Dear TABSK--My name is Connie. I'm 54 now, and thus unlikely to follow thru on Brooke's enticing plan of starting a gas pump line rumble. Based on where I was living and working at the time, it must have been around 1992 or so, which would have made me about 27 (goodness, where does the time go), I got into a grocery line catfight with another woman my age. We didn't fight there in the grocery store, but did follow each other back to my place to settle things female to female. Let me back up a bit. It was a Thursday night on the way home from work, so I was wearing early-1990s office attire--NOT casual (the office casual wear boom was still 3-5 years away, so I was wearing a knee-length skirt, a silk blouse, an open suit, and EXPENSIVE heeled booties--very feminine and sexy and not in thd least comfortable). I was very on edge, because I had a pair of important weekend events with a man I had just begun dating, and remembered I was running short of the lipstick, eye shadow, and coverup I needed to match my new auburn hair dye (long story--I was very experimental with hair colors at that age, and sometimes the color that came out was a surprise both to me and even my semi-competent stylist). So I impatiently dashed into the health and beauty section of my neighborhood grocery store, starving and with a bit of a chip on my shoulder, hoping to be in and out and a flash. Well, bad plan, Connie, because who should be blocking the shelf area I'm trying to survey but a young-30s woman, my size, also in office wear, with the EXACT same auburn hair color, and the EXACT SAME expensive uncomfortable boots. I clucked my unappreciative surprise with my tongue (and possibly even heaved an audible exaspersted sigh at the delay this woman was causing me), and tried to survey my buying options AROUND the woman blocking my view. Which of course only encouraged her to slow the pace of her selection to a crawl, specifically to block me (and to protest my rudeness). We were careful at this point to avoid direct eye contact, knowing the implications, but I did catch her eyeing my boots--she was none too appreciative to see they matched hers. In hindsight, it was already "game on" at this point between her and me. We brushed shoulders and hips a couple times (which amped up the tension by a factor of 100) while completing our item selection, and headed in different paths to the checkout. I went to Aisle 5, she to Aisle 4, and we eyed out each warily out of our peripheral vision, each wanting to win the imaginary "race" of who could pay faster. I finished first, and delightfully skipped out into the dark parking lot with my bag, in search of my red Toyota Camry. Wait a second, I muttered as I approached to row I had parked in, there's 2 Ted Camry's there-which is mine. And--oh dammit you have GOT to be fucking KIDDING me--SHE's walking to the second Camry. We're parked right next to each other, and now we death stare each other as we unlock our car doors. I broke the ice.
> What's your fucking problem??
> I don't like you staring at me, honey.
> Then make me stop, sugar.
> What?
You don't think I could???
> Pffft. Doesn't look like you could.
> I'd love to show you you're wrong. Like, literally right now.
I don't know where the sudden outburst of aggressiveness came from--I had been in fights, but rarely sought them. My first instinct at that age, say, at bars or dance clubs, was to de-escalate the situation. My something about this bitch's cocky attitude, and matching boots, got my adrenaline pumping. My pussy was also soaked with arousal from our encounter. It was at this point I said something arguably insane.
> I'd love to see THAT. I'm a mile down the road, Ventor Gardens, number 416. You can show me what a tough girl you are there. Bitch. [My nameless new rival paused and considered--not whether she wanted to take up my challenge, I could tell by her body language, but how much time she had until her next appointment.] Please say yes, sweetie. The parking spot is covered.
I don't know what caused my to chime in with the last detail, but its inviting intimacy seemed to work the trick (sometimes, even an aggressive woman is a sucker for the pull of hominess). We agreed to drive straight there and to face each other in my apartment.
I arrived first and showed my rival where to park. We proceeded into the lobby, the surrounding cars and fellow residents giving my opponent comfort that even if I was an axe-muderer, it would be darn difficult for me to carry out any such plan. My fingers were shaking at the prospects of an imminent catfighting. The elevator ride up to the 4th floor wad taught and thrilling, each of us considering the emergency button, and whether we would have enough time to finish in there before maintenance arrived. The doors opened, and she followed me down the hall to 416. I opened to door for her, motioning her in.
> Ler's do this. I don't have all night.
> You think I do, bitch??
She shoulder checked my breast as she walked past me. I saw red. I was pissed. I slammed the door shut behind us, latched it, and charged her from behind, wrapping my arm around her neck, and ripping her thick auburn hair as hard as I could. She had have anticipated my tackle, and coolly arched her back into a crablike pose, and barrel'rolled both of us onto the floor. We were in full mutual hairpull catball position, our legs snaking around each other, our boots trying to reverse heel-kick each other in the groin area. I remember thinking to myself:
> Is this why she bought these boots?? To catfight in them?? Is that why I (subconsciously) bought them?!? Because, dammit, these suckers HURT.
Like I said, I had fought before, some of the fights quite violent. But I had never really kicked .... nor BEEN kicked .... in a fight. And always in the shin, not the groin. But both of us were on a mission now, angrily catballing on my carpetted floor and lining up hard boot kicks through each others' skirts and at each others' pussies. We were both trying score a knockout via low blow.
Which, at least speaking for myself, was a scary prospect, because the spark of excitement "down there" which I had felt at the grocery store had exploded into a 7-alarm inferno. The combination of the grunting sounds we were making during the fight, our head to toe body contact, and our perfumey-sweaty smells acted upon me like sexual foreplay. My pussy was aroused with pleasure, but super vulnerable to the pain of each kick to the crotch. We both knew the rules for the war we had entered. We were nose to nose on the floor as we said:
> I'm the to put my boot right thru you, sweetie.
> Not before I tear you a new one with mine, darlin'.
If this fight was a dance club alley fight with a crowd of shouting spectators, I probably would have taken the sensible course, mounted my enemy, and ground and pounded her face with my fists to victory. Unfortunately for both of us, we had declared a kick war on each other, and that was the only face-saving tactic to end our battle.
And, nobody wins a kick war. Not when you're both in open skirts, and not when you're in heeled boots. Within seconds of each other, we each connected with direct hits. I know from how the one I received felt, it was to my clit; by the involuntary wincing and tears in her eyes, I'm guessing that's where my heel got hers, too. Those vicious lowblows unlocked our catball grasp on each other. I was actually quite vulnerable at this point, alone in my apartment with a stranger, semi-helpless on the floor, wondering if our fight had a Round 2, and worse, would I even be able to answer the bell. Minutes of anxious anticipation passed on the floor. She got up first. And, thank goodness, let herself out. But not before saying:
> Told ya I could shut you up. Bitch.
I never saw her again. We had pretty much frightened each other .... and ourselves .... at what we were capable of in a catfight. And, at shopping. Connie
Dear Connie--A wonderful tale, and well told. The ending was a bit of a bummer, but probably more true to life than what we normally hear on here. Glad you lived to tell the tale. And, who knew what an adventure can result from a quick trip out, whether it be gas, cosmetics or ... some catfight action. TABSK
