless," the cheer girl whispered to me. I heard the words, but couldn't quite believe them. It was a good thing I had masturbated earlier in the restroom, or I would have been unable to keep my composure and continue this enlightening conversation.
"Oh, of course, that's a given. Remember, we wear uniforms at Catholic school, and getting one torn or stained would be a no-no."
"Yeah, I kinda figured," the cheer girl knowingly nodded.
The period was rapidly drawing to a close, much to my regret. Even though no one knew much of anything about me, it turns out my Catholic school background meant people THOUGHT this knew things about me, no matter how ungrounded or outrageous.
What did Wendy assume she knew about me?
Was she assuming I challenged her to a private fight as part of some Catholic schoolgirl custom?
Her biggest advantage in our fight later today was that I had never been in a fight, even against a sibling. Was she clueless about holding this advantage?
Was she expecting us to fight topless?
And is that why she agreed to my proposed setting for the fight?
Had she declined a public fight because she thought she might lose?
Had I stumbled into a way to salvage a face-saving draw with her?
What did Wendy look like topless?
What? Where did that thought come from?
Focus, Lisa, focus. You're about to have your first-ever girlfight in less than 30 minutes.
To be continued....
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"RUMPUS ROOM?"
I ran home from school and raided my mom's perfume cabinet, spraying myself in every crevice and orifice. Under and over my clothes. I wanted to smell my best for the fight, reality gradually setting in that she and I would be smelling each others' clothes and bodies. I'm so inexperienced at this fighting thing, I'll be lucky if I don't thoroughly embarrass myself.
Wendy knocks on my door. I look thru the peephole; phew, she's alone. I don't know what I would have done if she had brought someone. Call the cops? Have them arrest her for not coming alone to a girlfight?
I open the door. I look her in the eye, but she doesn't meet my stare, looking downward instead. I'm encouraged, but a little disappointed too. Wendy's hair is so pretty, even at 2:40 in the afternoon, but her face is a little broken out, just a tiny bit, around her chin. Is she self-conscious about it?
She smells so good--where is that coming from? Her hair? Is she wearing cologne? Or is it just her gum? I think it's her gum. Is she going to take it out before the fight? Is she seriously going to fight me while chewing gum?
She brushes by me at the foor. Was that a test? Was I supposed to kick her ass and block her from coming in? Who said she could come in?
She's checking out the inside of my house. I alresdy know it's nicer than hers, but not by much. There's not many super-nice houses in Brockton.
"Rumpus room?", she asks, directing herself to the room by grandmother used to call by that name. It's a spare room with a futon. Does she want to fight there? Not that it's a bad idea. Less stuff to break there.
I shut the door behind us. It comes across as more confrontational than I planned. I don't want her to feel cornered.
On a hunch from my conversation with my cheer girl lab partner, and also because I don't trust my voice not to shake, I start taking off my top. Wendy starts taking off hers. So, Wendy has heard the Catholic school girl ritual topless fight urban legends, too. Or, maybe they're actually true, at least partially.
Shit, Wendy's nipples are pointy. Nothing like mine. I try to not stare. She sure isn't staring at mine. How many girls' breasts has she seen before today. And in what circumstances? Fights? Sleepovers?
We raise up our fists. I hit the zits on her chin on a hunch that they must hurt to get hit. She hits my chin with a right I never see coming. Shit, is she that hard, or am I that soft? Or both?
To be continued.....
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HAIRPULLING
There's nothing like a smack in the jaw that you never saw coming to make you reconsider tactics in a fight that just started.
I didn't particularly want my mom to see blood from my mouth on the carpet of the room that Wendy and I were fighting in. Or even worse, that I invited someone inside the house during school.
So out of desperation, I threw my arms around Wendy's head and pulled her upper body close to mine. I was trying to make it impossible gor Wendy to wind up and slug me--it was a move I had seen Marvin Hagler's opponents use on TV anytime he was starting to connect with them with combinations of punches.
The referee would then step in and separate the boxers, but there was no referee in the room with Wendy and me, and we both quickly became aware of our isolation. And of our nakedness. Our chests were pressing close together, and our aroused state was unmistaksble and unhidable. I was somewhat ashamed of my hardening breasts, but very much more terrified of Wendy's right fist. So I pulled her tighter to me, and sank my nose in her hair.
I became aware of an oily sensation in Wendy's hair. I thought of the moderate outbreak on Wendy's chin, and felt pride in my clear skin and the sheen and tint of my blonde hair. I felt competitive with Wendy over the attentions of the boy who had walked me to school.
I called Wendy ,"Bitch", the first girl I had ever called by that word.
Wendy put her head down and slammed me into the back of the door.
To be continued....
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Fantastic! I cannot wait for more!
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"I'M THE BAD GIRL"
As I grasped for dear life onto Wendy's shoulders, pulling her close to me so she couldn't wind up to punch me, Wendy responded by bucking her hips into mine. I could tell she was trying to kick and knee me, so I pulled her in even tighter to me to deprive her of every inch she needed to get momentum to hurt me.
The result of out struggle was that we were rhythmically slamming into the closed door of the rumpus room. The sound and the visual made me think of that raw scene in the "Godfather" movie where Sonny is banging, pun intended, the bridesmaid at his sister's wedding reception. In order to distract Wendy, I decide to invoke the urban legend that all public school girls have "done it" by age 18, and no Catholic girls have.
> Is this how you and your boyfriend do it, bitch?, I hiss.
> He's your boyfriend, not mine, Lisa.
> Fuck you, Wendy, I barely know him. He just walks me to school.
> Well, I don't even know him well enough to get walked to school.
Our banging gets more rhythmic. Wendy is letting her emotions give me a window into her psyche. I may not have figured out a way to hurt her physically yet, but maybe I can hurt her with my words.
> Cut the shit, Wendy. He's YOUR boyfriend, and I'M stealing him from YOU.
> Fuck you, Lisa. I'M THE BAD GIRL.
Why does Wendy need to be the bad girl? And for me to be a good girl? Does she get off bullying good girls? Is that why she picked a fight with me on the first day of school? By my being new, is she able to project onto me some fantasy she has in her mind about some ideal girl she wants to beat up, and then sleep with that girl's "boyfriend"? Is this whole fight foreplay for her? Am I just a prop?
My competitiveness kicks in. Not only will I not let her win this fight. I'll hurt her so bad, she can't have, or at least enjoy, sex tonight.
I pull her closer. Our bodies are completely bearhugged together. I move my hand into her scalp, dig my nails into her hair, and begin twisting. Wendy releases moans of pain and frustration, and pulls at my hair, tearing entire patches out and then grabbing more. We twist and lean near the door, starting to pull each other down into a side-by-side jackknife. We are both now too scared to release our grip on the sleeping grizzly we have awoken.
We fall to the floor in a bearhug, rolling back and forth in the narrow confines.
If Wendy had hopes I'd be crying by now like the other good girls she's done this to in the past, she's by now aware that she was sadly mistaken.
To be continued.....
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FLESH ON FLESH
A few years after my 1981 after school catfight with Wendy, I became familiar with the warm, soft, sweaty flesh on flesh sensation which occurs during intimate sexual encounters or prolonged girlfights. But that particular Wednesday afternoon, those were still foreign feelings to me, my Catholic upbringing having steered me away from either experience.
I was acutely self-conscious of my rookie status in both departments, both in absolute terms, but also in comparison with my de-flowered AND bullying opponent. So, imagine my surprise when Wendy's face began flinching at contact, even the most indirect brushing against, my face, my armpits, my chest, even my hair. I had noticed quickly in our fight the transition of Wendy's attractive hair from soft and silky to oily and stringy, and was willing to concede that our heavy laboring had worked a similar transformation on my blonde coiffure. But unlike my more experience co-combatant, I accepted close contact with the deteriorating head of hair as a necessary price to be paid for the wages of war. Wendy seemed less able to block out the signals her senses were sending to her.
As we struggled on the floor, hopeful thoughts penetrated my consciousness. What- if?- thoughts.
As in:
What if, instead of being a fighter or brawler, Wendy was more of a bully, picking easy marks like me and bullying them into submission?
What if, Wendy had never had someone change fight tactics on-the-fly to neutralize Wendy's admittedly lightning fast right cross?
What if, Wendy had never been in a long fight like this?
What if, Wendy enjoyed beating girls up, but not actually fighting them?
What if, I do this to you, Wendy?, I hiss, as I twist her left breast with my right hand.
What if, I'm not the only rookie here?
What if, we decide to have a kind of fight, a bitchfight, that neither of us has ever been in before?
What if, I have the stomach for that kind of fight, and Wendy doesn't?
Who's the rookie, now, Wendy?
To be continued.....
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RETALIATION
Instead of responding to my escalation of our catfight in kind, with a similar twisting of a vulnerable, exposed body part on my upper body, Wendy did something which was as surprising as it was frightening.
She covered my nose and mouth with her cupped hand.
The seal she managed to lock onto my face and breathing passages was immediate and fully effective. I could neither inhale to breathe, nor exhale to yell out in anger, or, as the seconds passed, in pleas for mercy. As I became lightheaded and nauseous from lack of oxygen, the words which were on my tongue but unable to express themselves and be heard were, "I give, Wendy, I give, I give, just let me breathe."
Time slowed down, and I became hyper-aware of every item, and person, in the enclosed rumpus room. The early 1980's style wallpaper on the walls and pastels on the ceiling and crown molding. The made bed with folded laundry and linens on it. The shag carpeting we were fighting on. An antique dry sink with pre-Yankee Candle candles. The window outside, with an early September thunderstorm brewing.
Wendy. Her sexy upper body. Her sweaty, oily hair, styled with just a hint of 1980s feathering. The combination skin on her face: beautiful, smooth cheeks, but acne spots and scars where her jowls will be in thirty years. The psychotic, disembodied, determined look on her face to prevent my breathing. It was totally on between us.
The smell of her breath. Stale beer smell, which I knew from my German uncles and great uncles. Shit, Wendy. Really? Beer? Our fight started 20 minutes after school ended. Where the fuck did you get the beer?
Does Wendy have a drinking problem? Is that what makes her hair so flat, so oily? Is that what gives her acne around her chin?
Does Wendy get violent when she drinks? Does drinking make her have sex?
I feel like Wendy might accidentally kill me.
To be continued....
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"LISA? WHAT HAPPENED??"
About three hours later, at 6:00 that evening, I was awakened by gentle slaps to my cheeks and my mother's concerned voice: "Lisa? Lisa? Are you ok? What happened? Did you fall?" I realized immediately that Wendy must have ended our catfight by choking me out, and my mother must have mistaken my scratches and bruises as originating from a fall. I hoped Wendy's beer breath hadn't stuck to me and misleading my mother into worrying that I was a blacking-out level teenage drunk.
Embarrassment turned to fear with the realization that Wendy had been in my house with me helplessly passed out. Had she stolen something? Then more embarrassment: what did we even own that was worth stealing? I went to my mother's stash of Marlboro's--shit, fewer carton that usual. Did that mean Wendy had grabbed a couple? Should I tell my mom? Or hope she wouldn't notice? My mom knew I didn't smoke--no worries there. But it was the sense of violation. Dammit, had I wanted to fight Wendy in private so bad that I had enabled a home invasion?
It was this crushing sense of violated privacy that dominated the aftermath of the fight. Brockton High School was large enough to pull off a trick that would have been difficult at either Cardinal Spellman or Archbishop Williams--you could avoid a girl you had just been in a fight with.
Which is what Wendy and I spent the next few days and weeks doing. Ostentatiously announcing in class and in the lunchroom that she and I were avoiding each other because of, you know, the "run-in" she and I had had after school on The First Day after summer vacation. I immediately made new friends and found my feet at BHS as "that girl who had fought Wendy". I was at first confused why Wendy allowed chatter which was benefitting me socially to continue--why she wasn't "clarifying" the rumors to include a postscript that she "had kicked Lisa's ass", or some such helpful detail.
And then it occurred to me. Punching a bully in the mouth, literally or figuratively, really works--it really does win you the respect of that bully. Had I won Wendy's respect even in losing our fight? It appeared so.
And that probably would have been the end of it. But for something that happened shortly before Halloween.
Hard as it might be to believe in 2018, Massachusetts public high schools in the early 1980's had outdoor smoking areas, with school-sanctioned 10-minute smoke breaks. I didn't partake, but bad girls like Wendy did. One chilly October morning, I looked outside and saw Wendy sharing a box Marlboro's with friends. Now, a 1980's Brockton teenager didn't just SHARE cigarettes--unless they were stolen.
I thought of my mom, how hard she worked, how her only indulgence and vice were her smokes. That I had allowed Wendy to steal. A couple of cartons worth, maybe more. I wanted them back.
That night I called the boy, Wendy's fuck buddy or whatever, who had walked me to school the first day. I told him I wanted to lose my virginity to him that night. It hurt, but it was worth it. Word would get back to Wendy.
And she and I would both be hurting soon.
Good.
To be continued....
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OPENING UP
Giving up your virginity, especially in the pre-MTV early 1980s when information about sex was so sparse and taboo, was as much a psychological milestone as it was physical. And at least for me, boy oh boy did my Catholic guilt ever kick in, or rise to the surface, once I had done the deed.
I felt the need to talk about it, or, around it, with someone. And since I had no close friends, the person I opened up to was my stepmom. Finally, for the first time since I was really young, and since she got divorced, we actually opened up to each other. It was over a bottle of white wine late one Friday night.
> How's school going, Lisa?
> Mom, ... I, umm, ... it was my choice, I wasn't pressured into it .... in fact I initiated it ... but I gave up my virginity.
> Recently?
> Tuesday night .... when I went out, remember?
> Neighborhood boy?
> It was Craig. He walks me to school sometimes, ya know?
> I like him. Everything ok, any questions?
> Well .... it's true you can get pregnant the first time, right?
> So I've heard .... are you trying to tell me something?
> No, no .... not THAT ... he pulled out way before he .... came .... God that's a weird word, isn't it?
> So ... if he has that much self-control, I take it he's ..... experienced??
> It's ... complicated .... this girl, Wendy .... she has this, like, too cool for school thing going with him ... sorta like .... kinda pisses me off, actually ... like, she knows he likes her, so she gives just enough of herself to him to .... I don't know, like, almost string him along ....
> Say no more, I know the type ... this Wendy chick .... she know about him and you?
<<<<When my stepmom asked me this question, I could see her nipples hardening under her halter top, and became conscious of mine doing the same.>>>>>
> I, ummm, ... I sure hope so.
> And, you're aware .... I take it .... that she may want to .... fight you?
> I am aware .... and, ummm, so we kinda ... well, not kinda, we did, we fought once already. The first day of school.
> Not IN school, I hope?? Don't screw up your senior year with a suspension, Lisa.
> No, no .... thank God no .... it was ... after school.
> And you both want to fight again? There wasn't a winner the first time?
<<<<I couldn't tell which was more surreal. Talking to my stepmom about sex, or talking to her about fighting.>>>>>>
> She won, ... but not by beating me up . .. she choked me out. Maybe by accident, maybe on purpose, I don't actually know.
> But you know enought not to let her do it the next time, right?
> Of course. Any suggestions.
<<<<My stepmom holds up her hands in a claw shape and waves her nails at my face.>>>>
> These, honey. Do girls fight with these anymore? They shred skin, if you do it right.
> Why not fists?
> Two girls fighting with fists is just a waste of everybody's time. You'll break your pinky before you do any damage to her. Nails and teeth are the way to go.
> Were ... you ... ever in a fight like that, Mom?
> Not a planned one, like you and this Wendy bitch. But, yes, in Boston in the early 1960s ... if 2 girls were fighting, if it was over a boy ... our claws would come out. And we'd go for the face, Lisa. Don't underestimate how .... effective these can be. You know how to trim the nails just right, I hope?
> Actually, I don't.
> I'll show ya. When's the fight? Your next fight with her?
> We haven't ... picked a day, yet....
> Next Saturday is Halloween. Do kids still look for trouble on Halloween?
> I guess.
> Well, let's pencil that in. Grab my clippers in the drawer there.
To be continued....
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TELEPHONE THREAT
In 1981, it's amazing to think about the Dark Ages we were living in with telephone technology. Corded phones. Rotary dialling. No voice mail. No caller id. So, when the phone rang (a bell sound; literally--if you opened a phone, there were actual bells inside of it), you pretty much had to answer it, with no preparation of who was on the other end. So, the person doing the calling had an initial advantage if the call was going to be confrontational.
The Thursday night before the Friday October 23 Homecoming Dance, I got a confrontational call from Wendy. Homecoming Dance--I wasn't planning on going. At Cardinal Spellman, attendance at school events was pretty much mandatory unless you were on your death bed, so at Brockton High I was appreciating my freedom and indulging in the option to not attend extracirriculars. Buy just after my mom and I finished dinner that night, the phone rang, and my mom answered. She turned beet red, and looked at me with a look of urgency, and covered the receiver with her cupped hand (the 1981 version of putting someone "On Hold").
> It's.....HHHEERRRRR.
> Who, Mom?
> That bitch Wendy, who do think???
> What do I do?
> Well .... what do you THINK you do????? ..... you can't AVOID her.
> But .... what do I say???? .... should I be bitchy to her???
> No .... well, yes, if you need to .... but let her make the first move .... Find out why she's calling first. <<<hands me the receiver>>>>
My mom and I obviously didn't get many phone calls, because we had underestimated the effectiveness of a cupped hand over a 1981 phone receiver.
> Hello?
> Telling on me to your Mommy, Lisa?
> Wha...???
> I heard everything you two just said, yellow-bellied coward.
> Fuck you, Wendy .... it's your nickel <<<<literally....in 1981, even local calls weren't free>>> .... why'd you call?
> Simple: at tomorrow night's dance, DO ... NOT .... DANCE .... WITH .... CRAIG.
> Joke's on you, Wendy ...... I'm not going to <<<<<Interruption on the other line--another 1981 phone thing--my mom had picked up on the other phone in the house>>>>
> Lisa will be there, Wendy sweetie .... she promised Craig the first dance .... and THE LAST ... and will be wearing the shortest mini-skirt allowed by the school chaperone's, just in case he doesn't get the hint. Now, hang up the phone, Lisa.
<<<<I comply, not out of fear of Wendy--I initiated this rematch, after all, but out of fear of what my mom will threaten next.>>>>>
We wait for a few minutes to see if Wendy will call back.
She doesn't.
Tomorrow night should be fun.
To be continued.....
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FRIDAY MORNING
My disclosure to my stepmom of my escalating feud with Wendy relieved me of the burden of having to sneak around and avoid her for my impending rematch with my enemy. And her advice and tips on forming fearsome points on my ten fingers was already yielding tangible results.
But there were downsides, too. The most embarrassing and frustrating of which was an inability to rub one out despite my constant arousal from being in an actual love triangle with Craig and Wendy. Love. I was in love for the first time ever. The nuns at Cardinal Spelman had warned us to save our virginity for our wedding night, because whoever we gave ourselves up to would be bonded to us through love forever. We scoffed--what did nuns, of all people, know about sex? But, dammit, they were right on this one. Ever since I had asked Craig to take my virginity away, even though the sex itself was quite painful (again, another accurate prediction by the CSHS nuns), I would get wobbly knees everytime I saw Craig in the hallways; or heard his voice; or, even heard someone say his name. Such as, when Wendy said his name during our phone argument.
I wanted, I needed, to masturbate myself off in bed at night, but couldn't, at least not in the manner I was used to, because of the sharp nails .... claws, really ..... the my mom had carved onto my hands.
So, I was ready for some post-dance action with Craig.
But what if there was pre-post-dance trouble with Wendy?
My mom was thinking the same thing.
At breakfast, she said,
> Now, Lisa, don't you go jeopardizing your senior year at Brockton by fighting Wendy on school grounds, ya hear? Either at school today, or at the dance tonight.
> Sure, Ma, you think of that now, after getting her all fired up.
> Now, don't you go blamin' me, Lisa. You said yourself you already fought this bitch once. And lost, I think I heard ya say. Shit with her was already started; I'm just helpin' ya end it.
> I know, Mom. I wanna end it to. And, I know where NOT to fight her. But where DO I fight her??
> Just....off school grounds, k?? Walk to a parking lot .... the woods .... someone's house .... here if ya hafta .... I'll take that over gettin' dragged into the principal's office.
> Did you drag YOUR Mom into the principal's office when you were my age?
> Ok, don't ya hafta wrong along now to not be tardy??
> How convenient.
> Yes it is. Now, not on school ground.
To be continued....
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Wow absolutely fantastic story, can't wait for the next part, i'm hooked :)
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HOMECOMING DANCE CATFIGHT
Heeding my stepmom's (completely valid) warning to not fight Wendy on school grounds, I kept my head low in the hallways all school day the Friday before the Homecoming Dance, and made a point not to walk by Wendy's locker. I thought I was home free, until the final class period of the day was cancelled and replaced by a Pep Rally in the school gym.
The point of the rally was to celebrate the forty-two seniors on the Brockton High School football team, who tomorrow would be playing in the final Homecoming game of their careers. The senior would be escorted across the gym, one-by-one, by a pretty Brockton High School cheerleader, given a corsage, and then get a handshake from the Coach, the Athetic Director, and the school Principal. Even though Craig hadn't played all season because of his injury, he was in the back of the line of senior to be honored, wearing his number '37' jersey. So I was paying close attention to the ceremony. A couple things stood out.
The first was that, about one-third of the way through the names, the announcer for the event made an off-hand comment to the effect of, "Remember, Brockton High School students, the football players won't be there for tonight's Homecoming Dance, but we hope to see all the rest of you from 7 to 10." I turned to one of the girls next to me asking if I had heard correctly, and she informed me that football players have curfews bed checks the night before games.
My head started spinning. Why had Wendy called my house and told me not to dance with Craig at the dance if he wasn't even going to be there? Was she trying to trick me into going to the dance? And if so, in order to jump me there?
Or had she just called to see if I liked Craig? To see if my sleeping with him was a one-time thing, or if I intended on it continuing? And my big mouth stepmom had given away my intentions?
I suddenly felt very vulnerable, both emotionally and physically. Emotionally, because I was already at rookie at relationships and boyfriends and sex, and now some unstable "other woman" was inserting herself, someone I had already had a violent altercation with. And physically, because I had to decide where to be tonight--at the dance? at Craig's? at Wendy's? home?
Or .... maybe ..... was I just imagining things? Was Wendy "out of the loop" and oblivious that football players didn't attend Homecoming Dance. Now that I thought about it, Wendy wasn't exactly Ms. Popularity at Brockton High School. She wasn't on the Cheerleader Squad. She didn't play sports. She wasn't in advanced academic classes--not even close, I remembered one day seeing her in the Remedial Reading special ed classroom. She didn't have a posse of pretty girls or admiring jock boys at her locker. She didn't even quite fit in with the Goth Girls, a bunch of misfit girls who would cut themselves and do Ouija Board or whatever on weekends.
She didn't have any "clique" that I had been able to detect.
As the ceremony progressed, my thoughts turned downright cocky. The best approach to "handle" Wendy was to just ignore her. Let her boasts and threats reveal themselves for what they were: clueless, empty talk from a BHS misfit, who had let her moment with Craig pass, and was being displaced by the new girl who had tranferred from Catholic school.
Her moment. Wendy's moment. That was it. She had acted too indecisively with Craig.
Now it was my moment. I wouldn't make the same mistake. My stepmom had spoken impulsively on the phone, but that's what you needed to do in life. Act when you had the chance.
I decided that's what I would do.
As the football player walks of honor started to get towards the conclusion, and the bleachers full of students got anxious for the ceremony to conclude and the weekend to begin, decorum started to erode and good-natured catcalls were shouted out, especially to the more popular boys. I wanted introverted Craig to be spared awkward silence as he made his walk, so as his name was announced, halfway thru his walk when he reached, I yelled out, "Go Craig!! You're the best!!".
What happened next was mortifying.
I had stood up and shouted my encouragement from the left bleachers, halfway up. I don't even know if the gym understood what I had shouted. But the whole gym did hear what was shouted next. It came from the lower far-right hand side bleachers near the doors, in a scratchy, deep, loud voice which I immediately could tell was Wendy's.
"SSSSSSLLLLLUUUUUUUUTTTT."
Craig appeared unflustered, but the cheerleader escorting him umcovered her mouth to muffle her laughter at what Wendy had shouted. I expected the crowd of students to simultaneous turn their heads towards me in a moment of eternal shame. That's probably what Wendy was hoping. But the more typical reaction was Craig's--nonchalance at an end-of-the-week insult thrown out to be juvenile and funny, not the malicious bullying direct threat which was intended: Slut-shaming, as we would start calling it in 2018. In 1981, thank God, the word hadn't been invented yet. The concept had; there just wasn't a word for it yet. Thank God.
The ceremony then concluded on that deflating note. The girl sitting next to me in the bleachers who had spoken to me earler avoided me.
Wendy and I exited through separate doors.
Good thing for both of us. I was ready and willing at that moment to literally scratch her eyes out.
To be continued......
-
"CALL HER 'SLUT' TO HER FACE!!"
I walked home from the disastrous pep rally--half-jogging most of the way, truth be told--craving to curl up in a ball on my bed and cry out the built-up tension and emotional drama of changing school, having my first boyfriend, having my first catfight, watching my step-parents get divorced; in sum, having to do way too much growing up way too fast.
Instead, my heart sank when I saw my step-mom's car on our driveway. I tried to quickly pull myself together, but my mom was waiting at the window and saw me running up to the house, then hesitating. As if my day hadn't been mortifying enough, she proceeded to open the front door and yell out to me, loud enough for the neighbors to hear:
> Lisa, baby, what's wrong?!?!? You didn't fight that bitch Wendy at school, did ya?!?!?
I knew that ignoring my mom was counterproductive and would only lead to more shouting across our driveway for all of Brockton to hear, so I closed the distance between us as rapidly as I could and run up to my mom, who thought I was going in for a hug and opened her arms to me. I suddenly realized that it had been 2 to 3 years since my stepmom and I had actually hugged, further throwing my hormones into overdrive and opening the floodgates of tears and sobbing. She quickly shut the door behind us as she told me to "let it all out" so that we could talk about what has occurred at school, and more importantly, what would happen next.
I repeated the story of the pep rally, and Wendy's public name-calling of me. My stepmom was the most pissed I've ever seen her. She was of half a mind to go out the door and walk to Wendy's house herself, but I think we both recalled Wendy's less-than-24-hours-ago taunt on the phone of "Running to your Mommy?", and both knew that I needed to handle the response to the pep rally insult, not my Mom.
Although she was more than willing to help..... to "watch my back" at the inevitable retaliation fight, as we would be calling it 8-10 years later when L.A./Compton gang culture lingo entered the Brockton vernacular.
> This ain't waitin' for the Dance tonight, Lisa. Git upstairs, put on the dance mini-skirt, and then I'll drive ya ta Wendy's. I'll knock on the door and see if she wanta ta call ya 'slut' to your face.
I went upstairs and felt comforted and somewhat more confident. I wished my Spellman girlfriends could come with me to Wendy's instead of my mom, or that I knew someone at Brockton well enough to serve as my wingman. But what was done was done--I needed to settle things with Wendy before she could go to the dance and tell her version of what had happened at the pep rally to the entire senior, junior, sophomore, and freshman classes of BHS.
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I looked nice, but something was off. My hair. It's hanging too far down, too easy a target for Wendy.
I pin it up into a tight bun.
Wendy will see it and know why I came over now.
Good.
To be continued.....
-
"TELL HER TO MEET ME OUT BACK"
My stepmom and I climbed into her car for the short drive over to Wendy's house. I was less nervous than I expected to be, and my stepmom was still fired up, but focussed on the task at hand. She was calmly giving me unexpectedly apt fight coaching tips, in a less bossy way than she had been speaking to me since her divorce.
> Now, remember, don't start swapping fists with this bitch--that's the kinda fight she wants ta have.
> You're bigger 'n Wendy, Lisa. Don't let her git on 'toppovya.
> Don't be afraid to use her hair ta throw her 'round. This is a catfight, no rules.
> Don't stop until she gives. And don't even stop then.
> No matter how bad she hurts ya, keep goin'. I'll drive ya home afterwards.
> Keep usin' yer claws until all 10 of 'em break. Then use yer thumbs.
I remembered my first fight with Wendy six weeks ago--how I had let Wendy get on top of me and had tried to fight from my back. That strategy had ended in defeat. I needed to be the one on top for this fight.
We pulled up to Wendy's ramshackle house. My stepmom told me to go to the door while she waited in the car--she said she'd barge in the house in 5 minutes if I didn't come out. My first fight with Wendy had lasted way longer than 5 minutes, but we hadn't been as angry with each other when that fight had happened as we were now, so I decided my mother's plan was prudent.
I didn't know what the parenting arrangements were at Wendy's house, but everything about the property blared "broken home"--spare tires in the yards, scrap metal, unraked leaves, unnecessary hoses, an long-unused above-ground swimming pool. I knocked on the door, and then rang the doorbell. A shirtless 20-something man-boy csme to the door--an older brother, perhaps? He checked out my legs and my mini-skirt, and without asking my identity, yelled behind him:
> Hey, Wendy. That girl ya' said might come ta fight ya is here?
I heard Wendy yell back, from inside:
> I'm still gettin' changed. Tell her ta meet me out back.
Now, this was a little disconcerting. My element of surprise was kaputt, since Wendy was half-expecting me to come over. And she now knew how to "push my buttons"--what actions would bsit me into fighting her. Was I in control of her feud, or was she?
Was I walking into a trap?
For reassurance, I walked back to my stepmom's car.
> She wants me to meet her in the backyard.
> Well .... go on and git, then. .. why are ya standin' here??
> I'm goin' ..... it's, just ..... Mom, she knew I might be comin' over. Is that .... weird??
> A 'lil bit, I guess. You didn't tell anyone, did ya?
> Just you.
> Now what the hell is that supposed ta mean????
> No, no ... I didn't mean it like that ... I just meant, I didn't tell anyone else.
> Well .... what's done is done. Go kick her ass. Same plan as before? I'll come in 5 minutes?
> Ten. Ten minutes. Let me fuck her up real good.
> K. 10 minutes. Good luck.
> Thanks.
> Kick her ass.
I was reassured. But also perplexed. Why were fights with Wendy happening so ..... often ...... so easily? It's almost like ..... almost someone was WANTING us to fight.
But who? And why?
Well, like my mom said .... too late to worry about that now.
Fight two was about to happen.
To be continued.....
-
CLAW FIGHT
Regardless and whether Wendy and I were getting played by some interfering / agitating instigator (more on that later), Wendy's "SLUT" catcall at the pre-Homecoming pep rally had been voluntary and malicious. It was a challenge to fight, and I was more than willing to answer it.
I was also still pissed with Wendy for stealing my stepmom's cigarettes (whole cartons of them! not just a few smokes) after Wendy had choked me out at my mom's house six weeks ago. The cartons were probably long since sold or bartered by Wendy's hard-luck family, but as I walked to her backyard, I took note of all the semi-valuable junk that I could put in my stepmom's trunk after winning this next fight.
An odd thought hit me as I waited for Wendy to change into whatever fight clothes she was putting on. Why WAS I so confident that I was going to win this next battle in our war? Nothing had happened in our first fight to justify hopes for a better outcome. Well, not quite nothing. I had stood up to the school bully, and taken my beating like a woman.
Hmmmm, a woman. There was another difference right there. I really was a woman now, wasn't I. Six weeks ago, I was still a virgin. But since then, I had called up a boy I liked on the phone, offered him my body, and he had gladly, yet gentlemanly, taken it. He had kissed me before and spooned me afterwards, two things some of my Cardinal Spellman girlfriends had lamented missing out on their first times. Was that what made me so confident now. Was that why Wendy fought with such confidence?-because she had had sex?
Did Craig kiss her before sex? Did he spoon her after sex?
Just then Wendy strutted out the backdoor. That arrogant, cocky, bitch. I wanted to stomp her like an insect and squash her into the leaves covering the backyard ground.
She did a double take at my pinned up hair. I could tell--she was trying to decide what part of me to grab instead of my hair. I had my guard up for that wicked right cross of hers. She reached out and grabbed my shoulders, and I clawed at hers, my sharp nails getting entangled in the threads of the tight, light sweater she was wearing, which matched her mini-skirt, also short like mine. Was this what she was planning on wearing to the Dance because my mom had talked about it during our phone fight last night? Was she still planning on going to the Dance, even though Craig wasn't going? Was she ever planning on going, or was that just a trap to get me to fight her, right here, right now, in her backyard, like we were doing?
Wendy and I were both grappling to get control of each others' upper bodies. Our feet were kicking around at the ground, kicking up what seemed to be hundreds of leaves. Shit Wendy, doesn't anyone ever rake your backyard?
The rustling sound was a turnon to me. The texture of Wendy's sweater was a turnon to me. The thought of calling Craig afterwards and telling him that his ex and his new girl had fought an hour after his pep rally was a MASSIVE turnon to me. The thought of my mom coming into the backyard in a few minutes and watching Wendy and I fight, having my back, was a turnon to me. Wendy's almost-perfect auburn hair was a turnon to me. The color was perfect; the only minor imperfection was its oiliness. Is that why Wendy changed when she came home from school?, I wondered. Becuse the shoulders of her school clothes were greasy from her shoulder-length hair rubbing against it all day?
Wendy's legs and mine were looser than our first fight due to our now being in mini-skirts. I remembered Cardinal Spellman girls fighting Archbishop Williams girls behind Braintree Mall, and girls used to wearing Catholic schoolgirl skirts forgetting that they were now in slacks and falling down as they tried to kick each other duting fights. Wendy and I were now in the opposite situation--finding ourselves in skirts which allowed total freedom of movement, and achieving punishing speed, height, aim, and force with our feet, connecting with sickening thuds into each others' shins, thighs, knees, hips, and midsections.
Of all the turnons in the fight so far, this one was the ultimate one. Attempting to, and sometimes succeeding in, kicking Wendy in her womanhood.
I concluded that losing my virginity a week earlier was what was making me so confident. It was the difference maker in the version of me who had fought Wendy after school six weeks ago, and the version of me who was fighting her now.
Wendy could sense it, too. Perhaps even before this afternoon. Maybe she knew that Craig and I would keep progressing in our relationship, having more and more intense types of sex. Perhaps this was a "pre-emptive fight", to try and keep me in my place while Wendy was still the more skilled fighter of the two of us.
I had an uncontrollable urge to pin Wendy under me and to mount her. I had let Wendy on top of me in our first fight, and I had let Craig on top of me in our first fuck. Now I wanted to be on top. I wanted to look down on Wendy, to see what it felt like.
To stun her, I disengaged my nails from Wendy's sweater, hair from her sweater stuck under them. I went to scratch her face, but the tangled balls of material diminshed the effectiveness of my gouging. And my releasing of Wendy's shoulders gave her all the opening she needed.
<THWACK>
<THWACK>
I immediately heard the primal bone-on-bone flesh-on-flesh sound which had signalled the opening salvo on the September catfight between Wendy and me. She had gotten my jaw with a left-right combo which I never saw coming. My knees crumbled and I was on my chest, in the leaves. Wendy mounted me in seconds flat, and was scratching my face like bongo drums. I futilely attempted to cover up, rather than fighting back. I felt her tearing flesh from my cheeks.
I heard my mom.
GET OFF OF HER, BITCH!!!!!!!!
I felt my mom kicking Wendy in the sides.
I felt Wendy dismount from me.
I felt my mom running me to the car.
I tasted blood. My own.
I felt shame.
Lots of it.
To be continued.....
-
"YOU HUMILIATED ME!!!"
My mom and I drive home, me sobbing in the car the entire way. My mom thinks I'm crying from being hurt in the fight, but it's actually because of my shame at her breaking up a fight which was still in progress.
We get home, and she leads me to the bathtub. Together, we strip off my top and then my miniskirt. A skirt which will never get worn to tonight's dance; a skirt which Craig will never see me in, no matter what happens between him and me in the future. Mom mom wets a wash cloth and begins washing the cuts and scrapes on my face and shoulders, stinging me in thr process. She washes the thread and skin caked under my damaged nails, hours of clipping destroyed in under 10 minutes. I can't hold back with her any longer:
> Mom, how COULD you?
> How could I WHAT, Lisa?!?
> How could you bresk us up? We were still fighting!! It was humiliating!
> Lisa?? Earth to Lisa, you were getting your ass kicked.
> Mom?? You only saw five seconds of the fight. I was .... kicking her .... where it counts .... gor, like, five minutes before that. Mom, look at under my nails ... this is HER SKIN .. under here. From her face!!
> Lisa .... get real .... you gave her your back .... you weren't defending yourself ... don't you realize what she could have done to you?
> So you break us up?? Mom, how am I supposed to show my face at school on Monday??
> Lisa ... I saved you while you still HAD a face to show at school on Monday.
> Mom, I don't mean .... not showing my face because it's cut, or beat up .... I mean, showing my face because you came to a fight of mine .... the first fight Wendy and I had .... at least I stood up to her .... alone ..... it was even the first day of school .... like, she was testing me .... and I passed the test .... <<<<the queasy feeling I had earlier in the afternoon comes back to me .... my mom is listening to me now because she has cleaned my cuts and scratches to her satisfaction .... the tub fills with hot water, and I start to feel safe again .... my stepmom can tell I'm thinking something, but not saying it>>>>>
> Lisa, baby ..... what is it?? .... is there something I need to know?
> Well, it's ... it's just ....
> Just say it, Lisa, ... . Mom's here for you.
> Well, .... so this afternoon .... at the pep rally ..... in between being furious with Wendy, that is .... I just got this sixth sense, that .... that someone is, like, instigating Wendy and me into fighting .....like, I'm not naive, I know things can get crazy between two girls when there's a boy involved .... and Craig is a nice boy ... I actually do have a crush on him .... but, Mom, it's weird .... his heart isn't in this at all .... I mean, he never calls here .... like, to see if I'm going to the dance or walking to school .... and he never calls Wendy either .... I mean, the first day of school, 2 girls actually had a fight over him .... he never ssked what happened .... I mean, what GUY wouldn't be all over hearing about a fight two girls had over him?? .... at first I thought he was embarrassed or whatever .. and, then, Mom, get this .. . <<<<my stepmom has been listening intently, thinking>>>> .... when I called up Craig and asked him to .... sleep with me .... he just ....... went along, like .... like he knew I would ask him .... like he knew it was my first time .... like it was a JOB ..... or something ....
> Lisa, I have a bad feeling about this. I think I know .... whst might be going on. <<<<<<I brace myself for a birds-and-bees conversation about details the Cardinal Spelman nuns may have left out about boys-behaving-badly-to-virgin-girls, but instead get a lesson on the dynamics of my step parents' divorce.>>>>> Lisa, your stepdad .... my ex-husband ..... one of the reasons we got divorced .... is, he, well, I don't need to tell you that he's quite a devout Catholic .... as in, yo the point of making me uncomfortable .... Lisa, for a couple years now, he wanted to become a Deacon ..... which obviously is quite a commitment .... it's almost like being a Priest .... it's such a commitment that the Church seeks the consent .... and participation .... of the wife .... well, Lisa, I refused my consent ..... for a lot of reasons, many of them selfish, I admit .... but also because I've genuinely lost my faith in God .... you probably already knew that ..... well, Lisa, it led to us getting divorced .. . there were other things, but that was the biggie .... well, Lisa, it led to Gilbert, .. your stepdad ..... he's gone off the deep end, in my opinion, on the Catholic stuff ..... and he never accepted your being disenrolled from Cardinal Spelman ..... a mutual friend of ours warned me that he was going to try and get you expelled from Brockton .... so I would have no chouce but to re-enroll you at Spelman .. . or send you to Archbishop Williams, if for some reason Spelman wouldn't take you back ......
> So he'd rather have me get beat up than go to public school??
> Well.. he obviously doesn't understand what happens when two girls fight. But maybe we should show him the consequences tonight. Let me make a phone call
To be continued......
-
"LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO HER!!!!"
I briefly fall asleep Friday evening, but around 9:30pm, things get busy again when two "visitors" arrive at almost the same time.
The first visitor is my stepdad, Gilbert. My stepmom forces him to closely my bruised and scratched face and shoulders. He at first seems reluctant to concede the seriousness of my wounds, but is finally persuaded by the story conveyed to us by our second guest, freshly arrived from the BHS Homecoming Dance.
Maureen, a tall brunette who was a classmate of mine at Spelman and was dating a BHS junior, carried tidings of what was transpiring at my new school with my new classmates. "Lisa, <<<<but indirectly speaking to my step-parents as well>>>> it was the most bizarre thing. Wendy was at the dance, ..... IN THE CLOTHES SHE HAD FOR THE FIGHT WITH YOU. The sweater to, the shoulders, still had the holes you tore in them. Her face, on the cheeks, still had scratches on them..... like, right here, on the cheekbones. And her hair, she had combed it, but you could see where a little bit had been torn out. And she kept acting like .... just wait till Lisa gets her and you see her .... which, of course, everyone started waiting for, hoping there would be a Round Two between you and her that everyone could watch. Lisa ... like, what's UP between you and her? Like, I GET fighting over a boy ..... but .... is Wendy THAT psycho?? Like, what is seriously up her ass??"
My stepmon turns to my stepdad, "Gilbert, are you listening to this?? Look at Lisa!! LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO HER!!!!!"
My stepdad turns to the three women in the room, visibly shaken, and says, "Maureen, thank you for coming over. And, yes, you describe .... this situation ... well. Very well. Wendy DOES have something .. ahem, up her ass .. . and I'm afraid I played a role in putting it there. When ... Lisa's mom withdrew Lisa from Cardinal Spelman ... especially with just one year to go .... I felt ... helpless, discouraged .... I felt guilty .... a lot of guilt .... as I am right now, I might add ..... I guess I was just thinking of myself ... "
"Gilbert .... tell the girls what you did ... get to the point," coaxes my stepmom, crossing her arms.
"The point is .... I got this idea in my head .... this stupid, stupid idea ... one day in August, a few weeks before the first day of school, when I was over here dropping some stuff off for your mom .... I saw a girl and a boy, who turned out to be Wendy and Craig .... well, they were just talking to each other, but there was somrthing about them, you could tell they were together, a couple ... at least at that moment they were ... and Craig was wearing his Brockton High shirt .... well, I got this dumb idea in my head that if Craig showed Lisa around school the first week, that Wendy wouldn't like it ..... and that, I don't know, there would be trouble between Wendy and Lisa ..... at school, not off-site fights like ended up happening .... and the BHS adminstration would encourage Lisa to return to Spelman .... so I asked Craig to please show Lisa around .. and then all this happened."
My stepmom knows my stepdad is in the doghouse for what he's done, and isn't going to let him off the hook just yet. It's sort of like that moment in the Rudolph Christmas special where all the reindeer realize the danger Rudolph is in from the Abominable Snowmonster, and they realize the feel guilty for their role in making Rudolph run away. "Ladies? This might sound better coming from you, in your words. Anything Gilbert ought to know about encouraging girls ..... women .... to fight?"
Maureen pipes right up: "So, it's kinda like .. you see, girls WANT to fight each other. But, the only thing that makes us not is that, if we give in to our urges and fight .... we know that everyone in our lives ... our friends, our family, our teachers ... everyone we need approval from for anything ... will come down heavy on us if we're fighting all the time .... or, at all, really .... so, you take that away ... remove that societal discouragement like you did .. you don't even actually to encourage the fight, you just hsve to be NOT DIScouraging it ... and all hell is gonna break loose .... as uou can see of Lisa's face. ..... Get what I'm sayin'??"
My stepdad is visibly shaken, " Lisa, I'm sssssooo sorry. I'm really really really sorry. I'll make this up to you, I promise. Is this over, between you and Wendy?"
"Ok, ok. You've said and done enough Gilbert." She has him hug me, and then leave.
She returns to the room Maureen and I are in. "What he asked at the end there ... I didn't want him to hear the answer .... but we're all three on the same page, right."
Maureen and I look at each other, and respond together.
"Not over."
To be continued......
-
NO PARENTS
Although both Maureen and I knew on Saturday morning that Wendy wanted to finish what my mom had interrupted on Friday afternoon, by Wendy's provocative decision to show up at the Homecoming Dance still wearing her torn clothes from our fight and bragging openly that a rematch catfight had occurred, only Maureen recognized that Round 2 (or, Round 3, if you counted our September fight) could not wait seven days for Halloween Night. Brockton High School was a big school, but even it was not big enough for Wendy and I to avoid each other for five whole school days.
Maureen also recognized that Wendy and I needed to fight the Spelman-Williams way: no parents, and only one wingman as backup for the main fighters. Maureen volunteered to give up her weekend and be my wingman, a substantial sacrifice of time on her part, and also potentially of sweat and blood, so the two wingmen in these fights often came to blows themselves.
Maureen and a friend of Wendy's, named Shelly, made arrangements for Wendy and I to fight behind the loading dock of a Sears at the Braintree Mall at 6pm Sunday night. We chose that time because in 1981, retail stores had limited holiday hours, with customers long gone and even employees clearing out. Maureen knew the logistical details from many Spelman-Williams fights in which she had been a spectator or participant in the last couple of years.
The choice of pavement on which to fight was also a savvy move by Maureen. Wendy would have difficulty choking me out, as happened in the first fight, since she would skin her knees severely if she attempted to mount me. She could protect her knees by wearing jeans, but then her flexibility would be compromised, and I could likely dislodge her from any mount. Additionally, although I remained vulnerable to her wicked, lighting right crosses, I could buy precious time recovering from any that landed by keeping my head down and "taking a knee" (but not by looking up helplessly at her--Catholic school girls behind the Mall had done both thru the years: those doing the latter had suffered beatings, those doing the former had successfully pulled off a "rope-a-dope" style draw--and due to Wendy's foolish bragging at the dance, a draw was functionally equivalent to a victory for me).
Maureen and I drove to the fight in silence, both in jeans and easy-to-remove tops, in keeping with the aura and reputation of Catholic school-wear at these events. We both tried to "storyboard" the fight in our heads. I would need to swallow any pain from one of Wendy's bursts, but also squash my anger and not immediately retaliate. My covering up would be my retaliation, and then allow Wendy to expend herself and her energy, something that was starting to happen at the fight at my house after the first day of school. I would need to jab at Wendy's exposed midsection and save my fingers, while Wendy self-defeatingly punched at my head.
And most importantly: I would need to ignore or disregard any Maureen-Shelly fighting which was occuring on the sidelines. Wendy and I were the main event--Maureen and Shelly were just there to prevent the other from interfering.
Unless and until Wendy or I defeated the other, the whole evening, and the whole prior seven weeks, were for nought.
Maureen and I pull up. Wendy and Shelly are already there, standing, both in jeans, but only Wendy topless. I remove my top, and Maureen removes hers, just in solidarity now, although she looks ready to have a go at Shelly, an even height-weight matchup with her.
We park the car and both get out.
Just get a draw, Lisa. Just get a draw.
To be continued......
-
DISTRACTION
If Wendy's friend Shelly had shown up to the fight behind the Braintree Mall with her shirt on in the mistaken belief that her gesture would cause my friend Maureen to leave Shelly alone and that the two of them would stand aside and watch Wendy and I fight, her thinking was sadly mistaken. We weren't in Brockton anymore, and we weren't fighting by Brockton rules. Wendy had shown up and held up her part of the bargain, but Shelly had broken Williams-Spelman fight norms, and Maureen was going to enforce them, and on top of that make Shelly pay for her error.
As Wendy and I approached each other, Maureen charged decisively at her opponent--both were equally tall, about 5 inches taller than Wendy and me; both brunette; and both with straight-ish hair halfway down their backs. Wendy hesitated for just a half-second in anticipation of the collision of the angry Amazons, a rare dropping of her guard in our fight trifecta, which I seized by placing my nemesis's neck in a headlock. My thinking was to postpone Wendy's vicious right crosses from finding my jaw until later in this fight, when we were both exhausted or, at the very least, on less of an adrenaline rush from the nearby visual of the topless Maureen struggling to disrobe the surprisingly-modest Shelly.
Instead, the now-alert Wendy quickly realized her error in paying attention to the Maureen-Shelly undercard, and turned to face me and reciprocate my headlock with one of her own. The end result was that that our limbs merged tangled in a pretzel-like structure, with my left elbow buried under Wendy's left arm pit, and my right arm knotted against her left arm and unsuccessfully struggling to prevent her left hand from scratching and pinching my bare back. Wendy's right arm was pressed against the side of my neck, but not anywhere that restricted me from breathing. Our legs snaked against each other trying to keep our own balance and throw the other, until we collapsed side by side on our butts on the hard pavement, sitting next to each other while not releasing our holds. We used our arms to push each others' hand into our laps, Wendy possibly making at attempt to either smother me or simply make me unable to see her. To strategy seemed effective, so I reciprocated and forced her face into her own lap. We were now stalemated. This was fine by me, as the only one of us capable of inflicting a first round knockout on the other was my more experienced and skilled enemy.
If we wre fighting at the venue of our second fight at the start of this eventful weekend, Wendy's leafy backyard, Wendy would have likely next attempted to roll me off of her. But the prospect of back or chest flesh coming into direct contact with cold, hard, uneven pavement deterred either of us from giving up the security of comfortably sitting our jean-clad butts on the ground.
Cold. Shit. It was had become cold, and dark. The late fall dusk had transformed rapidly into a chilly cold night, and if not for the parking lot floodlights in the distance, we'd be able to see little at all. I noticed that for the first time in any of our three fights, Wendy's breasts were hard and her nipples were erect. Was it because of the cold? Because of our upper bodies rubbing together so close?
Or was it because Maureen and Shelly were viciously catfighting next to us? What exactly was Wendy's and Shelly's relationshio? Just friends, or more? Is that why Wendy was so wishy-washy with Craig? Because she wasn't 100% straight?
Coming out for a 18 year old was almost impossible in 1981 Brockton. Maybe if you were an artist or a musician, or maybe if you were going to Johnson & Wales to study culinary arts or something, you could pull it off, but even then the social cost would be enormous.
I sense I have only the tiniest window of having Wendy at a disadvantage before she turns our clinch into some sort of hold or throw which pins me. So I take a chance.
> My girlfriend is beating up your girlfriend.
Wendy turns her head to look, but I tighten my grip and prevent her from turning.
Wendy's response, tho, tells me all I need to know. Even if they haven't acted on it, there's something going on between Wendy and Shelly. Or, at least, Wendy wants there to be.
Wendy has done something worse than bringing a knife to a gunfight.
She's brought baggage to a catfight.
Shelly. Shelly is Wendy's baggage. It was probsbly Wendy who told Shelly to keep her top on.
Wendy is going to be distracted by wanting to protect Shelly.
And I'm going to make her pay.
"Go Maureen", I yell. "Kick her ass!!!"
Wendy squirms helplessly under my hold.
To be continued....
-
SWAPPING
As Wendy and I watch from our entangled sitting position in the dark, chilly parking lot, my friend Maureen is trying to pull Shelly's shirt off over her head. At least four diiferent times, the waist is over Shelly's head by at least a few inches, but the collar gets caught in Shelly's think brunette mane of hair, and Shelly frees her arms to get her shirt waist pulled back down over her torso, starting the process all over again.
Maureen changes tactics and instead grabs two fistfuls of Maureen's hair and pulls Shelly's head down. Then, rather than grabbing Shelly's shirt by the waist and attempting to remove it inside-out, she frees her right hand and grabs the shirt collar, and guides it past Shelly's hair and over her head. She still has work to do, as the short sleeves of the shirt are now caught halfway down Shelly's arms. But Shelly can now no longer see Maureen, or much as all for that matter, and Maureen beging raining hard punches down on Shelly's exposed back.
The sight of the defenseless Shelly becomes even more pathetic as Maureen begins to kick Shelly's shins and knees, causing her to lose her footing. Shelly can neither defend herself nor fight back, and keeping her top on is now the least of her problems, as she is now absorbing unanswered punches by the dozen.
I hope that her friend's struggles will be the distraction I need to turn the tide of my defeats to Wendy; but Wendy's focus has already turned to the lopsided fight beside us, rather than the one between us. Taking advantage of the layer of slippery sweat which us built up between our skin, Wendy writhes out of the headlock I have on her, and sprints to her defenseless friend's aid. She uses her most effective weapon, her lighting fast right cross, and suckerpunches my friend Maureen in the right jaw at least four times. Maureen reacts just about the same way I did earlier in the fall when my face felt the wrath of Wendy's wicked right hand: her knees wobble, then buckle, and release their grip on Shelly. Shelly takes advantage of her freedom and takles me by the hips, using her 5 inch size advantage and bringing me down.
Wendy and Shelly now have Maureen and I in unfamiliar territory: a 2-on-2 free-for-all brawl. Williams-Spelman girlfights, no matter how heated, always remained 1on1 battles between the intended opponents. The chaotic struggle now under way is foreign to Maureen and me, but par for the course, evidently, for Wendy and Shelly, as they naturally and wordlessly alternate between pinning one of Maureen and me, then turning to punch the other in the face. And if Maureen and I had Wendy pegged as the fighter and Shelly as just the sidekick, our perceptions are now shown to have been sadly mistaken. Shelly's punches and pins are every bit as skilled and punishing as Wendy's.
Although Shelly has a size advantage on me, I attempt to pull on her hair and move her away from Wendy and Maureen, so that the fight can resume being a pair of 1x1 battles, rather than a coordinated attack on my friend and me. Although not the outcome I originally had in mind for this evening, my plan is partially successful, as I wrestle Shelly a good ten fight away from the Maureen-Wendy catball, and my experienced friend can now focus on grappling with Wendy without getting coldcocked from behind every 15 seconds by Shelly.
In pulling Shelly away, however, I've forgetten that I'm topless, and fighting on cold, potholed blacktop. I become aware of countless gouges, scrapes, and scratches raked onto my back and chest, many of them bleeding. The uneven light makes it difficult for me to assess the damage I've sustained.
I look up and can see Maureen and Wendy, on their knees , facing each other, left hands buried in each others' hair, right hands measuring each other and throwing deliberate haymakers at each others' faces. They glare at each other with pure hate, Wendy attempting to harm my friend in a more determined fashion than she ever unleashed on me in any of our three fights.
Yep, there's definitely something romantic going on between Wendy and Shelly. Wendy is fighting for her friend's honor, and is retaliating against Maureen in a way she nrver did against me for moving in on Craig.
Wendy likes Shelly much more than she likes Craig. And hates Maureen much more than she hates me.
Maureen is holding her own 1-on-1 with Wendy, giving as good as she's taking. But Maureen is my friend, and she needs me in this fight. I run over to the two slugging adversaries, and tackle Wendy. Her back hits the hard pavement flush, and she's stunned and motionless. Shelly instictively covers her suddenly now defenseless teammate, and Maureen and I become aware of the cold night air, as well as how far we've drifted from our cars. I'm anxious to assess my many cuts, I make a motion back to Maureen's, and she follows. We start the car and leave. Wendy is still lying on the ground.
That's enough for tonight. I just want to get home and lay in my bath.
To be continued......
-
DRIVING HOME TO MY MOMMY
Maureen and I drive back home to my place from our disastrous 2-on-2 parking lot fight against Wendy and Shelly, taking great care not to break the speed limit, for fear of how we would explain our cuts, bruises, and black eyes to the Braintree or Brockton police. One of Maureen's eyes is already swollen shut, and the other has a visible shiner. My issue is an inability to recline comfortably in my seat due to a back replete with cuts and slashes. I try to hold up a brave front, but right now I just want Maureen to get us home and to be cradled by my Mommy.
I'm also trying to emotionally process all that has just happened. Why wasn't Wendy getting up after I tacked her onto the pavement and landed on her?--the sound of her back hitting the ground flush reverberates in my ears. Why did Wendy flip out and start pounding on Maureen when I whispered my snarky comment about Maureen and Shelly being our girlfriends? Why has Wendy agreed to fight me three times in 7 weeks? Is it because she has some sort of particular attraction to me? or just to fighting girls in general?
Are she and I not competitors for Craig?
Did Maureen just sustain a face pounding for me? Is she going to be mad at me for it? How do I make it up to her?
Are either of us going to school tomorrow? Everyone heard at the Homecoming Dance on Friday night that Wendy and I had fought after school on Friday--what will they think if I don't show for school on Monday? I need to be at school Monday.
Maureen pulls into my driveway. My stepmom is nervously waiting at the door. She can see Maureen and I are exiting Maureen's car slowly and gingerly.
> Girls, what is it?? What happened??
> They jumped us, the bitches. <<<<That's NOT EXACTLY what happened, I want to correct Maureen. But I figure she has more experience at this than me, and in event the full truth doesn't exactly reflect well on my frirnd and me.>>>>>
> Those.... public .... school .... bitches. <<<<My step mom spits on thr ground in contempt.>>>> I knew they'd do that. How many of 'em.
> Just two ..... but that's not the point ..... it was supposed to me the Wendy-Lisa show .... not a fucking free-for-all.
> <<<<I suddenly feel guilty for provoking Wendy into attacking Maureen. Is it my fault the whole fight went bad?? Is that why I feel so bad? I need to refocus the conversation to more urgent matters--getting my face presentable for school tomorrow morning. Beteeen sobs, I beg....>>>>.... Mom, please. I CAN'T miss school tomorrow, I can't, I can't, .... because of what Wendy said at the dance Friday night. Mom, please .... wash me up.
My stepmom's maternal instincts have been re-sparked .... and perhaps she recalls the shocking sight from 48 hours ago of Wendy straddling me and going to town on me in Wendy's backyard.
The three of us go into the house.
Seeing Maureen's swollen face in full light is a shocking sight--can an 18 year old female actually have done that with her bare fists? For me to have escaped such a fight in three rounds--had Wendy been going easy on me all fall?
Or was Wendy more motivated against Maureen? Motivated to defend Shelly? Because Wendy and Shelly were more than friends?
Why are we not talking about that? About what's up between Wendy and Shelly? Why are we talking so freely about fights and fighting? But not about Wendy and Shelly, about Wendy and Craig, about Craig and me.
Why isn't Craig talking about Craig and me with me? Is it because I propositioned him, and not the other way around? The nuns at Spelman had always warned that if you give yourself to a man, he'll take you up on your offer and then discard you. Is that what happened? Did Craig discard me? Did he discard Wendy? Is that why Wendy moved on to girls? Or does she prefer girls?
What caused what?
My stepmom rubs antiinfectant on my back and front, but implies my injuries are exaggerated and limited. She's much more interested in Maureen's battered face.
She takes Maureen into the spare "rumpus room", the room where I first fought Wendy in September, and closes the door. I try and eavesdrop on what they are doing. I want my stopmom to hold me, to console me. Why is she in there alone with Maureen? Why is the door closed?
I hear the sound of bare flesh rubbing on bare flesh, the sound of groaning, of muffled ..... exhales .... whether of pain, or pleasure, I can't tell.
To be continued....
-
PRE-HALLOWEEN
Even though I'm the cause of all the drama which has come to Brockton High since September--I'm the one who changed schools senior year, I'm the one who walked to school first day with another girl's boy, I'm the one who couldn't attend the Homecoming Dance because of a pre-Dance catfight, I'm the one who got her Mom and former Spelman classmate involved because I couldn't handle my business--I spend the week before Halloween as a clueless spectator to the events unfolding around me.
The first event is that my Spelman friend Maureen is sleeping in the guest room of my house, rehabbing from two black eyes which Wendy gave her at the Braintree Mall fight. And at night, my stepmom joins her in bed. Neither of them talk to me about what happens when they're in bed together.
My stepmom is only 38 years old and has a killer body, which she somehow maintains without ant formal workout. She also hasn't had any regular sex that i know of since divorcing my stepdad, the well-intentioned Catholic who 'stirred the pot" between Wendy and me in late summer by setting up Craig and me. So I'm not surprised that Maureen, if she swings that way, would fool around with her. What surprises and hurts me is that neither talk to me about what's going on between them, and where it's headed. Next spring we graduate high school (assuming we don't get expelled before then). Are my stepmom and Maureen going to allow me to stay in the house?
And why aren't they teaching me how to fight? Maureen has obviously been in more than her fair share of Spelman-Williams battles--her round with Wendy at the Braintree Mall was exhilarating to watch. Am I so much of a lost cause that they're "moving on" from helping me?
Wendy also has not returned to school since the fight. Is she injured? Is someone helping her? Maureen, at least, is keeping up with her school work. Wendy is not, I find out. And the timing for not doing so is terrible--the first academic quarter is coming to a close. There's no way to finesse an F senior year of high school.
And Craig is cold with me at school. Polite, but cold. Is it because he's hearing distorted rumors of the girl drama between Wendy and me? Or is it because that's what boys do when you go all the way with them too soon? Because if it's that, nothing I do can put that genie back in the bottle.
Halloween is coming Saturdsy night. I know that Craig is a sucker for girls in hooker outfits--nylon, heavy lip stick and eye shadow, feathered hair, heels, mini-skirt--I busted him staring at some Brockton streetwalkers on some of our strolls to school. I go the a thrift shop to supplement a few things I already have at home. I try out some combinations in my mom's full-length mirror at home while she canoodles with Maureen at home--they're so busy with each other that they don't even notice me.
My original plan is to surprise Craig at his home at dusk on Saturday night and offer him my hooker body. If we're not going to have a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship, at least we can bang, right? But on Thursday evening, I decide that plan is too risky--there are all sorts of Halloween parties going on around Brockton all day Saturday. What if Craig is attending one of them?
Damn, I really really want to have sex with him. The second time is when it starts to feel good, right?
So, Thursday, after school, I put on my hooker outfit and walk to Craig's house. I withstand a gauntlet of catcalls, whistles, and actual solicitations for as much as $80. Sigh, I guess if my stepmom and Maureen kick me out next May, I know how I csn make a few bucks if I need to.
I get to Craig's house. His parents aren't home from work yet. Perfect. The side door is open. Perfect. I walk in. I smell pot. I hear voices in the living room. Shit, what if Craig has friends over and they see me dressed ridiculously. Oh well, I'll just tell them I'm practicing for Saturday night. Too late to turn around now.
I walk into the living room.
Craig doesn't have friends over. He has a girl over. A topless girl.
Wendy.
She looks at my hooker outfit and starts laughing.
> Does your lover Shelly know you're alone with Craig, bitch?
Pot or no pot, Wendy's not laughing now. I've struck a chord, and I have Craig's attention, too.
> We end this. Right hear, right now, Spelman slut.
> Fine by me, Brockton bitch.
To be continued......
-
"DON'T LET THAT STOP YA"
For you youngsters, an accusation of bisexuality carried much more of a whiff of scandal in 1981 than it does in 2018. If anything, bisexuals were lower on the foid chain than lesbians, since bisexuality wasn't even looked on as a genuine identity, just as a lesbian-in-denial.
So I've gotten Craig's attention by making a genuine accusation of Wendy in front of him, even going so far as to i.d. Wendy's same-sex lover by name. Craig, knowing Wendy as long and as well as he has, is no doubt replaying all the Wendy-Shelly interactions he has witnessed over the years, and face-palming his forehead with a "Oh! Now it all makes sense!" exclamation.
Both Wendy and I can read this in his body language, and Wendy cannot allow my put-down of her to go unanswered. She stares at me with genuine hatred, and spits out to Craig, while looking at me, "This bitch only wants to fight me in front of you so that you'll interfere. That's why she brought another Spelman slut to the fight this weekend--to jump me 2on1."
"You and I were fighting 1on1 Sunday, bitch. YOU were the one that jumped in on someone else's fight."
"Then why aren't we fighting yet, slut? What's stopping you?".
"Maybe Scott doesn't want his place trashed, dumb ass."
Scott must value watching an epic catfight more than the interior of his house, as he chimes in without hesitation, "Don't let that stop ya!", and ostentatiously flops on the couch, undoing his zipper.
Wendy seems to get closest to Scott by getting him to feel sorry for her, and I don't want her to have been nursed by him back to health all week from an injury sustained by me "jumping her", only to have me reinjure her again, restarting the cycle.
More importantly, I suddenly realize that Wendy has never thrown the first punch in any of our three previous fights. The first day of school, I went to HER locker and challenged her. The post-Pep Rally fight, I went to HER house and knocked on her door. The Sunday night Braintree Mall fight, MY friend Maureen went to HER girlfriend Shelly and made the arrangements.
This is bullshit.
If I win the fight, and injure her like I did at the Braintree Mall, I want her to be the one that started the fight.
You wanna fight me, tough girl? You're all talk--YOU're gonna hafta hit ME first.
And I know just the way to provoke the bitch. That is, if she actually wants to fight me. Which, I suppose, is what I'm actually trying to discover.
Is Wendy my rival for Craig or not? If not, no need to fight her. But if so, we need to fight. Until there's a winner. Until someone is hurt. Otherwise, it's not a fight, is it?
You decide, Wendy. Do we need to fight, or not? Are you into Craig? Or into Shelly?
Craig is on the couch, stroking his cock thru his underwear. I'm wearing my Halloween hooker "costume".
I pull up my hooker skirt. I start lapdancing Craig, just teasing him first, but then actually let my thighs brush his cock ever so slightly. He can't take the arousal anymore, and pulls his underwear elastic over his erect cock and takes it completely out. His hands find my hips, and he guides my lapdancing closer and closer to my dark hooker nylons. I allow only a feather touch between his skin and my clothes, forcing him to patiently wait. I twist my hips in s lapdancing motion.
Wendy is watching, deciding if I have the balls to follow thru with my plan. But still not acting one way or another. I need to provoke her more.
I lock eyes with her. "I'm gonna do it, bitch. I'm gonna fuck your boyfriend. Right here, right now, in front of you, bitch. You gonna do anything??"
"Don't make me laugh, Spelman slut. You Catholic girls just tease. You don't know how to actually do it."
"I swear, Wendy. I'm gonna ride his cock raw. Unless .... you don't want me to."
"You couldn't ride a cock if your life depended on it, Lisa."
Craig's cock is soaked with pre-cum. He's going to ruin everything and prematurely explode if I don't hop on it soon.
So I do.
<<<<SLAP!!!!!!!!!!>>>>>>>>
Wendy's claws are in my hair.
"Well, well, well, whore, you do care, don't you?"
My dismount from Craig is made easier by him shooting his load onto my nylons.
Wendy and I square up.
Words are unnecessary. Our posture says it all.
So now we know.
We both like him.
We both want him.
Let's fight, bitch.
To be continued......
-
POT-HEAD
Wendy was right to detect that I wanted this, our last fight, to be in front of Craig. But not for the reason she thought. I didn't want him to interfere or break us up--nor did I think he would, no matter how rowdy our fight got. I wanted him to sit back and enjoy.
Instead, I wanted Craig to be bearing witness, because I had a hunch that it would affect Wendy. That she would want him to see her fight like a girl, not like a boy. That the closed-fist haymakers she and Maureen were unloading on each other at the Braintree Mall would be back-burnered for more feminine tactics, such as hairpulling and gouging and kicking. Wendy would voluntarily forego her biggest advantage--her blinding, punishing right-cross, which had evidently been taught to her by her older brother, who still lived at home, in childhood tussles, and would rely on catfighting tactics.
In other words, my kind of fight.
With one final x-factor in my favor.
Wendy was stoned out of her mind. I could see it in her eyes. I could smell it on her breath, in her oily hair, on her skin. Someone who's stoned is a half-step slow.
That was all the advantage I needed.
Wendy grabbed my hair by her claws, still strong as a horse. But I already could tell today's outcome was going to be different than our first three fights. Rather than grabbing her hair back, as she was anticipating, I went straight for her bare chest. With both hands, twisting and gouging mercilessly and without regret. My hair was voluntarily defenseless against Wendy's shredding, and she succeeded in removing partial portions and sending them to the floor. But she was slow to perceive my lack of fear of her approach, and the threat to herself of mine.
Craig sat transfixed on the couch, resuming his stroking motion as his two girlfriends proceeded to destroy each other. I could tell he was drawn to the stronger, the winner. And that that would shortly be me.
My nylon-based hooker outfit would normally be slight protection to the vulnerable parts of my female anatomy. But in these unusual circumstances, with Wendy fully topless and my grip on her breasts secured, it was enough. Too late, Wendy's arms released their grip on my hair, and flailed to my sides and underbelly, seeking targets. But her sweaty hands continually slid off my sheer nylon top and stockings, returning to their owner without inflicting pain on me. Wendy's strange oiliness, previously most noticable on her hair and the acne-marred chin of her combination-skin face, was now spreading to her entire upper body.
Perhaps fear brought it out in her. Fear of losing a catfight in front of her boyfriend.
At Brockton High School that afternoon, in Western Civ, we were taught about the Spanish Infantry at the Battle of Rocroi in 1643, who had never been defeated since the 1470s. When they finally met a bigger bully, Cardinal Richeleau's Duc d'Enghien, Marechal de France, and realized they were going to lose that afternoon, rather than fleeing the field, they charged ahead and met their fate, heads held high.
With my claws sunk irremovably into her breasts, and me now mounting her, Wendy saw the end, but nevertheless charged ahead fearlessly. She bucked at me desperately, driving her knees painfully into my kidneys, causing me to choke in pain. But I refused to release my grip, twisting ever more mercilessly on the Brockton bitch. I must have straddled her in that position for over 10 minutes, Craig masturbating throughout to the view. He and I exvhsnged longing stares, knowing what we eould be doing to each other all weekend long.
Wendy never did give. She just passed out in agony.
Fortunately, before I did likewise in exstasy.
Exstasy at beating my enemy. Exstasy that Craig watched it. Exstasy that no one interrupted us.
Exstasy at besting Brockton's baddest bitch in a fair fight.
Exstasy at winning a girlfight. I knew it wouldn't be my last, even if it was my last against Wendy.
Wendy never went back to Brockton High School. She was pregnant by Christmas, and not by Craig.
I was only getting started getting into fights. I won't tell you about all of them--I can't type that much.
But I'll tell you about one. The following summer. About a girl from Archbishop Williams.
To be continued......
-
SENIOR CLASS CATFIGHT QUEEN
Beating up Wendy, with Craig witnessing the whole battle, cemented forever my undisputed title as The Brockton High School Catfight Queen of the Class of 1982. In an age before Facebook and Snapchat stories like the one Craig had to tell, and was eager to tell, spread like wildfire. Soon the entire Brockton-Braintree community heard some version of the tale of the Cardinal Spelman dropout who arrived at Brockton High and stole a footbsll player from the school bitch.
And even those who were skeptical of the story could see corroborating visual evidence in the school hallways every weekday: Craig and me, kissing in front of my locker.
And no Wendy. She had dropped out of school senior year. And then when news of her pregnancy got around after Christmas break, even the most disinterested party took notice of our love triangle.
"Shit. That new girl Lisa must have laid one hell of a ass-whupping on that bitch Wendy."
Women from Brockton would see my stepmom out grocery shopping and actually congratulate her for raising such a tough daughter. Even devout Catholic parents, teachers, and administrators from Spelman.
Hell, ESPECIALLY devout Catholics from the Spelman community. Tuition at Spelman was climbing fast, out of the reach of many Brockton working folks. It was comforting to show the Brockton High School long-timers that they couldn't push around Catholics who were squeezed out of Spelman due to economics.
Life was good.
Spring of senior year came. Craig and I got accepted to Bridgewater State. "Accepted to Bridgewater State" really meant that you had submitted all of the paperwork by the deadline. But still, I was going to be a college girl, majoring in English. And my boyfriend would be with me.
I could end the story here and just tell you that we lived happily ever after. But we didn't. I don't think Craig ever opened a single one of his textbooks at Bridgewater State. I was angry at him not for failing, but for not even trying. Didn't he WANT to spend four years of college with me, and then get married? Apparently not. We broke up after he dropped out.
And there were two other .... ummm .... life complications. Or, two that I'll tell you about.
The first: graduating from high school as your town's Catfight Queen isn't a title you can just sit back and enjoy. Like an actual Queen, with the perks come responsibilities and burdens. One of the burdens is that there's other bitches out there wanting to make a name for themselves by riding your wave--in this case, to challenge you to a catfight. And I did not long escspe this fate. In the summer of 1984, after my sophomore year at Bridgewater State, and girl from Archbishop Williams heard about me and came looking for trouble.
And second: Wendy. You didn't think I'd heard the last of her, did you? She had her baby and went on welfare. And brooded about what had become of her life. And came at me in 1990 when we were both 26 years old.
Let me tell you after both of these fights.
To be continued.....
-
POST-GRAD YEARS FIGHT
Whenever someone leaves a school or a job or an entire town, I think most of the time we tend to presume that things "aren't like they used to be in the good ole days", back when we were there keeping watch. I hadn't even gone far from Brockton after graduating high school on 1982--just attending Bridgewater State, a few miles down the road.
Even though in theory I could have commuted, I lived on campus my entire 4 years there, going home usually only for long weekends and summers. To start with, I didn't own a car yet. But more importantly, I was a bit of a third wheel in my own home. My stepmom and my Spelman friend Maureen were continuing their same-sex, cross-generational .... whatever it was .... affair? ..... relationship? ..... experimentation? My mom would cook food and provide a clean bed for Maureen, Maureen would keep up the house and do yardwork for my mom. Don't get me wrong, Maureen always had an "old soul" thing going at Spelman, and upon graduation was ready to launch into adulthood. Plus, her traditional Catholic Irish family was distinctly unsupportive of her same sex proclivities, do my mom provided a safe space for Maureen to think out her future, as well as a warm shoulder to, literally and figuratively, rest her head ..... and to do other things. Mom never made me Maureen was replacing me, so Maureen and I remained friends, and even went out as such when I was home on breaks.
Maureen also, her own academic career having apparently reached an end, stayed in touch with things at Spelman. Catholic high school tuition continued its dizzying rise after I left in 1981. Lay teachers were replacing nuns and Brothers as the teachers, and lay teachers wanted to be paid. This came out of tuition, since Catholic High Schools, unlike Catholic K thru 8 schools, were not subsidized by sponsoring parishes.
So, in a short space of time, from 1981 to 1984, Massachusetts Catholic High Schools morphed from being religious-based versions of public high schools to being elitist enclaves of spoiled brats and bitches who had parents who could afford the golden key its guilded cage--in other words, religious-based privste schools. That's a bit harsh and oversimplified, but no one who was paying attention could miss the cultural wave which swept thru Catholic secondary education in those dizzying years, and mourn what had been lost.
Maureen and her Spelman friends stayed in touch with, and argued back and gorth with, their old Williams rivals. Maybe they even fought sometimes at Braintree Mall on Sunday nights, although even that tradition began to fall by the wayside when Massachusetts began repealing their "blue laws" and extending weekend retail hours.
More dizzying change; more loss to be mourned.
Instead, the new rivalry was between the "old school" Spelman grads, defenders of the traditions of the past, and the "new school" Williams snobs who were misfits in regular society and whose parents were trying to pad their resume for college and, eventually, marriage. To them, Archbishop Williams was just a ticket to punch on thr road to other destinations, not the destination in and of itself. These "new school" bitches didn't grow up in working class Brockton and Braintree or Dedham--no, they were from suburban Weymouth and Scituate and Hanover. They weren't from broken homes like Maureen and me--they had parents who both worked and whose dad were lawyers or worked downtown for Fidelity Investments or on Route 128 for one of the new, booming computer companies. They drove cars to school at Williams, and on weekends when they were looking to drink and make out.
Nothing like the Catholic schoolgirls Maureen and I had been.
They hated us, and we hated them back.
In early May 1984, I was done my sophomore year at Bridgewater. I had a six week overlap at home with Maureen and her Spelman friends before Massachusetts high schools got out. This 6-week window was legendary in Massachusetts for profuse beer consumption, as returned college students used their fake, and real, id's to buy beer for their high school party mates. The excessive drinking, warm nights, too many young adults with too much free time on our hands, and mixing of ages and schools would sometimes lead to girlfights.
In other words, Maureen and I loved evrry minute of it.
That spring of 1984, there was a really nasty posse of spoiled new age spoiled Archbishop Williams senior girls lurking around Maureen's posse. One night on Nantasket Beach, our two groups ran into each other and began trash talking. One of the blonde Williams girls had a reputation as a fierce fighter.
She pointed at me and told me she heard I was a former Brockton High Catfight Queen.
A circle of 8 girls formed around us.
To be continued.....
-
NANTASKET BEACH CATFIGHT, 1984
In the cool crisp spring air in the grassy sand dunes approaching the still-closed-for-the-season Nantasket Beach (beaches in Massachusetts open on Memorial Day weekend), the bitchy blonde senior from Archbishop Williams, evidently named Hannah from the shouts of encouragement she was receiving from her 4 friends, and I pulled each other by the hair and crumpled down into a catball in the annoyingly long grass. We released each others' hair, grabbed each others' waist with our legs, and scratched viciously at any exposed flesh which we could feel or see. Hannah's nails were slitting my like razors.
Belying my nickname of "Class of 1982 Catfight Queen" I had only had one catfight opponent my entire life, and so only had experience against one catfighting style: Wendy's signature wait-for-the-perfect-opportunity-to-land-a-right-cross. Hannah fought much more energetically, coming out of the gate like a cyclone and not letting up, not saving any energy at all for a Round 2, which she apparently had no intention of allowing to occur. Both of us were breathing heavily, and I began praying that my second wind would kick in before I was humiliated by a high school student.
Hannah's face was pressed closed to mine, and we hissed traditional Spelman-Williams catfight insults.
> Spelman Slut.
> Williams Witch.
> Spelman shithead.
> Archbishop Williams asshole.
> You're getting soft in college, bitch.
> Then why is your face bleeding, sweetie?
Hannah's nails continued to shred my bare arms and shoulders, and the long blades of beach grass and fine beach sand entered every opening and gave me the agonizing sensation of what it must feel like to fight on glass. I desperately wanted to get our catfight back standing up, but Hannah kept me pinned onto the ground or wrapped around her body, forcing us to fight on the sand. Our eight girl audience closed in on us to see who was winning as the sky got darker, so close I could smell the cocktail of perfumes, 1980's vintage hairspray, beer breath, and female hormones excited by the ferocious catfight between two experts of the craft.
Hannah's nails began raking my face, intentionally seeking eyeballs or lips. One of her fingers got caught in my mouth, and I clamped down hard with my teeth, eliciting a squeal of pain from my enemy. I was desperate to neutralize Hannah's nails, obviously prepared with a potential girlfight tonight in mind.
I seized on Hannah's momentary distraction, and grabbed her hair with both my hands. I pinned her head between my legs, and barrel-rolled her on the ground like a crocodile taking down a deer. I forced her face further between by legs, rubbing it into the fabric of my pants. I hoped the audience wouldn't notice my arousal at the sensation of Hannah's face on my thighs, and the sight of her dyed blonde and dark roots flowing onto my stomach.
I don't think they did, because I think they were even more aroused than I was. I could see their erect nipples through their tops, and could smell the dampness coming from their shorts.
To be continued.....
-
FINISHING OFF HANNAH
I thrill to the thought, and the present reality ('Real Presence"--a concept every Catholic schoolgirl had absorbed during her education), of eight young women bring sexually excited at the sight of Hannah and I struggling on the outskirts of Nantasket Beach. I play to the ground, doing everything I can to make the visuals more stimulating.
I make sure Hannah's blonde hair is as flared out, as "big" as possible. And then mine. It's 1984. Sexy is all about Big Hair.
I make sure cleavage is showing through Hannah's blouse. And then mine. Neither of us are wearing bra's tonight. Good.
I mount Hannah, like Wendy mounted me during our first fight, back in 1981. That fight seems like a lifetime ago, even though it's only 1984. We fought alone, to avoid a crowd of gawkers. But both Hannah and I are enjoying our audience of 8 horny women tonight. It makes us horny, too.
Hannah has never been choked out of a fight, like I was by Wendy. If she had been, she wouldn't be letting me put the weight of my forearm on her throat like I'm doing right now.
Or perhaps she's distracted by the rhythmic rubbing of our thighs and between our legs. Perhaps she enjoys it do much it's worth being under me. Perhaps she enjoys looking up at my face and chest, like the September 1981 afternoon I took in the mild acne on Wendy's chin, the oiliness of her hair, the firmness of her chest. What's flaws does Hannah see in me tonight? What positive features.
I notice Hannah's flawless skin, her clean pores. How does she pull it off? Does she wash her face every night? Who has the patience? Even at Bridgewater State, with nothing but free time on my hands, I skip nights. I get blemishes two days later, and resolve to be more diligent, but then relapse again.
I'm pretty sure Hannah is cumming under me. These Class of '84 girls are nasty, tacky, sleazy, cheesy. Who cums when they're in a girlfight?
It's not like it was back in my day. We never came DURING the fight. After, maybe. Never during.
I lean harder on Hannah's throat.
Bitch.
I tell Maureen and my posse, "Let's get outta here."
Maureen kisses me on the mouth.
Nope, not like the old days at all.
I never fight in another Williams-Spelman fight again. No one dares take me on, so fearsome is my reputation.
I don't fight again at all until 1990. A full year after graduating Bridgewater State. Wendy's daughter is now 8, a 3rd grader in Weymouth, north of Brockton. Where does the time go?
I'm living at home with my stepmom after Maureen ditches her. I'm working as a Customer Service Rep at a medical device company. Wendy calls me one night in April. She has unresolved issues from 1981.
Good. So do I.
To be continued......
-
1984 TO 1990, 6 DRY YEARS
After the Nantasket Beach fight against Hannah during my sophomore year at Bridgewater State, I began the awkward transition from childhood to young adulthood. Today, in 2018, with Millenials spending their elongated childhoods living with their parents (sometimes in their actual childhood bedrooms, not even bothering to move to the basement anymore), playing XBox or Playstation, binge watching TV series or all 15 episodes of Star Wars, that statement of how I spent my years between 20 and 26 probably doesn't mean much. Heck, in 2018, you can stay on your parents' health insurance until you're 26.
But I was 20 to 26 in the 1980s. If you hadn't cut ties with your parents by age 22 back then, you were a loser. And even worse, a loser who was shunned by your peers, which in turn made it even harder to cut ties with your parents, your last source of human connection in a time before you could log in to Facebook or Snapchat.
Things started unraveling in the spring of 1985. April came, the 6-week window of graduated high school senior out late at night looking for parties, trouble and girlfights. Maureen and I drove around Braintree and Brockton, making our presence, and our willingness to take any 18- or 19- year old who so desired down a peg if she wanted, known.
There were no takers. My reputation as someone who had knocked Wendy out of the Brockton public school system, and who had made Hannah cum under me in front of 8 girls at Nantasket Beach, was too fearsome. No one wanted a piece of that action. Fighting just about anyone else carried less risk.
So that 6 weeks in 1985 came and went for Maureen and I without me finding any fights.
And that six weeks in 1986.
And that six weeks in 1987, my final year at Bridgewater State. By which point, the Spelman and Williams girls didn't hang out much anyways at Braintree Mall or even Nantasket Beach--they were living even further away from Brockton and Braintree, even further than Weymouth, in places like Scituate and Duxbury and Hanover. They hung out in suburban homes where both parents were absent, just like Brockton. Except in Brockton the parents were absent due to divorce, and in the new towns the parents were absent due to busy jobs or exotic travel destinations.
Maureen felt very awkward at the parties. Saying we were from Brockton triggered nervous giggles from the girls. We stopped attending in 1988.
And Maureen had a falling out with my stepmom, I assume over money. She moved out, and didn't keep up her friendship with me.
By the end of 1988, even when I wanted to go out, I had nobody to go out WITH.
My step mom was sad and lonely as well, her youthful looks fading. She had been with Maureen so long, I think she had forgotten how to flirt with men.
I got a job on Route 128 doing coding for a customer service tech company. My choice of English as a major probably wasn't the greatest career choice, but the Massachsetts Miracle had one last gasp to go in it (it didn't come crashing down until 1990-91), so I rode the wave, burying myself in my career for all of 1989, enjoying my first real paycheck and getting 401(k) statements. Maybe I vould impress the Spelman-Williams rich bitches this way.
In the spring of 1990, my mother and I started walking at night around our old neighborhood. We started walking by Wendy's house. We knew Wendy's daughter was school age by now, so the daughter probably wasn't living in the house--the Brockton primary school system had continued to deteriorate, so sending a 7-year old to Brockton public schools was not an option to be considered in sny but the most desperate circumstances. No, Wendy and her daughter likely lived with a relative in a surrounding suburb.
But someone was definitely living in Wendy's old house, the yard still as junked up as the October 1981 afternoon when Wendy and I had our catfight in the leaves. It appeared to be a single man in his 30s, probably Wendy's brother, the same person now grown up who had answered the door when I walked over to fight Wendy after she called me a slut at the Homecoming Pep Rally all those years before.
We asked some neighbors to the old house what was up there, and where Wendy was at. My mom seemed as interested as me. It gave a sense of purpose and anticipation to our evening walks.
> Remember the week you and Wendy got into three catfight? Three catfights in one week!!
My stepmom seems to relish using the word catfight twice.
> Well, it was partly your fault, Mom. You broke up the first fight before it was over.
> I know, but, Baby, you didn't understand what two girls csn do to each other in a fight.
> Hate to break it to you, Mom, but I did. She and I had fought a month earlier. Alone. At home.
> You what? .... you did? .... Lisa, that's .... but ..... for how long.
> Maybe 20 minutes. She choked me out. It was my first fight.
> Lisa, that's ..... horrible. .... why didn't you tell me??
> Lots of reasons ..... shame that I lost, mostly. Why didn't YOU tell ME about your catfights?
> Touche.
> So, any questions?
> Do you want to fight Wendy again?
> More than anything.
to be continued.....
-
DINNER WITH WENDY
In pre-internet, pre-texting 1990, asking another woman, even one you know, even one you've fought before, if she wants to fight is a lot like asking a man if he wants to fuck. You know the answer is probably Yes, but getting to Yes can be tricky. And you can blow it if you come on too strong.
When you're both 18, you can get to Yes pretty directly, like when I was 18 and walked straight over to Wendy's house after school, or straight over to Craig's house when I wanted to lose my virginity.
But It's 1990, and I'm 26 now. Adulthood has intervened and made life more complicated than it used to be. I have a paying job, burgeoning into a career. And Wendy has a 7-year old girl. And she and I aren't neighbors anymore--Wendy lives with an aunt in Weymouth so her daughter can go to a respectable public school. Public school isn't an option anymore in Brockton, and the rich bitches like Hannah have gentrified the Catholic schools.
My stepmom and I, out on one of our evening walks, ask Wendy's brother how to get in touch with Wendy, and how we might get her ear for 10 minutes to feel her out on her openness for a rematch catfight. Flirting, in other words, but about fighting, not sex.
Wendy's brother informs us that Wendy enjoys being wined and dined at an area restaurant called Hilltop in Saugus. Hilltop is a Massachusetts institution, a non-chain restaurant with an endless menu and even more endless numbers of tables--over 250 in use at any one time. It's the working-class Massachusetts equivalent of fine dining, and more importantly, loud enough that you can have an awkward conversation with you tablemates without being eavesdropped on.
Now to request the "first date". We secure Wendy's current phone number from Wendy's brother, and ask him to give her a heads-up we might be calling. My step mom wait two days, then on the third day (another Catholic "thing"--don't ask) nervously dial her number. I hope she picks up.
> Hello? [Sounds like her voice, but more mature. I hope she hasn't outgrown girlfighting.]
> Hello, this is Lisa from Brockton. May I please speak to Lisa.
> This is she. [Wow. Super mature. And without a high school degree.]
> Wendy, hi, thanks for picking up. Your brother gave me this number. Do you have a few minutes to talk?
> Yes, he mentioned you might be calling. I'm glad you did. What's up?
> Yes, I'm glad too. The neighborhood isn't the same without you. So, the thing is, Wendy, [don't scare her off, Lisa, don't creep her out] my stepmom and I never got a chance to give you a proper send-off. For all the years of being our neighbor. And we heard a rumor that you like Hilltop in Saugus. My mom and I were hoping we could take you there. Our treat.
> Wow. What's the catch?
> [Shit, this bitch is good. Don't blow this Lisa.] No catch, Wendy. Well, unless, I guess, you count giving up an evening to be with us as being a catch.
> Can I bring someone?
> [Does Wendy smell a rat? Or is she just not used to having someone reach out to her? Is she having trouble dating as a single mom? In 1990 Massachusetts, that stll carries a stigma.] Yes, I'm sorry, Wendy. Whare are my manners? [Did that sound sarcastic? The pressure of this call is getting to me.] Yes, you and a guest, your choice. My mom and I will drive. Whattya say, [bitch]?
> Well, ok. I could use a night out, I suppose. Don't worry about any guest--I'll go stag. Friday nights are better than Saturdays for me. I try and go to Mass with my daughter on Saturday night.
> [Ok, now, was that a dig at me? Or is Wendy on the straight and narrow now, and my offer to fight will be laughed at? Or does she just "do Church" for her girl?] Ok, Friday nights. It's Monday now. This Friday too soon?
> Let me think .... let me think .... [Now I know how boys asking for a date feel.] ... ok, let's do it. Do you have a piece of paper to right down my address?
> Sure. Lay it on me.
Like the beating I'm gonna lay on YOU the next time we fight.
To be continued.....
-
DINNER AT HILLTOP
On a chilly New England February Friday night, my stepmom and I follow handwritten directions and pick up Wendy at her aunt's house in Weymouth. Wendy is waiting outside on the screen porch, apparently snuffing out a cigarette as we pull up. She climbs in the backseat of the car and fist bumps my mom, but not me, thanking my mom for the ride. Wendy looks more mature, but not eight years more mature. Let's call it four. Her hair seems less oily, and the acne around her mouth is gone. Her freckles are faded, either naturally or by make up.
We settle in for the car ride to the restaurant, my mom and Wendy doing most of the talking.
> So how do you like Weymouth?
> If I didn't have my aunt, I don't know that I'd like it much. People keep to themselves more than Brockton.
> Not to pry, how do you support yourself, Wendy? I'm divorced myself, so no shame in being honest. Does your baby's father help you?
> He does. But not voluntarily. He was ordered to by a court.
> Good.
> .....aaannd not so good. He only needs to as long as I'm not in a relationship. So, basically, I don't date much.
> And you're ok with that? or No?
> At first, no. But then I got to thinking...
> Yes? Got to thinking what?
> Well, net net [where is Wendy picking up these sophisticated phrases? She's the most educated-sounding high school dropout I've heard for awhile] .... guys are a pain in the ass when you think about it ....
> [My mom takes her hand off the wheel snd raises it] ... Second! Divorced, remember?
> And, I don't even mean it like that. I mean .... even the good stuff .... the sex itself... [We're pulling into the gargantuan Hilltop parking lot now.] ....
> Yes? I'm listening.
> .... well it's exciting and all .... it's just .....
> Yes? [My stepmom turns off the engine, and both her and I turn and look at Wendy. She meets my mom's gazezdx but not mine.]
> .....well ... it's still no match for .... the other thing I'd rather be doing .....
> Which is?
> Well ..... you know ..... fighting.
We get out of the car. Wendy hugs my mom but not me. I check between my legs to make sure my wet spot isn't showing thru the fabric of my pants.
This dinner should be interesting.
To be continued....
-
DINNER AT HILLTOP
My mom, Wendy, and I sit at a circular table in the packed Friday night Hilltop restaurant. Conversation occurs between my mom and Wendy, and between my mom and me, but not between Wendy and me. We don't even looked at each other directly, judt out of our peripheral vision. I woory that if we meet each others' gaze, we'll throwdown our utensils, and then throw down with each other in front of to hundreds of other restaurant patrons and staff.
So, instead, we refer TO each other throw my mother's interrogation of us.
> So, Wendy, how did my daughter rate as a fight opponent? Compared to other girls you fought during those years.
> Lisa had balls, I'll give her that. She always came straight at me. Her hands weren't much, tho. That was her weakness, I think she recognized that herself. She tried to make sure our fights were wrestling matches.
> Lisa, do you think you couldn't hit like Wendy because you had no siblings?
> No siblings, and no brother who lay around the house. Like, until and through adulthood. I'm sure he's the one who taught Wendy how to punch.
> Wendy, what kind of fights do you think were the rowdiest? Public school fights or Catholic school fights?
> Door number three, Monty. Public VERSUS Catholics. What do they call Notre Dame/Miami football games? Catholics versus Convicts. Those fights always got nasty.
> Lisa, you made the transition to public school. How would Wendy have fared in Catholic school.
> Well, seeing as she didn't last two months in public school once I arrived ...... she would have been eaten alive.
> Wendy, you look like you want to say something.
> I want to say that Lisa needs to go fuck herself.
Our food arrives just in the nick of time. We awkwardly eat in silence.
My mother finally speaks up.
> Wendy, I can't speak for you, but I know Lisa and I are both ... intrigued to see what would happen if you and her tangled again.
> As am I.
More awkward silence.
> Earlier, you referred to tonight as a date. Do you fight on the first date?
> Typically, no. But I'm willing to make an exception tonight.
> Wonderful.
The crotch stain on my pants doubles in size.
To be continued.....
-
SAUGUS TO BROCKTON
I sit in the back seat of my stepmom's Cadillac Eldorado, Wendy in the front passenger's seat. We're driving back home from dinner at Hilltop. I had the clam strips and fries, abstaining from met since it's a Friday night during Lent. I can't believe my luck that I got to have dinner at Hilltop in Saugus tonight.
And I can't believe my luck that I get to catfight Wendy tonight.
It's early 1990. Our last catfight was in 1981. An entire decade ago. And an entire world ago.
Catholic High School was for the working class then. Entree directly into the white collar work force, doing office work in Boston or Waltham or Wellesley or Newton. Or a ticket to a 4-year Catholic college like BC or PC or Merrimack or Fordham.
Now, in 1990, Catholic High School is a ticket to Friday night pot party dances and interscholastic tennis and field hockey and prom, and private college after that. Anything where a working class girl would feel uncomfortable, vulnerable, preyed upon. One long fraternity party.
I'm not comfortable in that world.
I'm comfortable in Wendy's world. Working class Brockton. Even though she's not IN Brockton anymore, because of her 7-year old, she's OF Brockton. And I am, too.
Hanging out at the Braintree Mall. Getting into girlfights. Going over each others' houses after school and fighting.
Wendy and I are going to fight some where in my house tonight, only my step mom watching us. She broke up our fight, our second one, on the Friday after school in 1981, but has realized for awhile now that she shouldn't have. She won't make that mistake tonight.
I think of my last fight, my fight with Hannah in 1984 on Nantasket Beach, with 8 girls watching. I made Hannah cum during that fight. I never made Wendy cum in any of our four fights; none, at least, that I know of.
> Is this exciting enough for you, Wendy?
> How do you mean?
> Earlier tonight ..... you said something about sex with guys not doing it for you ... exciting you, I guess .... like fighting does.
> And?
> And ... what if when we get home to my place .... I put my hair up with hairspray .... and freshen up with, oh, I don't know, some Cindy Crawford ... and throw on some fuck-me pumps ....
> Why does a nice girl like you have fuck-me pumps?
> Why does a smart mom like you still think of me as a nice girl?
> Why does a successful career woman like you think of me as a smart mom?
> My head is about to explode. Let's cut shit Wendy. I've wanted to fight you for awhile now. It's been too long.
> I agree. That's why I'm here.
> Mom? Are we there yet?
To be continued......
-
PRE-FIGHT
My stepmom shuttles between her own bedroom, where Wendy is dressing for our impending catfight, and mine, where I'm doing the same. Even though it's February 1990 and the 80s are over, I'm hairspraying my hair and "making it big". I douse myself in perfume, as I'm horrified by the cum smell emanating from my drenched pussy. I've never been anywhere near this wet, even during actual sex. The moisture won't stop flowing. I put on one of my old Catholic school skirts, and nothing else. My mom spritzes talc on my bare upper body.
> Lisa, goodness, why are your nipples so erect?
> Why are YOURS?
> Good comeback.
> What's Wendy going to wear.
> Hooker underwear--stirrups, crotchless, pushup bra.
> And over that?
> Nothing.
My soaked pussy undulates. I can barely control the urge to burst in on the bedroom where Wendy is getting ready.
> Is it wrong for me to want to hurt her so bad that her aunt will need to take care of her for a week.
> Great minds think alike.
> How so?
> She wants to hurt YOU so bad that you need to miss work for a week.
> She said that?
> Word-for-word.
> What else did she say?
> That she's wanted to do this for awhile.
> No time like the present. Is she ready?
> Let me go check. I'll bring her in here. You two can fight on the bed you fucked her boyfriend on.
I climb on the bed and throw comforters and pillows along all the hard edges and furniture in my room. We're likely to be rolling everywhere. I barely finish, and Wendy walks in, dressed in bra and panties. Her breasts and bush are larger than they were in 1981. Does motherhood to that to her? Or just her aunt's homecooking.
> You're a convincing hooker, Wendy.
> You're the same Catholic school snob you always were.
> Well then let's have one of those Spelman VERSUS Brockton brawls you've been pining for, bitch.
Wendy comes at me on the bed. Our claws dig into our scalps, scraping skin like ice off a windshield.
> Fuck you, bitch.
> Fuck YOU.
To be continued.....
-
BED FIGHTING
Since Wendy and I had four fights in 1981 just as we were coming of age sexually, our mid-20s sexual isolation has been profoundly shaped by those fights. A self-reinforcing process has set in whereby we are disappointed by sex, so we withdraw and don't hone our craft, whereby our next sexual encounter is disappointing. Chicken. Egg. Chicken. Egg. Over and over. Leading to Wendy being a 26 year old celibate single mom, and me living at home with my mother in my childhood bedroom.
Fighting, though. Now that's a different story.
As the lacey fabric of Wendy's hooker underwear presses against my naked (up top, at least) flesh, I take in the thrill of at last catfighting an opponent who is worthy of my skill-level. I bask in the near-occasion (another Catholic thing; don't ask) of danger to Wendy ferocious right fist, her strong biceps, her skilled legs, and her seemingly unlimited pain threshold. All four require my constant attentiveness to defending myself lest I find myself defeated.
My efforts, however, are not limited to mere defense. I also have an offensive objective at the top of my mind. As Wendy and I fall into a catball on my soft bed, arousal courses thru the veins of my body and leave my body longing to have my skirted hips grinding onto Wendy's face, the exposed flesh of my inner thighs grinding on Wendy's mouth and jaw. I long for the physiological sensations but also for the psychological domination and humiliation it would bring to my romantic and social rival, competitor, and adversary.
Wendy is attempting to similarly humiliate me, physically or sexually, preferably both. Submitting to her, of all women, would be devastatingly mortifying to my psyche, and a thought I eould have difficulty living with in the months and years afterwards.
So Wendy and I thrash on the bed in a tight catball, mutually struggling (futilely, so far) for even temporary dominance. This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you about my ignoring, or fighting thru, or succumbing to the searing pain of having hair and flesh shredded from my scalp by Wendy's razor-sharp nails. But as our catfight progresses, sexual arousal washes like a tsunami thry my body and dampens the intensity of my pain.
Tsunami is an apt word for my sexual sensations furing the fight, as a tsunami is an unnatural event where wave energy "puts" the ocean somewhere it didn't used to be. Well, as I catball on the bed with Wendy, erotic sensations I normally feel between my legs are erupting in my breasts, on my tongue, in my ears, inside my thighs and calves, on my butt. Everywhere, really. I crave contact, friction, everywhere I can get it from Wendy.
Sexual energy has taken over the entire bedroom. Sweat pours from Wendy and I, cancelling out the cologne and perfume scents which dominated the room at the start of the fight, replacing it with the boy-dirty-sock funk which I first experienced when I painfully surrendered my virginity to Wendy's boyfriend Craig senior year of high school. Wendy's hair, so soft and full at dinner tonight, is now a mangled mop of oily, bloody ooze. My pussy gives me the sensation that it will never be clean, no matter how much I wipe it. I crave a wash cloth.
My stepmother is sitting in the corner, loving every second of our struggle. I hear her making the sounds she used to make when Maureen was in her bedroom.
My distraction causes Wendy to push me, and the entangled comforter, of the side of the bed. Wendy scrambles to mount and straddle me, her soaked think bush scratching my face. Her hands pull my hair immobilizing my entire upper body. I inhale desperately for breath, my gasps only alerting my enemy to my vulnerable position. Wendy grinds and thrusts violently, now bucking ecstatically. She locks eyes with my stepmom. My eyes follow her to see if my strpmom returns my opponent's gaze, but as if mesmerized returns and meets my stepmom's longing gaze. Wendy releases my hair with one of her hands, reaches behind while sitting on my face, and inserts two fingers into my pussy. I resist at first, and then open my legs. Wendy and I begin rocking and bucking in unison, both staring at my stepmom.
The three of us begin groaning together.
Faster.
And louder.
Wendy and I lock into how close we each are to cumming, moving the other along when when of us gets ahead.
My stepmom watches in eager anticipation for the climax.
> You fucking bitch, Wendy.
> You fucking slut, Lisa.
We scream together and cum in unison.
To be continued.....
-
LONG PIN
After cumming on top of me, I wait for Wendy to dismount. She has won this fight, or at least this round, and I feel profound disappointment. Nine years after I stood up to Wendy in a series of four fights, she has gotten her revenge. Even when she choked me out after our first fight, the first day of school the senior year of high school, she wasn't able to gloat about her victory, since I was laying unconscious on the floor. She stole my stepmom's cigarettes, but didn't humiliate me.
Tonight is different. Wendy has me in a pin. She is pleasuring herself by straddling me, and is reaching behind herself to stick her fingers in my pussy, betraying my arousal by feeling my wetness and fingering me to climax.
But it's about to get worse. Much worse.
Wendy isn't releasing her pin on me. She motions for me to attempt to buck her off. I knee her in the back by lifting my legs, but nothing gets her to dismount me. I grab her hair and attempt to roll her off of me. Wendy retaliates by grabbing my hands and pinning them down mext to my ears. She bends down and sets her breasts on mine, pleasuring herself.
I alternate between resting for a new attempt to buck her off, and then gathering my strength and trying to buck her off of me. Each attempt is less successful than the last. Gravity is on Wendy's side. I'm getting more and more tired; Wendy is getting more and more confident.
Wendy is thoroughly enjoying the humiliation she is subjecting me to. My stepmom continues to watch from the corner, shouting encouragement to both of us. She doesn't care who wins--she just wants a long, long fight. And she's getting her wish. It's nighttime, with no clocks in sight, so we have no frame of reference to gauge how much time has elapsed since our fight began.
Wendy and I are both sweating. And are thirsty. Maybe that's what will get Wendy off of me. I fight the urge to beg for mercy.
> Can I have a bottled?, Wendy asks me mom.
My stepmom comes back with 2 bottled waters. I'm thankful I didn't need to ask.
Wendy grabs boths, and chugs her own.
> One for me ....... , she says
Oh, good. She giving the other one to me. My throat is parched.
> And one for the bitch .....
Wendy opens my water, takes a swig from it, and spit-sprays it into my face.
I glare at Wendy. She glares right back.
We stare at each other for two minutes.
> I'm glad you did that, bitch. Because now I won't feel bad after I finish with you.
> You go, Lisa. Kick her ass, my stepmom calls out in encouragement.
I jab at Wendy's belly, poking at the water which she's inhaled too quickly into her now-bloated belly. I barrell-roll her, achieving a full 180-degree reversal of our pin.
Now I'M facesitting HER. Now WENDY is exhausted, her muscles not recovering from the extended strain of our fight, our cumming, and her extended pin.
Now SHE's at MY mercy.
And I don't let the opportunity go to waste. I start grinding her face and mouth, slowly but roughly. I'm bucking on her face, riding it like an off-road motorcyle.
I don't reciprocate--I don't stick my fingers into Wendy's protruding pussy lips. I pull Wendy's hair with them.
I cum loudly.
I grab the second bottled water. Rather than foolishly chugging it, like Wendy did, I sip it. I take a mouthful, and spit it in Wendy's face.
I've avenged my defeat from 10 minutes ago.
> I like this position, bitch. Try and get me off.
To be continued.....
-
PINNING WENDY
I straddle Wendy, wrapping my fingers in hers, and pleasuring my soaked pussy on her sweaty chest and stomach. I look down at her body, much more mature than the borderline underdeveloped woman I tangled with in high school. Wendy's breasts seem several sizes larger than they did in Brockton in 1981--has maturity done that for her, or motherhood?
Wendy wants me to dismount from her, but is too proud to beg. I love the feeling of asserting dominance over her, and love my stepmom witnessing who the better woman is. I pleasure my pussy by sliding it back and forth on her skin, but the stroking too my ego is even more erotic.
> Beg for mercy, bitch.
> You're not hurting me, Lisa.
> And YOU think YOU'RE hurting ME, bitch???
Our fingers curl tightly around each other. My breasts are attracted to Wendy's maternally-enhanced chest. I lean down and pleasure my normally-non-erogenous nipples on her, sliding back and forth. Our faces touch, me wondering if we will be kissing soon.
Wendy and I start bucking rhythmically and roughly. I sense right away that she only cums when the sex is rough. I bet that's why something was always "off" between Craig and her in high school--rough sex was never his thing.
Wendy's fingers are wrapped so tightly around mine that the tips are tingling. Our breasts flop together loudly, almost like hands clapping. I feel unlimited power, stradding the girl who tormented me in high school.
> Bitch.
> You're a bitch.
> I hate you bitch.
> Let me up and fist fight me, bitch.
> Make me get up.
> You're afraid to fistfight.
I drift away from orgasm. I get frustrated at being so close, and not
achieving climax. Kissing Wendy is the furthest thing from my mind now.
> I want to hurt you, Wendy.
> Then let me up.
> Wait a minute.
> Why?
> I want to remember what it was like being on top of you.
To be continued.....
-
"GET FUCKIN' OR FIGHTIN' "
Although I'm enjoying every minute spent on top of Wendy, nine long years in the making, the pace of action between us has noticably sagged. Neither of us has cum in over 30 minutes, and neither of us is able to inflict any injury on the other. I'm becoming physically exhausted from both the long fight and the advanced hour, likely approaching midnight.
Our lone spectator, my stepmom, is also becoming restless. She, unfortunately for me, takes up Wendy on her gambit for me to give up my pin and engage me in a standup fist fight. I'm reluctant to do so, having felt the wrath of Wendy's rock-hard, lighting-fast hands in 1981 and 1982. Wendy has possibly lost a step or two off her game since becoming a mother, but I see nothing to gain from giving up my advantage.
Mom> Break it up, you love birds. Time to either get fuckin' or fightin'.
Me> We ARE fightin', Mom. Pathetic Wendy just can't get me off.
Wendy> Let me up, bitch, and tell me that.
Me> What's in it it for me??
Wendy> You get to show your Mom your fistfighting game, slut.
Me> Is that what you and your older brother used to do growing up, bitch?? Fought for your mom??
Mom> Bravo if they did, Lisa. I sure would mind seein' some brawlin' on a Friday night in the middle of winter.
Me> Mom !?!?!, ixnay on the etting-up-gay. Whose side are you on??
Mom> I'm on your side, win or lose, Lisa. But not if you draw.
Me> Draw???? Mom, I'm winning this fight!!!!
Mom> Wendy. You give to Lisa?? You had enough??
Wendy> Hell, no.
Mom> Lisa, if you won a fight tonight, I don't see no loser.
Wendy> C'mon, Lisa. Let's give your Mom a show she'll always remember.
Me> What's in it for me?
Wendy> C'mon, bitch. You know it's not over between you and me. Let's settle this once and for all.
Mom> Giddyy-up!! C'mom Lisa, hand-to-hand. Be a woman!
To be continued.....
-
I am loving this! Definitely worth the wait!
-
WOMANHOOD
My stepmom's commentary about being a woman cuts deep. Exploring the changes Wendy's body reinforces the contrast of what we have to show for our lives in the eight years since high school ended for each of us, in graduation for me and in dropping out for Wendy. In theory, I should be more accomplished than my rival; but in reality, am I?
Wendy is living with a relative on generous welfare from the Coomonwealth of Massachusetts. I'm working my ass off at a job that's not quite deadend but not quite lucrative, and so I still live with my divorced stepmom who knows she'll never have a better, younger lover than my ex-best friend. Wendy 1, Lisa 0.
Wendy has raised a well-adjusted daughter into middle childhood and pre-adolescence. I'm practically still a virgin. Wendy 2, Lisa 0.
Wendy's muscles are toned, her tits large but firm, her pussy wet and barely stretched from pregnancy. Push.
Am I better than Wendy at anything? Has she lost her fistfighting edge? Is she wondering like I am?
> If we fistfight right now, what are the rules?
> Rules in a fistfight?
> For example ..... say I go down. Do you start stomping me? [I'm thinking of Braintree Mall Sunday Night Williams-Spelman fights behind the Braintree Malls. I've heard that by 1990, those aren't a thing anymore due to Massachusetts repealing their antiquated Puritan Era Blue Laws.]
> What would you prefer, bitch?
> I wanna see who has the better hands.
> But if there's no hitting the girl who's down, the girl getting beat will just take a knee.
> Is that what you used to do against your brother when your mom would force you two to fight?
> Stop delaying and distracting, Lisa. Answer the damn question.
> Ok, fine. The girl standing up can hit the girl who's down, but fists only. How about hairpulling?
> Not banned. But no takedowns by the hair. Let's see whose fists are harder. So no kicking.
> Fine.
> Fine. So why aren't you letting me up?
> Beg, bitch.
> Please let me up so I can knock your fucking teeth down your throat.
> [My stepmon is already touching herself, and chimes in.....] That's a pretty fair request, Lisa.
> Fine. Let's do this.
To be continued.....
-
BARE KNUCKLE BOXING
As Wendy and I circle each other with our fists cocked, I get another look at her nude 26-year old body, but now with her tight butt and thigh muscles more evident as they support the full weight of her upper body and pivot and swivel in dodging my left jabs, which I frequently throw in a desperate attempt to keep her right cross from unloading on my jaw.
When Wendy and I fought in high school, her musculature was not nearly as prominent, her hips and even her upper legs presenting a nearly boney appearance, her diet unsufficient, or unbalanced, or both, to fully develop to its full potential. Now at 26, after 8 years of exertion from childrearing, and in a structured home environment, her flesh is toned, her muscles taut, her posture erect. Is this what years of lifting a toddler does to the female form? At Catholic school, the nuns had ingrained in us the belief that pregnancy and motherhood outside the holy confines of sacred marriage would ravage our female form; that modest attire and dress would transform from an imposed burden to a welcome shield from the gaze of gawkers on the accumulation of cellulite on our deformed and misshapen busts, bellies, hips, butts, thighs, and ankles; and hair retreating from all the right places and sprouting generously in all the wrong places.
But Wendy's body as we box is feminine perfection itself. I'm suddenly grateful we agreed to no kicking during this phase of our fight--her legs look like they could break and crush mine at will. Her knees remain bent and cocked, and her feet perch on their balls and not on her heels, enabling her to nimbly retreat at my left jabs and return immediately to threaten my jab with her dreaded right cross, which I've avoided by pure luck at least four times in the first five minutes of our standup battle.
Despite no knockdowns yet by either of us, the unmistakable *thwack*ing of flesh on flesh, bone on bone, as hands collide with hands, forearms with collarbones, is providing satisfaction to my stepmother's bloodlust. She fingers herself furiously as Wendy and I bob and weave, clinch and release. My arms are getting weary from the tense dodging of Wendy's ever-fearsome right cross, just as quick as it was in our high school battles.
I start aiming my jabs lower. At Wendy's tits. Partly because my arms are getting tired. Partly because her swings at my jaw are slowing down. And partly out of erotic temptation. I miss the long pin I had on Wendy's prone body, our flesh pressed together.
Wendy grunts in pain at each blow that lands. She retaliates by swinging and jabbing at my breasts, which hurts with a sting of 25 simultaneous hornet stings which brings literal tears to my eyes, which I pray Wendy and my stepmom will confuse with the droplets of sweat accumulated on my face. Wendy acknowledges the switch in tactics each of us has adopted.
> I'm glad you hit me there, Lisa. I'll fucking destroy your tits.
> Do it. Hard as you can, bitch. I can take it.
> You'll regret saying that, whore.
> Just like you regret me taking your high school boyfriend?
> Bullshit, Lisa, I let you have him.
> That's fucking, crap, Wendy, I took him from you.
> And you're fucking proud of that?
> You snoize you lose, white trash bitch.
> Stuck up Catholic school bitch.
> I hate you.
> I hate you.
> Show me.
To be continued.....
-
BEATEN
There was a precise moment in my Friday night tit-boxing match against Wendy that my arms turned to rubber and I could no longer defend myself from Wendy's punches. Wendy was weary and fatigued herself, but picked up her second wind the instant she recognized my exhaustion.
And just as I would have done to her, Wendy immediately sought to extract every ounce of advantage she could from my helplessness. My grunting at every blow that landed on my defenseless breasts became a continuous groan of agony. I struggled to maintain my footing, ruing my voluntary agreement to rules which allowed punches to a fallen opponent. Wendy's downward-aimed punches would hurt me much worse than her level-swung ones.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Bitch.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Bitch.
Wendy was battering me, physically and verbally. My only hope was to stoically accept my punishment, hoping that her fatigue would lead her to relent.
> Can't knock me out anymore, has been bitch?
> Bullshit, YOU can't even HIT me.
> Don't be so sure, cocky slut.
> Show me.
Wendy and I stare at each other with pure hate.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Bitch.
Fuck, this sucks.
To be continued.....
-
COLLAPSING
I succumbed to exhaustion before Wendy did, losing my footing and falling to the floor. Wendy wasted no time mounting me, partially to capitalize on my helplessness, but also likely because she was as happy as I was to give her exhausted legs a breather.
Not wanting to give Wendy my back, but not wanting to directly face her for the impending humiliation, I flopped on my left shoulder, with Wendy's knees stradding me on each side of my hips. My entire right side was at her mercy. Wendy looked down at me, leaving me to wonder if she was considering her next course of action, or simply enjoying her victory.
> When your brother used to pin you down like this, did he used to humiliate you? Is that why you're such a bitch?
> He didn't humiliate me .... because .... he didn't hate me. But I ..... hate ..... you.
> You hate me because you know I'm prettier than you.
> Maybe ... AS pretty .... but not anywhere near as sexy. Not then, not now.
> I stole your boyfriend then .... and would have stolen any you had gotten.
> Boys like being stolen, dumb ass .... GETTING a boyfriend proves sexiness, not stealing one. You're 26 and still have never GOTTEN a boyfriend.
> [Wendy's capacity for introspection is surpassing my expectations. This conversation is already deeply distressing. My stepmom's flagging interest is The Main Event is reviving, judging by how close she is listening.] I'll be married before you are, bitch. No baggage like you.
> Maybe. Or maybe guys will question why, at 26, you have no baggage.
> I'll tell them it's because of you. [Shit, now my stepmom is REALLY listening.]
> What about me, Lisa?? Say it.
> [Wendy can already sense I'm clamming up. She squeezes my right breast and twists.] Leave me alone, Wendy. What do you want?
> What I've always wanted. To make you cry.
She's succeeded.
I took her almost 9 years.
But she's succeeded.
To be continued....
-
SATURDAY MORNING
I spend a long, uncomfortable night on the floor, drifting in and out of sleep--my chest sore, my face swollen, my hands in terrible pain, my mouth and throat parched. At various times during the night, I hear Wendy and my stepmom in the shower, then in bed, then in the tub, then on the couch. I hear my stepmom tenderly nursing Wendy, and the two of them kissing and rubbing together. I hear them laughing and giggling. I hope it's not at me.
I feel completely defeated by Wendy, despite my victorious middle rounds in our long brawl the night before. Her victory over me in our bare knuckled rules fight, and my inability to get her off of me afterwards, has negated my beating her in our initial catfight. But it's also done more than that.
Normally, an unwanted guest in my house, which by 1990 I'm the primary breadwinner in, on a Saturday late morning would provoke my primal territorial instincts. I would march into the living room and unceremoniously throw the intruder, Wendy, out onto the front lawn. I should be doing that right now.
But I'm not. For two reasons. First, the thought of another defeat at Wendy's hands is beyond mortifying--it's an unacceptable risk. It would nullify my 1981 and 1982 standing up to Wendy, and my 1990 challenge to her of a rematch. And second, my battered flesh and limbs don't want to be in another fight quite yet--not this winter, not this month, and certainly not this weekend.
The real winner last night was my stepmom, watching two motivated women fight, while she pleasured herself. Now it's my turn to be a spectator.
I think back to Wendy's and Maureen's fight behind Braintree Mall 8 years ago. I think back to Maureen's 4 year affair with my stepmom. I wonder if Maureen will react to Wendy beating me up last night; and if not to that, then to Wendy bedding my mom.
I pick up the phone.
> Hello?
> It's Lisa. I need you.
To be continued.....
-
Maureen will fucking destroy wendy
-
WOMAN ON WOMAN
Maureen was over 35 minutes after I called her, and she wasted no time calling Wendy out. Wendy wasn't thrilled seeing Maureen, but she must have been feeling overconfident from having beaten me, because it took very little coaxing for her to pick up the gauntlet Maureen laid down.
The two of them squared up, and each woman was moving in only one direction: forward. Their fists were clenched, and they were swinging full force. Both Maureen and Wendy quickly learned to keep their hands high up to protect their face, and had their tempers not been long broken, they likely would have more thoughtfully and strategically widened the targets for their swings to more locations of the body.
But Maureen and Wendy were never good cooling off from a temper tantrum.
I thought back to senior year at Brockton High School, and Wendy's almost laconic approach to my friendship.....and then more.... with her boyfriend Craig. Behind closed doors, though, I could now tell there had been object-throwing blowups, on her own, and with Craig on the phone and maybe even on purpose.
Wendy worked so hard squashing her fury because when it escaped the tube ..... it was out there for all to see. Her red face. Her throbbing forehead. Her shaky knees.
Wendy "thwacked" Maureen direct in the face over and over. And Maureen "thwacked" back just as hard, maybe harder. Maureen was like a cornered cat in a fight, puffing up her shoulders and chest to a larger size.
The stares the two women exchanged communicated pure hatred.
The first day of high school, when I was tested by school bullies like Lisa, I sought protection from Craig.
But needed it from Maureen. Or some like her. A BHS schoolgirl, not a schoolboy.
Only women can protect other women.
I was loving every second of this fight.
I hope Maureen wins.
To be continued.....
-
PROTECTION
Maureen's punches to Wendy's face are deliberate and, increasingly, devastating. That the fight isn't really fair--Wendy has been fighting me almost non-stop since the night before; Maureen appears thoughly rested--only increases the adrenaline rush I get as her blows send Wendy first to her knees, and then gradually onto her back. Maureen mounts Wendy and continues pummeling her, as the childhood sense of safety which I lost that first day at Brockton High School in 1981 starts to return, even though I'm now a full-grown adult of 26.
I sensed I needed protection the day I went to public school for the first time. That's why I had asked to walk with the football player, Craig.
But I should have asked for protection from someone like Maureen. Or a BHS co-ed student. Even my stepmom.
Only women can protect women from other women. Men are fine for protection from men. But protection from women can only come from other women. Wendy never used her older brother to protect her from girls.
A lot of the public school myths about Catholic schoolgirl fights got the details wrong. But they tapped into a deep psycho-sexual truth; the banding together to protect each other from girls from other schools. The deep need for a sense of safety that it reinforced. The sense of protection when a classmate of yours took down a girl that was hassling you or flirting with a boy you liked.
For 9 years, I hadn't felt safe from Wendy. Her ability to have lure, sexually, any boy or man I dated. Her ability to fight me anytime she wanted.
Her ability to be a better mother than me. To raise a girl to near adolescence. To make that girl feel safe.
I needed someone to show her that she needed to back off, to get out of my life.
I could finally move on from Wendy now. After being stuck in place for 9 years.
I wonder if Maureen knows any single men. One who's ready to settle down.
I can picture Maureen as the bridesmaid at my wedding.
I can picture her helping my groom and me move into a duplex in Brockton.
I can picture her coming to pre-natal vists and ultrasounds with me.
My husband will try to hook up Maureen with one of his buddies. We'll break the news to him that Maureen is only into boys. He'll make an immature comment wanting to watch her make out with another woman.
And then Maureen and I blow his mind by kissing each other passionately for five minutes. Or twenty.
Then he'll bring up Maureen everytime he and I are in bed. It will get me so turned on.
In other words.....
After tonight....
I'll live happily ever after.
THE END