FreeCatFights
General Category => Catfight , Boxing & Wrestling Stories => Series => Topic started by: sinclairfan on December 07, 2021, 02:18:57 PM
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My name is Lisa. I'm 54 now, but in the spring of 1985, I was an 18-year old soon-to-be-high scool graduate in Rhode Island, on my way to a semi-prestigious Catholic university in Ohio. My divorced parents would have preferred THE prestiguous Catholic university in South Bend, Indiana, or the second-or-third-most-prestigous ones just north of me (Boston College or Holy Cross). But my Catholic high school grades, and my standardized test scores (very important in 1985--I shoulda been born 35 years later), doomed me to a round of rejection letters from Sound Bend, Chestnut Hill, and Worcester. So ..... hello Miami of Ohio. Or, at least, hello next August, once I get graduation and a final boring Rhode Island summer in my rearview mirror.
Although my aspirations to the upper tier of Catholic universities was my parents' dream, not mine, I had to confess that the three rounds of rejection letters was humiliating and humbling. I had secured what I expected to be influential recommendation letters from teachers, counsellers, and coaches (more on coaches later). With each new "We regret to inform you...", I couldn't help but wonder if an incident from my high school past was coming back to haunt me.
The incident was a catfight. At school. The girls at the Catholic high school I attended were stuck up and bitchy. I learned to develop a thick skin, but one fateful week there, a senior named Maureen and I had a run-in. It was nothing special--we both made comments about each other, our friends heard, and one day her best friend and my best friend found out a bathroom was going to be empty for 2 or 3 minutes, with no teachers around due to a mandatory staff meeting. Our friends agreed to "keep watch" on the door, and Maureen and I banged it out for about 150 seconds. There was no winner--the thought of taking a fight to a gross bathroom floor was too horrifying to apply a takedown or mount which would have been necessary to decide the fight. But we sufficiently convinced each other of our fighting ability that Maureen and I steered clear of each other for the duration of our high school careers. Both physically and verbally--we called a ceasefire on our comments about each other.
Although I wanted no part of another battle with Maureen, I couldn't help but wonder if our bathroom catfight had gotten into the grapevine, and if the Admissions Departments at my choice schools were acting accordingly.
In 1985, other than getting pregnant, a restroom catfight was pretty much the most scandalous, reputation-destroying thing a high school girl could do.
That toxic brew of paranoia and rejection is the only explanation I can offer for the decision I made for how to spend my final pre-college summer.
I decided to have a summer affair.
This was no light decision. Although I have kissed boys and had had long make-out sessions, this was the mid-1980s, and no opportunity had come up to go all the way to actual intercourse. But I decided there was no way I was taking my virginity with me to Ohio.
I was going to lose it this summer.
And I knew just the boy. When my parents still had South Bend Drems for me, they had enrolled me a travel tennis club as an extra-cirricular activity. Travel sports are par-for-the-course in the 2000s, but were exotic and exclusive in the mid-1980s. I competed and improved my game over the years at the club, and was realizing that my time there was winding down. I felt nostalgic for it.
And wanted to get into the pants of an 18 year old teammate there named Tommy. He was cute and successful and headed away to colege himself.
He was the perfect summer fling boyfriend. And the perfect man to take my virginity.
So, one spring day, I went up to him and said, "Hey, Tommy. Wanna hang our this summer?" By my body language, he knew exactly what I meant.
"I dunno if my jealous girlfriend will be ok with that."
"Oh. You have a girlfriend. Do I know her? What's her name?"
"No one you know--she's in college already. Her name is Lorraine."
Something came over me. Jealousy. Competitiveness.
"Well, Tommy. Why don't you tell Lorraine .... that I can be jealous, too. See what she says."
To be continued.....
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I love the introduction :) One small goof though, before the Williams sisters and after John McEnroe with no national star to look up to, tennis was a rich people fad, that said the Russian trainer who trained a lot of stars we know today set up shop in Florida during the Reaganomics, so it may have been exotic to locals, but was a desired destination for foreign stars.
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Still being a virgin at 18 wasn't something I had planned--time just sort of got away from me. Well, thst, plus I blame men. That's right--all men.
The men I would have allowed to have me never asked me out, no matter how many hints I dropped to them. They were afraid to talk to me; or, if they talked to me, they were afraid to ask me out; or, if they asked me out, they were afraid to call back; or, if they called back, they were afraid to make a move. It was just exhausting. I'm not saying this out of conceit, but I think most were afraid of my looks, my large chest, my firm butt. Some were intimidated by one of the three; and some by the "total package". And the few who got past the intimidation of those then got freaked out by my sexual confidence--I gave off an aura of being very experienced sexually. I had men actually accuse me of lying about being a virgin. Who lies about that?
I think my bathroom catfight with Maureen was as much out of sexual frustration as any issue with her.
And, finally, the few men who cleared all THOSE hurdles ...... who still wanted me anyways: well, they were the playa's. And I didn't want to give up my virginity to a player.
There would be plenty of time in my 20s to sleep with players. But not my first time.
No. That's what Tommy was perfect for.
And then, before he and I even hold hands, he brings up his mystery girlfriend.
I actually had never considered the possibility that he had a serious (or non-serious) girlfriend. There was never a girl at any of his tennis matches. He always seemed kind of alone, borderline shy, borderline introverted.
I just assumed he was mine for the taking.
And now even that plan was hitting a roadblock. Unlike BC and Holy Cross, he didn't precisely reject me. He didn't even say he preferred his girlfried Lorraine over me. He just said he was afraid to be with me because Lorraine was "jealous".
Well, game on, Lorraine. I can be jealous too.
Let's go.
To be continued......
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Although my fight with Maureen was highly perilous to my academic career (if we had gotten caught, either during our fight or afterwards, we both would have been expelled from school), I never felt as it was occuring that I was in any personal danger. We had both accidentally stumbled into a confrontation, and our fight was just a mutually-face-saving way to resolve things. There was nothing personal between us before our fight, and afterwards we gave each other wide berth and had no further issues.
My poking at the Lorraine hornet's nest was another matter altogether. To start with, her boyfriend had specifically told me that she was jealous. And to make matters worse, her first introduction to me was going to be him telling her that I, likewise, was just as jealous.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, I thought.
Oh, make no mistake, I was still going to try and have a sexual encounter with Tommy. But maybe I better keep it to a "No strings attached" one night stand, behind Lorraine's back, rather than a full summer fling.
No Strings Attached, or NSA--that was a 1980's phrase for having no-pressure sex with someone you weren't in love with, and with who you would pretend the sex had never happened if you ever saw him or her again. You just mutually agreed to return to being "Just Friends".
I was going to tell Tommy about my change in tactics to a NSA with him the next time he saw me.
Better to not kick this Lorraine sleeping bear.
Except, Tommy had already kicked her, I found out the next time I saw him at tennis.
> Hey, Toomy.
> Hey, Lisa. I talked to Lorraine.
> [Oh, shit.] Oh? What did she say?
> She wants your phone number.
> Oh. Why does she want MY phone number.
> She thinks I'm making you up. To get her jealous.
> Oh. Well .... she just wants my number to look it up in the phone book? It's in my mom's name.
> To look it up. But then to call you, probably.
> To call me? [My panties were soaking already.] But ... I don't even know her.
> Well, here's your chance.
> I guess. But what if I want HER number?? [This was before cellphones. Phone numbers were landlines.] Isn't SHE the one living on her own??
> Ok. Let me tell her.
> Ok. Tell her this too. [I lean over onto the bleachers and give Tommy a passionate tongue kiss.] Tell her I did THAT to you.
> [Blushing.] Ok. I will.
That night I madturbated for three straight hours in my bed.
To be continued.....
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As spring of 1985 progressed, and I was basking in the glow of my slow-burn romance with Tommy from the tennis club ('Tennis Tommy', as my friends and Mom referred to him), our Catholic High School World History class was studying the 1571 Battle of Lepanto where Duke John of Austria defeated the Ottoman Navy. Duke John was the illegitimate son of Emperor Charles V by a devout Catholic mistress named Barbara Blomberg. I would get soaked in class thinking of Barbara cheating on the Empress of Austria and stealing Charles from his woman.
Like I was doing to Tommy's woman, his jealous college bitch Lorraine. Tommy had started showing me a couple Polaroids (the 1985 version of a selfie, for you youngsters) and yearbook pictures of Lorraine. She was blonde, like me, with a straight hairstyle down to her shoulders that was about 5 years out of date. The 1980s was about hairspray and big hair, and Lorraine hadn't quite caught on yet.
Tommy asked me if I thought she was pretty. Saying 'no' would have been a lie.
So I told him the truth. That I wanted to punch her in the mouth, give her two black eyes, and tear her hair out.
"Funny. That's what she says about you," was his laconic reply.
I spent Study Hall in the school library, leafing through the Encyclopedia Brittanica (the 1985 version of Google), looking for article on famous royal mistresses, like Barbara Blomberg. Women who fucked other women's men.
Herleva. A tanner's daughter. Mother of William the Conqueror. Made love to Duke Robert of Normandy in 1033 when he was on his horse in the countryside and he saw her bathing in a stream. He rode up to her, and they made love.
She was 18.
Shit. I'm 18 right now. I'm so fucking ready to have sex with Tommy.
Next Tuesday at tennis, I'll have my dad's car. I'll ask him if he wants a ride home.
He'll know what I mean. If he has privacy at home, we'll fuck in his bedroom. If not, we'll park the car in the woods and fuck in the back seat.
And I'll tell him to tell Lorraine that we fucked.
Or I'll tell her myself.
If she doesn't like it, she can Bite Me.
Figuratively. And literally.
Because I'll bite the bitch right back.
I can't wait.
For the fucking. And then the fighting.
To be continued....
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Your work is always a delight! :) really looking forward to this one!
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That Monday at tennis, the conversation between Tommy and me was, for the first time, awkward and stilted. We both knew we were going to be alone for 2 hours at his house until his parents got home. Long enough to fuck, but not long enough for anything too elaborate in the from a foreplay perspective, and not too much time for after-sex cuddling or spooning, which I ideally would probably require after giving up my virginity.
In a perfect world, we would have postponed our to a less-crowded, less-rushed window. But the tension between Lorraine and me was excruciating.
I couldn't stand another day going by with her fucking him, but not me.
Not a single damned one.
We got into my car after tennis. I showed him the spremicide I had in my tennis bag.
He had never heard what spremicide is.
> Wait, what? So what does Lorraine use? To not get pregnant?
> She's on the pill, I guess. Or she is when she wants to do it with me.
> Tommy, what do you mean, [air quotes] you guess? You don't want to knock her up, do you?
> No. But she gets pissed if I bring it up.
> Tommy?!? What. A. Bitch. Having sex is ..... personal .... intimate. You have a right to have a say. You have a right to ask her about .... that topic.
> I guess. But .... doesn't talking about her .... like .... ruin the mood for you?
> [The right answer here, according to social conventions, was for me to change the topic, and just let Tommy fuck my brains out, and to start our summer fling with a bang. But ...... we didn't have a lot of time to get me wet and ready. And talking about what a bitch Lorraine was got me wetter than anything else.] Tommy, look at me. Ruin the mood? Ruin the mood? Tommy .... nothing gets me more in the mood than doing things that hurt Lorraine.
> [Tommy smirks.]
> Why are you smiling?
> Every night around 11, for the past few weeks, we've been having phone sex. To get turned on, she asks me to tell her about you. How you look. What you wore at tennis. Stuff like that.
> And? How does she get you turned on?
> She says she's going to drive to your house and kick the shit out of you.
Tommy and I are in his driveway now. I turn the car off, and start kissing him, harder than we've ever kissed before.
> That fucking bitch. I hope she does drive to my house ... but the only one getting shit kicked out of them will be her. You agree .... right?, Tommy.
> Yes, Lisa. You'd kick Lorraine's ass.
> Tommy. I need you inside of me. Right. Now.
We climb out of the car, unlock his door, and strip each other all the way through the house to his bedroom. His erect cock is somewhat smaller than I had imagined, but it eases my anxiety about doing it for the first time.
> What position do you and Lorraine fuck in?
> The one I like? Or the one SHE likes?
> Her. (Shit. I probably should have asked what he likes. But I'm obsessed with her right now, not him.)
> Reverse cowgirl. [I've never heard what that one is. I sure hope it's what it sounds like, or I'm going to look foolish. I mount Tommy, facing away from him, and slide my dripping pussy onto his eager cock. Am I supposed to move up and down? Or back and forth? I get insecure that I'm doing it wrong. Or worse, not as good as Lorraine does it.]
> Whose pussy is better, Tommy. Mine or hers?
> Yours, Lisa.
> Say it out, Tommy. Tell me my pussy is better than Lorraine's. FULL SENTENCES.
> Lisa, your pussy is tighter and wetter than Lorraine's pussy. [Guys like tight pussies? They notice that?]
> Who fucks better, Tommy?? Me or Lorraine?? [I feel an orgasm about 3 minutes away, faster than it normally takes for me to cum when I masturbate.]
> Lisa, you fuck better than Lorraine.
> Whose tits are better? [I realize Tommy can't see my tits right now.] Whose ass is better? Mine or Lorraine's?
> Lisa's ass is better than Lorraine's.
> Who would win in a catfight? Me or Lorraine?? [1 minute away from cumming.]
> [Tommy is cumming inside of me, hotter than I expected temperature-wise.] Lisa .... would .... kick .... the .... shit .... out ..... of .... Lorraine .... in ... a ..... catfight.
> [I allow myself to scream as I cum. I hope the neighbors didn't hear.]
> Lisa? Did that hurt.
> [I turn around and face Tommy.] No, sweetheart. That was a scream of pleasure. Does Lorraine ever do that?
> Actually, no. Not like that.
> Have you ever been with anyone but her?
> No. Just her.
> Good.
While Tommy is taking a shower, I snoop in his sock drawer. I find his love letters from Lorraine. (There was no email in 1985.)
I take one of the letters, one that has her return address, out of the drawer and sneak it in my bag that has the spermicide.
I already know what I'm going to write on it when I mail it to her.
Dear Lorraine,
I just fucked your man. Reverse cowgirl. As we were doing it, he said my pussy is tighter than yours, that my ass is better, that I fuck better than you, and that I'd kick your ass in a catfight. Suck it, bitch. If you don't like any of that, come at me. I'll be waiting. xoxo, Lisa
Tommy helps me get dressed.
> Was it good for you?
> Almost perfect.
> What would have made it perfect.
> If Lorraine had been here, watching.
To be continued....
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I had never been much of a girly-girl, but after I gave up my virginity to Tommy, I felt the stereotypical need to "talk through my feeling" with someone. Talking about it, and our future, with Tommy himself would have been my first choice. But I only saw him at tennis, and only once a week during off-season, which we were in. He and I went to different schools, in different towns. And talking by phone (this was 1985--there was no texting or even email) was frustrating, because our school our home schedules were out of sync.
Talking to a close friend of mine would have helped. But I suddenly realized how far I had let my friendships slip. My high school classmates lived far away, and I rarely spoke to them outside of school. And my old neighborhood friends had "moved on" with their own lives--activities at their own schools, jobs, dating, parties.
And, many of my friends had shunned me once my parents divorced. In 1985, divorce still had a stigma attached to it. Other girls' mom's didn't want their daughters associating with me, and to be hanging out at house. Or even to have me hanging out at their house.
Was I lonely? Is this was loneliness felt like?
Was Lorraine lonely? In her letter, she said she was a JUNIOR in college. A fucking junior. What's a junior college coed doing sleeping with a high school boy.
A high school boy with a small dick.
There. I said it. Tommy had a small dick--there was no use pretending otherwise. And it DID matter. Size matters. You don't need a baseball bat in there--but it needs to fill you.
And it's not the motion of the ocean. Tommy didn't even do anything when I was with him. We barely wrinkled the sheets on his bed.
Maybe this was all a bad idea. I was just "blowing off steam" from my disappointment over my college rejections.
Back to Plan A, Lisa. Have some summer fun with Tommy.
But antagonizing his girlfriend isn't worth it. Lorraine isn't worth my time or trouble.
I'll just have a discreet affair with him after tennis. In sexual positions that I like--not that Lorraine likes.
My mom knocks on my bedroom door.
> Lisa? An attractive woman named Lorraine was here this morning. She left you this note.
I open it.
Dearest Lisa,
You fucking bitch. I know where you live now. Watch your back. It's on between you and me. I'm warning you--no rules.
Fuck you,
Lorraine
> Lisa? Are you ok? What did that woman want?
> Mom. I need to explain something to you.
> Something bad?
> Just ..... something I need some advice on.
To be continued.....
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For weeks I had been oscillating between deciding to de-escalate things with Lorraine to feeling the need to take the arrogant bitch down a peg. I decided to talk to my Mom about what was happening as a way of getting off the merry-go-round, regardless of my image in anyone else's eyes.
My first-time sex experience, and the impression it made on me, was another merry-go-round I couldn't handle alone anymore. On the one hand, it was a pathetic disappointment. Tommy was a dud in bed, especially for someone supposedly experienced at it. I was the supposed rookie at it, and I had orchestrated the entire encounter. Tommy was also significantly less alluring with his clothes off than with his clothes on. On the other hand, I kept reliving the orgasm I had experienced, acting out every detail of how Lorraine and Tommy "did it"; then taunting her in writing that we had done it behind her back.
Doing it behind her back. Damn, that was so fucking sexy. My school bathroom fistfight with Maureen had been behind the school's back. I was seeing a counseller about my parents' divorce. I made a note to myself to bring up with her at our next session what it meant that I got so much pleasure, excitement, whatever, from doing things on the down low.
At our Catholic High School, we were studying a section from the Gospels where the child Jesus sneaks away from Joseph and Mary to spend time in the Temple in Jerusalem. I listened to the nun's discussion of the episode with undivided attention. How would should resolve the dilemma of the situation? On the one hand, she couldn't condone disobeying one's parents--that directly violated one of the Ten Commandments. On the other hand, she couldn't criticize Jesus. He was the Word made Flesh, God from God, Light from Light.
My own first-boyfriend soap opera was another unresolvable dilemma. I loved the cheating, the sneaking, the planning, the seduction of another woman's man, the consummation, the fucking.
But, then I loved the confession, the turning myself in, the letter to Lorraine, and reaping her wrath once she found out.
I loved both. I needed both.
Me talking to my Mom about the hornets' nest I had stirred was inviting her wrath, or maybe her disappointment in me.
> Mom, two things. We need to talk.
First, I'm not a virgin anymore.
> Ok. This was your choice, right?
> Yes. Completely my choice. And my idea. I initiated, ...., to a fault actually. That's the other thing we need to talk about.
> Ok. First, tho. Do I know the boy?
> You know .... of .... him. He's from tennis. Tommy.
> Ooooooo, he's cuuuute. You have a crush on him?
> I did.
> Oh. But not now? He wasn't ..... a gentleman?
> He's small.
> Lisa!!!!! [Genuinely scolding me. I enjoy it--I don't know why. Come to think of it, this has come up in my counselling. She told me it's because my parents weren't strict enough with me as a child.] You didn't tell him that, did you?!?!?!?
> No. We were too busy talking about something else.
> Oh no. What. STD's? [1985 was the peak of the AIDS panic.] Birth control?
> No. His bitch girlfriend.
> You slept with a boy who has a girlfriend???? Do I know HER????
> You do now. It was the blonde who came here. Looking for me.
> Oh. You were right Lisa.
> About what?
> We DO need to talk.
To be continued......
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Although I hadn't yet met my college-girl rival Lorraine in person, all my communucations with her had been 100% truthful. I was jealous of her relationship with Tommy; I intended to sleep with (and, more than once) her boyfriend; and my first encounter with him happened exactly when and how I had had Tommy describe it to her.
I intended to be scrupulously straight and honest with Lorraine. Including in how much I hated her.
The purity of my honesty with my rival stood in stark contrast with by communication with the three responsible adults in my life: my mom, my counsellor, and my dad.
To the three of them, ....., well, I was lying through my fucking teeth. I never mentioned Lorraine to any of the three of them, when Lorraine's trip to my house to confront me left me no choice. And even then, I escalated my lying.
I told all three of them that I was the innocent victim of a crazy stalker. That the much older and mature Lorraine was coming after a younger, innocent rival for no reason.
My lie was one of omission. I completely left of an important set of facts.
That I had initiated the confrontation with Lorraine.
That I knew Lorraine and Tommy were in a committed relationship when I started inferfering.
That I seduced Tommy.
And that, thru Tommy, I was provoking Lorraine, even knowing how serious she was.
My self-awareness of my ability to carry on a lie wasn't new. My bathroom catfight with Maureen had been instigating by my lying--some untrue gossip I had spread for weeks about Maureen. Maureen was just defending her reputation when she challenged me.
I sat at May Crowning at our high school chapel, praying the Rosary, contemplating my ability to lie.
I thought about Mary after Jesus's Crucifixion, Rising, and Ascension. Hiding in Ephesus to avoid the Romans.
I thought about her trip from Judea to Asia Minor; what it must have been like preserving the safety of herself and her travel party. Had they been stopped on the rosd and asked to reveal their identity? What had she said?
Surely not the truth--that she was the Mater Dei, the Mother of God.
I couldn't tell my counsellor the truth.
That I welcomed a confrontation with Lorraine.
That the thought turned me on.
To be continued.....
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Lorraine's unpredictability started to cause me to worry that the whole facade of my induced/incited rivalry with her would come crashing down around me. That should would catch me by surprise with my mom present, and then spill the beans about me being the aggressor--seducing Tommy, acting out with him in ways that impersonated Lorraine, then telling him to taunt Lorraine about our continuing affair.
And although we were still young, an affair is what Tommy and I were having, as opposed to dating or hanging out with each other or friends or partying or drinking or watching MTV together or talking on the phone or any other stereotypical 1980s high school activities. The only times we made plans to get together were when we had mutual alone time and privacy to have sex.
Boring, bad, small-dick sex.
Followed by me telling Tommy how I thought Lorraine was a bitch. And that's the part that would get me off. I'd masturbate myself to orgasm while I told him Lorraine was stalking my house, and then he'd tell me the last time he had seen her, and how she had gone off throwing and breaking stuff, telling him she was "gonna fuckin' kick Lisa's sorry ass". And how I told him to tell her that he and I had just fucked again, and that the sex was "fucking mindblowing" [even though it was, as usual, amateur and pedestrian].
In Medieval History class, we resd the story of King Philip I of France, king from 1060 to 1108, who had an heir (who became Louis VI, also known as Louis the Fat), and how in 1094, even though he was stll lawfully married to Louis's mother, King Philip had publicly married his mistress, committing bigamy and gettinf excommunicated by Pope Urban II. And, later, when Prince Louis became deathly pale, he was believed to be a poisoning victim of King Philip's unlawful bride.
I pictured the jealousy which would cause the new woman to act so ruthlessly.
But in the Lorraine-Tommy-Lisa triangle, who was the jealous bitch? Between Lorraine and me, which one of us was being the asshole?
What if we both were?
Why wasn't Lorraine just leaving her younger, boring, not-great-in-bed boyfriend?
Couldn't she see that I was hanging around, seeing what might happen next, not because of HIM, but because of HER??
What kind of stupid bitch was she??
To be continued......
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Tommy and I had skipped the whole woo-ing, will-they-or-won't-they phase of a relationship, and skipped straight to the going-thru-the-motions-of-sex.
Going thru the motions of really, really, really bad sex.
Bad because he was small and not very experienced. Bad because I wasn't experienced at all, and wasn't learning.
And bad because the only thing that aroused me was the idea of provoking Lorraine. His older girlfriend, who I still had never met, or even talked to yet on the phone.
Sometimes I wished I could just kiss Tommy and make out with him. And let him kiss and feel different paets of my body.
But we had bypassed that stage. It just seemed dumb now, to do all that other stuff.
Instead, we'd both just strip, and I'd mount him and do reverse cowgirl on him. With him barely inside of me, him masturbating his cock on my hips and butt, me fingering my own clit to orgasm, looking over my shoulder at him and telling him
> Lorraine is . .... sssuuchhh .... a bitch
> I fucking hate Lorraine
> I wish Lorraine was here so I could rip her tits off
> When I get my hands on Lorraine, I'm scratching her bald
All of which would cause me to have shuttering orgasms.
What would it be like to actually talk to her meyself, and tell her all these things? Would it be as arousing as telling her boyfriend those things? Even more so?
I asked my cousellor, Autumn. Autumn was a reformed hippie, with cute auburn hair down to her shoulders.
We talked about my love triangle. The lying version, where I painted Lorraine as the instigating stalker.
Autumn told me her professional licenses required her to tell me she couldn't condone a physical fight between me and Lorraine.
She then turned off the clock she used to time our 50-minute sessions.
> Now, unofficially. Sometimes, there's a time for women to fight. Lisa, this is one of those times. Do you know how to fight?
> [I described by bathroom fistfight with Maureen.]
> Lisa, I'd encuurage you, when you fight Lorraine [when? not if? I feel the moisture in my pussy], don't use a closed fight. If you break a finger or thumb, the fight is over, not in your favor.
> What should I do instead? [can she tell my voice is cracking?]
> Pull hair. Grab on tight, and don't let go. If her hair comes out, grab more. And sit on her shoulders, and go at her face hard. Do it to her before she can do it to you.
I drive home shaking.
I climb in bed.
I masturbate.
I pick up the phone and dial.
It rings.
> Hello?
> Is this Lorraine?
> Is this Lisa?
> You know it, bitch.
To be continued.....
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You're an absolute god at building suspense
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Everything about having sex the first time, and then the second..third...fourth...fifth... times, had been a disappointment. It took more time to find a time and place than the act of intercourse actually lasted. Being intimate with my chosen boyfriend (which happened to be Tommy, but I was now convinced would have been the case with any boy or man) did nothing to help us understand each other better.
And I was more convinced than ever about how gross boys were. Their hair is oily and leaves stains. Their skin is scratchy as sandpaper. They pee out of their cocks and don't clean it afterwards. They wear underwear for days. And they sweat between their balls.
Which would be fine, if their cocks were large enough to be .... fulfilling.
But Tommy's wasn't. And I was deducing that most mens' weren't. Which is why men were so awkward with women.
So I was prepared to be disappointed with the first woman I had ever provoked a confrontation with.
Lorraine. Tommy's college girl bitch boyfriend.
But I wasn't disappointed. I was at first pleasantly surprised..... and then elated.
Her voice was .... sexy. Deep, husky, but in a feminine way. Firm. Decisive.
She meant business.
But so did I.
> What college do you go to, bitch?
> You haven't talked to him all about me, slut?
> We don't talk much about you when we're doing it, sweetie?
> Liar.
> cxnt.
> Wheaton College, bitch.
[Wheaton was up the road in Norton, MA. It was 3 years away from becoming coed, but in 1985 was still female-only and had a vague reputation of being lesbian-leaning, or at least lesbian-friendly at a time not many, if any, colleges in the United States were. It was also academically-rigorous. Lorraine was obviously smart. But was she also a lesbian?]
Our phone confrontation had just started.
And yet I had already cum into my hand.
To be continued.....
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In 1985 in suburban New England, girls would sometimes fight; sometimes, meaning it wasn't completely unheard of. Almost completely, but not completely.
So the fact that I had fought Maureen, and was considering fighting Lorraine, was not a Black Swan Event.
What WAS a Black Swan Event was that Lorraine and I were speaking about our fight, before it happened, directly to each other, with no witnesses.
If anyone had known THAT was happening, it would have been downright scandalous. Everyone "just knew", especially girls our age, was that the way you agree to fight (and where and when to fight) was thru each others' friends. Like the way Maureen and my fight at school at had about. Maureen told her friend she was alone in the bathroom. The her friend told my best friend. Then my best friend told me. Then the fight happened. There was a whole process.
That's just the way things worked.
I think there were a couple reasons for the whole charade. The first was that if either girl, or both, wanted to back out, you could credibly blame miscommunication about the arrangements? As in: 4:00? I thought we were fighting at 3. I was there at 3, where were you? Or: Stanley Park? I thought we were fighting at Shoppers World. I was there, where was she?
A lot of fight "accidentally" never happened that way. But if you were talking to the girl directly, how could you blame miscommunication?
The second reason, tho, I was discovering now.
Talking to a girl you hate on the phone is ..... intense. Major fucking intense.
Have you ever done it? You can hear the hatred spewing out of each others' voices. The hissed insults. The namecalling. Her voice in your ear, like she's over your shoulder.
Wanting to reach into the phone and scratch her face open.
That's what I could feel from Lorraine on the phone.
And what she could hear from me.
Our hatred for each other.
To be continued....
-
At the tennis club where I had been playing with Tommy for about 5 years, travel teams consisted of 4 boys and 4 girls, who would match up against other clubs and play 6 matches: 2 boys singles, 2 girls singles, 1 boys doubles, and 1 girls doubles. Six matches--first club to 3.5 won matches won, but in the event of a 3-3 tie, total number of won games won the team match.
So only 4 boys and 4 girls got playing time. If you were 5th on the club "ladder", you needed crack the Top 4 by beating Number 4 in a "challenge match". But you needed to do that early in the season--otherwise, you weren't eligible for the post-season New England tournament.
Being Number 4 or Number 5 on the Girls' Ladder was a Soap Opera. Because the whole club was watching waiting for Number 5 to take down Number 4.
One year, Number 4 in my age bracket in the early season was a nice, athletic girl named Becky--everyone liked her. Number 5 was a bitchy attractive girl named Susan who had gone to Bradenton, Florida that summer to a special tennis camp to improver her game.
To be able to beat Becky, and take over her Number 4 slot.
There was about 6 weeks to go before the season started and the tournament-eligible roster had to be submitted. Everyone was waiting for Susan to challenge Becky.
During drills, Susan and Becky specifically avoided physical proximity with each other. But still Susan didn't challenge Becky.
In the lounge, during breaks, Susan and Becky specifically avoided sitting next to each other. In the locker room, one wouldn't go in until she knew the other wasn't in there.
The weeks went by. Susan didn't challenge Becky to a match.
When the season started, Susan was in the van travelling to a match with us. Becky wasn't.
We arrived at the match. Becky was on the other team, playing as their Number One player.
On the way home, we asked Susan when and why Becky has left our club.
"Last week."
"Why?"
"She and I had a catfight."
"SUSAN?!?!? What started it????"
"I called her on the phone to set up arrangements to our challenge match, and it kinda turned into arrangments for a catfight. We met in a parking lot. I won--she left the club."
Would my phone call with Lorraine turn into arrangements for a catfight?
> Lorraine, I wanna fight you but not at my house. Stop coming here.
> Then you come here, Lisa. To Wheaton.
> When?
> Saturday night. It'll be cleared out for finals, but the graduation crowd won't be in town yet.
> Deal. If..... you'll fight me with no pants .... I want to scratch you bald.
> Fine. Don't change your mind later, little girl.
> You're not that much older than me.
> I'm a junior, bitch.
> And you're fucking a high school senior? Pathetic.
> Come see how pathetic I am, Lisa loser. Courtyard of my sorority. Bring someone to carry your sorry ass home.
I know imnediately who I want to drive me to Norton.
> Hello?
> Maureen?
> It's Lisa. Can you drive me to a fight Saturday. I'm in it--you can watch.
> Someone from school?
> Better. A college bitch.
> Do you know what tou're doing?
I sure do.
I sure as hell do.
To be continued.....
-
That Thursday was Ascension Thursday, so we had school mass in the chapel. I sat next to Maureen, by coincidence--divine intervention, I guess.
Until our phone call earlier in the week, she and I had never really talked since our bathroom fistfight. We never really established our status vis-a-vis each other --were we still enemies with unfinished business, or were we "good"? I had just called her to ask her to drive me to the Lorraine fight on a gut-instinct impulse, and while part of me was surprised by her "Yes, I'l do it", part of me fully expected it. I'd have done the same for her, I guess.
After all, who doesn't like to watch a good, love-triangle catfight?
At mass, Maureen's arms and mine rubbed against each other. Accidentally at first, then on purpose. I think she was trying to tell me that I could count on her as my driver, and as my wingman, at the fight on Saturday.
During The Lord's Prayer, where you hold hands with the person next to you, I held her hand.
We squeezed hands. It felt good. I remembered a few weeks ago, when those same hands had been punching my face.
We were lucky no one got hurt bad in that fight. We both would have been expelled.
During the part where everyone pauses while the priest says, "Lead us not, Lord, into temptation....", with us still holding hands, Maureen leaned into my ear, and said, "Let me feel your nails, Lisa.....", so I scratched her palms. "Harder, she mouthed," so I dug into her palm.
During the Sign of Peace, we hugged, and she kissed me on the lips. Then she whispered to me, "You're gonna need sharper nails than that for a catfight. Come to my house tonight."
After Mass, my friend who had set up my bathroom catfight with Maureen said, "Sssssoooo.... looks like thd feud between you two is over?".
"Yeah ..... we both proved our point .... not to fuck with each other."
Now I just need to teach Lorraine.
That night, Maureen was sharpening my nails.
"How did you get this chick Lorraine to agree to catfight you?"
"I started an affair with her boyfriend."
"That'll do it. Everytime."
" You sound like you know."
"Yep."
"Is it as intense as it seems like it'll be?"
" The sex? Or the fight?"
"The fight."
"More intense than your wildest dreams. As long as you don't quit. And no one stops it."
"Then ..... don't stop it."
"I won't. And you don't quit..... No matter how much either you or her are hurt."
"That's the plan."
Then Maureen and I finished our kissing from Mass.
It took about four hours.
To be continued....
-
The Friday before my planned fight with Lorraine, I wanted to tell my Mom about my plans the next day for Maureen to pick me up and drive me to Lorraine's sorority in Norton, in case something went wrong and we were late coming back. But I didn't want to tell her that we were driving to Wheaton (or even that Lorraine was a student at Wheaton), because I didn't want her fishing for information and eventually discovering that I had instigated the entire drama.
Getting out of lie once you've started one is hard.
So I made up a new lie, or at least a fib.
> Mom, a girl from school is picking me up tomorrow afternoon.
> Oh, what for?
> We're driving to Lorraine's town to see if she still wants to fight me.
> Oh? You found out where she's from?
> Yah. Out by Dighton-Rehoboth.
> Pfffft. Country trash--shoulda figured. Lorraine's backyard, tho--will this girl who's driving you be able to watch your back? in case Lorraine's friends jump in?
> Yeah. It's Maureen. In my class. She can fight.
> Oh? You're..... sure .... she can fight? You've seen her fight.
> Ummmm..... [blushing] ......
> Lisa, don't lie to me. This is serious .... and dangerous.
> Mom .... I've seen her fight .... I was the girl fighting her. She's bad ass. We fought with fists ..... in the school bathroom.
> Lisa!!!! Who taught you how to fight with fists???
> Welll .... Mom, don't tell him I told you ..... but .... DAD .... taught me how to throw a punch.
> Ok .... I'm guess I'm not mad, Lisa .... I mean, obviously you held your own with another girl who can punch .... but .... and I'll shut up after this, I promise [good.... we're back on a path where I can stop telling an ever more elaborate lie] ..... he showed you HOW? Was he punching someone??
> No. Mom..... uggh, don't make me talk about this .... one of his GIRLFRIENDS was over ... and he had me punch her a couple times, ok??? [Mom's eyebrows lift up.] No, not just him ... she was ok with it ... he wan't forcing us to fight..... he, just, ....well, I, had just told them that a girl at school and I had some drama brewing, and might fight .... so they BOTH wanted me to be ready. So they wanted me to know how to punch .... for real, not just hypothetical, ya know. I mean, you ARE glad they showed me ... aren't you???
> I suppose. ....... Wow. You really punched her? For real??
> Ya. And more than once.
> That was actually kinda .... nice .... of her. In a way. [Please don't make me lie, again, Mom. Please don't make me confess that they both also wanted me to FEEL a punch .... or two .... or three .... or four. And that Dad's girlfriend punched ME a few times that afternoon. As a way to train me.] I'll need to thank him some time.
> MOM .... PLEASE, NO!!!!!! .... You can't ever mention that to them!!!!
> Ok, ok. ...... About tomorrow ..... if you fight Lorraine ..... will IT be a fistfight??
> Umm ..... Autumn .... you know she counsels girls who have been in trouble??? ..... she said if I want to hurt Lorraine ..... which I do .... I should catfight her.
> I agree with Autumn. Too bad we can't do what your Dad did .... and let you PRACTICE what a catfight feels like.
> Why can't we?
> Because you're fighting tomorrow. And it takes at least a week to recover from a real catfight .... and that's if it's a short one. You sure you're ready?
> I can't wait.
And that's the truth.
To be continued.....
-
I'm enjoying this very much, wonderful build up.
-
Saturday of my fight with Lorraine finally arrived. Maureen was going to arrive my mom's house at 3 to drive me up to Norton, Massachusetts, but my mom thought it would be a good idea to get my hair done before the fight. She was still under the misconception, because of my lying, that Maureen and I were going to challenge Lorraine in front of her friends, not that Lorraine and I had already worked everything out over the phone--the time, the location, the rules, the semi-nude attire.
So my mom, in her understanding of the confrontation-to-come, wanted to maximize the chances Lorraine would accept my challenge. She figured that the hotter and bdtter-dressed I looked, the less ready-to-fight I would appear. So that then Lorraine would try and take advantage of my relative unpreparedness and fight me on the spot.
Get it? Phew, lying is confusing.
My mom also wanted the fight over for another reason. She knew I was going away to college in Ohio in just 8 weeks. She wanted my hometown loose end sewn up before I went away.
The next day was Mother's Day, so my mom's hairdressing place was booked solid. But she pulled out the big guns to get me an appointment.
> Beth, I really really need a favor. A big one. Lisa NEEDS this appointment. She has a, ummm, important appointment tonight.
> A hot date?
> MORE important.
> Wwhhhaatt ..... could possibly be more important than a date with a new boyfriend?
> I'll tell you what .... an appointment with the boyfriend's ex. [Lorraine wasn't the ex yet, as you know. But my mom didn't know that. See how exhausting this is?]
> Oh. I see. So you want me to braid Lisa's hair?
> The opposite, Beth. IF they fight .... which I'm hoping they will .... I want it to be a catfight.
> That's what YOU want. Is it what Lisa and .... the other young lady .... want?
> It is. The other .... young lady .... has already been here .... to OUR HOUSE .... once ..... a few weeks ago .... looking for a fight.
> I see. And you stopped it?
> Hell, no. Lisa wasn't here.
> I see. So now Lisa's going to her?
> This afternoon. Late. So can we get an appointment. Make her hair look hot as fuck? To get under the other girl's skin.
> What time can you be here? I'll give her the works. And some catfighting advice.
> What's the advice?
> That there's a big difference between a streetfight and a catfight. In a streetfight, the fight ends with "I give", or "stop, please". With a catfight, the fight's just getting started then.
> I think it will do her good to hear that advice from you. Lisa, get dressed!!!! Beth's gonna do your hair up nice. And .... give you a pep talk.
> ........
> Lisa? You ready to go????
> Yes, mom. Give me 5 minutes. [To get dressed. And to finish masturbating.]
To be continued.......
-
My Mom's sexy hairdresser gave me the best blonde dye job and best cut and straightening I had ever had. I wished all the men who had been too shy to talk to me, or too introverted to ask me out, or too indecisive to make a move on me on the first date, or too tentative to ask for a second date, could see me now. They would regret that I wasn't their girlfriend right now, and that I had been forced to have bad sex with boring Tommy.
Thd hairdresser gives me a pep talk for the fight. She tells me to hurt Lorraine. To really, really hurt her. To scratch her everywhere, so every man who makes love her for the rest of her life sees the scars.
Between 1:00 and my 4:00 pickup by Maureen, Mom did my makeup and cologne for the fight, and dressed me. Mom gave me her most expensive Chanel fragrance, so that Lorraine would be jealous of my sex appeal. We put on a silky office top that wouldn't rip when Lorraine pulled on it, and that her nails would have a hard time getting through.
We put on a sexy mini skirt that I could step out of easily, with no underwear. We shaved my bush so thst it was long but well-trimmed, so that I looked like Timmy spent lots of time "down there".
I couldn't believe how sexy I smelled. Someday, when I fuck someone I love, I need to remember to wear this. Since Tommy and I usually fuck after tennis, we both smell sweaty.
Maybe that's why Lorraine prefers reverse cowgirl. Tommy's pits get rancid quickly.
Maureen picks me up. My Mom tells her she's counting on her to watch my back if Lorraine's friends think about jumping in.
Maureen notices how good I smell, how perfect my hair is, how sexy my top is.
In the car, I tell Maureen how the hairdresser told me the difference between streetfighting and catfighting. And how I'm glad my fight with Maureen at school didn't get catty.
> I know. Me too. Maybe some hairpulling.
> Ha! Maybe by YOU, bitch!
> Well .... I hated your perfect blonde hair.
> Will Lorraine hate it too?
> Hell ya! You look perfect right now. [If it was 2021 instead of 1985, she'd be taking a picture of how I look right now and posting it on Insta.]
> Good.
> Rub her face in it.
> I will.
> Good. Fuck her up.
> I will.
The sign says, "Welcome to Wheaton College."
No turning back now.
For me. Or for her .... the bitch.
To be continued.....
-
Lorraine's sorority house was a long structure which looked like it had been extended several times, with a cross between Victorian and Tudor themes, almost as if it had one of those factory boarding houses at one time.
Like she had described on the phone, there was a semi-enclosed courtyard in the center. Maureen and walked stepped into it, looking up into doors and windows for where Lorraine might be, and any of her other sorority sisters who might have come to watch the fight.
The Tudor architecture made me think of the 12th century English history class we were taking in school. All the medieval warrior princesses who were galloping around England and Normandy at the time--Matilda of Scotland, Matilda of Flanders, Matilde de Boulogne, and Matilda the Empress, since she was the widow of the Holy Roman Emperor Henry V.
All vying to be the strongest Matilda in the land. Whoever won got the best castle, the best clothes, the best sex, the best food.
Whoever lost starved in the wilderness.
I got so horny thinking about it.
I also thought about when I started playing sports. Before I focussed exclusively on tennis, i had played softball. One of our first travel games was against this team of girls who gathered on a hill overlooking a field, and started chanting about getting "rowdy", whatever that meant. They then came screaming down the hill and ran into the dugout.
They had us beat before the first pitch was thrown.
-
Just as I noticed how cramped my legs were from the car trip to Norton, two stuck-up bitchy blonde girls emerged from one of the many doors out to the courtyard.
One of them I recognized immediately as Lorraine, even though her hair was very different from the Polaroids Tommy had shown me of hair. Her drab 1970s straight hair style had been replaced by a beautiful curled style that gave her hair three or four times the volume and body it had before. Her hair was still blonde, but a nicer, deeper shade of blonde, so it was obviously dyed.
She and I locked eyes and couldn't release them. Was she surveying my body like I was surveying hers?
Her clothes were a velvety sweatshirt top, which complemented her huge boobs, and a mini-skirt bottom. Her shoes were already off.
Did she like what she saw?
Was she turned on as much as I was?
Did she hate me as much as I hated her?
> Fuck you, Lorraine.
> No. Fuck YOU, Lisa.
> Witty comeback.
> Fine. Be that way. So ..... should we send our two friends inside (motioning to her own [also gorgeous, but tough-looking] sorority sister, and to Maureen). Or do you want them to witness me beat your ass?
> [I could tell right then and there I was going to need to masturbate at some point during the fight. I didn't want Maureen to see that. I didn't know her well enought yet.] Alone. You and me, alone, Lorraine.
> Go inside and make Lisa's bitch friend comfortable, Karen [it was 1985; this was still an actual name, not an insult].
Maureen and Karen went inside.
Lorraine and I got nose to nose.
> We still taking our skirts and panties of?
> Of course. You first.
One by one, we get semi-naked.
My pussy was literally throbbing. And dripping.
> You smell. [she was right. I did.]
> I'm gonna make you fucking eat it.
> Do that and I'll kill you.
> Let's go.
To be continued....
-
Later in my life, after I moved to the Midwest (more on that later--Miami of Ohio turned me into a Midwesterner), when I started getting better at learning to make friends, I'd tell them I had been raised in Rhode Island, and they'd tell me how lucky I was to live so close to the ocean, and want to hear stories about beach days in the Atlantic. I'd break the news to them that, "Hey, I hate to tell you--the Atlantic Ocean in New England is FREEZING--except for maybe the first couple of weeks of August."
Then they'd say, "Oh? So you never went in the water? You just sunned yourself?".
And I'd tell them about the strange sensation all native New Englanders have experienced. That if you just wade in gradually, the water seems to get colder and colder and colder with each passing minute, and you finally get the urge to just get out. Conversely--if you just dive in, you get a half-second sensation that you're going to freeze to death. But as soon as you surface, your whole body miraculously acclimates, and you suddenly feel warm, and you can stay in the water for 30-60 minutes, or longer.
A catfight is EXACTLY LIKE THAT.
If you're facing off with a girl, and one or both of you takes the first swing, once you both have the sensation of hitting or getting hit, the fight feels totally natural. You still want to win, of course. But all the fear and anxiety leading up to the fight melts away. You totally remember why you're fighting her, and it feels ..... natural. Primal, but still natural. You start thinking about fight tactics and strategy, and wait for your second wind to kick in if you get tired. But the fear part, the urge to run, totally disappears. (That's how my bathroom fight with Maureen had gone. We knew we only had 3 minutes freedom from the teachers, so we didn't dick around. We hit hard and fast as soon as the door had shut--and it was on after that. No hesitation from either of us.)
My faceoff with Lorraine was the exact opposite.
Nothing but hesitation. Anxiety.
Fear. From both of us.
Doubts about whether I had bitten off more than I could chew.
Lorraine was prettier than I expected. And stronger, tougher looking.
But she was also more ..... mature .... looking. I knew she was a college girl, older than me by 3 years.
But looking at her inches in front of me .... she looked like ..... a woman. A grown, bad ass woman. She hadn't hesitated to bare her pussy in front of me. Her bush was so .... full .... thick. Her eyes were .... mean looking. She was staring death.
My mind was telling me to get the first hit .... like everyone had coached me to do. My Dad .. . my Mom ..... my Dad's girlfriend, when she showed me how to punch .... my Mom's hairdresser, when she gave me fight tips this morning.
But Lorraine's face was telling me that if I hit her, she would hit me back 10 times as hard. And that my hit wouldn't fluster her at all.
So ..... why wasn't Lorraine hitting ME?? Her hands were by her side. I was waiting for her to raise them. But they stayed relaxed.
Or .... if no hitting .... my pussy was sitting there completely exposed to her nails. Why wasn't she scratching it? Was she thinking about if she wanted "thst kind of fight"?
A catfight, and not a streetfight?
Had all her fights been like mine with Maureen? A fistfight?
Or .... worse ..... had she had a catfight, and known how serious they were?
Our staredown went on for minutes.
I might have gone on this afternoon.
But we could suddenly hear muffled banging inside the sorority.
Lorraine broke the silence.
> I think Karen and your friend are fighting.
> Her name is Maureen. And that wouldn't surprise me. She's a tough-y.
> Well, .... she better be. I knew .... KAREN .... wouldn't let me down.
> Well .... Maureen knows I won't let ... HER .... down.
> Well, I ain't seen nothing yet from you, Lisa. Just words.
> Well ..... say hello to my nails.
I reach for Lorraine's pussy and sink my hand in.
She retaliates in kind.
And, like diving in the cold ocean .... for 3 seconds, I get the literal sensation that I'm going to die.
That's how bad it is to get your pussy mauled.
But then.....
Like surfacing from the ocean....
My body acclimates....
And I'm ready to totally fucking kill this bitch in front of me.
> Slut.
> Bitch.
To be continued......
-
One of the most important decisions a tennis club makes for its students is what "grip" to hold the racket with when you hit a forehand: continental, Eastern, Semi-Western, or Western. Novak Djokovic is in the news right now over Covid vaccinations--he uses the ridiculous Western grip, where you wave the racket like a windshield wiper in front of the ball's path. You get good topspin on the ball, but you have almost no control over its direction after it leaves you racket.
In hindsight, I wish my club had taught the Semi-Western--the fierce women players today who smash forehands back and forth, and grunt as they do it, use that grip. It would have been my style when I played.
Instead, my club taught the Continental grip. It requires discipline, control, and precision over your elbow at every stage of your swing. That worked for me 80% of the time, tops. Good enkugh to be a #3 or #4 player. But not #1 or #2.
As Lorraine and I dug our right hands into each others' groins, I thought of how I should position my elbow, my shoulders, my hips.
And and what angle I should turn my wrist as I scratched and pulled on her.
Continental?
Eastern?
Semi-Western?
Western?
I tried them all. Some got whimpers from my rival. And some just get her madder. Then I realized, those are just forehand gtips. There's backhand grips. Volley grips. Overhead grips.
Lorraine didn't try any of them on me. She must have been a volleyball player. She was coming at me from below, her palms turned upward. She was getting up inside of me.
> You think you're hurting me? I could do this all day.
> Then what are those tears?
> They're less than yours.
> I feel bad for what I'm about to do to you.
> Awwww. What a sweet .... little girl.
> I'm every bit of a college coed as you are.
To be continued......
-
Those of you who grew up in New England in the 1970s and 1980s, after the 1960s environmental awakening put the kibosh on bug spraying but before the 1990s ah-fuck-it return to spraying, will remember a plague which hit the New England twilight skies every April and May.
Gnats.
Gnats are tiny black bugs that don't seem to want to bite you. They just want to land on you, smell you, and maybe drink your sweat.
And your tears, if you have them. Which we both did.
In swarms. Billions of them at a time.
Any New England bride with a sunset wedding knows what I'm talking about. Gnats love hairspray.
It was now twilight. Lorraine and I had our best hairspray and best cologne on. And we were sweating like pigs.
Gnat heaven.
We got hit suddenly with a faceful each of gnats. We tried to ignore them at first. But you can ignore thousands or millions of gnats, if you're in a vicious catfight. Against your worst enemy.
But not billions.
We release our mutual pussy grab.
> Fuck. I'm not done with you yet.
> Then let's finish inside.
> Fuck, I dont want you in my sorority.
> You're afraid.
> Fine. Follow me.
> Bitch.
Lorraine leads me into the sorority house, both of us brushing handfuls of gnats off of us.
It smells so good inside. There's thousands of candles in the house.
No way these girls are straight.
We here screams in the next room. We run and look.
Maureen has mounted Karen, and is laying a ground and pound on her. Both of them are topless.
Lorraine shrieks, "Get off her bitch!!!!!," and charges at Maureen.
I try and tackle Lorraine, but she slips free.
> Let them finish, bitch!!!!!
Lorraine gets Maureen off of Karen. Karen leaps up, her face full of welts.
> You should have let them finish, bitch.
> Fuck you, Lisa. This is between you and me.
I pull back my fist, hoping to lay a haymaker on Lorraine's jaw. But someone grabs my arm and pins it behind my back.
Karen.
The four of us stand staring at each other.
A total 4-girl stalemate.
The b.o. in the room is overtaking the candles.
To be continued......
-
People ask me all the time if youth travel tennis matches ever got really bitchy or catty. And the truthful answer is ..... sometimes. But never a singles match. Something about needing to focus all your concentration and energy on your own play, not the other girl's, kept the matches civil and respectful.
But doubles was a different story. Part of the reason is that a lot of a doubles match is played at the net, and there's more opportunity for a volley hit at a player's face of chest to be perceived, rightly or wrongly, as having been intentional. And for an immediate retaliation to occur on the next point.
But there's also a 2-on-2 hormonal dynamic that kicks in. If you think the other 2 bitches are picking on your doubles partner, you want to show her, then them, that you're standing up for her.
So the bitchiness can definitely get sparked in a close doubles match. And sometimes neither side knows how to, nor cares to, defuse it.
As Maureen and I stood sweaty, semi-nude, and wounded in a strange candle-scented sorority house with the 2 bitchiest women we had ever met, we immediately recognized we were in a doubles catfight.
2x2. To the finish.
It was just about me and Lorraine anymore.
Both Maureen and I wanted to hurt Lorraine AND Karen.
And they both wanted to hurt both of us.
They spoke first.
> So how do we settle this bitches?? Just brawl until ther's one girl standing?
Karen and I paired off, then Lorraine and Maureen, in standup hairpull catballs.
We both wanted to finish off our enemy rapidly, for fear of facing a 2on1 pummeling if we tarried in neutralizing our dance partner.
I never felt so alive.
To be continued.....
-
The four of us were fighting in an open great room, with a large dining table with leaves inserted off to one side, and a motley collection of non-matching soft chairs irregularly spread around the side of the large room. There was room to fight on the floor if our fighting went to the ground, but if we stood up, there would be unpredictable interfernce presented by the randomly-placed furniture.
Maureen and Lorraine had chosen the standup option, slugging at each other with closed fists, the girl who was forced to retreat at high risk of losing her footing by getting tangled with unseen chair legs as she retreated.
Maureen was getting the better of their battle at the moment, and I was grateful I had brought her to this fight as my wingman.
Karen, meanwhile had chosen to take me to the ground, and was methodically shredding my shirt with her hands. I suddenly felt naked, both literally and figuratively, as I realized my skirt was still laying in the grass on the outdoor courtyard, while my shirt was now in unwearable pieces all over the great room floor.
Maureen would have an interesting time getting home in any state of decency. We would need to steal clothes from somewhere in the sorority house.
Once my breasts were exposed, Karen wasted no time mauling and pinching and twisting them. This was a different type of pain than when Lorraine was scratching my pussy outside. It made me angry.
And if made me want to twist hers, which I proceeded to aggressively do. I had never touched another girl's breasts, and I was stunned at how firm and dense Karen's were. Was it because she was three years older than me? Or were hers' just better than mine.
Karen, too, also seemed to be tactililely exploring my breasts. I thought of how when Tommy and I fucked, one of the things that made me feel empty was that he never touched or kissed or even felt up my breasts. I had always thought of guys being tit-obsessed. Why wasn't Tommy obsessed with mine?
Was it because Lorraine's were better.
Karen and I were soon aggressively massaging each others' breasts. We were no longer fighting, even tho Lordaine and Maureen were, and quite viciously.
My women's intuition kicked in. I had a hunch about Lorraine and Karen. I asked Karen to confirm it.
> Have you and Lorraine ever fucked?
> Yes, why? [We were whispering, so Maureen and Lorraine wouldn't notice us.]
> Want to roll into the next room and fuck? And you can tell me who fucks better? Me or her?
> You two really do hate each other, don't you?
> Does that turn you on?
> Fuck, yes.
> So .... wanna do it?
> NOW.
Karen and I roll out of the great room into some sort of utility room, and out feet kick the door close.
We tongue kiss as hard as Maureen and Lorraine are fighting.
Within a minute, both of us are cumming. We roll into a side by side 69, and kiss each others' pussies.
I feel like I'll never stop cumming.
And that's ok.
To be continued......
-
Karen wasn't the first girl I had ever kissed. I learned pretty early on that boys are terrible kissers, and so if I wanted the sensation of passionate intensity and physical connection, I would sneak off after school dances and basketball games with girls from my school or, even better, their friends and sisters who went to public schools or had already graduated. We kidded ourselves (there's that "lying" habit of mine again) that we were only practicing our kissing skills, or trying out new types of kisses, or "testing" how different kinds of lip gloss stood up to 15 minutes of intense kissing, or exploring the taste of flavored ChapStik or lip gloss, ...... lie after lie after lie.
In the 1980s, we didn't have the language, the confidence, the access to valid information, whatever, to view ourselves as straight or bi or bi-curious or .... gasp .... something else .... lesbian. We knew about lesbians--but they were all mannish-looking. That was nothing to aspire to; not at all glamorous.
No. We were just bored suburban straight white girls kissing each other.
So, Karen wasn't my first time kissing a girl. But it WAS the first time getting full-on naked with a girl. And touching each other EVERYWHERE.
And I loved it. The whole skin-on-skin sensation was electrifying. The orgasm "itch" that concentrated on my clit when I fucked with Tommy EXPLODED to all different parts of my body--my breasts, the back of my neck, my inner thighs, my toes. I wanted Karen to touch and kiss me in all those places. No amount of touching and caressing was enough. And I wanted to touch her everywhere.
Karen had long straight hair that I could see up close was a dirty blonde tint that I found SSSOOO attractive. And she had a poise, a classiness, that screamed she was from a wealthy, connected family from long pedigree. I got so excited arousing her so much that she was willing to let go of her devil-may-care poise and get crazy with me.
We were both letting go of all our inhibitions with each other.
What was her relationship with Lorraine?? Exclusive lovers? Fuck buddies? Just sorority sisters?
I wanted to steal Karen from Lorraine.
Karen pushed close the door of the room we were kissing in and latched it. Maureen and Lorraine were fighting outside, but might finish soon, and the winner would come in and see Karen and me fucking.
They'd be pissed that while they were putting their bodies on the line in a brawl, Karen and I were pleasuring each other.
After latching the door, Karen mounted me.
> Where have you been all my life, Karen?
> [we are barely able to squeeze in words between kisses] Oh, here at Wheaton, and growing up in Ohio.
> I go to college in Ohio in 6 weeks.
> I know. Lorraine told me. Let's fuck when you get there.
> Yes, Yes. Let's fuck a lot Karen. Are you and Lorraine ..... together?
> It's ...... complicated.
> I want to complicate it more.
> I'm down with that.
I try to keep talking, but start cumming so hard that I feel like I might pass out.
Is this heaven?
To be continued.....
-
Karen and I did get to continue making love for another 10 minutes or so behind our latched door before Lorraine did eventually come and kick the door in. Lorraine had defeated Maureen in their fight in the great room.
Not, I think, because Lorraine was a better fighter than Maureen. It was just because Maureen had been full-on fighting with Karen before she had to fight Lorraine, while Lorraine and I had been standing in the grass hate-staring at each other, and then just a couple minutes of pussy-mauling, before the gnats drove us indoors.
Karen had "softened up" Maureen for Lorraine. And then Lorraine, in classic bullshit bully behavior, had still barely been able to beat up Maureen.
Every minute I was around Lorraine I became more and more convinced of what a complete and utter bitch she was. I was half-tempted to get up and rip her eyeballs out right then and there.
But Karen saw the bigger picture. She realized we had 4-5 weeks of August overlap in Ohio to look forward to, where she and I could fuck each others' brains out, and she could teach me everything I needed to know about f-on-f sex. (And maybe even some things I didn't need to know.)
Lorraine approached me threateningly, but Karen stepped between us.
> Get out of my fucking way, Karen. Let me finish off this cheating bitch, like I finished off her friend.
> Whoa, whoa, Lorraine. I just fucked her up for 10 minutes. [what a difference the word 'up' makes in a sentence! ]
> She doesn't look so bad.
> She's bad, don't worry. But, Lorraine, think! She needs to drive her friend home. Parents are coming here tomorrow for Mother's Day, and girls are moving back in for Graduation. I don't want these two bitches here for that ..... DO YOU?????
> [Lorraine stares at my hatefully. I stare at her right back.] You're fucking lucky, bitch. Get out, and take your pathetic friend, before I throw you out. [Karen keeps Lorraine and me separated as I help Maureen out.] AND STOP FUCKING TOMMY!!!!!
> Just for that, I'M FUCKING HIM TOMORROW, BITCH!!!!! [Did I hurt Karen's feelings by saying that? I sure hope not. I don't want to blow the 5 week Ohio fuckfest.]
Maureen and I drive home. I want to tell Maureen about what Karen and I were doing in the latched room (and .... that I think I might be in love), but I'm afraid she'll be mad that I was getting laid while she was getting her ass kicked.
She had my back, but I didn't have hers. [Shit, when I write it like that, I sound like a horrible human being.]
So, I lie. Again. Lie after lie after lie lately.
I tell her that Karen was beating me up in the latched room. That my pussy was in agony from getting scratched by Lorraine.
By the time my lying was over, I had MAUREEN feeling sorry for ME.
And more lies when I got home. I told my mom that 4 sorority girls had jumped Maureen and me. That I never did get my hands on Lorraine. That Lorraine was obviously a big coward and would obviously never fight me in a fair fight. And that maybe I should just forget about Tommy and go out to Miami of Ohio with a clean slate.
I made arrangements for my off-campus apartment to be available July 1st, rather than mid-July. My Dad and I packed a UHaul, and we drove out to Oxford. My Dad moved me in. His girlfriend told me to call her if I ever wanted some more fight tips ('Same, if you want some from me,' I told her challengingly--I don't think she appreciated the joke), and the UHaul pulled away.
I called the Cincinnati phone number Karen had given me.
> I miss you.
> I miss you more.
> I'm moved in. And aaaalllooonnne.
> I'll be there in 2 hours. With 5 weeks of clothes.
> Neither of us will be needing many clothes.
> Mmeee-ooowwww.
As soon as Karen knocked on the door and I opened it, we were in other others' arms and fucking like freed inmates.
The first fuck session lasted ten hours, when we were both starving.
> I've never been in love before.
> I thought I had been. But now I realize I wasn't.
> Let's just fuck for five weeks.
> What about when our periods happen?
> What about it?
> Good point.
We ate Ramen off each other bodies, then fucked another 12 hours.
> I can't wait to tell Lorraine about us.
> Me neither.
> When should we?
> Not yet. I still just want to fuck.
To be continued.....
-
When August came and my freshman year at Miami of Ohio started, Karen went back east to Wheaton to start her senior year, and I participated, moderately enthusiastically, in the freshman part scene.
While remaining completely transparent with Karen (by long distance landline--that was the only real time communication available in 1985) about what I was doing, I had one night stands with drunken Miami (mostly-) freshman males, and finally experience the satisfaction, which Tommy never gave me, of a normal-sized dick that sort of filled me.
I stilled viewed myself as straight. No woman on campus in Oxford, OH at all enticed me as dating, or NSA (No Strings Attached) material--Karen was still the only girl for me. And guys with nice big dicks still got my motor revved.
But, shit, no one could kiss like Karen did. I missed, already, our long August 1985 fuckfests, where she and I would caress and massage each other for 12 hours at a time. Guys were done after they came, and they always came way too fast. Karen took forever to cum, and even then was just getting started.
And, yet.
I couldn't understand what was uo with her and Lorraine. Karen had confided with me, by now, that Lorraine had strict Massachusetts Irish Catholic parents, with whom she couldn't come "out" (this was 1985, don't forget).
But why was Karen putting up with this?
Karen's parents were Catholic, too. But liberal, Vatican II-ish Cincinnati Catholics, who were (slighly more) open to pre-marital same-sex intercourse, as long as both girls were unmarried.
The casuistry was mind-bending and confusing. I didn't think I liked it.
But I knew what I did like.
Three things:
1. Fucking a guy with a big cock.
2. Kissing and massaging Karen.
3. Stealing someone Lorraine was fucking.
In reverse order.
To be continued....
-
Even as the weeks of September and October dragged on with my only contact with Karen being brief long distance phone calls, and hand-written letters which seemed to get lost in the mail half the time (and, 100% of the time if sent as a card), I still felt attached to her and determined to maintain contact. Besides craving the mind-blowing sex with her, I was drawn like a magnet to the security of her wholesome Catholic family in the Cincinnati suburbs, and their material wealth stemming from her dad's lifetime career as a P&G executive.
I mourned the contrast, materially and emotionally, with my divorce-shattered New England family, my parents living in drab, unstable housing arrangements. Dreading each new phone call from my Dad, fearing that he would any week get engaged to his younger girlfriend, the rough-around-the-edges biker woman who seemed to get a sick pleasure from punching me in the face, and getting punched by me. In middle school, I had heard sad stories from classmates who had witnessed knock-down-dragout fistfights between their older sisters and their stepmom, or between older step sisters or half-sisters, both women fighting across the house or in the backyard with no rules and No Holds Barred. I never thought, at age 19, that would be on the verge of being my all-too-plausible reality.
Who would win a girlfight between me and my Dad's girlfriend?
Who did I want to win?
Karen was due to come back home to Ohio on Thanksgiving Break from Wheaton. She was bringing Lorraine with her, under the mistaken impression that I was going back to Rhode Island. I wasn't--I had no intention of getting sucked into my parents' depressing vortex.
I was going to confront Lorraine the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving to decide who got to be Karen's "date" at her parents. That night was the traditional local reunion night for college students coming home from school at the local bars. No one would think twice about two blondes having it out in the back parking lot. They'd let us finish.
I couldn't wait.
One of my Miami of Ohio suitemates was a Catholic virgin from Michigan who enjoyed the same high school lip gloss games my high school classmates had. We'd kiss in bed with the lights and I'd tell her about my plans to fight the night before Thanksgiving, and about the catfight Lorraine and I had had at Wheaton in the spring.
Telling the stories and kissing her made her cum.
I liked it.
To be continued....
-
In 1985, office careers at 'Nifty Fifty' companies like Procter & Gamble in Cincinnati carried a special intoxicating magic if you were deciding what to do with your life. The first reason was that they offered, in effect, lifetime employment (if you wanted it--more on that later). They proudly proclaimed that they had weathered the Great Depression without laying off a single employee. The implication was that if you landed a job there, you would never be laid off. In 1985, that implied promise was only 5 years away from being broken, as corporate downsizing became a thing, and ill-fated office romances and sending raunchy emails became firable offenses. But I sssooo wanted an interview for a P&G job in 1985, and I saw Karen's family as my 'in' to get one.
The second attraction of a P&G job was this neat thing called a defined benefit pension plan--once your age plus your years of service summed up to 70 (say, 52 years old and 18 years of service), P&G began paying you to NOT work. Your salary continued, and you could stop working. Your day was yours to pursue what you wanted. No contributions required from your paycheck, as happened in 401(k)'s. This was another doomed promise, taken away in the early 2000's, but we didn't know that yet in 1985.
Finally, if life at P&G became too limiting or confining, their corporate training was first-rate. You could learn selling skills, factor financing, entrepreneurship, manufacturing, and distribution, then use those skills in a career of your choosing. I would turn out differently from my mom, divorced in her forties and forced to go backwards in her standard of living.
I could taste the foot-in-the-door to upper-middle-class-dom that P&G would give me. I had tasted it briefly in youth tennis. Summer trips to clay courts in Brookline, MA and Cape Cod. The grass courts of Newport, Rhode Island, with an annual tournament the week after Wimbledon. Saturday nights at indoor racquet clubs in tony suburbs like Weston, MA, where the members worked in medicine or academia or the booming Route 128 technology industry. Lorraine and I could sense the relative income equality of the 1950s-1970s giving way to the Winners and Losers economy of the 2000s.
We both wanted to be a Winner. And for the other to be a Loser.
In fighting.
And in life.
Our night before Thanksgiving catfight in a few weeks would determine which side of the divide we were on.
To be continued.....
-
Karen didn't know that I was planning on staying in Ohio for Thanksgiving Break. She assumed I was a homesick freshman who would be heading home to New England to see my separated Mom and Dad.
And that meanwhile Lorraine and her parents would be seeing one another. I couldn't understand why Karen wanted to be seen with Lorraine everytime she saw her parents, but I had a theory.
Karen had no intention of bringing a boy home to her parents, but by bringing Lorraine, she was demonstrating she was worthy of having a partner.
Just as....
Lorraine had no intention of bringing Karen home to HER (conservative Catholic) parents, so she brought Tommy home to them. Even though her sex life with him was a bit of a sham.
Tommy was the missing link who allowed Karen and Lorraine to keep a bit of temporary eqilibrium with their parents.
And I intended to knock that equilibrium all to shreds.
Karen and Lorraine were buying time until graduation, where they intended to get high-paying jobs and buy their independence from their conventional parents. Karen and I never discussed it, but I sensed they were planning to lock in their paycheck and their routine together in either Cincinnati or Boston, and then announce to each others' parents they erre a couple.
The parents would then have the impossible choice of either disowning their own daughter(s), or accepting their daughter's same-sex partner into the household.
Society forced cruel choices on parents in 1985--Karen and Lorraine were just standing up and forcing even more impossible choices.
Karen and Lorraine were seniors in college in Fall 1985--I was their parents' last chance to not have to face a Hobson's Choice.
We had studied Hobsen's Choices in Catholic High School metaphysics class, and we were studying it again at Miami of Ohio. Catholic Tradition was so rich in life lessons.
My suitemate and I kissed in bed at night to the manipulation of their parents Karen and Lorraine were forced into. Which forced me to lie to Karen and stay in Ohio and confront Lorraine.
> When Lorraine sees you in the bar that Wednesday night 2 weeks from now, will she know you're there to fight?
> Oh, ya. She'll know.
> That's hot.
> I know it is.
To be continued.....
-
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I woke up early, got in my car, and got onto the freeway to the Cincinnati suburb where Karen and her family lived. My plan was so half-baked that I had made no plans of where I was going to stay that night. I just assumed that I would stay at Karen's parents, not taking into consideration that if they were hosting Thanksgiving dinner that next day, it would probably be very difficult for them to host a house-guest the night before with no notice.
But I didn't have much choice--it's not like I had a credit card to reserve a hotel. (College student credit cards weren't a thing yet.)
I liked how I looked in my bad-ass fight boots. They would be effective in a bar dirt parking lot fight.
One part of my plan WAS well-thought-out: I had beaten the holiday traffic, and arrive in southwestern Ohio by noon. I found the bar where that night's Happy Hour would be, and was starving. I was already going to be tired for my catfight with Lorraine, having woken up early (and having no place arranged to nap). I didn't need to compound that by being hungry.
So I sat at the bar, asked for a menu, and ordered lunch. A blonde sitting alone at a bar drew attention, and soon single 20/30-something guys of all ages were chatting with me and asking awkward questions. The internet wasn't a thing yet, so in 1985 guys that age who looked for helping picking up women would ask questions they had read about in "Pick up books"--lame, tired, in effective lines about being an ex-punter for the Green Bay Packers or having title to an overseas Royal throne--the lines were coming fast a furious, and it was still only mid-day.
Maybe the fight boots I was wearing weren't a great idea--sitting at the bar, I looked like a strung-out street whore trying to get picked up.
I felt vulnerable sitting by myself at the bar. Plus, since I wasn't drinking, the bartender would get upset with me at some point for not ordering a drink. I ordered a Budweiser that I could nurse.
I felt it going straight to my head right away. Being holed up in my sterile dorm suite for 4 straight months hit my senses suddenly. The bar music and mood lighting and the beer made me buzzed. I needed to stay focussed for my catfight hours from now.
A guy came up to me not using the lame pickup book lines. It was so refreshing to have a normal conversation. He was being completely straight and honest with me. He was dressed nice and smelled nice. He had just shaved.
He told me he wanted to fuck. Where? I thought and said, not with words but by looking around the bar. "There's a pool table in back. If we're quick, before it gets crowded they'll give us a few minutes uninterrupted."
"Show me," I said, not meaning it as assent to his proposition, more curious as to whether his proposition was sincere. I'd weigh a yes-or-no after seeing the pool table. (If the room was private enough to fuck in, maybe it was private enough to fight Lorraine in.)
My getting up and following him was taken as a yes. We were in the pool room, and his pants were already down and his erect cock was out. He eased me onto my back onto to pool table, and slid my skirt and panties down.
His cock was bigger than Tommy's way bigger. I knew from my drinking party hook-ups at Miami how much I liked big cocks. I could have said No still, but didn't. I put my boots up over his shoulders. I had never fucked in this position, but I liked it.
When we were done, I asked if he was free to sit at the bar with me this afternoon. He asked why I wanted to stay, couldn't I come home with him. I said I could, but needed to be back by 7 or 8, when the college students came back home for their Wed night "reunion".
He said he'd drop me off if I went back to his place and fucked. He said he'd give me dinner at his place.
I said yes, that I needed dinner for what I was doing that night. That I was going to catfight a girl driving in from Massachusetts.
He laid me back on the table and fucked me again.
Just in time. Just as we finished, the bar owners were banging on the door for us to open it. They assumed I was a hooker and was getting paid to have sex in the backroom.
They told me not to come back later that afternoon or night.
I told them they misunderstood; thst I was there to fight a girl later.
They said, "Then defintely ... DO .... NOT .... COME .... BACK."
Shit. This plan isn't working.
To be continued.....
-
Later that night, after an afternoon of showering, napping, eating, and fucking (hard--and not showering afterwards) with my new clean-cut mystery "friend" from Cincinnati, he agreed to drive me to the dive bar parking lot to look for Lorraine and/or Karen. I needed to see Lorraine to fight her. But I also needed to see Karen--she didn't know yet that I was in town. I wanted to let her know so that I could do Thanksgiving dinner with her her and her parents.
My plan was pretty dumb. I didn't dare set foot inside the bar--they had kicked me out earlier that afternoon (for being under the impression I was a hooker), and would be on the lookout for me. I vaguely knew that Karen drove a blue Honda Accord. But had she and Lorraine taken that car from Wheaton to Ohio? Or Lorraine's car? Or had they flown? Did Karen keep a car at her parents'? Did they take THAT car to the bar tonight?
I wandered thru the cold, dark parking lot looking for a blue Honda Accord. I was going to go to the doorman and have him send a message inside that its lights were on, and then Karen would come out and we could talk.
But my plan was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
First, my feet were killing me walking in my fight-me/fuck-me pumps in the gravel lot.
Second, the place was packed. I mean--overflowing. Over 100 cars easy. There was no chance I'd find a particular car. Which might not already be here. Or arriving at all tonight.
And third, the 1980s were a decade of car breakins for car radios. I looked totally suspicious wondering thru the lot. Like I was casing it for a car to break into.
My fuck buddy friend asked me what I wanted to do.
> I want to kick Lorraine's ass.
> Well, I know THAT. How do you want to make it happen?
> Can you take me to her parents' at 11 tomorrow for Thanksgiving? [There was no Uber in 1985.]
> Gonna do the Turkey Day Drop-In?
> I have no choice......I love Karen.
> And?
> And I hate Lorraine.
> I get hard when you say that. The way you say it.
> I get wet when I say it.
> Then come back to my place. So we can fuck.
> Um, ya.....the second part was obvious.
> I'll just shut up now.
> Good boy.
To be continued.....
-
After a 6am to 8am morning wood fucking session with my clean-cut mystery host, he helped shower me and dress me in my fuck-me/fight-me boots and my otherwise-appropriate Thanksgiving-wear. We used his phone book to find directions to Karen's parents' house (there was no Google Maps back then, and AAA and Rand-Mcnally maps only had major freeways), and he drove me there and dropped me off. He said he'd be back at 4pm.
Rhat would give me enough time to eat turkey.
And fight Lorraine.
Not necessarily in that order.
I felt sexy in his car. He was good enough in bed to almost turn me straight.
Almost.
But I knew by now I was lesbian. I knew my long-tern partner would be a woman. Possibly Karen, possibly not.
But I belonged at Wheaton, an all-girls school. Not Miami of Ohio, a Catholic school. Even in 1985, some Catholics were accepting of gays. Hell, Pope Paul VI was gay. Everyone knew that when he died in 1978.
But Wheaton was more accepting of gay couples.
I sgould be there, in Karen's sorority. Insteadof Lorraine.
-
As my driver dropped me off Thanksgiving morning at Karen's parents house (and wished me good luck in my hooefully-impending fight with Lorraine), I was comforted by 2 details. First, the house was as impressive and large as I pictured it in my imagination--it had a bit of a Frank Lloyd Wright theme, which meant Karen's successful parents had had it customized for themselves, and must be doing very well at P&G. The second comforting detail was that there were a good 6 to 7 cars already in the driveway and street. I would be able to "blend in" with the other guests, abd not draw too much attention to myself as a party-crasher.
An attractive somewhat older woman, holding a champagne flute and already appearing tipsy (at 11am!), greeted me at the door.
<> I love your boots!
<> [Oh, good. She noticed. I look down at hers. Hers are sexy .... and expensive .... too.] Oh thank you. I like yours, too. Very sexy. I'm Lisa.
<> [She reaches out and holds my hand, not quite shaking it and not quite squeezing it. We hold the grip for several seconds. I really like this woman. I sense she likes me.] I'm Elena. I'm Karen's aunt. [Wow. She's young to be Karen's aunt.] Are you one of Karen's high school friends?
<> College.
<> Oh? You go to Wheaton? [Oh, good. I can confide in Elena. It's chilly out, tho. I need to get inside.]
<> Sort of. I met her at Wheaton. But I go to Miami of Ohio. I can explain. But, first, can I come in? It's cold as fuck out.
<> [Elena looks down at my chest. She pulls in close to my ear and lowers her voice.] Yes it is. I just wanted to see your nipples get hard. [Did she just say that? I blush.]
<> [My eyes wander to her chest. She has no bra on.] Yours are getting quite stiff, too.
<> I can see you're not lying.
<> About being cold?
<> That. And about meeting Karen at Wheaton. [This is a double entendre about Karen's lesbianism. Is she 'out' with her parents?? Or just her drunk-y Aunt Elena?]
<> [I instictively grab Elena's hand. Both to show I want to confide something to her. But also because I like touching her.] Elena, I know we just met. But can I ask two favors?
<> Because of those boots,... yes, you may.
<> Ok, first ..... can I get a glass of that champagne.
<> You may, Lisa. And your second request?
<> Is Karen's friend Lorraine here yet?
<> She is. You're friends with her as well.
<> [I look Elena in the eye.] I hate her. She and I are rivals for Karen.
<> Well, well. This Thabksgiving dinner just got more interesting. Come in. And let's get that champagne.
To be continued.....
-
As Elena brought me into Karen's parents' beautiful home, I felt regret for my own parents' divorced-broken home, and the loss of Thanksgiving dinners with each other, rather than noon dinner with my Dad and his too-young girlfriend and evening dinner with my Mom.
The smells of the food were enticing. The chatter of the guests, Karen's relatives, was heartwarming.
The sight of Lorraine across the room was .... infuriating. Our eyes met right away. We stared daggers at each other. We were both wearing boots which slipped and slid on the waxed tile floor. If not for that, I believe to this day that the mere sight of each other across the room would have been enough for us to leap at each others' throats and strangle each other until one or both of us were dead. I hated her THAT MUCH.
She was in MY HOUSE.
I saw Karen next. Karen is one cool cookie. If she was shocked at my unplanned appearance, she did a good job of hiding it. She coasted over to Elena and me and opened her arms to me.
> Lisa!!!! Welcome!!! How are you? [Karen was wearing panty hose and a short skirt that made me want to get in bed with her now. What were her and Lorraine's sleeping arrangements this weekend?? Same room? Same bed????]
> Karen! Is it ok that I came?? I tried to catch you at the bar yesterday, but it was so crowded!
> Don't apologize! I'm glad you're here. I see you already met my Aunt Elena! Well, technically my Aunt--but we're more like cousins. She's WAY younger than my Mom!
> Yes, my parents were Good Catholics.
> I'm Catholic .... Lorraine's not. [That was an awkward thing for me to say.]
> [Or maybe not. Karen and Elena look at each other and address to elephant in the room. That either Lorraine or I are a third wheel.] Yes, we'll address the .... you and Lorraine .... situation .... after dinner. C'mere Lisa. Let's get you a champagne.
Elena leads me to the house bar and mini-fridge, a relic of the 1970s, when this house must have been built.
> Drink this [Elena encourages me], it will calm your nerves being around Lorraine.
> Thank you. How'd I do so far. I can't STAND being around her.
> You did fine. Didn't give any ground. Quite impressive.
> Thank you.
Elena and Karen keep Lorraine and me separated except for one slip-up during the coffee part of after-dinner. Lorraine and I are seated across the table, 8 feet apart, and have 30 seconds for private conversation.
> You were an asshole to come here, bitch. I'm going to fucking send you back to Miami in a bodybag.
> Bring it, bitch, you don't fucking scare me. I'm sticking one of those boots up your ass, and the other one down your fucking throat.
Twenty minutes later, Elena apoligizes for leaving me alone with Lorraine.
> Karen told me how bitter your first fight, last summer, was with her. You were scratching pussies?
> Umm, ya .... not very ladylike, huh?
> Au contraire. I find it very ... adult ... in a good way. And sexy.
> You wanna watch us do it again, Elena?
> More than anything.
> I think you'll get your chance tonight. Just get her and me alone.
> I will. Guaranteed.
To be continued ....
-
As the Thanksgiving afternoon progressed into evening, everyone made their way into the TV room/ rumpus room to watch the Dallas Cowboys play the St.Louis Cardinals on CBS.
Lorraine pipes in with her stupid commentary, hoping to seem hip and smart:
> St.Louis Cardinals?? I thought they were a baseball team?!?
I pounce on the chance to correct her publicly:
> There's one of each, dumb ass. St.Louis Cardinals baseball ... and .... St.Louis Cardinals football.
She looks at me quizically, but the men in the room all grunt that I'm correct.
I remember gtowing up in the 1970s, watching the football Cardinals on TV with my Dad. Jim Hart was their quarterback. Everyone called him 'baby-faced'--I just thought he was cute. Mel Gray and Terry Metcalf were his receivers. Conrad Dobler and Dan Dierdorf were his blockers. Dan Dierdorf was an ABC announcer now, in 1985. I missed those Sundsy afternoons .... and Monday nights .... with my Dad.
> What a dumbass you are, Lorraine. [Elena squeezes my hand and whispers to me, 'Save it for later, hun.']
Dallas starts to kick the shit out of the Cardinals. This game sucks. The champagne has my tipsy.
I go to the bathroom, close the door, and take a long pee.
I don't want to get up when I'm done.
Should I rub one out? Right here? Right now? In Karen's parents' house?
Why not?
To be continued.....
-
Keep up the good work and always bring something exciting to your Gedakengänge. I love your natural and comprehensible writing style
-
As I sit on the guest bathroom toilet fingering my aroused clit for at least 5 minutes, I can tell I won't be able to climax. My head is spinning as my champage buzz drifts into outright drunkenness, the triptophan from the turkey three hours ago is causing me to get drowsy, and the inside of my pussy is sore from yesterday's and last night's fucking from my clean-cut bar pickup.
When I start to masturbate but can't climax, I get really crabby.
I hear the sound off women's shoes coming to the bathroom. I remove my fingers from my waistline and try to act nonchalant. It's Elena, Karen, and .... fuck, it's Lorraine. She smirks at the sight of me sitting on the toilet seat. She can tell from the look on my face what I've been doing.
<> Not "getting any" [air quotes] at Miami of Ohio, freshman??
<> Fuck you, Lorraine, I'm getting it any time I want it.
<> I doubt it, honey.
[Lorraine strides towards me with her claws out, making a move for my hair. I stand up awkwardly off the toilet seat. Elena inserts her body between us just seconds before we collide. Everyone can smell the pre-cum coating my pussy--I didn't get a chance to wipe yet.]
<> Quiet! you two hellcats. The men will hear us and come in here. Lorraine, Lisa--you two are going to .... start .... to settle this right now!
<> What?? We're gonna throw down in the bathroom?? [I think of my school bathroom fistfight with Maureen. Why do all my fights happen in the bathroom?]
<> Are you afraid, bitch?
<> Not afraid--I just don't want Karen's parents stuck buying new mirrors and shower doors when I fucking throw you thru them!
<> [Elena shushes us again.] Shit up, bitches! Listen to me! Karen and I are going to watch while you two .... 'ladies' ..... punch each other in the crotch.
<> But Lorraine's wearing a skirt!! I'm .... naked down there.
[Lorraine pulls down her skirt and panties over her boots faster than I expected she would. Has she done this before? With Karen watching? Is this a set up?]
Lorraine and I square up, hands on our hips, dressed only in boots and shirts. We stare daggers into each others' eyes.
<> Hit me first, Lisa. [Without hesitating, I clench my first and ram it into my enemy's pussy.] oooooofffffff
<> [With an open hand, Lorraine backhands my pussy. The pain pierces my hips and makes my knees buckle. Fuck--I'm a tennis player, and she's the one who thought to use a backhand. I smirk on her face irks me. I backhand her in the face, the slapping sound echoing through the bathroom.]
<> [Lorraine whines the Elena about my choice of targets on my opponent's body.] Elena!?!?!? Did you see what a fucking cheater this bitch is?????
<> Do something about it then, Lorraine.
<> Ya, Lorraine. Do it. Hurt me. [My hatred for my enemy is higher than it's ever been.] Let's hurt each other.
To be continued.....
-
There were a few points in my escalating feud (war, really) with Lorraine where I was willing to retreat, if only to allow Lorraine to save face and allow myself to fight another day. The Thanksgiving evening bare-bottomed-but-booted staredown in Karen's parents' bathroom was one such fork in the road. I felt like crap at the moment, but the day was already a 'win' for me--I had successfully crashed Thanksgiving at Karen's, I had met and bonded with Karen's sexy (and feisty) Aunt Elena, and I had gone toe to toe with Lorraine--all day figuratively, and for 5 minutes (in a bathroom!) literally.
So, when Lorraine whined to Elena about me backhanding Lorraine in the face, I was more than willing to call it a night, go back to the clean-cut, large-cocked host who I had fucked the day and night before, and let Elena and Karen bask in the juices of Lorraine's bitchy complaining. Especially after Elena's feedback was to dare Lorraine to "do something about it".
I was just about to take my marbles and triumphantly go home. But Karen had other ideas. She said:
> Ya know, Elena .... I gotta disagree. I'm calling bullshit on Lisa on this one.
> Oh, really? Do explain. [Elena thoughtfully puts her hand on her chin. I notice it had been at her crotch, her gently rubbing herself.]
> Well, here Lorraine, in good faith, challenges Lisa to a cxnt-busting contest, and in good faith exchanges blows with her. [Karen talks, and acts, differently when Elena is listening. I don't think I like it. Is she trying to impress her?] The contest is proceeding apace, when Lisa thrown in a gratuitous face-slap, without warning, leaving Lorraine no means to defend herself. What are we here? .... cavewomen?? Brutes?
> [Karen's speech is stupid and pointless. Is she drunk on champagne like me? And yet .... I feel the sting of her taking Lorraine side over mine. I seek to get back on her good side.] Fine. Lorraine .... you may hit me anywhere in my body, where I'm not expecting it. I'll stand here and take it.
> [Lorraine doesn't hesitate.] Turn around bitch. Bend over, and hold the toilet seat.
> [Shit. She's gonna kick me in the ass with her boot. This was a bad idea. But no getting out of it now. I comply, and look down into the toilet, yellow with what must be a gallon of my own pee.] Get this over with quick, Lorraine. Then we back to hitting. [I close my eyes, awaiting my punishment.]
> [Lorraine bends over my back and buries both claws in the back of my head. Shit--what's she doing?? I reach of my arms and brace, but too late. She dunks my face into the toilet and holds me down. My boots slip all over the floor as I gasp for air. It take me 15 seconds to get a grip on the toilet seat and push myself up, but Lorraine has alread pushed the handle. The sound of the toilet flushing drowns out my screams of protest. Lorraine releases her grip on my hair and lets me up. I turn around and see a huge grin on her face. I see my soaked hair in the mirror.]
Elena speaks first.
> Damn. Haven't seen a Royal Flush like middle school.
Karen high fives Lorraine.
> This is war, Lorraine.
> It already was, bitch. I'm just finally fighting back.
To be continued.....
-
By this point in the evening, I'm a whole laundry list of estrogen-enhanced emotions:
Drunk.
Wet.
Frustrated.
Angry.
Sore.
Pissed (literally and figuratively).
Humiliated.
Humiliated in front of Karen. In front of Elena.
I spring up and put my nose right into Lorraine's and snarl at her (keeping my voice down so that the men watching the Cowboys and Cardinals don't hear me):
Oh you wanna fight, Lorraine??? You want to really fight, you bitch? Let's do this. Let's fight. Elena, take this fucking bitch and me somewhere so I can finally break her!! [Rocky 4 had just come out, I think. I was doing my best Ivan Drago.]
Lorraine won't wipe the damn smirk off her face, so I lift my fist to wipe it off myself. Elena grabs it.
> Cool it, champ. You'll get your chance with Lorraine, I promise. In fact, .... I insist on it. That was pretty cold, Lorraine.
> Fuck you, Elena.
> But, Lisa, you need to shower, girl. I mean, you're a mess right now. Karen, go grab a towel and a set of your clothes. We're being shitty hosts to Lisa right now.
I hate being babied by Elena and Karen. This whole school year Karen and Lorraine have treated me like a high school girl even though I'm headed for the Dean's List at Miami of Ohio, a helluva lot harder school than Wheaton.
Fucking girls-only Wheaton. The only reason Lorraine goes there is because it's girls-only. Her affair with bad-in-bed Tommy is just a front to avoid coming out to her family. She told him she was the jealous type just so he's stay with her and she wouldn't have to come out to her family.
I can see it all now. I hiss my epiphany to her.
> I see right thru you, you slut, Lorraine. I'm going to expose you to your family.
> Oh, please, bitch. Everyone knows you're a lying fuckung psychopath. Your Dad's girlfriend knows, your Mom knows.
> I ..... can't .... wait ..... to go to YOUR family's house and see what THEY think of YOU, bitch.
Elena can see I'm getting upset. Hysterical, arguably. I can taste diluted urine in my mouth. How do I know what that tastes like? I wonder. I think of the time my Dad's girlfriend showed me how to punch, and what a punch to the face felt like. She had this weird habit of not washing her hands in the bathroom. Just lazy, I guess. Neglected in childhood, left to fend for herself. Anyways, when her hand hit me in the mouth, it had this sour aftertaste on it. I recognized it now. Pee-sweat-water, all mixed together.
Would Lorraine think of me in the future anytime she tasted that gross taste? This all happened in 1985. It's 2022 now. I'm in Florda, Lorraine is in Arizona. (I know, because I stalk her Instagram.) Does she think of me now? Of our rivalry? And our fights?
Karen brings a bathrobe, a change of clothes, a bra, panties. 6 months ago, I would have jumped at the chance to put on Karen's bra and panties.
Now it just seems ..... demeaning.
Karen takes Lorraine out of the bathroom. Elena watches me shower. Getting clean feels .... good. I like it. I needed this.
I need something else.
I need to get off.
I climb out of the shower. I look Elena in the eyes, pleadingly.
> Eat me out, Elena.
> Just try and stop me.
Elena gets on her knees ans and give me the best cunnilingus I've ever had.
Poasibly that any woman ever has ever had.
Ever.
To be continued.....
-
Elena and I get back to her place, a cute 3-bedroom apartment, just before 9pm on Thanksgiving night. Elena sets me up in the living room and puts the TV on the Texas-Texas A&M football game, while she gets my guest bedroom and bathroom ready. She's not going to let me sleep with her? I look around the apartment--Elena obviously lives here with a female roomate, who is obviously not here tonight? Is the roomate visiting family for Thanksgiving? Is the roomate Elena's lover? Is that why I'm not sleeping with Elena tonight.
I sit on the couch, struggling to keep my eyes open, watching the Longhorns lose the game. I remember my Dad introducing me to college football in 1977, watching the Longhorn team that spent a lot of that season ranked #1 in the country. Earl Campbell won the Heisman Trophy that year, and they had 3 receivers named Lam Jones, Ham Jones, and Jam Jones. They went to the Cotton Bowl, and lost to Notre Dame, who had Joe Montana at quarterback. Notre Dame had a running back named Rob Eurick, who was my first boycrush. He was cleancut and babyfaced, like Jim Hart, and the cleancut man who fucked me yesterday in the backroom that back at his place.
My attraction to cleancut boys and men: was that the first sign of my lesbianism?
Elena comes back into the room with pajamas, and a tootbrush and tootpaste. Does she have overnight guests over a lot? Are they girls she spends the night with?
> Elena .... when did you first know you were a lesbian?
> Oh .... no one moment .... at my sisters' sleepovers .... Karen's mom and her other aunts .... when they would stay up late, watching Saturday Night Live, talking about sex ..... when they would practice kissing with each other .... and then they'd invite me into their sleeping bag on the floor, and we'd feel each other under the sleeping bag ..... kissing and feeling each other till 3am .... then eating breakfast the next morning, pretending nothing had happened ..... oh, and talking about other girls at schoool, who hated who, who thought who was a bitch ..... didn't you have older sisters?
> Only child.
> Oh .... that's rough .... at least you never got beat up by an older sister.
> They'd beat you up??
> Oh, totally. It's a right of passage, having sisters.
> My Dad is dating a new girl right now. She's about your age, mid-20s. Anyways, I was about to get into a fight at school, so my Dad had her teach me how to throw a punch, how to take a punch, how taking a punch felt. Anyways .... so she did that, like he asked .....
> But?
> But I got the impression she was like .... into it ..... Like she wanted to hurt me .... beat me up, I guess.
> That's rough. I won't let her do anything to you. Let me know if she ever crosses the line with you, k?
> I can still talk to you when I go back to Miami?
> Oh, totally. But first things first. I'm taking you Black Friday shopping tomorrow. Downtown Cincinnati. My sisters took me there in the 70s. Pogue's--it's Ayres' now, Shillito's, McAlpin's. They all have Tea Rooms--best lunchfood ever.
> You don't hafta do that.
> I want to.
The next day we get up early. We spend the whole day, like a Fairy Tale, parking in the famous downtown 1,600 car parking garage, with the levels all named for different flavors of ice cream. All the stores are connected by skywalks. Elena buys me what must be $3,000 of clothes--skirts, blouses, sweaters, shoes, boots. I buy her an anklet and matching bracelet. She promises to wear them when I go back to school. Lunch is as good as she promised.
Within the next 7 years, all three of those downtown Cincinnati stores--first Shillito's, then Ayres', finally McAlpin's all closed, including the Tea Rooms-- the garage, the skywalks, were all demolished by 1997.
I mourned the destruction of the buildings where Elena and I spent that magical day.
My head hit the fresh pillow that night--it had been months since I slept on such fresh sheets.
Around midnight, I was masturbating under the sheets. Elena walked into the room, busting me.
> What were you masturbating to Lisa?
> You and my Dad's girlfriend catfighting. Is that bad?
> No, not at all. I was masturbating to a catfight too.
> Oh? Who?
> You and Lorraine.
> Our slapping in the bathroom yesterday.
> That .... and your catfight with her tomorrow.
> Tomorrow?
> Yes, I was talking to Karen. Lorraine is game .... if you are.
> Of course I am!
> I knew you's say that. [Elena bends down and kisses me. She climbs in my bed, and we kiss and fondle until 2am. We crash in each others' arms.]
To be continued.....
-
Around 7am, I wake up in my bed, and don't want to disturb Elena, who is in a deep sleep. Her blonde hair is beautiful draped over her flawless chest--big chests run in her family, as hers is as impressive as Karen's. I walk out into the living room and put the TV on ESPN. There is a long special on about U.S. women's tennis, and the travails of Tracy Austin and her back troubles.
I don't know how to work the volume, and I leave it on too loud for about 10 seconds. It must have woken up Elena, because she comes into the living room with a t-shirt on and nothing else. She asks me, didn't you play tennis? How did she know that?, I wonder. Karen and her must have talked about me at some point. Elena asks me if I like Tracy Austin.
I explain to Elena how the food chain worked in women's tennis in the 1970s and 1980s. That the alpha from around 1973 to 1979 was Chrissy Evert, who became Chris Evert Lloyd after she married a British bombshell tennis player named John Lloyd. Chrissy dominated the other women on the court and in the bedroom, stealing all the men from them. I remembered Dick Enberg, the NBC announcer saying on TV once that with Chrissy, "The line was long, but it moved quickly." I remembered how hot it made me in 1979 hearing that. He had a smile on his face indicating he had been in that line.
Around 1979, at Wimbledon, Martina Navratilova, who had a vicious serve-and volley game and had defected from Czechoslovakia in 1976 as a glasses-wearing chubby power hitter, hired Nancy Lieberman, the redheaded Louisiana Tech basketball player as a Life Coach, got a pretty haircut, trimmed down, started wearing contacts, and actually beat Chrissy for the Wimbledon championship. And then kept beating her--she was in Chrissy's head now.
Around the same time, Tracy Austin burst onto the scene from Southern California (Chrissy was from Florida) and, unlike Martina, played Chrissy's baseline style. Tracy, too, beat Chrissy, this time in an indoor match in New York City. Chrissy, rather than change her game to match Martina's serve-and-volley, declared that "Tracy is my real rival. She's from the U.S. She plays backcourt. Martina is my friend," and developed a dropshot to torture Tracy by making her run back and forth from the baseline to the net everytime she played Chrissy.
As 1979 became 1980 to 1985, Chrissy kept right on losing to Martina. And beating Tracy. Tracy's career fizzled out.
Chrissy's strategy was total b.s. She avoided the Goliath Martina, and picked on, to the point of bullying, the diminutive and timid Tracy.
Elema corrected me. Tracy should have stood up the Chrissy. Chrissy sensed she wouldn't, and so good for Chrissy. That's why Chrissy's career lasted longer than Tracy's, and why Chrissy made more money and fucked more men.
I ask Elena how I've done standing up to Lorraine.
"So far so good. I've known Lorraine for three years, and never let her to this to me."
Elena slides onto her back on the couch, and lets me mount and straddle her face. I rock back and forth while she licks me.
I come in a screaming climax.
What time is the fight?
-
Saturday morning, Elena dressed me for my fight with Lorraine. She wanted me to look like a P&G executive, and dressed me in office clothes from our Black Friday shopping spree at Pogue's.
Red silk blouse.
White slacks. Long white slacks, and the way to my ankles.
Panty hose.
Black heels. Not quite stilettos. Practical enough for work.
P&G wealth was how Elena was able to live above her means. Not quite a life of leisure, but close.
Quarterly dividends from P&G. Every February 15, May 15, August 15, and November 15. Income which grew 3% to 5% every year, like clickwork.
I wanted that P&G income stream for myself so bad that I could taste it. A bi-monthly paycheck, sure. But equity awards. And inherited stock from Karen's patents and aunts and uncles and great-aunts and grest-uncles. Decades of inherited wealth--that was true money, true status, true F-U wealth, as my Dad had described it to me growing up.
Why was he settling for Autumn, a younger woman with no wealth? Why was he choosing sex over status, over class? Was the sex THAT good with her? The dad from my younger years, in the 1970's, would have never chosen to marry a bitch like Autumn.
My Dad got in on Raytheon stock in Boston in the 1970s. Soldi wealth. But nothing like P&G. Raytheon cut their dividend in the recession in 1981 and 1982. P&G just kept growing theirs. Everyone needs Tide, no matter how bad the economy is. I told Elena that. She thought it was cute.
Almost as cute as me in Pogue's white slacks. Elena likes how it compliments my beach blonde hair. She masturbates her brains out as I get changed.
> Will you bed sad if Lorraine bleeds on these slacks?
> I'll be sad if she DOESN'T?
P&G wealth. F-U money. The money that can afford to buy clothes on Black Friday, and throw them away on Small Business Saturday. Because they got bled on in a catfight.
Get ready to bleed, Lorraine.
To be continued.....
-
This is so Hot. I can not wait to read more.
-
Elena pulls up to a half-brick kalf-glass building with a large empty parking lot and the P&G logo on the front-door. The signage indicates it's some sort of training facility, and the mid-1980s version of a fitness center, meaning there are some scattered Nautilius machines and 1970's-style free weights. The facility is clearly emory because of the long holiday weekend.
My heels awkwardly clank on the solid floor. I'm not much of a high heels girl. If I want to work in an office, I'll have to get used to them.
Elena brings me into an empty part of the free weight room, which has a ballroom-style carpeted flloor. Even I can figure out that this is where I'm going to fight Lorraine.
> Nervous?
> Nervous that I'll maim her permanently. But not for me.
> Good attitude.
And .... I can hear Lorraine's heels coming down the hallway now. And she's wearing office clothes, too, I can now see. White blouse, red skirt. We're dressed similar. Did Elena and Karen puposely arrange this? Have they done this before with girls? Or had it done to them?
Will the winner have to fight a new girl someday?
Because if the answer is yes, then ..... I'm totally into it.
Being in this family is worth fighting for. More than once if necessary.
Lorraine and I square up.
"Time to start your job interview, bitches," says Karen.
> I'm game.
> So am I.
To be continued....
-
Lorriane bends down to unstrap her heels, and I mentally prepare to melodramtically "kick mine off" in anger as a means to intimidate Lorraine--and impress Elena and Karen (Elena mostly--more on that in a minute)--when Karen tut-tutts Lorraine and scolds her, "Remember the rules, Lorraine. Heels and clothes need to remain on the whole fight. This is a job interview. Heels stay on in an interview. That goes for both of you bitches."
Elena never explained 'the rules' of the fight to me--I guess she forgot. Did she think I wouldn't agree to show up if I knew we were going to be forced to fight in heels, for Elena and Karen's amusement?
If so, she shouldn't have been afraid. Because I would do anything for Elena right now--and I mean ANYTHING. Because even though I just her 48 hours ago, I've fallen in love with her. In actual love. Everything. How good she is in bed. Her confident sophistication. Shopping with her in downtown Cincinnati. Lunching with her in the Cincinnati Tea Rooms--it's 1985, and the last one of them is a mere 7 years from closing, but we had no way of knowing that in 1985. L.G.Ayres from Indianapolis had just merged with Pogue's, and seemed to be giving downtown the breath of fresh air it needed. A Queen City Renaissance seemed imminent.
And I wanted to spend it with Elena.
So strange.
My divorced Dad was in love with a 25-year old blonde woman, Autumn.
And I was in love love with a 25-year old woman, Elena.
After this fight, I'm going to tell Karen I never loved her. That it's her aunt Elena I love. But I still want Lorraine out of the picture. I'm going to beat in Lorraine's face so bad that Karen loses respect for her and ditches her, for good.
Lorraine and I get within arms length. We're going to bare-knuckle fist fight, in office clothes and heels, to see which one gets to keep coming to Cincinnati. We look each other in the eye, hatefully. When I fought Maureen in the high school restroom, we avoided eye contact. That fight wasn't personal--this one is.
> Get ready to go down, bitch.
> You first.
> What does then even fucking mean, bitch? Go down first?? Hit you first??
Elena has been rubbing herself, and is impatient. "HIT EACH OTHER, BITCHES!!!!"
Lorraine and I swing, sumultaneously, but starting with jabs and combinations, not balance-tipping haymakers. I learned to fine points of the sweet science--boxing--from Autumn, when my Dad had her 'train' me. Where did Lorraine learn? She punching, feinting, and parrying like she's done this before. I can see a girl knowing how to catfight, like we did in June, by pure instinct. But not boxing--that's either taught or learned. Who taught her? Where did she learn? Especially the footwork. In heels.
Our knuckles make sickening thwack-ing sounds on each others' faces. It reminds me of the afternoon at my Dad's when Autumn let me hit her--and then hit me back. She explained to me that our bones were colliding at full force--flesh in our hands and cheeks are paper-thin, and there's no cartiledge or ligaments there to intercept the direct collision of bones, or to mitigate the force. Two women can't keep at that for long with the skin breaking.
Autumn knew it, and taught it to me.
Elena and Karen and I knew it, and dressed Lorraine and I in white (Lorraine's shirt is plain white; my slacks are as well; the 'winner' of the interview will be whoever can turn the others' white clothing article red.)
And Lorraine knows it. Either she learned to fight from someone in her family. Or at her and Karen's sorority at Wheaton. Maybe that's what they use that courtyard for--sorority boxing.
Once playing tennis, I got hit direct in the face my a tennis ball, pretty hard too. It was stunning--literally. That's my sensation in this fistfight.....times 100. I find it hard to focus, but need to, because I realize my aim on my punches is getting inaccurate. Every punch I throw at Lorraine that misses is wasted energy, with no compensating damage to her.
One of us is going to start bleeding any minute. I need it to be her.
Neither of us is playing and defense at all. The reason is simple. You can't back up in heels. You can only move forward. Lorraine is so close to me that I can smell per perfume, her sweat, and her breath.
And I can hear her suppressed under her clenched mouth. My punches are hurting her. I sense the one's to her mouth hurt the most. Her lower right-side mouth is in pain. I go hard and repeatedly after her there. She's biting her lip--literally and figuratively. But finally, when she opens it, and small trickle comes out. Which only gets my adrenaline running more--she's shown a weakness, and I go in for the kill. I go after her mouth with right crosses, and left uppercuts. She's stopped hitting me, because she's afraid of getting hit.
The best defense is a good offense. And I'm the only one on offense.
Lorraine's blood is getting on my knuckles.
I 'transfer' it to Lorraine's white top.
Elena can see it. I can hear her distinct pre-cum moaning start.
Is she aroused because first blood has been drawn in the fight?
Or because I'm winning the fight?
I move in close to Lorraine with impunity, as she can no longer even keep her arms up, now measuring my blows, landing them directly, and following thru, having long lost the need to defend myself.
The rest is a blur.
Lorraine's face opens up.
She drops to the floor, crumpled in pain.
Elena rushes to me and kisses me.
We cum together.
To be continued.....
-
The next 36 hours are a blur, partly because my ears are ringing from punches Lorraine landed on the side of my head, no doubt intentionally. Elena drives tme to the house of my clean-cut Wednesday afternoon bar pick-up to get my clothes (which I'll never wear again, now that I have no clothes that Elena and I bought on the magical Black Friday in Downtown Cincinnati). Then she gets in her car and follows me back to Oxford, to my dorm at Miami of Ohio. We attend Saturday evening Christmas Mass together, and go out to dinner at one of my favorite Miami pubs. People are staring at me because my face is puffy, but I smile at them with a "You should see the other girl" grin. They quickly look away.
I ask Elena why Karen so readily took care of Lorraine after the fight.
> They didn't have much choice, did they? They both hsd to head back to Massachusetts. Does that upset you, Lisa.
> No. I'll never forgive Karen for laughing at me after Lorraine dunked my head in the bathroom. And high fiving Lorraine. Why'd she do that?
> I think she was scared. Of what was happening between you and Lorraine. Karen laughs sometimes when she's scared. Lots of girls do.
> Have you talked to her? Since the fight?
> A little bit. On the phone?
> And? Did she ask about me?
> She asked about us. You and me.
> What did she want to know? [My heart races. My ears ring even more.]
> If we're ..... fucking.
> I hope we are. ['I love you, Elena,' I think to myself.]
> I hope we are, too. I really like you.
> Wanna see my dorm?
To be continued......
-
Sitting in 2022 as a 54-year old woman, a 25-year old, which Elena was in 1985, seems like a plausible fit in a college dorm. But my dorm that year at Miami was a freshman dorm, and Elena's presence seemed exotic and raised attention ('She's sleeping in Lisa's bed? Again?'). Besides all that, I had to get going with my grades. I had a real chance, now, for a P&G internship, to join Elena in the P&G family. And Elena had bills to pay back at her Cincinnati home (with her mystery roomate, who I hadn't asked about yet), so the Tuesday after Thanksgiving she kissed me and drove back home, leaving me alone for the final weeks of classes until finals and Christmas Break. Elena talked about coming with me to Rhode Island, so we could spend time together.
I went to Immaculate Conception Mass on campus. I prayed that Elena and I could stay together, that Elena would continue to want to be with me. I had never prayed to be close to anyone. Until I met Elena.
I got back go my dorm suite. Someone had taken a message for me from someone.
Lorraine.
Should I call Lorraine back? Why did SHE want to talk to me? Had she broken up with Karen? (I didn't want Karen--but I still wanted Karen to dump Lorraine.) Should I tell Elena that Lorraine called me?
Did Lorraine want a rematch? I had beaten her fair-and-square in a fistfight. She couldn't possibly want to go thru that again, could she?
I call her number. 617 area code--must be at Wheaton.
> Hello?
> It's Lisa. Why'd you call?
> Why'd YOU call? Because you know we have unfinished business?
> I won, I thought, bitch.
> That fight was bullshit. Fight me alone.
> They [Elena and Karen] didn't interfere. How was it bullshit?
> Heels?? Who fucking fights in heels?
> Excuses. Pfft.
> Fight me alone. No Elena. No Karen.
> Is this a trick? Do they know you're calling?
> No.
> Why should I trust you?
> You shouldn't. That's what will make it so primal.
> [I'm thinking. Do I want sex with Elena? Or a fight-to-the-finish with Lorraine?]
> You know you want it. A fight with me. Alone. In Rhode Island. At your Mom's. Christmas Break.
> [Elena will be with me. I'll sneak out on her for an hour. To fight Lorraine.] Deal. Don't change your mind.
> Don't change YOUR mind.
I'm already starting to climax as I hang up the phone.
To be continued.....
-
Lorraine's tense phone call with me reminds me of 3 things from my upbringing.
1) The Chrissy Evert-Tracy Austin rivalry
When Chrissy started losing just about every tennis match to Martina Navratilova, and with it her Number 1 in the World tennis rating, Tracy Austin probably assumed Chrissy would cede to Tracey the informal title of U.S. women's champ. But Chrissy didn't do that. Instead, she went after Tracey three times as hard, calling her out publicly as her chief rival. This rejuvenated Chrissy's career, and broke Tracy, first mentally and then physically, when her back gave out. Similarly, Lorraine lost a catfight, and a girlfriend, to me. But now was challenging me to a real fight. Alone. I needed to make sure I was Chrissy, not Tracy. Because becoming Tracy would break me.
2) The Susan-Becky match for last spot on the travel team.
Susan and Becky had been so sluggish about setting up their showdown tennis match because they knew everyone was watching. Lorraine knew that she and I could only have a showdown catfight in private, with no spectators. And now, so did I.
3) Lying to Elena
I was in love for the first time in my life, and I was already doing things behind Elena's back. Elena wouldn't have let me fight Lorraine alone, and I knew it. So I was going to bring Elena home to Rhode Island Christmas Break, and sneak out some day or night and fight Lorraine, and come home bruised, with Elena knowing I had lied to her. And hoping she would forgive me.
What if I lost the fight to Lorraine .... AND lost Elena? I would lose everything.
What if I won the fight?
I would win:
Elena
P&G
Pogue's
Shillito's
McAlpin's
The Cincinnati downtown tea rooms
I needed to win.
I pick up the phone and call my Dad. As I was hoping, Autumn answers.
> Hello?
> Hey, Autumn. It's Lisa.
> Hey, bitch.
> I love you, too. But I need you.
> For real?
> For totally real. Don't make me beg.
> Fine. What's up.
> I have a fight in Rhode Island. Christmas break. And not a girlfight.
A war. I .... CANNOT .... lose it. Can you train me.
> You'll owe me big time.
> Not a problem.
> Ok. Deal.
> Deal.
To be continued....
-
As finals week arrives at Miami of Ohio and students start returning home for Christmas Break, I reflect at my torn allegiances between Rhode Island and Cincinnati. Especially since my Rhode Island home is now two broken homes between my Mom, and my Dad and Autumn.
I think about all the times growing up in Rhode Island that my Dad and I would bond over Cincinnati sporting events on television.
> The 1970 Major League Baseball All Star Game in the brand new Riverfront Stadium in Cincinnati. My Dad's hero, Carl Yastrzemski of the Boston Red Sox, got 4 hits, and won the game MVP Award. The National League won when Pete Rose of the hometown Cincinnati Reds bowled over Ray Fosse at home plate in the 10th inning on a single by Jim Hickman of the Chicago Cubs.
> In 1972, the Reds came from a 2-1 deficit in the 9th inning to beat the Pittsburgh Pirates and advance to the Wotld Series. Johnny Bench, the Reds' great catcher, hit a home run; and then George Foster scored on a wild pitch.
> In 1973, the Reds beat the New York Mets in Game 1 of the National League Championship Series, but lost the Series 3 games to 2 to the Mets. Pete Rose from the Reds got into a fight with Buddy Harrelson of the Mets. I was confused why that fight made me want to fight girls at school.
> In 1975, the Reds beat my father's beloved Red Sox in the World Series 4 games to 3. In Game 7, Joe Morgan hit a bloop single to center field off of Jim Willowby. Pete Rose (him, again) dived into 3rd ahead of Rico Petrocelli's tag. It didn't affect the final 4 to 3 score, but the next morning it was all they played on the news.
> Later that fall, my Dad and I watched the Cincinnati Bengals lose a 7-0 football game to the Pittsburgh Steelers in a blizzard at Riverfront Stadium at Cincinnati. Ken Anderson, nuber 14, was the Bengals' quarterback. I was in love with him. I don't know why.
> In 1976, the Reds came from behind in the 9th inning to sweep the Philadephia Phillies in the playoffs. Bobby Tolan on the Phillies, who had been on the Reds in 1972, made an error in the 9th that let Davey Concepcion from the Reds score. I watched with my Dad, and it made me happy.
> In 1981, Ken Anderson and the Bengals were on TV again, in Super Bowl XVI against Joe Montana and the San Francisco 49ers. I rooted for the Bengals because of Ken Anderson, who I was still in love with. My Dad rooted for the 49ers, because Joe Montana was from Notre Dame, where my Dad assumed I would be enrolled in just 4 years. The 49ers won the game, 26-21. My Dad was happy; I was sad.
Now, I was about to be a resident of Cincinnati.
If I could beat Lisa in a fight.
To be continued....
-
I finish my finals in mid-December, and Elena helps move me out of my dorm, and we head East to Rhode Island. We stop overnight in the middle of Pennsylvania, coincidentally in the middle of Penn State Nittany Lion country. In a few weeks they'll be playing the Oklahoma Sooners in the Orange Bowl, so the restaurant-bar we eat dinner at, and the hotel we're staying overnight in, is all decked out in 'Beat OU' banners. I think back to watching OU football with my Dad in 1974-1975 when they had Lee Roy and Dewey Selmon on defense, and then in 1977 and 1978 when the had Elvis Peacock and Thomas Lott and Billy Sims on offense. Billy Sims won the Heisman Trophy that year, but had a clutch fumble in their rivalry game with Nebraska, as my Dad and I watched it live on TV.
Elena smiles patiently as I recount all my boring sports stories from my childhood with my dad.
> Lisa, did you Dad want a boy?
> Believe it ir not Elena, he wanted a girl. Because if he'd had a boy, he would have had to get off the couch and play catch with him and repair his mini-bike and be all active and involved with him. With a girl, he could leave all that stuff--all the hands-on parenting stuff--to my Mom. I think that's why my Mom left him.
> Does that make you sad?
> What part? Them splitting? Or how I was raised?
> I'm not sure, Lisa. You tell me. I feel like there's something you're trying to get off your chest.
> Well .... so ever since we met on Thanksgiving .... I've known for 100% sure I'm a lesbian. This isn't a phase. I'm not bi--I didn't even look at boys, even the cute ones, at Miami. [I can't believe I'm spilling my guts to Elena. Istill don't even know her deal yet--bi? lesbian? straight but curious?]
> And .... being a lesbian makes you sad?
> Not .... that. It's .... do you think growing up, watching sports with my Dad .... made me a lesbian?
> You don't actually think that, do you? I don't just mean for you.... what I mean is, you don't think any Father-Daughter relationship changes the Daughter's .... who she's attracted to, do you?
> I'm starting to wonder is all. And it makes me sad. My Dad marrying Autumn .... so young, she looks a bit like me .... does he see ME .... at leasr parts of ME .... in HER?
> Well, .... and I don't know either of them yet .... but in all fairness ..... divorced guys DO have a thing for 20something girls .... the whole not wanting to admit, they're getting old, ya know? ..... at least he's sticking to one .... just Autumn .... and not seeing a revolving door of them, ya know?
> [I sit and think about what Elena is saying. I love listening to her thoughts.]
> So? I mean, besides the blonde hair.... what do you and Autumn have in common? Because, I don't see it.
> We both ..... like to fight.
> Oh? Something I need to know about her?
> [Shit. Me and my big mouth. I don't want Elena to know that Autumn training me for, and then me fighting, a showdown battle with Lorraine is on the Holiday Agenda.]
Well, ...., and don't tell her or my Dad we talked about this, .... I'd be mortified ..... but when she showed me how to throw a punch .... and then take a punch .... it was like she was .... getting turned on by it. And not a little.
> Lisa .... I hate to break it to you .... but LOTS of women would be turned on by .... that. By exchanging punches wirh another girl. Straight or not.
> Really?
> Really. Including me.
To be continued.....
-
Elena and I arrive at my Mom's, and Mom sets us up in separate beds and separate bedrooms. Coming out to my mom is a bridge way too far right now, never mind telling her that I actually love Elena. (I haven't even told Elena that I love Elena.) And anyways, all of this is moot if I lose my fight to Lorraine.
Which my Mom doesn't know about.
And which Elena doesn't know about.
Autumn knows I'm going to fight. But she doesn't know it's Lorraine.
After our first night at my Mom's, I tell Elena and my Mom that I have errand to run. They don't mind--neither of them are morning people (it takes Elena forever to get going in the morning)--so I meet Autumn at a bike shop, which has a carpeted lounge in the back. She's dressed to fight--tank top, leather biker pants--I guess we're going to learn by doing.
Autumn starts talking: "Sooo.... most important thing about catfighting: you need a good ground game. All girlfights end up on the ground. And the most important thing about a ground game--use all for limbs. Both arms, both legs. And feet. Kick the bitch with your feet. In the face if you can, just like you'd punch her in the face with your hands if you could. Soooo ..... get me on the ground, and use your legs and feet."
Autumn is doing this--spar fighting with me--at my request. But she needed no coaxing. She's been wanting to fight me since she started dating my dad. Might as well get this over with.
Autumn and I lock up, our arms and hands trying to grab clothes and flesh to get a grip. I'm trying to make sure not to end up under Autumn when we hit the ground.
"You're strong. And you smell good." Is Autumn trying to trick me? Distract me? Or .... is she just turned on by fighting?
Is she turned on by me?
Autumn breaks our standing stalemate by pulling me backwards on top of her. Her legs are then immediately around my deck, Autumn somehow has me in a 69-type position, and just like she described, her booted feet are aiming direct at my face and jaw, sometimes missing, but causing me anguishing pain when they connect.
I better learn fast. Or Autumn will kick the shit out of me. And then Lorraine will.
I lock my arms around Autumn's legs. And then start concentrating of lining up MY feet with Autumn's face. In tennis, when you're at the net and a ball gets topsin-lobbed over your head, you learn to turn and chase it, all while keeping your sense of direction.
My feet start connecting with Autumn's face. The fight comes out of her, as her legs lose their power.
We're both breathing heavily, and pause in our tight 69.
"You're a fast learner."
"Thanks. You're a good teacher."
Autumn releases her grip on my. She pulls down her leather pants, and starts touching herself.
"Tell me how your fight goes."
"I will."
To be continued......
-
When I hadn't fought Lorraine yet for the first time, but knew I was about to, and was getting catfight advice from my mom hairdresser and my Dad's fiancee, they had told warned me that if I approached my showdown with Lorraine as just a fight, instead of as a catfight, then I wouldn't completely defeat her, and she would continue to bully and torment me.
Now, I had intitiated all the drama between Lorraine and me. But my friends didn't know that.
But their warning to me was exactly happening. Two witnesses had seen me K.O. Lorraine in a standup boxing match.
And Lorraine wanted a rematch. In private.
I was more than willing to dish out more punishment to her if she wanted it. But she was dominating all of my mental and emotional bandwidth.
Was I doing the same to her? Had she been thinking about me all the time since spring?
In a good way or a bad way?
Did I want her to or not?
To be continued....
-
Lorraine and I were going to wait until after Christmas Day to fight, so that we could enjoy the holiday with our families.
But once we chose a venue, the urge to fight, to get this thing over with, the gravitational pull of our bodies towards each other, was too irresistable.
My dad's girlfriend gave me a key to an old semi-abandoned motorcyle shop/showroom in North Attleboro. A place no one would interrupt Lorraine and me, no matter how long our fight took.
Was this the type of place Susan and Becky had met in 1981, when Susan knocked Becky off of spot Number Four on the tennis ladder.
Lorraine scouted it out one day, and said she was agreeable to the location. "But I don't want to wait until the 27th. Let's fight there tomorrow morning, bitch."
"Fine. Bitch."
I lied to Elena that I needed to get to bed early. That I needed to get up and get her something for Christmas.
> I have everything I need, honey. I just want you.
> I know. I live you too. But I already ordered it.
Elena would inevitably known I had lied to her when I came back battered from my fight with Lorraine. Even if I beat Lorraine, which I was confident of doing, I knew I would be scratched and bruised.
The impetuousness of youth.
I arrived first at the North Attleboro bike shop. It was a freezing New England December morning.
A perfect day for a bitchfight.
Lorraine in and threw done her coat and came at me. We didn't speak a word.
There was nothing left to say to each other.
Just settle how was the better woman.
We were on the ground in seconds, fighting with all four limbs like my Dad's girlfriend had taught me. Both arms, both legs, kicking each other in the face.
Shit. Lorraine knew how to fight like that, too.
This was going to be a hard fucking fight.
Good.
To be continued.....
-
As Lorraine and I roll around on the floor kicking each other in the face, I think back to watching ABC Wide World of Sports with my Dad, and watching 2 women on grainet footage having a kickboxing match in a ring. I remember watching both women sustain direct kicks to the face, and feeling vicserally what a humiliating, disrespectful thing that was to do to another woman.
I remember my Dad looking at me between rounds of the fight on the TV in our living room. I remember him picturing me in a kickboxing match. Not that I wasn't thinking of it myself.
He started fishing about a girl, Maria, in our neighborhood who I had been best friends with growing up, but who I rarely spoke to anymore. We had gone to Catholic grade school together, but she then went to public high school, so she and I just grew apart.
My Dad asked if she and I had had a falling out. If we had had a catfight after school one afternoon. I asked him what he had heard, but that just got him more suspicious.
He was picturing Maria and I catfighting. I didn't mind. I was curious myself who would win between us. She was spunky, a lityle bit tough. She was pretty, too.
Lorraine's feet are so smooth, the nails all painted. She must spend a fortune on pedicures. My feet are all calloused from tennis. I feel self-conscious about them.
My dad would enjoy watching this fight.
He'll know two days from now, on Christmas, that I was in a fight.
Maybe I'll lie and tell him I fought Maria next door.
There I go, lying again.
To be continued.....
-
As was frequently the case between my Dad and me, his instincts were right about Maria's and my friendship having run its course and there being underlying tension between her and me. But he had the causality backwards.
Girls didn't fall out as they grew up and came of age because of a catfight. It was the exact opposite. Girls fell out, or grew apart, and THEN wanted to catfight each other; or were at risk of doing so, if the physical circumstances came together--if they were ever alone with each other.
What I mean about that is: as I talked to girls at the Catholic high school lunch table who were going thru drama with another girl, it almost invariably turned out that the other girl was an ex-friend, sometimes even an ex-BEST-friend.
Just like for grownups, an amicable divorce is the hardest trick to pull off, almost to the point of being mythical, like a unicorn--pulling off an amicable breakup of a girlhood friendship was basically impossible.
It was impossible because both girls struggled daily to show that it was HERSELF who out outgrown the friend, and not the other way around. In my case and Maria's, it was a psychological drama between me and her of me showing that I had "what it took"--intellectually and extracirricular-ly--to progress with my Catholic education all the way thru high school.
And Maria demonstrating that she was ready to move on, to blend into secular high school life, with public school girlfriends and boys, with after school jobs (she was a server in a family restaurant, earning tip money), and living a grownup life.
Was there drama with me and her? Why did she and I go from daily phone calls to avoiding each other? Why was I so interested in how her hair looked, what she was wearing? That she got a car before me?
One hot summer afternoon I went to the town watering hole, and saw Maria wearing a two-piece bikini. I pictured asking her for a ride home in her car, and us stopping in the woods (I guess because it was out of view and no one would see us) and us catfighting in our bathing suits, each trying to humiliate the other by getting the others' suit off.
I was sunning on my towel on the beach, turning my head and trying to eyeball Maria's breasts. Growing up, at sleepovers, when we were in the same school, we openly discussed with each other, comparing notes, of whether our mom's had made us start wearing bra's yet, what the most comfortable one was to wear. But now it was like a movie I had stopped watching halfway thru--how big were Maria's breasts now? How did they compare to mine?
For a second, I think Maria catches me staring at her. I consider looking away; but then I stop. I don't want her to think I'm afraid of her.
"I'm not afraid to catfight you, Maria," I try to convey with just the right mixture of casualness and defiance.
I'm free this afternoon. Wanna fight?
C'mon. Fight me.
We obtusely stare back and forth at each other on the beach for 20 minutes. Neither of us makes the first move.
We end up not catfighting. Not that afternoon. Not ever.
I have no Lisa-Maria catfight story to tell my dad.
But tomorrow, Christmas Eve, I'll have a Lisa-Lorraine catfight story to tell him.
Good.
To be continued....
-
As Lorraine and I punish each other on the bike shop floor, I imagine how the conversation would have gone that July night with my dad if Maria and I had gotten into a catfight at the town water hole.
We would have been watching the Boston Red Sox game on NESN. 1983 or so. Yaz's last season. Height of the Jim Rice / John Tudor era.
> Lisa? You seem quiet. Everything ok?
> Umm, ya .... so about that ..... I got into a fight this afternoon. Yes, a catfight.
> Oh, Lisa ..... you didn't get jumped, did you?
> No, ummm... it was 1 on 1 .... fair.... I sorta started it.
> What did she do to you? Who was it??
> Well, ummm , ....., it was a long time coming .....
> Maria? Wait it Maria?
> Ummm.. ... yes .... Dad, no offense, but are you in love with her?
> No, no...... Lisa, Lisa, .... you mis-understand .... I just mean .... there's been tension between you and her ... I just worried.... she would catch you off guard sometime .... you said you started it?
> It was at the town pond. We were 500 feet apart, whatever. I gave her the finger.
> So you fought right there? On the sand??
> Ew. No such luck for you, Dad .... we got in her car ....
> She has a car??
> Ya, she works .... as a waitress .... don't distract me...
> Sorry. Go on.
> I asked if she wanted to ..... if she dared to .... I guess I dared her .... to drive to the woods and face me there in her bikini.
> She was wearing a bikini??
> Dad, ew ... again, just ewww Dad ... not the point .... the point was I was daring her to fight me in something where we could pull each others' tops off.... like, sonething that wouldn't be her thing .... that she'd be afraid to do ..... to uptight, ya know?
> But she said yes.
> Well.... she didn't say know .... so we got in her car.... I was in the back passenger side .... [Eddie Murray has just hit a 3-run home run off John Tudor; my Dad curses].... and we parked in the woods .... you know, on the fire road or whatever it's called, the path for the fire trucks in case of a brush fire ....
> And???? And??? [The Red Sox are making a pitching change, but my Dad's focus is on me. I kinda like it.]
> And we were pulling hair on the ground .... and pulling each others' tops off.... grabbing each others' breasts.... twisting .... pulling. Dad it was horrible. Vicious, really. Dad, dhe and I hate each other.
Boy, is he in for a treat tomorrow night when I tell him about Lorraine and me.
To be continued....
-
Lorraine and I face each other on our backs in a crab position, kicking each other in the legs and hips. We have pure hatred for each other.
Lorraine is three years older than me and expects .... I don't know..... what DOES she expect at this point. Me to defer to her?
What pisses me off about her and Tommy was that I busted her that their "relationship" was a sham. He was her "beard"--a LGB term Elena taught me--she's so smart--and instead of "backing off", Lorraine gets even more defiant, more in denial. Upset at me for outing her.
And I'm upset at HER. She ruined my first boyfriend, my first intercourse. Playing the victim.
That's what I hate most about Lorraine.
Playing the victim.
SHE's the villain. Not the victim.
Tommy is the victim.
My Mom is the victim ... for Lorraine going to my house looking for me.
I'm the victim.
For having to fight a girl three years older than me.
Even youth tennis is organized in 2-year buckets.
Under 18.
Under 16.
Under 14.
Under 12.
You can "play up"--be 13, and play in Under 16.
But you're never forced to. No 13 year old HAS TO play 16 year old.
But Lorraine is forcing me to fight her. Over and over.
> You're a total bitch, Lorraine.
> No. You are, Lisa.
To be continued.....
-
A few years earlier, on a lazy Sunday night, my Dad and I were watching CHiPS, the California Highway (motorcycle) Patrol show with Erik Estrada. I was in a novelty phase of being into Latin men, and there weren't many place to go on American TV to get that. The Plain Jane lady cop who had been on the show for years was replaced by a new tall, shapely blonde named Bonnie--I could tell my Dad's interest in the show went up as Bonnie get more and more camera time and speaking lines in the show.
One episode, the storyline actually sort of centered on Bonnie's character, both on- and off-duty. They showed her decked out in makeup and jewelry on a Saturday date night out in L.A., triple-dating with her two male cop partners, so 3 men and 3 women on the date. They went to a nightclub that had women's mud-wrestling, which the 3 men were delighted to be witnessing and the three women were bored and, especially in the case of Bonnie, repulsed and offended. "How degrading to women. How can you be into this? blah blah," protested Bonnie.
Since it was only 15 minutes into the episode, and CHiPs was a stereotypically formulaic hour-long TV drama, it was pretty obvious that before the episode was over, that Bonnie was going to be in mud herself with another woman, the only question was how.
Which my dad was anticipating eagerly, while trying not to show me.
And which I was anticipating twice as eagerly, and attempting to not show him.
It was one thing, I guess, for him to pipe up and voice a query as to whether our neighbor Maria and I had fought yet. Or would be fighting soon.
But it was a bridge too far to admit we were both watching the next 45 minutes of CHiPs for one reason: a Bonnie-vs-villain catfight.
The villain presented herself immediately after the commercial--a sexy brunette with attitude who ..... bonus points ..... had a history with Bonnie. A contrived-but-sexy run-in from their Police Academy days, when the brunette had gone down the wrong path but Bonnie had stayed on the straight and narrow. Classic good girl - bad girl set up.
But with mud thrown in.
At the episode climax, Bonnie caught the brunette villain red-handed with contraband, and went to cuff her. The brunette ran, Bonnie gave chase, and tackled her perp in a horse corral with .... mud ... in it, over six inches deep. Bonnie and her suspect were thoughly covered head to toe, and her colleagues gave her a standing ovation ..... and proto-feminist razzing .... for the show she had put on.
Bonnie cuffed her suspect. The whole scene was unapologetically sexualized.
My Dad asked me if I had any interest being a cop. He was no doubt picturing me in mud-covered cuffing duels with female bandits.
I had no interest in being a cop.
Although the cuffs intrigued me.
And .... yes ..... the mud wrestling.
If all the suspects were as sexy as Bonnie and her academy rival.
I masturbated to that episode .... different parts of it ..... for weeks.
I'll be masturbating to this fight with Lorraine for years.
To be continued.....
-
From 1978 to 1985, all the time and money and driving and sweat Lisa spent on travel tennis never paid off. There was no scholarship, or acceptance, from Notre Dame or Boston College or Holy Cross.
But two mornings before Christmas in 1985, Lisa's cardio from all those tennis practices and matches and tournaments finally did pay off.
Because 35 minutes into their catfight, Lorraine got gassed first. Her arms and legs turned to jelly, and she stopped being able to defend against Lisa's slaps and kicks.
So Lisa got Lorraine on her back, and mounted her.
And, here, at this point, the catfight really started. Because all the coaching Lisa got crom her hairdresser about punishing a defeated rival started getting applied.
Lisa felt empowered sitting on Lorraine's chest. And patiently mauling Lorraine, like a bear wounding an injured pioneer.
Lisa slapped and pulled and tugged and twisted Lorraine's flesh.
And made Lorraine recite all the ways Lisa was better than her.
> Lisa is better looking.
> Lisa is better in bed.
> Lisa's a better fighter.
> Lisa will be more successful.
> Lisa is a better lover.
"Better than who?".
"Better than me, Lisa. Leave me alone."
"Not yet, Lorraine. No chance."
To be continued....
-
The brain works in strange ways. As I straddled Lorraine and worked on her face and upperbody, a summertime neighborhood episode from my past, which I had completely suppressed, came back to me as if it had just happened yesterday.
When my parents split and my Mom got her new place, she tried to console me for the smaller bedroom, and the lack of air conditioning, by buying me an inflatable backyard pool. It was close useless for cooling purposes, but became a neighborhood hangout spot, with weed-smoking and boom-box music and late night makeout sessions.
The problem was: it put out of business the pre-existing neighborhood makeout spot, a bad-girl named Michelle. She was pissed at the competition, and one night tried to paralyze it by pulling the platic drain from the bottom of my inflatable. She thought no one was looking one drizzly evening, but I saw the whole thing from the inside of my house. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and ran outside to catch her red-handed as she chucked the plastic piece into the woods behind my house.
I was anticipating a WTF???-type girl-argument, but found I had startled the guilty-acting Michelle, who tried to run back home. Doing my best Jack Ham imitation (he was a Steelers linebacker my Dad and I had watched on Bengals-Steelers games), I chased Michelle from behind and literally tackled her. She desperately tried to roll me off of her, but both of her were at full-adrenaline mode, and started flailing our arms at each others' faces dangerously but ultimately futilely. We paused and just stared at each other, wondering what would break the stalemate, when my mother's voice rang out from the house, "Lisa!! Get off of Michelle!!!!".
I think she was so used to see making out behind the house that she just assumed what 2 people, 1 mounted on the other, must be doing.
I went into the house, into the tub (Michelle was a swearty girl), and masturbated hard.
As I straddle Lorraine, I have the urge to masturbate. But not after the fight. I have the urge to do it now.
I'm pretty sure Lorraine is in no shape to stop me.
I start touching myself.
Feels
Ssssooo
Good
To be continued....
-
As I sit on top of my defeated rival Lorraine, I consider that I'm a college freshman, she's a college senior, and I've defeated her fair and square in a fight.
And I don't just mean our physical fight.
I've snuck behind her back and fucked her boyfriend.
More than once.
With her knowing about it. That I planned on doing it. Then I did it.
I've talked to her on the phone to challenge her to fight.
Then went to her sorority.
And fought her there to a draw.
Then I stole her sorority girlfriend. And slept with her behing her back. With her never suspecting it.
Then I went to Cincinnati, crashing her invite to the family's Thanksgiving dinner.
And went Black Friday Christmas shopping with Elena, a member of that family.
And got Elena to come to MY family's Christmas break.
That's about 7 wins against a girl three years older than me.
That would be like when I was playing in youth tennis, in the Under-16 group, beating a girl playing Under-18 tennis.
I had done that once in tennis. As an Under-14 beaten an Under-16 girl. My beating her made her cry. And stop shiwing up regularly in practice. And eventually quit our club, and then the sport entirely.
All because I beat her in a tennis match. It broke her.
What will my beating Lorraine do to Lorraine?
What will my cumming on top of her, like I'm doing now, do to her?
She's crying. But she's cumming too.
I rub my throbbing clit all over Lorraine's. She likes it, I think. And she hates it, too, I think. Or maybe just hates me being on top.
Lorraine and I rock back and forth, cumming at the same time, but sycopated, not together.
The thought of cumming together with her sickens me.
But the thought of my being able to make her cum delights me.
It's a serious turn-on.
I bend over and kiss her. She turns away at first, but then offers her open mouth.
> I hate you, bitch.
> I hate you more, slut.
To be continued.....
-
The morning after I beat up Lorraine, the phone women up Elena and me in bed. It was my Dad--he had 2 Patriots tickets. They were playing the Cincinnati Bengals in Foxboro in the last game of the regular season; if they won, they were in the playoffs. The weather forecast was: sunna, window, and FREEZING. 10 degrées Fahrenheit. Before windchill.
Part of me didn't want to go. I needed to rest. I felt pain all over from my brawl with Lorraine.
But I went for two reasons.
First, it was my Dad. Hé and I grew up watching football on TV--often, it was Bengals-Steelers games. His heart was setting on going to the Patriots game. With me. I could never say no to him.
Second, Elena was giving me the silènt treatment. She was angry when I came home from my fight with Lorraine. I had told her the fight was spontaneous. But she knew I was lying. She knew it was a planned fight, and I had hidden the plans from her. Whether it was planted for days or weeks or month she didn't know. But she knew I was lying.
Lying was necessary to survive in 1985 if you were LGBTQ. But you weren't supposed to lié to your partner.
I was freezing my ass of on the métal bleachers at the Patriots-Bengals game. Before the game, I saw Ken Anderson, number 14, the Bengals quarterback I had first seen on TV in 1975 or so with my Dad. Maybe 1973 even.
I put my head in my Dad's lap to stay warm. He can tell I'm hurting.
> Dad. I got in a total bitchfight with that girl Lorraine yesterday.
> Everything ok? Is it over?
> Over for now. I fought her Thanksgiving, too. In Ohio. But, yes, I think it's done for awhile.
> I always thought that old friend of yours .... Maria .... would be the girl you fought.
> Nope. It was Lorraine. She had something I wanted. Getting introduced to Cincinnati. I want to work at P&G.
> Did your plan work.
> Maybe. Time will tell.
To be continued.....
-
In January 1986, I stayed behind in Rhode Island (Elena went back to Cincinnati) and watched with my Dad every Sunday as the Patriots stormed through the AFC playoffs, going on the road to beat the New York Jets, the Los Angeles Raiders, and the Miami Dolphins and advancing to Super Bowl XX. The Raiders win was sweet for Patriots fans, as it avenged à terrible 1976 playoff loss to the Oakland Raiders on a questionable late hit call on Sugar Bear Hamilton in the 4th quarter. (Would Lorraine came back into my life 10 years later to avenge her catfight loss to me?)
But the Dolphins win was especially joyful (if shocking), as the Patriots had been losing to the Dolphins at the Orange Bowl (the stadium, not the game) forever (basically, my entire childhood).
I wished I could have sat with my Dad on the couch and watch the Super Bowl. But the spring semester at Miami of Ohio was starting up, and I needed to get back to campus. It was just as well we didn't watch together. The Patriots got destroyed by the Chicago Bears, 46-10.
The Patriots were briefly ahead, 3-0, early in the game, when Tony Franklin, the Patriots' barefoot placekicker, made à short field goal. I thought back to watching college football with my Dad in 1977, when Tony Franklin was the kicked for Texas A&M, when they were one of the best teams in the country with Texas and Arkansas, who also had great kickers that year--Russell Erxleben and Steve Little.
Steve Little had ended up getting cut later from his NFL team, the St Louis Cardinals, when he lost à "kick off" compétition to Neal O'Donoghue. He then got in his car, wrecked it, and was tragically paralyzed for life.
I thought of how Susan had knocked Becky out of the #4 spot at travel tennis. Had Becky ever recovered? What was Becky doing with her life now?
I thought of how I had beaten Lorraine in our catfight. She wouldn't come to Thanksgiving in Ohio anymore at Elena and Jenna's anymore, would she? She wouldn't work at P&G, would she?
I hoped not. I hoped she stayed in Massachusetts.
In 1986, there was no social média to look up where someone was living or working.
Back at Miami, I started cheating on Elena right away.
I made out with boys at Miami parties.
I let girls in my suite climb into my bed. First at night. Then during the day.
I started an affair with my woman English composition teacher. She was attracted by my plans to work at P&G that summer, where Elena had gotten me a summer internship.
I kept thinking about Lorraine. She was graduating Wheaton in May.
What were her plans after that?
To be continued.....
-
In May 1986, I got ready for my first day of my summer internship at P&G at their Cincinnati headquarters. Women's office wear in the mid-'80s, especially at a conservative company like P&G, hadn't changed much since the early-'60s, and I thought my outfit looked good on me. I stared in the mirror, hoping my new 'do-and-'dye job would survive the coach bus to the office in the already-stifling Cincinnati early summer (late spring, technically) air.
I hoped they'd like how I looked.
We filled out paperwork with personal info and tax forms in the morning. I was already eligible to begin accruing benefits under the P&G pension plan. It would vest in May 1991, at age 24. The start of F-U money. I was on my way.
Then my heart sank. We were mingle with new full-time employees starting that day.
I saw Lorraine. But she had already seen me first.
> Hello, Lisa. Welcome. Fancy seeing you here.
> [We're surrounded by a crowd. I can't tell her what I really want to say, which is that I could kill her right now for ruining my perfect day.] Oh, hello Lorraine. I didn't expect to see you so soon. Ever, really. Ha ha.
> Yes, ha ha. You'll be seeing a LOT of me this summer, hun. I'm your Summer Buddy. I'll have a say in whether you get invited back here after this summer.
> [That manipulative bitch.] Oh, really. Well then I know I'll get a good recommendation. And get invited back.
> Don't be so sure, sweetie.
We stare daggers at each other and part ways.
To be continued.....
-
The next morning at P&G is a buddy-intern training event with a guest corporate speaker. The interns and their buddies mill around awkwardly, sipping terribly bitter coffee. The bitter taste in my mouth reinforces what was already there, as my first summer on what I aspire to be at least a couple decades at P&G have been marred by the presence of Lorraine, and on top of that her authority over my performance. Someone is playing a cruel hoax on me.
"Good morning, buddy!," I hear behind my ear. It's unmistakably Lorraine's almost-masculine squeal.
"Don't 'good morning' me, sweetie."
Interns, mentors, and managers of all ages look askance at us. "Are they fighting?", I hear one confused intern ask. (What's she hoping the answer is?, I wonder.)
"Shhhh. You'll cause a scene, Lisa."
"Don't shush me, honey, or then there will REALLY be a scene" I mumble under my breath. "And it won't reflect well on either of us, I promise."
"I'll shush you when I think you need shushing. All summer long, babe. It would be irresponsible for me not to."
I see a stairwell to the side, and pull Lorraine hard by the wrist, digging my nails into her flesh. I shut the door door behind us. We have semi-privacy, but if someone overhears us, I'm willing to risk it. This conversation is a day overdue. It needs to happen now.
"You look me in the eye right now, you blonde bimbo. What the fuck are you doing here?? I beat you fair and square in our fight."
Lorraine is still acting cocky. She was prepared for this question, and has an answer at the ready. "And that's why I'm allowing you to stay here this summer, sweetie. But you and both know ..... that fight, the whole fucking fued over Tommy ... was BULLSHIT. Neither of us wanted him. We were fighting ... for fun. You won. Congrats. You're in. Welcome to P&G. But you can't make ME leave. Unless..... you'd like to go again. Capish?"
"Lorraine, you fucking psychpath. You actually want to fight again?? We almost fucking killed each other three times."
Lorraine gets nose to nose with me. "Then I suggest ..... we get along better this time. Deal?"
Lorraine extends her hand to me.
I should have thrown her down the stairs right then.
But she plants a kiss on my cheek.
"You have lipstick on your face."
To be continued.....
-
The next day, there's an intern/buddy guest speaker in a classroom lecture hall. Interns are required to sit next to their buddies, so I'm stuck next to Lorraine in uncomfortable seats. Other interns chat pleasantly with their buddies; Lorraine and I sit next to each other in stoney silence. I have nothing to say to this woman. Not with my words, at least. She has plenty to say to me: that my future depends on her evaluation of me at the end of the summer. She has me by my short hairs, and she knows it.
The guest speaker is the Chief Executive Officer of American Express, James Robinson. In 2022, he'd just be introduced as their CEO, but it's 1986, and that acronym is still unknown. Mr Robinson is one of the forward-looking business leaders responsible for introducing the position, making the "President" of corporations the #2, not the #1. He's forward-looking in other ways--being one of the first to grasp the value in the American Express (and P&G) brand, and incenting managers to "unlock" that value by making decisions, and getting results, which are good gor shareholders. And "aligning" manager compensation with shareholders, by giving them stock and, even better stock options, which "leverage" stock performance. With options, 1 plus 1 equal 3, not 2.
All the talk of #1 and #2 ..... plus the strong coffee .... make me need to pee. I excuse myself and go to the rest room. As I sit and go, I think of Mr Robinson's message to us, the future leaders of P&G. He's verbalizing everything I've been thinking about P&G, and the F.U.-wealth I've been planning on building in a long career here.
I finish in the lav, and open the door to wash my hands. Like some sort of sociopathic stalker, Lorraine is waiting for me, staring me down through the mirror as I wash my hands.
> So, buddy--What did you think of Mr Robinson's words of wisdom?, she asks me.
> [I need to decide whether to engage. Fearful that giving her attitude will uncontrollably escalate, I decide a professional approach.] I agree whole-heartedly with his idea with respect to managers participation in shareholder wealth. It's what brought me here to Cincinnati. Why? What did you think?
> [Lorraine turns and faces me. We're no longer talking through the mirror, but face to face.] I think that what he said .... how he said it .... his looks .... his coming here to speak to us...... made me horny. I'm still horny now. Are you?
> [My b.s. radar is at the maximum reading. Is Lorraine playing a mind game with me? I keep my guard up.] Being here .... actually being in this office .... the special events ... the structure .... getting paid this Friday .... yeah, it all makes me horny.
There's dead silence between Lorraine and me as we consider our answers to each others' questions. Are we waiting for each other to make a move? To kiss, maybe? I remember Lorraine kissing me yesterday in the stairwell. Her lipstick will get on my face again. The rest of the interns will start asking questions about what's up between me and her. It's 1986, so, incredibly, buddy-intern sex isn't sexual harrassment. But the same-sex angle will finish both of our careers.
> We should get back to the lecture.
> We probably should.
Lorraine and I take our seats. But I wish I had kissed her in the rest room.
Mr. Robinson answers questions from the interns.
Lorraine and I holds hands under the desk.
What's happening between her and me?
To be continued....
-
As the early part of the Summer of 1986 progresses, Lorraine and I become a discussion item amongst the other intern/buddy pairs. They can't help but notice that Lorraine and I always separate ourselves from the rest of the group at company events, finding a quiet corner to engage in private conversation, rarely joining wider circles to network. Even though Lorraine and I work in separate buildings on the P&G campus, we are always visiting each others' desk to see each others' co-workers. We always have lunch with each other in the P&G caf.
One day at Lorraine's desk, one of Lorraine's coworkers is curious about our closeness and our obvious bond.
> Did you guys know each other already? Before this summer?
> [I chuckle inside of the thought of giving a truly complete answer: 'Yes! We were dating the same boy, and had 3 vicious catfights over him. The at Lorraine's sorority, the second for the sexual amusement of our girlfriends, and the third one alone in a bike shop."] We, ahhhhh, we both got this job thru some P&G lifer family we know--Elena and Jenna are their names. Lorraine and Jenna were sorority sister at Wheaton, in Massachusetts. And I grew up in Rhode Island. So we .... ran into each other ... up there oh ... almost ... well yeah .... summer of 1985 .... exactly a year ago. Just over. It was a busy year, right Lorraine.
> Ya .... eventful too [Lorraine winks at me.]
> Oh, cool .... so you two were networking even before you got here?
> Yeah, I guess you could say that.
> You two are going to go far here. P&G management really values networking, and women leaders who do it.
> [Lorraine and I smirk knowingly at each other at the "do it" phrase. This whole early summer has been building towards only one thing--her and I fucking each other in bed. And more than once. Later at lunch, Lorraine discreetly puts her hand over mine on the table.] Your place or mine tonight?
> I don't care, Lorraine. Wait, I do. My place is closer. Let's do it there. I can't wait a minute longer.
> Me neither, babe.
At 4:45 that afternoon, we're in my summer apartment, tearing each others' clothes off, kissing desperately, and touching each others' bodies with insatiable craving. Our desire for each other is total, and once our orgasming starts, it rolls over us in waves we feel like will never end.
> You're the lust of my life, Lorraine.
> I need you so bad, Lisa.
> I want to talk to you, but I want your mouth on mine.
> Then stop talking.
This .... is what total fucking is, I decide. I just want to feel it.
To be continued......
-
Once I started sleeping with Lorraine (and thoroughly enjoying it), I was pretty grotesquely over the line cheating on Elena. This was both more and less important than it seemed.
On the less important side of the ledger: you need to keep in mind that this was 1986, and unless you were an artist or musician or in fashion or interior design, and LGBTQ relationship was strictly under-the -table--there was no way you went public with it in any other field. (Heck, the abbreviations weren't even LGBTQ yet; they were just LGB--T and Q were still unspeakable even in whispers.)
So, the point is--Elena wasn't "out" even to her own family, so I wasn't officially dating her. Her family still introduced her to eligible bachelors. I was around her a lot, but in their eyes it was just as friends. So it was kind of hard to cheat on someone you weren't even acknowledging as your partner in the first place.
On the other hand ..... Lorraine was persona non grata in Elena's family by now. After graduating Wheaton, Jenna and Lorraine had parted ways not on speaking terms. For Lorraine to follow through on her P&G offer made when she was dating Jenna was sort of ballsy--and cheesy. I waited with some trepidation for Elena to find out Lorraine was my intern buddy.
I didn't have to wait long.
One Sunday, Elena and I were reviewing the statements from her May 15 P&G dividend (Feb/May/Aug/Nov 15 were quarterly dividend day for P&G shareholders) (oh, and starements were paper back then, not online, and came by snail mail). I craved to be the one someday receiving my quarterly dividend check from P&G, the apex of capitalist decadence, and going clothes shopping with it downtown at L.G.Ayres. (But, with who? Elena? Lorraine? Another woman lover?)
Elena blurted out to me: "I heard you and Lorraine are joined at the hip at summer speaker events."
My heart sank. Elena and I hadn't even broached the topic of Lorraine BEING AT P&G, never mind her being designated as my summer buddy. And already we were going 15 steps ahead to her being my summer buddy. I couldn't help myself--I got defensive.
<> It sucks. The bitch has control over my future. Elena, SHE writes my end of summer evaluation! Lorraine!
> Why didn't you say something? To anyone? To me? [I feel like Elena is being grossly unfair. Why didn't SHE warn ME that Lorraine was partnered with me in the program. There was NO FUCKING WAY that was a coincidence. Elena was eiyher in on it, or knew who was.] It's not that you're kissing up to her .... and kissing her [Shit. How much does Elena know?] .... that hurts me, Lisa. It's that you didn't say anything ..... See, you're not saying anything now.
I realize that I'm on the defensive. But I'm not without weapons, either. Because, the fact is ...... I like being competed over. Elena and Lisa ... two olde, mature [compared to me] independent women are competing over ME, Lisa, a rising sophomore nobody at Miami University of Ohio.
I kinda like it.
I think back to youth travel tennis, when #4 Susan and #5 Becky had their showdown tennis challenge match. I was #3 at the time. Frequently, in those scenarios, the loser of the #4/#5 match would get a "redemption match" opportunity against #3. And would win. And #3 would be the one out in the cold and not make the team.
As long as Susan and Becky were at each others' throats, I was safe. That was why their catfight, and Becky leaving the team, turned me on. As long as there was tension between them, I was ok.
I look at Elena now, and I see a snake.
She and Jenna had Lorraine and I fight at Thanksgiving break so that they could retain their status over us.
> Don't talk down to me, Elena.
> [Clearly taken aback.] Excuse me?
> You heard me.
To be continued.....
-
When Lorraine and I were each sleeping with Tommy, it was a given that the triangle would be resolved by either Lorraine or I bowing out, or by she and I fighting each other.
The Elena-me-Lorraine triangle was much more ambiguous. Do I just go on sleeping with both of them? Does Elena fight me for my betrayal of her? Or is it Lorraine betraying Elena and asking for a beatdown? Or should Lorraine beat up Elena and "take" me from her? Or should Lorraine beat me up for not leaving Elena?
It was all very confusing.
It was a measure of my "moving up in the world" that just last Thanksgiving, Elena and Jenna had dressed Lorraine in me up in clothes they picked out and had Lorraine and me fight for their enjoyment. Now Elena was close enough to an equal to me that I had a say in how our triangle resolved itself.
In fact, if anything I was quickly sensing that as the youngest member of our group, I had the most potential, and thus the most power.
Potential. That spring at Miami of Ohio, I had taken physics, and learned the concepts of kinetic and potential energy. And that potential energy--a mass at the edge of a cliff, a block on the high end of a see-saw, water behind a dam--was every bit as real as kinetic energy--a moving train engine, a falling knife .... a swinging fist.
I was feeling my potential. That's what all of us summer interns were--pure potential energy. Our P&G careers fully in front of us.
As long as Lorraine gave me a good evaluation.
So Lorraine wasn't going anywhere. Because I wanted a good evaluation. Or even better, a great one.
So Elena was odd bitch out.
To be continued.....
-
One summer night, as the internship was ending and evaluation time was coming, Lorraine and I wrapped up an intense post-dinner fucking session, and she turned the lights on and showed me my draft evaluation for the summer.
It was glowing, going on and on about my strong performance, potental, and leadership skills. It had obviously been prepared thoughtfully and, well, lovingly.
I kissed Lorraine. And asked:
<> Should I sign it?
<> No.
<> Why not? It will get me a return intership to P&G.
<> it will. But it's not final yet.
<> What do I need to do to finalize it? Is this a sex tease? We've been fucking every way imaginable this summer.
<> [Lorraine stares daggers at me.] Who's WE. You and me. Or you and .... ELENA.
<> Lorraine, things between her and me are in the home stretch, I swear. We're just going thru the motions.
<> And will continue to do so in Ohio, in the fall. When you're back at school.
<> Is that a statement?? Or a question?
<> Why should it be either? WHY ARE YOU STILL FUCKING HER??
Lorraine's question to me would have been completely fair and understandable in 2022, where lesbian relationships have been nearly normalized and accepted.
But in 1986, it rubbed me [pun not intended] as supremely UNfair. Finding a same-sex lover was NOT socially accepted, and in fact was socially dangerous, with the HIV epidemic running rampant. (Lesbians were relatively safe from HIV, but that wasn't well-understood yet.) YES, I was sleeping with Lorraine and Elena both. But Lordaine knew that when she and I started up. If she wanted to be exclusive, she should have either:
> demanded that in the beginning, or
> ask nicely. Not bribe me with an evaluation.
An evaluation that would determine my future.
> Why are you so MAD?
> I think I'm entitled. I feel like I'm about to be played.
> Says the supervisor telling me not to sign a valid evaluation.
> What are you implying.
> That maybe it was wrong to start fucking you.
> Well? Was it?
> I don't know.
> Then I don't know if you're 'P&G-worthy'.
> I don't think you're an ethical supervisor. Maybe I should report you.
> You wouldn't dare. I'm not afraid of you. And I have Elena to protect me.
> That's why you've kept sleeping with her??
> Take it how you want. I'm leaving.
> Not until you and I have this out, bitch.
> You want ANOTHER ass-kicking, bitch?
[We stand up and are nose to nose.]
> What a fucking BITCH you are.
> Let's go, then.
To be continued.....
-
Lorraine have had three tooth-and-claw brawls already--we're able and willing to scratch and punch each other like desperate women convicts. But none of those prior three occassions were worknights, where we had to show up, presentable, in an office the next morning.
We both seem to sense fairly quickly that tonight won't be Round No.4. We'rd going to catfight with words instead.
Lorraine goes first.
> Elena can't help you anymore, Lisa. She's already [air quotes] "moved on" from P&G.
> Bullshit. She's a lifer. Her whole family is.
> Wrong, dummy. The stock is up so much, they've cashed out. Not completely, but mostly. To Western & Southern Life Insurance policies. They're putting it away before new federal tax limits kick in on how much premium can be paid into a policy.
> [Western & Southern is an old Cincinnati institution, just like Pogue's and all the downtown department store tea rooms Elena took me to for lunch last Christmas. If Lorraine is lying, her lie is quite Cincinnati-specific.] How do YOU know all about Elena??
> From her nidce, Jenna, dumb ass. My Wheaton roommate??? Remember???
> Cheating with HER, two-timer?!?
> [Smirking] Wouldn't YOU like to know.
> I think you're bluffing. I'm reporting you to HR for holding up my intern review in turn for sex.
> It'll go no where. TRUST .... ME.
> As opposed to our relationship?? It's going somewhere??? After this?
> Having you .... under my thumb .... is my turnon. Haven't you figured that out yet. We'll ..... FUCK LIKE ANIMALS .... once you get over your hurt feelings .... AND DUMP ELENA.
> And you'll funk Jenna, too?
> You don't worry your little head abour HER. You're headed back to Miami [the university in Ohio, not the city in Florida] in a few weeks.
to be continued......
-
The next night, with my summer internship time fast running out, I visited Elena at Jenna's parents' house--they were away in Camden, Maine on summer vacation, at a compound paid for by years of P&G profits--and, after an intense lovemaking session, I confronted her about her reallocation of her wealth out of P&G and into Western and Southern life insurance and annuities.
Elena tearfully disclosed to me a mountain of credit card debt from her addiction to downtown Cincinnati shopping sprees, mostly on clothes and shoes. Pre-1986, she was able to deduct the interest payments from her personal income taxes, but the Tax Reform Act had eliminated this benefit, and she was in a countdown, albeit a slow one, to personal bankruptcy.
The changes in her portfolio were to buy her time. And, an acknowledgment she would never be able to marry.
Because she wasn't straight. And wasn't bi.
> I just like two things. Sexually, I mean.
> What are those?
> Fucking girls. And fighting girls.
> I've ..... never seen you fight, tho.
> Do you want to?
> Hell, yes.
> Why didn't you ask?
To be continued.....
-
My last day in the office for at P&G, I found out that Lorraine had given me a 'Meets Requirements' review--good enough to get invited back for the next summer for another internship, but only because I was still only going into my sophomore year. 'Meets Requirements' wouldn't get me a full-time offer if that's what I got headed into my senior year.
'Guess your butt-kissing of your advisor Lorraine didn't pay off,' was the snarky commentary I got from HR when they made me my offer for next summer (of 1987). I accepted, but honestly I was tepid on P&G. Who said I initiated with Lorraine??? Maybe SHE was harrassing ME.
I decided I would spend next spring, intern recruiting season, putting out feelers to Mr Robinson's American Express. He was a more impressive speaker than any I had seen from P&G all summer.
That's what all this summer's interns were doing anyways--getting 'P&G' on their resume, and leveraging it for a job somewhere else.
Let Lorraine and her bitch Jenna have P&G for themselves. They cpuld have it.
It was a big world out there. I'd go somewhere I was wanted.
Tonight I wanted to watch Elena fight.
All the girls on her life who might fight her on short notice were away on summer vacation. Everyone from Cincinnati seemed to get the hell out of Dodge all of August. How good could it be?
So we got dressed for a barfight. And went to the sports bar where I had waited for Lorraine the last Thanksgiving Eve, where I let myself get picked up and plowed.
The Bengals were playing the Eagles on tv in an NFL exhibition game. Elena put on Eagles gear (she looked sexy in it). Maybe some asshole Bengals fan would start shit with her, and they would fight in the pool room.
And I could watch.
To be continued....
-
In one of my high school tennis matches, probably in 1983 or so, I was playing a girl I really didn't like, and went down 4-0 in the 1st set. It's basically impossible to come back from 0-4 down in a set, and any strategy book you read will tell you to save your energy and concede the set. Anytime you see a 6-0 score in any tennis 1st or 2nd set, that's basically what happened. The loser of the set was down 0-4, and saved her/his energy.
But something about the bitch I was playing that day told me, "No. No way. Don't give an itch to this bitch. Whatever happens, let it happen. But I'm not giving this bitch a 0-6 set."
I won the set, 6-4. I won the match, 6-4, 6-0.
I don't know how. It doesn't make any sense. And yet it does. It makes perfect sense.
I thought she was a bitch. I stood up to her.
She folded like a cheap suit.
Every woman in my life so far (except my mom) had been a bitch to me.
My dad's girlfriend had been a bitch to me.
Lorraine had been a bitch to me.
Elena had been a bitch to me.
The textbook would say, for different reasons, to defer to them.
No way.
-
I headed back to Oxford, OH for my sophomore year at Miami. Elena came up the first weekend to have sex with me. Although in 1986 the concept of an openly lesbian relationship was still out of the mainstream, especially at a nominally Catholic university, Elena's presence in my room, and in my bed, was surprisingly acceptable because of the age difference between us. Elena was understood to be a 'sob story' who had been damaged in her early 20s by men, and who I was nurturing back to normalcy with college sex. She and I would be back to me anytime, my friends told each other. Let them have their fun.
Something that wasn't fun: Elena swapping out her P&G wealth for a Western and Southern variable annuity. She's get a quarterly statement, and check, instead of quarterly dividends. It was more predictable than P&G stock, but certainly not stable, and the wealth felt less direct.
It didn't feel like fuck-you wealth anymore, like when she held shares of P&G.
And had 'pull' at P&G.
Ironically, if anyone had that now, it was Lorraine. She was a manager in training.
I should have picked one or the other of them as a lover by now. But I didn't. I was keeping my options open.
The option to play them off against each other.
The option to make them fight for me someday.
Because they both loved fucking me.
To be continued....
-
Weekdays at my dorm suite at Miami of Ohio moved sssssoooo slow. College life in the mid-1980s was nothing like it became in the 2010s. The dining commons food wasn't that good. There were no real coffee shops or other hangout spots--just old ratty 1970s couches.
And Hook-up Culture wasn't a thing yet. Boys and girls might drink together, but it didn't instantaneously turn into them hopping into bed together. And even when they did hop into bed, the sex was quick and embarrassing.
Not that I was doing much to change that dynamic. One day I walked past the campus tennis courts, and saw two people hitting tennis balls back and forth. It had been ovet a year since I had held a tennis racket. And it had been over a year since I had sex with a boy.
Or even flirted with one.
Why were men so damn intimidated by my looks? Was my heterosexual sex life as 'over' as my tennis career was?
Should I start initiating more with boys?
Did having an older female overnight guest make everyone think of me as not straight?
Was I straight? I didn't even know myself if I was or not.
What a disappointment the sex part of my one straight relationship had been. Because he was small, and passive, in bed.
Would it be better with a better partner? The sex .... and the relationship.
I started flirting more in class. Is this where college relationships started?
But wouldn't it be awkward sitting in class afterwards with a boy you had sex with? Or broke up with?
My sophomore classmates wete talking about movong off campus for junior year. None of them were asking me to room with them.
I was going to be stuck with immature freshmen in my dorm suite.
But I'd be getting a 'single' room. More privacy--a 'swingle'.
I masturbated to the thought of sex with a boy I asked to my room to study.
Why was I thinking about boys so much?
Would the boy have a girlfriend? Would she and I fight?
I always came hard at this part of my fantasies.
I really wanted to fight.
To be continued....
-
In the fall of 1986, I had to wrestle with the sad, empty reality that Elena wasn't sexy to me anymore. Her selling her P&G stock showed she wasn't just cashing out of corporate America and building wealth--it showed she was cashing out on living. She was just resting on her laurels.
That overconfident sentiment would be proven partially wrong 12 months later, when the stock market fell by 22% on a single day on October 19, 1987, and Elena's Western & Southern annuity kept pumping out its reliable monthly income.
But Lorraine was now the one building wealth for the future. I wanted in on that for me, and I wanted in on her P&G success too.
Plus, Elena's knowledge of Pogue's and the downtown Cincinnati retail and tea room scene now just looked dated and stupid. The downtown retailers wete dying, changing their names in a futile attempt to stay afloat, like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.
I missed Lorraine.
One day after class, I called her apartment number down in Cincinnati.
A strange woman answered.
> Hello?
> Oh, hi. Is Lorraine there?
> Who the hell wants to know?? [The bitch was acting jealous. Clearly she and Lorraine were lovers. A rival.]
> An old girlfriend of hers wants to know.
> Then, no. She's not here. [My rival hangs up.]
Game on, bitch.
To be continued....
-
Lorraine's betrayal of me, just mere weekes after my return to college, suddenly made Elena much more attractive to me. I began to cum, still fully closed, just by having makeout sessions with her. Her tongue kisses were wonderfully erotic.
Why was a 27 year old grown woman hanging out with a college girl like me? Was it really so hard, in 1986, to meet a better-matched lesbian partner?
The internet, and dating websites, didn't exist yet.
There were dating services.... but only meant for straight people.
And they were expensive.
Elena was living on a fixed income .... her Western & Southern annuity. She had to watch her spending.
Is that why she was living with me? To save on living expenses? To save on utilities and cable and groceries?
Was she using me?
It was ok--anyone who kisses like her can use me.
Fuck you, Lorraine.
To be continued....
-
Way back in the Spring of 1985 (how long ago that seemed now), I had started flirting with (and propositiong) a boy in order to learn about sex. But instead, 18 months later, all I had learned about was cheating and lying.
Lorraine lying about being the boy's girlfriend, and even about being straight.
Me lying to my family about fighting Lisa.
My lying to P&G about why they should hire me.
Lorraine and Elena betraying me, and me them.
Elena lying about where she was in her life, about having or even pursuing a career.
Was this what all relationships were like once you peered behind the curtain?
Or was it what I was like? That I was doomed to a life of sneaking, and being sneaked on and around?
Or was the 1980s homophobic society forcing the three of us to sneak? The Supreme Court had decided Bowers vs Hardwick, the anti-sodomy case a few months earlier. I had assumed I wasn't affected because I didn't want to receive sodomy, and was unable to commit it (because, girl).
But now I wondered. Did my choice to be bi haven't implications I didn't think of?
Was I even really bi? Men still didn't approach me. Could then tell I wasn't straight relationship material?
I wished I coild talk to someone about this. Would my dad understand? Would he be disappointed?
Should I have gone to an all-girl school like Lorraine?
Instead of Catholic Miami of Ohio?
And, .... why did I enjoy fighting so much?
To be continued.....
-
On Saturday November 15, I was laying in bed with Elena in my dorm room.
November 15. Dividend payment day on Proctor & Gamble stock. And coupon payment day on some of their debt. Elena still held some of her P&G bonds which were near maturity, clipping the coupons (even in 1986, many old-issued bonds existed in paper form--you brought the physical paper bond into the broker's office in downtown Cincinnati to redeem it when it matured) and bringing them to her broker next Monday. But she had sold her P&G stock to get her W&S annuities, and wouldn't be collecting any dividends at the brokerage.
It sickened me that she had cashed out her P&G wealth. She wss in her 20s chronologically, but sexually she was just an aging Cincinnati Old Maid spinster clipping coupons and having lunch in Cincinnati's dying tea rooms.
She wasn't a turnon to me anymore. I wanted to argue about it.
> Elena. You're kinda gross.
> How so, bitch?
> You're sleeping in a girls' college dorm with co-ed's 10 years younger than you. If you were a male, you'd be a predator.
> And what else? [How did she know I'd left the most hurtful part out?]
> The girls here are 10 times smarter than you, slut. [My pussy was soaked, my nipples hard.]
> I think not, sweetie. YOU're not so smart. You slept with Lorraine to get a high rating at P&G.
> [I get nose to nose with Elena. She smells sweaty.] Fuck you, whore. I EARNED that rating.
> No one at P&G believes it. Your future there is on thinner ice than you think.
> Lorraine won't go back on her rating of me.
> Because if she does, what? You'll catfight her?
> You know you'd enjoy that.
> I'd enjoy her ripping your tits, off.
> If you'd enjoy it so much, do it yourself, bitch. If you can.
> You know I can.
[The door next to us opens suddenly. It's my suitemate.]
> Are you two fighting for real?? Because if you are, I'm calling the RA.
To be continued....
-
At that moment, when my suitemates overheard Elena and I were having a lovers' quarrel on the verge of turning physical, I held Elena's future in the palms of my hands. I was a college resident, while Elena was a guest. If she was considered a threat to the campus community, she would have been thrown out by campus security ... AND been put under a lifetime ban from ever setting foot on campus again.
And, as I looked at Elena's semi-nude body next to me in bed, part of me wanted to get her into as much trouble as possible. I knew full well that Elena dated other women behind my back, keeping a Rolodex of bi women in Cincinnati who would go shopping with her on her 1st of the month annuity payment dates. I knew after a weekend in my dorm room bed, she was headed downtown the following Monday to cash in her P&G bond coupons, have lunch in a Cincinnati tea room with one of her companions, no doubt already decked out with Christmas decorations and music, and that the two of them would have sex.
I hated her for it.
But part of me had Catholic guilt. For calling Elena stupid and uneducated.
Because the fact was, thst was pure projection on my part. Because I was feeling pretty stupid lately. As a Catholic college, Miami's students had disproportionately attended Catholic high schools. And in the 1970s and 1980s, many Catholic high schools didn't even bother teaching girls what are today know as 'STEM' classes--hard sciences, math, and computer science.
So many of my classmates at Miami were taking remedial, 100-level math classes, even now in their sophomore year. For me, it was quite the comedown from what I thought would be my 2nd year at Notre Dame, Boston College, or Holy Cross; getting ready for the GRE or law school.
I was frustrated. At myself, for not getting into Notre Dame. Applying to BC or Holy Cross as backup schools was just dumb strategy on my part--BC and the Cross recruited nationally--as a local, I was at a disadvantage applying there.
It probably had nothing to do with my high school bathroom fistfight with Maureen. I just picked dumb schools, with my transcript, to apply to.
And why was I even on a Catholic education track anyways. I was obviously a lesbian ..... and as such, had no place in the 1980s Catholic Church.
How had I fucked up my life so much?
What would fucking up Elena's life help? That would just be useless, petty revenge on an innocent third party.
So, I looked at my suitemate, looked at Elena [both of them anxiously awaiting my reply], and said:
> Elena and I were just having a lovers' quarrel. Which was my fault. I apologize for losing my temper. But now we're going to have make-up sex. If Elena is game.
> [Without hesitating] I'm game. [Elena and I tongue kiss. Passionately.]
We expect my suitemate to close the door. She does, but with herself still in the room. She asks us a question:
> Would it be perv-y if I watched you guys.
Elena answers:
> Little bit. But .... you can watch.
Elena and I make passionate love for an hour, with my suitemate watching and masturbating the entire time.
When it's over, we ask her if she enjoyed it.
> Kinda. I got turned it when you two were fighting. I've never heard two girls fighting like that.
Elena and I look at each other and blush.
To be continued....
-
The day after Thanksgiving 1986, on Black Friday, Elena and I went to downtown Cincinnati, did some shopping for winter boots and shoes, and had lunch in one of the Tea Rooms, surrounded by older ladies, pillars of the Cincinnati establishment, who had been doing the same routine since the 1950s, sometimes even longer.
They, and we, and no way of knowing it, but that Black Friday was the end of the Tea Room Era.
By the following Thanksgiving, in 1987, the October stock market crash had happened, destroying the stock price of even the untouchable P&G, the source of so much of the wealth of the Grand Dames around us. And then, relentlessly, from 1988 to 1991, the great decay of America's downtowns, most particularly in medium sized cities like Cincinnati (and Providence and Boston) made gigantic department stores like Pogue's a useless millstone around the neck of mid-American retail.
It was impossible keeping up the Tea Rooms. And as inner city life got more gritty and violent, the Grand Dames stopped cpming anyways.
I say Elena and I had no way of knowing this bleak future in 1986.
But, at the same time, we could sense SOMETHING ominous. Our 1986 Tea Room lunch was less ... joyful .... than even our 1985 lunch, just 364 days earlier. Less sexy.
In 1985, we were touching each other under the table. In 1986, we sat separated.
Elena looked older. I mean, she WAS older .... but I could SEE it in her face. The bags under her eyes. The start of wrinkles. Her feathered hair looking too thin to pull off the haircut she was attempting. I had caught her coloring her hair in my dorm bathroom. Was she trying to hide grey?
She had spent less at the stores this year than last. With her annuities, she got a monthly income. But it was a FIXED income. Did she consider that when deciding what to buy today? Everyday?
I was the one who was supposed to be the poor college student.
Poor. Poverty. The worst thing about poverty wasn't the lack of money.
It was that it's a turnoff. A sexual turnoff. It makes you want less sex. Or sometimes no sex.
And that a damning indictment.
Elena busts me in the midst of my brooding thoughts?
"What are you thinking, Lisa?"
"I was thinking ..... I wish Lorraine was here."
"Lorraine?!? That bitch, again??"
"Ya, her again. You have a problem with her?"
"She's a bitch. You know it. I know it."
[It's my turn to talk. But I can't--my pussy is wet and I'm aroused.]
"..... and if she was here, I'd tell her."
"Can we go to the car and fuck?"
To be continued....
-
For Christmas 1986, I didn't want to be anywhere near Lorraine, didn't want to be anywhere near Elena, didn't want to be in Cincinnati or anywhere in Ohio.
I wanted to be home with my Mom. Or Dad.
I wanted my Mom and Dad wanted to be together at home. Not separated. And my Dad not near the skank girlfriend who enjoyed punching me. And who enjoyed watching me get punched.
That's what my 1985-1986 downward spiral was really all about--my sadness over my Mom and Dad's split. And my Dad being with a girl who had more in common with me than with my Mom.
That's what the draw of P&G was to me--the safety and security of a large corporation replacing the safety and security of my childhood home. I missed my Dad so much.
Talking to him about sports. Watching football with him.
Talking to him about the tension between me and my ex-friend Maria. And whether Maria and I would catfight. Or had already. And if we had, the details of our catfight.
How I felt catfighting a best friend. What girlfights were like.
What girls were like. Being in his 50s and still learning.
Still learning about my Mom. Even after separating from her.
Maybe if he understood her better the past 10 years, he'd still be with her. And not with a slut who wanted to fight me.
I miss him. I call home too see if I can stay with him Christmas Break.
SHE answers. The bitch that wants to fight her boyfriend's teen daughter.
> Hey, bitch.
> Oh. It's YOU.
> Fuck you, Lisa.
> Can I talk to Dad?
> No. Yiu can talk to me. Guess who wants to fight you?
> Ummm, you?
> Shut up. No. Not yet, at least.
> Maria?
> Good guess. But no.
> Just fucking tell me.
> Maureen. From high school.
> Liar. She doesn't want to fight me.
> She's mad at you for going to Ohio and not telling her that you fucked Lorraine AND Elena.
> Well who the fuck did she learn that from??
> From me. Suck it.
> Instigator.
> Prima donna.
> Slut.
> Chicken shit .... IF you don't come home to face her.
> Let me guess .... with you watching.
> With ME watching.
> Freak.
To be continued....
-
Every year at Christmas, I think of the 1986 fight my Dad's girlfriend instigated between Maureen and me. I didn't particularly want to fight Maureen, and I don't think Maureen particularly wanted to fight me .... I think my Dad's girlfriend just wanted to see me get hit. I think it turned her on.
I think she was jealous of the bond my Dad and I shared, all the way until his death from a stroke in 1996. He died way too young.
A few days before Christmas in 2022, the Pittsburgh Steelers running back Franco Harris died. 26 years after my dad died.
I thought back to 1975, when I was still a grade schooler, sitting with my Dad on the couch, watching the Steelers play the Cincinnati Bengals in a blinding blizzard. The final score was 7-0--Franco Harris scored the game's only touchdown.
Little did I know I'd be living and working in Cincinnati just 10 years later.
We talked about my best friend Maria.
Little did I know I'd have a falling out with Maria before either of were done high school. And that Maria and I would catfight in my Mom's backyard, with my Mom watching secretly from inside.
Why did she watch secretly? Why did she let Maria and I finish that fight?
Little did I know my Dad would divorce by Mom soon. I wonder if my Dad knew yet.
Little did we know my Dad had only 20 years left to live. (My Mom died in 2015--still too young, but she was an old woman at heart by then. Her divorce broke her heart.)
To be continued....
-
Before spending Christmas Eve 1986 with my Dad and his semi-psychotic girlfriend, I visted my Mom. Her house seemed really sad--she and I had coffee. I think hers had Kahlua in it. If it did, it meant she had taken to day-drinking. I was mad at my Dad's girlfriend for having my Mom sink so far.
My Mom and I stared out the picture window to the backyard where Maria and I had fought a few years earlier, my Mom peaking at us from behind a curtain as Maria and I rolled on the ground for 20 minutes. We must have been able to tell by our uncomfortable silence and body language that we were both thinking the same thoughts.
My Mom broke the awkward silence first.
> Does Maria know you're back in town for the school break?
> If she does, she found out from Dad's girlfriend. Not from me.
> You're not gonna meet up with Maria some time.
> I don't think that would be a good idea.
> That bad? You two never reconciled?
> Nah. I think she and I are past reconciling. I never tried. I'm not the reconciling type. [Wait a minute, I think to myself. Didn't I reconcile with Lorraine? Whatever ..... that's WAY too complicated a topic to broach with my Mom. Let's just discuss Maria for now.]
> Women can fall out and reconcile, you know.
> Have you ever fallen out with a friend the way I did with Maria?
> [My mom chuckles at something. It's good to see her smile.] I suppose not. Why?
> I know you were watching Maria and I catfight that day. Maria knew too, I think.
> Oh ...... it was a good fight. Long.
> Did you think about breaking us up?
> No .... I mean, if she had started to cheat .... you know, picked up a stick or a rock or someting .....
> What if I had started to lose?
> I would have made you fight your way out of it. [Is this my Mom talking, or the Kahlua?]
> Is that what YOUR mom made you do? Growing up?
> Not my Mom. But my older sister did. Aunt Catherine.
> [Aunt Catherine had spent every Christmas Eve with us growing up, so she wouldn't be alone that night. She never married. I decided years later she was a lesbian, when attractive unmarried women showed up at her funeral.]
-
It may have come from the Christmas Eve spirit of my deceased Aunt Catherine, but I suddenly had an inspired thought of how I could help my Mom get a little revenge on my Dad's girlfriend. My Dad's girlfriend was trying to instigate a fight between Maureen and me so that she could watch me get hit. What if .....
What if.....
What if ..... instead .... I had my Mom drive me to Maureen's to get that fight over with .... and let my Mom watch the fight instead of my Dad's girlfriend.
My Mom must have noticed the gears turning in my head.
> What are you thinking, Lisa? You look lost in thought.
> Mom, I have no plans of seeing Maria during winter break. But there's a girl, Maureen, who I think is gonna try and see me.
> Maureen from high school?? She has a beef with you?
> It sounds like it.
> Is she home on break to??
> She never went to college. Unless she started trade school or whatever in the fall.
> Oh. .... Is that her beef? Jealousy thing? Didn't she drive you to Wheaton to fight crazy Lorraine? [my Mom STILL doesn't know that Lorraine was my buddy at P&G.... sigh]
> Yes, that was her .... Maureen .... but, ya, I know she drove me to the fight .... but we were never close ... we, ummm, kinda sorta fought in the bathroom in high school.
> Oh .... I see .... it sounds like she wants to fight again, then.
> Can you drive me? Should we call first?
> Since it's Christmas Eve? Yes, we should. She might have guests.
I call with my Mom listening, and it rolls to her family's voice mail. I tell her my Mom and I will be over in 2 hours ... in case she wants to 'chat'.
My Mom tells me 'good job'. I ask her to help me get changed. I still have my high school clothes at my Mom's.
I hope they still fit. I've put on 10 to 12 pounds since going to college. And quitting tennis.
We look for the sluttiest clothes we can find. Good thing it's freakishly warm out today.
I ask my Mom if Aunt Catherine used to help her dress before catfights.
She tells me, yes.
I ask her where chickfights used to happen when she was growing up.
She says their section of the city had a drive-up burger shack. Girls used to cruise, looking for fights with girls from enemy gangs. They'd fight in the dirt parking lot. Since they were all Catholic, on Friday's, they couldn't eat burgers till midnight. [No meat on Friday's, not just during Lent--all year long.]
So around 9pm/10pm, all the girls would be hangry as fuck and would fight at the smallest provocation.
Catherine would drive my Mom home if she got hurt in a fight, to distract their parents from seeing her scratched up, or her clothes torn.
My Mom helps put makeup on me. So I look good for the fight.
My halter top is totally slutty, and my jeans are a size too tight.
I'm horny as fuck right now.
My mom is totally excited to see me catfight.
We're quiet the whole car ride there.
I hope Maureen is home.
To be continued.....
-
When we got to Maureen's run-down Colonial in Pawtucket, she and an attractive woman my Mom's age, who I didn't recognize, were waiting on the sun porch. They motioned us to park in the driveway, which went on a slant towards a covered driveway half-a-level below sidewalk level. The sidewalk was badly eroded from seasons of rock salt (that stuff eats concrete), and I wondered how Maureen's family had afforded paying 4 years of Catholic high school tuition.
Gett8ng out of the slanted car was completely awkward. Did Maureen and her 'adult supervision' already know that when they had us park here?
They came off the sun porch with attitude on their faces. Did Maureen know there was nothing for her and I to 'chat' about? Should we not have warned them we were coming.
My nylons ripped as I got out of the car. They were running up my ass. I felt cold on my legs, and on my pussy.
Maureen motioned me to the backyard. There were a whole set of dilapidated swingsets, forts, and treehouses. And three baseball pitchbacks. I remembered that Maureen was an All-Rhode Island softball pitcher who had her career sidetracked by an arm injury.
So many disappointments in her life.
We found an empty grassy in the center, and our hands were in each others' hair. We were rag-dolling each other onto the frozen ground. The ground was hard and abrasive as sandpaper, and it was raking my exposed leg flesh. Maureen-s body was protected by her thick ski pants and winter coat. Protected from my punches and scratches, protected from the hard ground.
My scalp and legs were in agonizing pain.
She stuck her face into mine.
> You fucking arrogant bitch, Lisa. I always hated you. The whole school fucking hated you. You had no friends there.
I could see Maureen's attractive older relative (step mom? had we ever talked about a step mom?) was grappling with my mom, both standing and half-watching Maureen and I brawling.
I felt Maureen mount me. She saw my shredded nylons, and knew my pussy was completely exposed.
She didn't hesitate.
I couldn't blame her. I wouldn't have hesitated either.
Maureen raked me.... hard .... deep.... aggressively.
That was the word. She was so fucking aggressive this whole fight.
I could feel myself passing out.
I looked to my left to my Mom. She was trying to get to me, but couldn't. Maureen's attractive relative was holding her down. Pinning her.
I was so stupid to wear the clothes I did.
> You fucking bitch, Maureen.
> I AM a bitch, Lisa. Don't you ever fucking forget it.
Maureen stuck her tongue in my mouth, nearly suffocating me. She pulled down her ski pants and mounted my face. She rode me hard, cumming on my face.
It happened fast .... and yet wasn't stopping. I was too light-headed to keep track of time.
When it got dark, my mom helped me to the car. It was even awkwarder getting in, on the incline, than it had been getting out.
My mom had a fat lip.
I was dreading looking at myself in the mirror.
The car ride home was in total silence.
To be continued.....
-
Christmas Dinner the next day with my Dad and his instigator girlfriend was a nightmare. My inner thighs were still severely scratched from my catfight with Maureen, and wearing nylons, jeans, or a miniskirt were all out of the question.
I wore a long loose fitting dress.
My Dad's girlfriend pounced. She and my Dad and I were sitting on wood chairs in a small circle (triangle?), and she had already heard about the fight.
> Heard you had a catfight yesterday, Lisa.
> Catfight? Lisa? with Maria? [reassuring to hear my Dad still obsessing with me fighting Maria .... some things never change... his love of me fighting her will outlive even downtown Cincinnati's gloried Tea Rooms ... apparently]
> Not Maria..... Maureen.
> That Catholic school classmate of yours?
> Yes, Dad. HER.
> Get ur ass kicked, Lisa?
> Fuck you, bitch. See any black eyes?? [My face is flawless .... withOUT makeup]
> How does your pussy look, slut? [How does she know my pussy got scratched???]
> Thanks for bringing up my pussy in front of my dad, classless slut.
> You wanna go right now, bitch?!?
To be continued....
-
Just as my Dad's girlfriend and I stood up to brawl in front of him in my childhood living room, where I had opened Christmas presents the early morning on every Dec 25 going back to 1971, a Christmas Miracle happened--a timer went off in the kitchen teliing my girlfriend it was time for her to baste the Christmas Ham.
I'm pretty sure it was the spirit of my deceased Aunt Catherine, my Mom's sister who made that timer go off when it did.
My Dad, his girlfriend, and I started hitting the Christmas wine real hard, figuring out how we were going to pass the remainder of the day without a trip to the ER. My dad's girlfriend and I discussed exchanging 5 or 6 punches to the face, but then my dad's girlfriend said she had seen a girl lose a tooth that way.
> They weren't punching in the face, then. They were punching in the mouth.
> Fuck you, smart ass.
> Uneducated.
> Notre Dame dropout.
> She didn't drop out .... she never got in.
> Thanks, Dad. Whose side are you on here?
By now , my dad's girlfriend gaze was fixed on my boobs, which were showing out of my dress. And my eyes were on her tits, wrapped tight inside a Christmas sweater.
As we ate dinner, we the after dinner would be retiring to the smkoing room for brandy. And punching each other in the breasts.
I was sad it had sunk to this between my dad's girlfriend and me.
Not because I was shy about getting into the gutter with her. But because she would enjoy .... this .... sick .... 'game' .... much much more than I would.
Ever since she had met my Dad, she had wanted to hit me. She was jealous of how he looked at my ass whenever I walked by. She was jealous of how he smelled my hair when he hugged me. She was jealous of all the pictures around the house me in my tennis skirt. She was jealous of how the thought of my frenemy-ship with Maria turned him on.
She was jealous that I didn't have a serious boyfriend yet, so my dad could still consider me his baby girl.
Is that why I had become a lesbian? To not break my Dad's heart and give myself to a different man?
> Let's get this over with, bitch.
> I'm gonna get off on this.
> I already knew that, perv.
> Fuck you, Lisa.
My memory, 36 years later, of what my dad's girlfriend and I did to each other on an awkward love seat for the next 15 minutes is hazy. I pulled my dress down to my waist. She pulled her sweater over her head.
We gasped at how similar our breasts looked.
This got her angry. Everytime my dad saw her boobs, was he thinking of mine?
We counted and exchanged, in alternating fashion, 8 solid punches to each others' boobs.
If we had made it up to 12 or 15, I would have passed out from the pain.
When we were done, we covered back up.
My dad's girlfriend went into the bathroom and latched the door.
I could hear her crying.
Then masturbating.
I'm pretty sure she did it to humiliate me.
When she came, she and I looked at each other. We had resolved nothing.
We still hated each other.
My dad told us he loved us both.
Merry Christmas.
To be continued.....
-
My Christmas vacation back in New England had been an unmitigated disaster.
I had gotten my ass kicked by Maureen in a catfight. I had barely done any damage at all to her, and she had shredded my inner thigh.
My Mom, while watching my back in that fight, had gotten tackled by Maureen's step mom.
My Dad's girlfriend had fulfilled her 3-year wet dream of hitting me.
This was the worst holiday weekend I could think of, since ..... I don't know ..... maybe 1974, in second grade, Thanksgiving weekend. Steve Owens was a Detroit Lions running back, a former Heisman Trophy winner from Oklahoma. Having a fantastic first quarter running the ball for the Lions, then tore up his knee after getting tackled. Never played the game again.
Fast forward 10 years. 1984 Thanksgiving weekend [I'm in 12th grade at this point], Detroit Lions are playing again. This time it's Billy Sims, another Heisman Trophy winner, yes, from Oklahoma. Tears up his knee in the first quarter. Never plays again.
Steve Owens and Billy Sims, 10 years apart to the day, same circumstances, watching live with my Dad, same outcome. Same shitty luck. What are the odds??
When the 1974 Steve Owens injury happrned, my best friend was Maria. My dad asked me what would happen if Maria and I were outside sledding, and one of us twisted our knee. Would I know to run and get an adult? To not try and move her, so as not to make her injury worse?
Always fantasizing about Maria and me.
By 1984, Maria and I had fallen out, pretty much irrevocably. She and I were enemies. When Billy Sims got hurt, my Dad asked me if Maria and I were catfighting, would I know to get her down on the ground 69'd and, if she were kicking me in the face, to grab het shin and twist her knee the wrong way until her ligaments stretched and tore?
Always thinking of Maria and me catfighting.
Always wanting to talk about it.
All those years of watching football with me, he was actually thinking and me and Maria, or me and my tennis teammates, or me and his girlfriend, tackling and hitting each other.
And talking about it with me. Talking to me about chickfights.
If he only knew what he was missing out on.
If, instead of talking to me about fighting, he had talked to me about relationships .... would I be in a relationship now?
Would I ever be in one?
-
In January 1987, my Miami of Ohio suitemates started filtering back to our dorm, even though classes didn't start until the end of the month. I listened with envy as the other girls told stories of Christmas with siblings and parents, rekindled romances with hometown boyfriends, and New Years Eve parties with high school friends back home from college.
What stories did I have to offer:
> Getting my ass kicked in a Christmas Eve catfight with Maureen?
> Tit punching with my Dad's girlfriend Christmas night?
> Juggiling two girlfriends, Lorraine and Elena, who brutally used me at every opportunity?
> Not re-uniting with my hometown BFF, Maria, because I didn't know if she and I were enemies or frenemies? And, being too afraid to ask.
The first three stories were not sharable in polite company at a 1980s Catholic college. So when it was my turn to speak, I told the fourth.
My falling out with Maria.
Which elicited this response:
> You should have reached out, Lisa. It normal for brst friends to fight. The important thing is to keep the lines of communication open.
> Reaching out. Having lines of communication. Those aren't really my thing. They're not me.
> Maybe a good 1987 New Years Resolution is that they should be.
Maybe. The outcome couldn't be any worse than my sex life so far, doing it my way.
To be continued....
-
In January 1987, the last Friday night before classes resume at Miami of Ohio, I go out to happy hour at the happening Oxford, OH bar crawl area.
If I was at Boston College right now instead of Miami, or even at Holy Cross in Worcester, the bar scene would be SSSSOOO much better than this. Some of my high school classmates went to Assumption in Worcester. They're having better happy hours than me.
They're having better sex than me. And more of it. Even tho they're less pretty.
Hell.... they're having more sex than me BECAUSE they're less pretty.
Guys wuss out when they approach me in a bar. They see my pretty blonde hair from behind, and approach. Then they see my 10 face .... and they freeze up.
They get tongue-tied. They back off. They go talk to a less pretty girl. Less intimidating.
It sucks. Sucks to be me.
I think about all the Bud and Bud Lite flowing out of the taps. Another make-it-rain company like P&G: Anheuser-Busch, based in St Louis. Printing gobs of money for their shareholders, for their employees. Quarterly dividends. Rising earnings.
Yesterday was P&G earnings day. Another record quarter.
Lorraine's 401(k) is probably growing. I miss her.
I go back to my dorm.
I call her.
Thank God. She answers.
> I miss you.
> Why? What's up, Lisa? [No 'I miss you, too.'? What a fucking bitch.]
> Feeling down. Sophomore slump. I just want to fucking graduate. And work full time. Like you. With you.
> That would rock. Then we could fuck after work.
> You read my mind. Now I need to tell you something.
> You're pregnant?!?
> Very funny. And .... fuck you.
> Well? What then?
> I had 2 fights over Winter Break. Two catfights.
> And??
> One I lost. And the other was just pathetic. My dad's fiancee and I punched tits.
> That IS pathetic. And strangely sexy.
> Fuck you again. And .... I difn't even fight the girl I wanted to fight.
> Your ex-best friend Maria?
> How'd you know?
> Oh .... women's intuition.
> What does your women's intuition say about how many fingers are inside me right now?
> Three??
> Just two. But close enough.
> Three are inside me, babe.
> Make me cum, Lorraine.
[We have phone sex for the next hour.]
To be continued.....
-
In the 1980s, long distance phone calls, even at non-business hours times if day, was unimaginably expensive. And when I was on the phone with Lorraine, it was un-sexy to say, or even hint, "Hurry up and let's get to the phone sex part and get each other off." AT&T's monopoly was just starting to be broken up, and viable competitors like MCI and Sprint and Nextel were just emerging, but for the foreseeable I was stuck and isolated at college. Except for breaks.
Where I could go back home and get punched in the tits by my dad's sadistic, way-too-young girlfriend.
Or get my ass kicked in a catfight with Maureen.
Or miss another chance to catfight Maria. Or even worse, actually fight her .... and probably lose. Since I was a soft college student now. Whereas Maria was in the real world, working for a living, on her feet for 8 hours the the restaurant business. Supporting herself.
I worked, too. Summers, as an intern at P&G. Earning service year credit. Eventually a pension and 401k. Maria didn't have that in the restaurant industry.
Was I on the right track? in the right industry? AT&T was making a shitload of money in 1987. And they had spun off the "Baby Bell's": NYNEX, Bell Atlantic, BellSouth, Southwestern Bell, Ameritech, U.S.West, and Pacific Telesis. Lifetime employment. Great benefits.
Or should I swing for the fences? Go work for MCI or Sprint? Get stock options and hope the pay off.
Too many choices. Focus, Lisa, focus. P&G is what you've been working for. Keep at it.
You're doing fine.
Except your sex life sucks. And you're losing every fight. You can't even think of someone whose ass you could kick in a fight.
Lorraine, maybe.
She's gotten soft, too. Since graduating and getting her P&G job.
I bet I'd kick her ass in a fight.
Like I've done twice.
I need to do it again soon.
I wonder if it would piss her off if I told P&G that I don't want her to be my advisor this summer.
That I don't think she's a very good leader.
I write P&G's summer program adminstrator a note, stating exactly that.
Dear Miss Robinson--My advisor last summer was Lorraine Lxxxx, and you have her pencilled in for that role again. I'd like to request a new advisor. I don't think Miss Lxxxx is a good business leader. I also don't think she's a mature role model. She makes sexual innuendos which, while not technically inappropriate or harrassing, are not where I care to spend my energies in a work environment. I'd be happy to discuss. Lisa Mxxxxxx
I put the letter in the mail.
They need to pick her or me, now. I love that sensation. In business....OR in bed.
To be continued.....
-
Don't let anyone ever tell you that P&G is --or, in 1987, was-- a bumbling, plodding, leviathin, behemoth corporate bureaucracy.
Because, somehow, on February 15, 1987 (P&G dividend day, of all days), mere days after I had sent the head of the Summer Intern committee head my poison pill letter about Lorraine (all of its accusations being basically true), all of my dreams of building generational wealth at P&G crashed and burned. Forever. I received back the attached love note from them:
Ma Lisa Mxxxxxx:
Thank you for your written, signed communication of February 10, 1987. In light of your feelings about an associate of ours, Ms Lorraine Lxxxx. as we as other budgetary and other resource constraints at P&G, we are unable to honor our previous commitment to you for a summer internship experience in our Cincinnati, OH headquarters. We are regretfully hereby withdrawing it. We hope the expedited handling of this matter enables you sufficient time to find another summer experience. P&G will verify your 1986 employment staus with any potential employer who enquires.
Wishing You Only The Best,
Mary R××××××××
P&G Summer Internship Lead
My thoughts were
> THOSE FUCKING BASTARDS!!!!! Putting "your wriiten, signed communication" in the lead line??? They were doing that for legal reasons!!!! To signal to me that they would defend themselves against any wrongful termination lawsuit I brought against them.
> NOTHING ABOUT THAT ACTUAL CONTENT OF LORRAINE'S BULLCRAP???? Other than to call her a trusted associate???? Did they already know what a bullshit artist she was, and were afraid I had busted them?? Did she have someone inside P&G protecting her??? [Was it Elena's family????] DID LORRAINE KNOW ABOUT THE LETTER I WROTE????
> WHAT THE FUCK WAS I GOING TO DO THIS SUMMER TO NOT HAVE A GAP ON MY RESUME?????
That last concern was saved by 3 things.
1> A skyrocketing Early 1987 economy (the stock market crash, Black Monday, didn't come until October.
2> Miami of Ohio's stellar career placement office. I get an interview with a NYNEX (the Boston-area 'Baby Bell') recruiter with a simple visit, with my resume, to the Career Services office.
3> My sluttiness. When that NYNEX interview with a young, slimey Assistant Vice President named Robert went mediocre, I accosted him in the parking lot when all the interviews were over. It had come up that he was staying overnight at the local Holiday Inn. I asked him if he wanted a dinner companion. He accepted. I footsied him under the dinner table. He invited me back to our room. I gave him the best fucking blow job he had ever experienced, then let him watch me masturbate for two hours, him hoping he would be able to 'reboot' and fuck me.
He didn't. I had apparently drained him, literally and figuratively, with my blow job. Thank God--he was slimey and had BO.
But I had something, too.
A summer internship offer in Boston at NYNEX.
Suck on THAT, Lorraine.
To be continued.. .
-
I spend February 1987 and March 1987 in my dorm room bed at night in Sour Grapes mode.
Sour Grapes-ing all the reasons I'm doing the right thing giving up Cincinnati for Boston. P&G for NYNEX. Boston isn't forever .... I may or may not "stick" there after Summer 1987.
But Cincinnati, in all likelihood is forever. I've probably seen the last of Cincinnati .... and Cincinnati, the last of me. And I come ip with Sour Grapes reasons of why I'm ok with that.
Cincinnati is way, way too hot in the summer .... but still brutally cold in the winter.
Cincinnati is too .... provincial. Cleveland on the Ohio River. Well, Akron on the Ohio.
Cincinnati's downtown department stores .... Pogue's, where Elena took me as recently as Black Friday, 1985 ... 16 damn months ago .... are dying. Pogue's doesn't even do business under that name anymore.
And the Tea Rooms .... much more vital than the department stores themselves, even in the Glory Days .... are already dead. The Cincinnati Grande Dames don't actually "luncheon" there anymore anyways.
Old Cincinnati is on Life Support. Why do I want to have anything to do with that??
Sign me up for Boston. Filene's Basement is still unchanged from the '60s. Faneuil Hall is being renovated. The Freedom Trail still has a post-Bicentennial '76 glow ... or embers at least. Japanese tourists walk it enthusiastically.
The Prudential Tower is full of Raytheon employees. The John Hancock Tower is full of employees of .... John Hancock. Liberty Mutual, New England Mutual, across the street on Berkeley.
All high paid finance types.
Cincinnati does't have that. Just P&G.
To be continued....
-
In 1987, most U.S. colleges and universities still weren't cess-pits of "Hookup Culture"-that was still 10 to 15 years down the road. So, there was sex happening in my Miami of Ohio dorm, but at very low levels.
And yet .... even by that low bar, I was underperforming my suitemates. There were times they need to hang a headband or scrunchy on our door handle as a warning to give them 60 minutes while they finished doing it with a guy. And never a time I needed to do it for them.
One day I realized I didn't even have a scrunchy set aside in case I needed one in a pinch. As if that was ever going to happen.
The sex thing wasn't happening for me. Having Elena over the prior school year had set me back socially in 2 ways. First, everyone assumed I wasn't into straight sex, so they didn't hit on me. And second, even though I was now over 20, I still didn't know how to flirt. Which made me come off as a snob.
Even Elena had stopped coming, or even calling. Where was she?
And what was the deal with my P&G letter accusing Lorraine? I was let go because of it. But was she disciplined? Did she even know about it? Why wasn't she calling me?
Didn't she wonder why I wrote the letter. Not that I would have had a good answer for her. I didn't even myself really understand why I wrote it.
My Dad and his girlfriend find out I'm going to be in Boston for the summer. My Dad's girlfriend calls me one Sunday.
> You'll have to show me a good time in the city this summer. I know ypu'll be working at NYNEX during the week. But on weekends.
> [How the fuck does she know about NYNEX. The bitch has never got past the Garfield comic strip in any newspaper in her life.] I guess. I didn't realize you and I hang out.
> Stop it, Lisa. I loved hanging out with you Christmas Day. Don't say you didn't love it.
> I didn't love having my boobs punched.
> You got me back just as good. You're one of the few ... one of the VERY few .... girls who can go toe to toe with me.
> So that's why you want to hang out with me. To punch my boobs?
> Lisa ..... don't pretend you haven't wanted to do it again.
> [Is that why I quit P&G .... burned my P&G bridge? And got myself a Boston job? To titfight my Dad's girlfriend.] When you .... do that .... with another girl ..... have you ever pinched each others' boobs.
> Sometimes .... that can be fun .... painful but fun. Do you wanna? This summer?
> We'll see. I'll think about it.
Hell, yes. I wanna. Hell fucking Yes.
To be continued.....
-
As my anticipation builds for a summer confrontation in Boston with my Dad's girlfriend, my Catholic guilt seeps into my mind.
Good ole Catholic guilt. It's now March 1987, the heart of Lent, where we're supposed to give up something pleasurable. Back in Catholic high school, girls who had started sleeping with boys would give up sex for Lent. Since I hadn't had sex yet, I gave up masturbating, or would try to. I found it made me curt and short with my parents--I wondered later if that contributed to their divorce.
1987 is pre-Viagra. I can't stop thinking about the sex life between my Dad and his new 20something girlfriend. Is he able to get hard enough to truly satisfy her? And as often as she wants and needs it? Or does she consider him as an underwhelming dud, like Tennis Tommy was for me and Lorraine?
I think about my upcoming summer in Boston. I should see my Dad. At least as much as I hang out with his girlfriend. If not more.
It won't be NFL season when I'm home for the summer--we won't be able to watch football on TV together. I know what my Dad REALLY wants. He wants to watch me fight my ex-frenemy Maria. Maybe Maureen too--my Mom got to watch me fight Maureen. But my Dad REALLY likes Maria. He always had a thing for Maria back before she and I grew apart, and stepped being friends, and eventually fought in my Mom's backyard.
My Mom's watched me fight twice. My Dad has never seen me fight. Even though he thinks about it all the time. And works it into conversations with me.
My Dad's summer was be enjoyable if he could watch me fight Maria. She's still living back home--I wonder if she's started community college yet--or if college just isn't her thing. That was one of the reasons she and I grew apart. Maria started falling behind academically; I started charging ahead, hoping to get into BC or Holy Cross.
I think that was a reason my Dad identified with Maria. When I was still friends with Maria, and she would be over and he would ask her how she was doing, they would banter in words that were ... I don't know .... 'simple'. They'd get to the point with each other, communicating with body gestures as much as words. It would get my extroverted Mom jealous, the connection Maria had with my Dad.
It was why when Maria and I fought in my Mom's backyard, my Mom was rooting for me. She wanted to see me kick Maria's ass.
If my Dad was watching me fight Maria, who would he be rooting for? Me? Maria? Or would he just want a long, even, rough girlfight?
If Maria hasn't started school yet, she's gonna be getting married and getting pregnant soon; not necessarily in that order.
I'm running out of time to treat my Dad to a Maria vs Lisa catfight.
On Sunday, I call my Dad.
"Dad, I was thinking about this summer home. "
"I've been thinking about it, too. I can't wait."
"Good. I can't wait either. Can you keep a secret? Like, from your girlfriend? Do you have secrets from her?"
"Sometimes. For important stuff."
"Well, this is important to me. When I'm back home .... Maria and I have unfinished business. Can you go to her restaurant .... and see if she feels the same?"
"Say no more. I'll make the arrangements."
"Ok. You can watch."
"Say no more."
I had promised myself I wouldn't masturbate this 1987 Lent season.
I was wrong.
To be continued.....
-
Spring Break 1987 arrives, and I'm woefully underprepared. Weeks ago, I had turned down an offer from my suitemates to fly down to Fort Lauderdale. I had done so out of a mis-begotten hope that Elena would reach out and invite me to Cincinnati.
For shopping.
To check out which stores (was Pogue's still around?) were still open.
For one last hurrah lunch in the dying downtown tea rooms.
For fucking.
Was I persona non grata with Elena now because of the letter I had written to P&G about Lorraine?
Did Elena hear I was done at P&G, and was going to Boston at NYNEX? Did she think I was doing that voluntarily?
Did she think I wasn't interested in her anymore? The only phone numbers I had for her had been disconnected. I could call her parents' house, but I didn't know them well enough.
The suitemate who visits me late at night to talk about fighting notices me moping around. She drops out of the Fort Lauderdale trip (she claims she was going to do so anyways; that she's not doing it for me) and invites me to her house outside Cleveland for Spring Break.
I ask her if there's room for me. She says yes, I can sleep in her bed and she'll sleep on the floor next to me. I tell her yes. And that she doesn't have to sleep on the floor--I will. She tells me we shpuld both sleep in the bed, then. (Does she mean we'll sleep in the bed, or fuck in the bed? I guess we'll find out later.)
We arrive in Cleveland on a Saturday, and go to the Vigil Mass with her mom and aunt in a beautiful inner city basilica. I've been missing Mass a lot at Miami. Maybe my life wouldn't be so 'out there' if I had just kept going to Mass. We say the Lord's Prayer, holding holds with my suitemate's family. She squeezes my hand, her thumb caressing my fingers. We are instructed to give each other the Kiss of Peace. Her aunt kisses me on my cheek. My suitemate kisses me on the mouth, and holds it for a long time. How long has she wanted to kiss me on the mouth like that? Did she feel she couldn't at school?
She's a good kisser. Better than Elena. Better than me, actually. I hope she enjoyed my kiss back to her. When we release our mouths from each other, I pull her back close to me and kiss her cheek. I hold my mouth there. I want her to know I liked her kiss. The choir starts singing the Agnus Die a capella, in Latin, because it's Lent. She and I continue to hold hands thru the Agnus Dei.
We come home to a traditional ethnic dinner (German? Polish? there's lots of kielbasa and pastries) which has been prepared by another aunt and a cousin of my suitemates while we were at Mass. The two of them will go to Mass tomorrow while we stay behind and make brunch.
Eating, eating, eating. And family. I already feel at home.
My suitemate's Mom and Aunts must want my suitemate to get married and have kids. They must be wishing she brought a boy home, not a girl.
We sit around the dinner table and start our feast. They give me Riesling wine. They're just sipping, but they keep refilling my glass. Are they trying to get me drunk?
They start quizzing me about my Massachusetts family. They commisserate with me about my parents' divorce. I tell white lies about how Catholic we are. We're Catholic, but not as practicing as they are.
My suitemate blurts out, "Lisa fights! She drove to Wheaton College to fight a girl."
I wait for my suitemate's Mom and aunts to shake their head in disapproval.
They instead applaud me.
"Good for you, Lisa. Maybe while you're here this week you can give some tips. This neighborhoid is getting rough." They ask me to describe my fight at Wheaton with Lorraine. I tell them, leaving out the pussy-scratching parts. Although I'm confident they wouldn't cringe from it. I avoid it because I don't want them to think I'm exaggerating.
I want to come across as authentic. I want to be invited back here.
I like it here.
My suitemate's aunts and cousin pinch my waist as we clean up dinner. Then my ass. Was that a proposition?
Bed time arrives fast. My suitemate and I go upstairs to her cozy bedroom. There's an inviting made bed, and cushions set up on the floor.
What will the sleeping arrangements be?
My suitemate and I get on the floor, lay next to each other, and start kissing. Our tongues are licking each others' teeth. Her hands are under my pajama top, fondling my breasts.
Has she ever slept with a girl like this? Because she's really good at at.
Her fondling my breasts is so erotic that I cum.
"What do you want me to do to you now?"
"Show me, Lisa. Show me something you do."
I pull down her pajama bottoms and lick her pussy and clit until she cums. We fall asleep in each others' arms, kissing.
When her Mom wakes us up early the next morning, she's in the bed, and I'm on the floor. She tells us we need to start making brunch.
Does her Mom know we fucked last night?
To be continued....
-
After we my suitemate's aunt and cousin return from Sunday Mass, we eat brunch, another meat-heavy ethnic offering--lots of sausage. My suitemate and I give each other knowing side-eyes during dinner, remembering the sex we had last night .... and wondering what tonight might have in store for us.
After brunch, we all pitch in in cleaning up. I've spent more time at a sink the last two days than in my entire 20 years on Earth before this. I wonder if my Mom would have wanted more help from me cleaning up over the years.
I wonder if she'd still be married to my Dad if I had helped her more in the kitchen. I wonder if she ragged on my Dad all those years because of how tired she got cooking dinner, then cleaning up. Cleaning up dinner is exhausting.
My suitemate's cousin Dawn is getting more aggressive with pinching my ass. I reciprocate, and pinch her ass. Her butt is totally sexy. Her face and hair are cute too. She asks me if I want to go for a ride to the butcher later. "Of course," I reply. "Just you and me." [This family has a household butcher? What is it with them and meat?]
I get in the family car with Dawn. It's a beat up old Ford Fairmont. She tells me she's 25, that she got married in 1980, at 18, just to see what sex with boys was like. She was disappointed, quickly got divorced, got it annulled, and has had had friends-with-benefits sex with a couple of gus since; that nothing has clicked yet. And probably never will.
I tell her that my story almost exactly matches her. I tell her about Tennis Tommy, about me stealing him from a college girl, only to have mediocre sex with him. That he was small, that he wasn't that good at it.
She tells me what she likes instead, maybe I'll like it too.
We pull up to the butcher's. It's in a side alley which has seen better days. Most everything is closed, since, it's Sunday, excepte the butcher's.
She tells me we have time, let's sneak down the alley while the sun is still high in the sky--that it gets shady here, literally and figuratively, when the sun goes below the rooftops.
She pushes me against the brick alley wall--it's coated in a combination of graffiti and birdshit from the seagulls circling around the dumpsters.
"I'm gonna do something to you. A couple times. Then, if you like it, you can do it back to me "
[Is she gonna kiss me? Fondle me?]
"Oooooomph". Faster than I can protect myself, even reflexively, Dawn knees me in my crotch.
"Oooomph."
"Ooooomph."
Each time, harder than the last. My eyes are tearing.
"Now you do it to me." Dawn turns me away from the alley wall, and backs up to it. "cxntbust me hard. Bitch."
I hesitate, letting her wonder if I'm gonna do it.
Then I let her have it. Hard.
"Mmmmmmmppphhh."
"Mmmmmmffff."
"Mmmmmmmfffff."
"Bitch."
"Slut. You like it slut?"
"No. I love it." And I do. I'm horny as fuck, and kiss Dawn. "That's fucking awesome."
[I wonder if my Dad's girlfriend knows about this. Maybe I can try it with her this summer.]
We go into the butcher's walking gingerly. We drive home in silence. Mostly in silence.
"We're still good, right, Lisa? That wasn't too intense?"
"We're good, Dawn. And ..... it was wonderful."
"Good. Bitch."
"Bitch."
To be continued.....
-
I spend the rest of my Spring Break week in Cleveland showing my suitemate, at night, fun things two girls can do together (take a shower together, shave each others' pussy, watch each other masturbate), and going to the butcher alley every afternoon with Dawn to ram our knees into each others' crotches.
Dawn has figured out by now that her cousin and I have been fooling around in the bedroom together at night--she heard us laughing together in the shower one night. She's fine with it--she tells me her cousin has always been the uptight one in the family. Dawn asks me if I find her family to be too "deviant".
> Dawn .... are you kidding me? .... for years, my Dad has had a thing for my ex-best friend .... this bitch named Maria ....
> He flirts with her and shit?
> Flirted with her when we were friends.... the when she and I fell out .... started asking when she and I were gonna catfight ....
> That's not deviant .... it's a natural question .... and sexy, too .... when ARE you and Maria gonna bang it out?
> I go back home this summer .... my Dad is scoutin' out with her if she's willing ....
> Know what you should tell your Dad ro tell Maria? Tell her to grow her hair out. Then you grow yours out to. Nothing sexier than two girls fighting in long hair.
> That's actually brilliant.
It actually is. I call my Dad quick that night. He likes the idea, too.
Correction.
He loves it.
To be continued....
-
After my Thursday morning groin-kneeing session with Dawn behind the butcher's alley, I express to her my sadness that my Spring Break week in Cleveland is drawing to a close. She tries to cheer me up, or at least engage in a sour grapes session with me.
> It's probably just as well, Lisa. You're getting too good at it. You almost knocked me out this morning.
> I know what you mean. One of your grunts was ... different .... it was painful .... I almost felt bad for you....
> YOU?? .... Feeling sorry for someone?!? .... puh-leeze!
> I said almost .... Although, Dawn, I really mean this ... I do feel bad you can't watch me catfight Maria this summer .... in our grown-out hair.
> I DO appreciate a good catfight. You're right about THAT.
> [Dawn must really be growing on me .... I get a flash of inspiration.] Dawn ..... is there anyone you know .... in the area .... some friend or coworker of whatever .... who'd be available .... willing, I guess .... to catfight me .... with you watching .... before I go home.
> You'd actually do that?
> For you? Yes. I feel like I owe you. And I feel like you'd enjoy it.
> So, tomorrow night at Fish Fry ... there's a girl my age .... she's shown me some Cleveland lesbian bars .... [in 1987, you can only find such a thing by word of mouth .... they're not advertised] .... she's pretty ..... in fact more feminine than me .... dresses real nice .... dresses gitmrly, in fact .....but DO NOT underestimate her ..... she packs a whallop. In fact, Lisa .... I'll only agree to introduce you to her if you take this 100% serious .... Lisa, she likes to hurt people .... you up for it? I can bring her to our table at Fish Fry tomorrow, you can feel her out, k?
> Got any pictures I can see? [This is 1987. We can't log onto her Instagram page and check out her selfies.]
When we get home, after putting the meat in the fridge, Dawn goes to her shoebox under her bed and pulls out Halloween and 4th of July pictures of Kelsey. She's a redhaired Irish beauty.
> Shit, Dawn, you were selling her short. She's sexy as fuck.
> Thanks a lot!!! What the fuck am I?!? Chopped liver??
> [I feel terrible. Me and my big mouth. I kiss Dawn on the cheek.] Oh, I'm sorry sweetie. I didn't mean it that way. I meant, more .... wouldn't you love to watch Kelsey and me beating the shit out of each other?!?
> Nice save. And, yes I would .... but Lisa .... I fucking meant it .. if we're gonna do this .... I mean it .... Do NOT underestimate this bitch. She'll be out for blood if you agree to fight her.
> My kinda fight.
> Lisa .... this is Cleveland .... she grew up here.
> Tell her to bring it.
To be continued.....
-
Although I downright LOVED Dawn .... and the sexy week I was spending in Cleveland with her and her family ..... I was borderline PISSED that she thought she needed to issue warnings to mr about fighting Kelsey.
It reminded me of senior year of high school tennis, when we traveled by bus to away games with the softball team.
We would snipe back and forth on the bus with them that:
-tennis players were smarter than softball players
-tennis players were more athletic than softball players
-tennis players were prettier than softball players
-and finally, tennis players could beat up softball players.
One day after an aggravating afternoon of us both having matches that were rain delayed, then started, than had play interrupted, then wete cancelled, we were hungry and cranky and bitchy.
The bitchiest softball player, Paulette [their catcher], and the bitchiest tennis player, Sofiya [I know! nor me!!], offered to show us all the answer to the final dispute.
Who would win a catfight between a softball player and a tennis player.
They went at it outside the bus with 50 horny girls cheering them on.
The fight only lasted 2 minutes. Paulette won, to the humiliation of all of us tennis players.
But Sofiya did great. Paulette had a black eye for a week.
Maybe it's KELSEY who needs to not underestimate ME, Dawn.
You bitch.
To be continued.....
-
The evening before my Fish Fry confrontation with the mysterious bad girl Kelsey, I attend Stations of the Cross with Dawn. Hearing the Stations of the Cross story, the 14 "chapters" of the Good Friday execution of Jesus, always reminds me that all his male companions (with the possible exception of Joseph of Arimithea and Simon of Cyrene), even Peter, abandoned him during his hours of need.
While all his female companions stayed at his side. And witnessed what happpened.
Women are the only one's that have balls. Maybe it's a mistake to fight Kelsey.
But just as the cold feet are setting in, I see her, across the church. Kelsey. In a sexy gold-and-red silky blouse, which highlights her perfect bust. Her hair is teased 1980s style--she must have been spraying it all afternoon. She's wearing sexy leather heeled boots.
I move away slightly from Dawn so that Kelsey doesn't notice me. I have the advantage right now--I know what Kelsey looks like, but she doesn't know what I look like. I mean, she knows I'm an attractive blonde college student-aged woman. But there's about a dozen of us listening to the Stations right now--this ethnic German/Polish/Czech neighborhood pumps out attractive blondes like an assembly line, apparently.
My point is: Gaaawwwd, I wanna fight Kelsey. Touch her silky blouse. Wreck her sexy 1980s big hair. Smell her up close.
I realize I need to pee. I head to the tiny restroom, with two stalls.
I sit and pee in one stall. In the stall next to me, I see the feet of another woman sitting to pee.
Shit, it's Kelsey in her leather boots.
She talks thru the stall to me.
"So you're the college bitch Dawn brought to fight me tonight?"
[Shit. Does she KNOW it's me, or is she guessing?] "If you're not afraid to, bitch."
"I'm gonna fuck you up ....extra..... for thinking I'm afraid."
"Bring it."
I get up and redress.
Kelsey is too pussy to fight me right there in the small bathroom.
Either that, or she's allowing Dawn to watch us fight later.
I wonder if she's crushing on Dawn.
To be continued.....
-
At Fish Fry, Dawn, Kelsey, about 8 other attractive 20something women, and I sit around a wide circular table covered in a wide apron. We're all eating fried fish, cole slaw, and french fries. I want to eat enough to have energy for my catfight later tonight, but not so much that I vomit.
Kelsey speaks to the other women at the table: "Did you girls hear about this college bitch Lisa? She drove to Wheaton College to fight a girl."
"No way!". "Holy moley." "You beast, Lisa."
Except .... how does Kelsey know the story of my fight with Lorraine? She must have heard from Dawn. But how does Dawn know? She must have heard from my suitemate. But when were they talking about me? Just this week? Before? If before ... is that how Dawn knew I'd be up for kneeing each other in the butcher alley?
Wheaton College in 1987 is in the news, at least in LGB circles, since it's thinking of finally admitting men, after 100 years of being girls-only. The women at the table immediately recognize that I must be LGB, if I'm driving to Wheaton for fights.
It's a shame I'm fighting tonight. Three to five women at the table would take me home tonight.
Women have balls. They ask out attractive women. Men don't.
Kelsey speaks again. "I bet I can take her."
To be continued...
-
After the Fish Fry, Kelsey, Dawn, 5 of the lesbians, and I started walking, to what turned out to be one of the lesbian's crappy apartment, to watch Kelsey and I fight.
Before we were done eating, I already knew I was gonna lose the fight.
I don't know if it was a bad piece of fish, my not being used to fried food since going away to college, or my nervousness at fighting in front of such an unexpectedly large crowd of strangers .... it was probably all three ..... but I felt woozy and out of sorts already at the dinner table.
And then walking to the fight, how I felt just got worse and worse and worse. I was barely holding it together. I wanted to bail from the fight in the worst way.
But how do you bail on a catfight 6 attractive women have been waiting all day to watch.
I felt sssooo sick to my stomach. And not with a sensation that I was gonna hurl out of my mouth. I had the sensation that my whole dinner was gonna come out the other end. If not unassisted, then when Kelsey started hitting me.
Fuck, I was gonna be a laughing stock.
And Kelsey would get the satisfaction of humiliating me. And thinking her fighting skill had done it. That was the biggest kick up the ass of all--literally, and figuratively.
The apartment we fought in was run down, but the worst, grimiest feature of all was the filthy, crusty carpet.
I knew I'd be eating that carpet before tonight was over. Because if Kelsey ate bad fish and got sick right before a fight, that's what I'd do to her. Or Maria. Or Maureen. Or Lorraine. Or any bitch.
All 8 of us crammed into an empty bedroom, with claustrophobic 7-foot ceiling. I grew up in coastal Rhode Island .... but who the fuck lives in a place with 7-foot ceilings??
The 6 spectators formed a circle around us.
Kelsey tore of her gold blouse, a litzle too melodramatically I though.
> Ooooooo, tough girl.
> College bitch.
> COMMUNITY college bitch. [I'd struck a nerve with Kelsey. My mouth wrote a check that my butt ... and fists ... couldn't cash. She decided in that instant she was gonna hurt me. I hope that's just sweat in my ass crack .... and not diarrhea.]
In a flash, Kelsey had my blonde hair at the crown of my scalp, and rag-dolled me from side to side into the 6 women watching. In a pussy move, they were punching and scratching me .... in addition to pushing me back into the center of the room .... at every chance.
I'd been rag-dolled in a fight before ... a couple times by Lorraine .... and knew to ride out the storm and let your opponent wear herself out.
It didn't work tonight, because the crowd was doing Kelsey's work for her, supporting my weight as dhe followed thru throwing me, and sling-shotting me back to the other side of the room.
The only one getting exhausted was me.
And the crowd was hungry for blood.
> Fuck her up, Kelsey.
> Stomp her. Make her bleed.
Keksey mounted me and got her face in my ear. "Pretty good for a community college girl ..... right?!? .... bitch?!?"
Never call an enemy a "community college girl".
Turst me. Never.
Kelsey pulled down her pants and underwear and ground her soaked pussy into my nose and mouth.
And then did it more.
And more.
And more.
Cumming over and over.
It was horrible.
It wasn't really a fight.
My suitemate drove me back to Miami the next day in silence.
We never talked about my Spring Break Week in Cleveland.
Our suitemates came back from Fort Lauderdale and talked about all the sex they had with boys. They told me how they like me letting my hair grow out.
Good. I hope my Dad likes it. When I fight Maria.
To be continued....
-
Easter Vigil Mass in the Catholic Church is a marathon: 8 Scripture readings, 3 hours long. Your mind starts to wonder during it, especially if you're ADD-ish like me.
Mine wondered at Miami in 1987, holding hands with my suitemate from Cleveland. I started wondering if I had fucked up my life by sending P&G the impulsive letter about Lorraine.
When my Dad and I watched the Steelers-Bengals game in 1975, the NBC announcer, Curt Gowdy, was at the top of his profession. NBC's main announcer for baseball AND football, and with his own Sunday afternoon hunting show.
Three weeks later, he fucked it all up with one impulsive act.
It was Game 3 of the 1975 World Ssries. The Boston Red Sox (of course) were in Cincinnati (of course) playing the Reds. In extra innings, Ed Armbrister of the Reds laid down a bunt, and accidentally interfered with the Red Sox catcher, Carlton Fisk, who made a throwing error which led to the Red Sox losing the game, and eventually the Series. The umpire, Larry Barnett, missed the interference call on Armbrister.
Curt Gowdy impulsiveness threw Barnett under the bus, criticizing him severely. Barnett got death threats that winter.
NBC phased out Gowdy and brought in Vin Scully.
Gowdy fucked up his career in 2 minutes.
Was I doing the same by going to NYNEX this summer? Instead of P&G?
To be continued....
-
On Easter, my Dad calls me to make sure I'm not feeling too blue. I should be asking about his girlfriend, but that still doesn't feel normal yet, even though the two of them are clearly in it for the long haul.
I tell my Dad my hair is growing out nice. When I was growing up playing tennis, I always kept it shoulder-length, because that's how Chris Evert and Martina Navratilova and Evonne Goolagong wore their hair, but if I had known how good it looks grown out, I would have worn it that way.
He tells me Maria's is looking good, too, grown out. Thanks Dad.
He tells me she looks sexy in my old tennis shorts. I guess what that's what she'll be wearing for our fight this summer.
He asks me if I remember the summer of 1976, watching late night TV with him. The Spinners came on, singing Robber Band Man live. We were intrigued by their Afro haircuts. That's what Maria's looks like now, he claims, grown out.
I do remember. I do remember The Spinners grooving on live TV in 1976, watching with my Dad.
It's 1987 now. That was just 11 years ago.
So close. And yet so long ago.
To be continued.....
-
As finals week approached at Miami for the Spring 1987 semester, I got a call from my dad's girlfriend.
> Hey, bitch. You're not calling to cancel out on our tit-boxing, are you [plus, my 'surprise' for her, knees to the crotch; but I'mnot going to mention that to her ahead of time].
> Not a chance, slut--your ass is grass [what does even mean??], but that's not why I'm calling. I'm calling about your Dad.
> [Shit, is he ok????] What about him? [Was that too nonchalant??]
> What's up with him and your friend Maria? He's spending way too much time with her.
> [WTF?? My Dad and Maria are an item?? I mean, he did always have a thing for her. But now that she's 21, he can act on it. Is he??] Maria's not my friend anymore.
> That wasn't the point, dumb ass. You still talk to your Dad.
> [I should probably 'take the 5th' on these questions. But I've been caught off guard, and frankly a bit hurt, if my Dad has made a move with Maria and not told me.] Dad's always had a thing for Maria. Maybe he's been waiting for years for her to 21. But if he has, he hasn't discussed it with me. At least, not on the phone. Maybe he was waiting to tell me in person. [Maybe he was saving it for the day he watches me fight Maria--to make our fight more intense. Would he do that??]
> Tell your Dad if he's not careful, I walk.
> You're not fucking prize, bitch. Don't let the door hit you in the ass.
> Fuck you, bitch.
> Fuck YOU.
I lay on the bed and masturbate to the thought of kneeing my Dad's girlfriend in the crotch, like I did with Dawn in the butcher's alley during Spring Break.
Except when Dawn and I did it, it was for fun.
It will be deadly earnest when I do it with my Dad's girlfriend.
As will my catfight with Maria. Now that I know she's fucking my Dad.
To be continued....
-
In early May 1987, I wrap up my finals in medicore fashion. I was headed to a 3.88 GPA for the semester, hopefully I didn't just fuck that up--I'll finf out in June when my transcript gets mailed.
Shit, I think I forgot to change my summer mailing address on file at Miami. I think my trascript is gonna get mailed to Lorraine's address in Cincinnati, not my new address in Boston.
Shit, I wonder what she'll say when she gets it? Will she forward it to me?
Are Lorraine and I on speaking terms?
I get to my apartment in Boston provided by NYNEX. There's an alley outside just like the Cleveland butcher alley where Dawn taught me cxntbusting. It'll be the perfect place to do "that" with my Dad's girlfriend.
If she hasn't dumped him yet. Because of him un-unrequiting his lifelong crush on my frenemy Maria.
How did my like get this fucking complicated?
> Hey, bitch. I'm in Boston. My NYNEX internship starts Tuesday after Memorial Day. I'm free till then.
> I'm on the way, Lisa. I've been waiting for this day for four months, slut.
> [I've been waiting my entire life,...] cxnt.
> I'm getting in the car now.
> Hurry. I can hardly wait [I can't], bitch.
> Bitch. I'm gonna fucking kill you.
> Bring it.
Three hours later, ma Dad's girlfriend is buzzing my apartment from the lobby. I don't want her in my apartment. And I wanna start our 'fight'.
> I'm coming down, sweetie.
> I can't see your dumb apartment?
> We'll talk after we fight.
I meet in in the lobby. We hold each others' biceps, not quite hugging, not quite locking up.
> I wanna show you something a bitch in Cleveland showed me.
> The neighborhood looks kinda shady. [All of 1987 Boston is 'kinda shady', dumb ass.]
> Then let's finish before dark, hun.
We go to the dark alley. I push her against the brick wall, and nail her in the crotch with a knee.
> Your hair looks nice, by the way, bitch. Now, you do that do me, and we go back and forth.
> [She slams me against the brick wall.] Your hair looks nice, too. So long, but not stringy. [She slams her knee into ma crotch. I wince.]
My Dad's girlfriend and I go back and forth, kneeing each other, for a dozen rounds. Far longer thsn Dawn and I ever did in Cleveland.
> Lisa. Can we stop? I gotta pee really bad.
> [Thinking.] Ok.
> This was fun by the way .... you were right.
> I always am. Bitch.
To be continued....
-
As my Dad's girlfriend and I relax (and recover) in my NYNEX summer apartment, she starts leafing thru my orientation material, which includes profiles and headshots of my internship classmates. There are 8 men and 2 women, of which I am one.
> Lisa, you don't find it .... coincidental ... that there are 2 .... exactly 2 women ..... abd the other one is a blonde rhat looks almost exactly like you??
> [I'm reluctant to admit to her .... and to myself .... that I got the intern position on a last-minute basis by sleeping the the recruiter. Is that how the other female intern position?] What are u saying?
> Lisa, you're always such a know-it-all, I wasn't gonna clue you in on this. I was gonna let you find out for yourself. But here goes--NYNEX is
[counts out on her fingers]
male
unionized
blue collar
in the Dark Ages.
Trust me, I know. My uncle worked there when they were Ma Bell. Lisa, the guys there hate their jobs but can't quit because they'l never get a better job.
> My job is an office job.
> They'll be a small back office. They'll be you and the other blonde bimbo and there, get you in the breakroom talking shit about each other, then try and get you to agree to an afterwork catfight.
> So they can watch? They're that bored?
> Maybe you can ask them yourself. After you and the other girl fight.
To be continued.....
-
My first day at my NYNEX internship, it was obvious that my Dad's girlfriend had all her facts straight about the "office" there.
> It wasn't really an office. It was a technical sub-station of some sort, with lots of wires and electronic transformers and switching gear.
Yes, there was a room with desks and adding machines and phones and file cabinets. But it was very Spartan. Not very professional at all.
> Except for my Blondie co-intern, the whole workforce was horny blue collar men. Who took a lot of coffee and smoke breaks.
> During those breaks, there were only 3 topics of conversation. The Red Sox, pussy, and trying to get me or Blondie to talk shit about each other.
> The shit talk between Blondie and me clearly had a single purpose--to build up to a parking lot catfight between her and me before summer's end. For money, but still a catfight.
So be it.
She and I stared at each other at our desks, knowing that by dummer's end we would fight each other.
Fine by me.
To be continued....
-
Blondie and I didn't talk much the first few weeks of that summer. I could tell by how she looked at me, and my grown-out blonde hair, that she assumed I hadn't fought much.
Or at all. Fine. Let her think that. She'll be sorry when I take her apart in the parking lot.
The men at smoke break didn't have much trouble getzing me to talk shit about her.
> She looks like a virgin.
> Or practically one.
> She looks luke every boy she's ever fucked has a small dick...
>... and didn't know how to use it.
> She looks like the kind of girl who's Dad fantasizes about her catfighting her ex-best friend ...
> .... and is dating her now .....
>. ... behind his girlfriend's back.
> She looks like she's in a dead end career....
> ....after having one locked up at a Fortune 500 company.
> She looks like she got rag-dolled in any alley in Cleveland over spring break.
I was projecting.
All those things, those insults, were describing me.
To be continued....
-
Blondie at NYNEX would need to wait, tho. My next fight was against Maria. The day to have it was obvious: Father's Day.
My Dad was born 40 years to soon--the lack of technology in 1987 robbed him of lots of pre-fight hype which Maria and I could have been sending him if our fight happened in 2021: us sending pre-fight videos, to him and to each other, having 3-way Zoom calls to plan the fight, threatening texts even; those kinds of things.
Instead, we grew our hair out and planned to each wear my old tennis skirt for the fight.
I was masturbating constantly about finally fighting Maria. Was she as grown up and mature as she seemed from two years working a full-tume job? And being in "the real world" of earning, spending, and saving?
Was I as messed up as I seemed from 2 years of college, internships, and bad sex? Was I acting out as LGB from having bad sexual experiences with boys? Did I actually enjoy relationships with girls, or was it all immature "that one time at college" crap?
What was my love-hate "thing" with Lorraine? Did I love her? Did I hate her? Was she my frenemy? Did all women have a frenemy? Was I over-interpreting what I had with her?
Should she and I never met? Would my life be normal if I hadn't?
The night before my fight with Maria, my Dad calls:
> Go easy on Maria, tomorrow, Lisa?
> Dad?!? What kind of sick head game are you trying to play on me? You're gonna get my ass kicked from her!!
> I'm serious, Lisa. She's a good kid...
> She's A GROWN WOMAN. She knows what she signed up for.
> She does .... and she's following thru with the fight because of that. But please don't .... go too hard on her for doing that. Catholics think mercy is good. Right?
> [Maria will kick my ass thru so hard tomorrow if she gets the chance that I'll need to unbutton my collar to shit. THIS IS A TRICK.] Dad,.... since when do you follow Catholic tenants? You traded down for a younger woman.
> You never told me it bothers you.
> THAT doesn't. But sticking up for Maria does. Tell her I'm bringing against her.
> Tell her youself. She's right here. [Hands the phone to Maria.] Hey, bitch. Can't wait to see you tomorrow.
> Me neither. Slut.
> Whore.
> cxnt.
> Bitch.
> Fuck you.
I hang up and masturbate till 11pm. Then I realize that's probably another trick of hers. To get me on a bad night's sleep.
To be continued.....
-
I arrive at my Dad's on Father's Day for my fight with Maria. A lot less of my Dad's girlfriend's stuff appears to be laying around the house--are they officially broken up? Is Maria my Dad's official girlfriend now.
Maria is in my old bedroom getting dressed for the fight. I already am in my old tennis uniform, one to match the one Maria is getting into right now.
My Dad kisses me on the forehead and wishes me luck in the fight. He tells me my long blonde hair looks good grown out--not stringy at all.
He tells me a memory of when Maria used to have sleepovers with me at our my place, when my Dad and Mom were together:
> I remember you and Maria were supposedly best friends, but you'd argue and bicker at those sleepovers like worst enemies. I remember listening to you two in the basement one night--you were watching 'Starsky and Hutch', and xou were arguing .... in an actual shouting match .... over who was hotter, David Soul or Paul Michael Glaser. Calling each other bitches over it. I remember your Mom and I had a bet ..... I thought that you be the night you and Maria finally came to blows in an actual catfight .... but your Mom was like, not yet, not yet .... the two of them will catfight someday, but not tonight. They're still friends. They haven't grown completely apart. When THAT day comes, THAT's the day they'll have a blow-out catfight.
> Well, I guess the day has arrived. Lucky you. [I don't mention that just 7 hours ago, he called me to beg me to go easy on her.]
> Well, we'll see.
> Did it turn you on when she and I would bicker?
> It turned me on that neither of you backed down to the other. You were both headstrong girls.
Maria steps out of the bedroom my tennis outfit. Her hair is down to her butt--it grows faster and thicker than mine. And curlier--I've never seen her with such curly hair.
I'm gonna rip half of it out in our fight.
We stand and face each other, nose to nose.
> I'm gonna kill you, bitch.
> I'm gonna hurt you bad. Slut.
To be continued.....
-
Although Maria and I both did practically nothing but grab hair during the first 20 minutes of our catfight (besides maybe a little bit of shin kicking), my hair pulling of her did much more damge, because I was twisting her head and neck down and making it difficult for my ex-best friend to draw in full breaths.
I had learned the fine art of rag-dolling an opponent by her hair by painful experience--during the post-Fish Fry beating Kelsey and her interfering friends had put on me in Cleveland. Once you've lived thru a humiliating ..... and painful .... experience like that, you tend not to forget it.
Maria's hairpulls on me, by contrast, were of the grab-and-pull-straight-out variety. Hair was coming out by the roots--but she wasn't having an influence on any other part of my body. And her hands were so fully occupied with my hair that I was free to throw her around the room, and eventually onto the ground.
Mounting Maria was the greatest feeling ever. I pinned her shoulders down with my knees, and began slapping her face. Well, began only tells a fraction of the story. I slapped her face for a long time. Those slaps had a lot of history in them. Maria needed to know that I had ended our friendship, not her.
She needed to know I was the stronger woman.
She needed to know that a rematch wasn't even in the universe of possibilities.
The fight lasted long. But was it a close fight, even for parts of it? Not really. Other than foot long swaths of blonde hair on the floor, and my intense sweating, you'd never know I had been in a fight that Father's Day.
Hopefulla my Dad will get back with hit legit tough gilrfriend now. Hopefully I ended his Maria obsession.
Blondie at NYNEX better watch out. Her summer internship will end with her on her back.
Like Maria.
To be continued....
-
I worked flex time at NYNEX the Monday after Father's Day to get my annoying long hair chopped--and patched, in places where Maria had ripped it out by the roots. I also got the color touched up.
Blondie had to pipe in when I showed up.
> Finally noticed your roots were showing, skank?
> Screw you [incredibly cussing, including the F-word, is not allowed in our 'office'], loser. Everyone knows you dye your blonde mop a different shade of blonde.
> I never said I didn't dye mine, bimbo. I just said mine looks .... classy. Yours looks .... whore-ish. Like the whore you are.
> [It really hurts me when girls call me a whore, given that my experience with men is near virginal.] Note to self: scratch Blondie's head bald if she ever lays a hand on me.
> We can go right now if you want, sweetie.
One of the NYNEX blue collar workers overhears us and steps in--"Save it for the parking lot at summer's end, ladies."
I go home that night and spend 3 hours masturbating to the thought of catfighting Blondie.
To be continued.....
-
Absolutely totall erotic and amazing catfight scenarios....your writing is super duper.....the fact that you can do so many scenarios and keep up the "hots" is cool........
-
You might think that working a jam-packed schedule in a challenging environment like P&G would be exhausting and a grind. But this summer was teaching me the opposite--that it's the tedious, make-work, dead end jobs like my 'internship' in the NYNEX office -slash - glorified - switching - station that the suck the life out of you.
That, and, while this is mean to say, working with blue-collar middle-aged males who have the world's boot on their throat. 'Blue-collar' in 1987 didn't mean what it means in 2023. America has few true 'blue-collar' laborers left. These guys were skilled--they were trained engineers, builders, electricians. They never went to college, but not because they weren't smart. They WERE smart, but often had an undiagnosed reading disability that prevented them from scoring 400 on the Verbal half of their SAT.
So they got a blue-collar job instead at 19. Because union jobs still existed, and because we still made and built things (besides McMansions) in America, they made a good living.
But they were underchallenged at work. Their career plateau'd at age 25 or 27, and after that they were just counting down to retirement. Their home life was lackluster, after the honeymoon phase of their sex lives with their wives was over. First, she'd be too tired with the kids to accept his advances enthusiastically. Then, since there was no Viagra back then, as she got older and the kids got more independent, her renewed interest in 'doing it' was met with disappointment at HIS performance. So, they both retreated into their own inwardness sexually, and their sexuality became more and more disconnected from reality.
Which, for the now-40-something guys meant a mis-estimation of their desirability to us women in their workplace. They spoke boastfully to us about their sexuality, with an "Oh yeah, she's into me" glow when we responded with the tiniest sliver of civility.
They's be intrigued thst Blondie and I were both college students. "Wow, sexy AND smart!". Golly gee, what a combo!
Not that they thought we actually did and studying at school. They poked and prodded about the partying. Sex with boys .... and experimenting with sex with girls. [Although, ironically, they 'had me' on that one. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.]
With me in earshot, they would ask Blondie if she experimented with girls at school parties. And with Blondie in earshot, they'd ask me the same question. I responded truthfully--that at Miami, I had a suitemate from Cleveland who had a crush on me. There ard Lies of Commission and Lies of Omission--i was telling a whopper of the latter type of lie by leaving out my full blown affairs with Lorraine and Elena. But I couldn't think of way to get to the part of kissing them. So I just talked about sharing my suitemate's childhood bedroom in Cleveland.
Blondie told a similar story--a roomate in the dorm in Boston. Being alone with a girl, unchaperoned, for the first time ever at 3am. The now-or-never urge to be intimate, especially once beer is in the picture.
Then Blondie had to be a jackass: "But unlike Lisa, I regretted it the next morning."
"Gimme a break ..... alcohol makes you do what you REALLY want."
"Fuck you, Lisa, all I really want is to kick your ass."
The guys go off, laughing, muttering "PMS" [an all-purpose, misogynistic putdown by men of women in the worplace in the late 1980s], thinking Blondie and I are putting on a dhow to impress them.
But we're not. It's not about them.
It's about us. Blondie and I hate each other.
To be continued.....
-
I came home and had a Pity Party after my office bickering with Blondie, because she was right, but not for the reasons I thought.
I WAS more successful with women than with men .... but only because men were intimidated by my attractiveness. If Blondie was having better luck with men, it just proved I was more attractive than her.
DIDN'T SHE SEE THAT'S WHAT IT MEANT????
Saturday morning, I gog a surprise visit from my Dad's ex-gitlfriend. It was official--they had broken up. My Dad had tried to leave Maria after I beat her up, but couldn't "cut the cord". He was in love with her .... or, in my opinion, the younger version of her, when she had been my best friend. He was re-living his youth ... AND Maria's .... thru Maria.
I regretted not rag-dolling Maria when I beat her up. Like Kelsey had done to me in Cleveland. That's more humiliating to your opponent than mounting her and slapping her face.
My Dad's ex- and I commisserated with each other about my Dad's choices, and ours.
Then, we took out our frustrations on each other, WITH each other.
We stood up against the wall in my apartment, nose to nose, and started taking turns kneeing each other just below the belt.
We were doing it hard, and really hurting each other. We wanted to hear the moans of pain, and exertion, up close from each other.
> Ever since my Dad brought you home the first time, you were obsessed with hitting me. I love that.
> I loved it too. But I was baiting you, Lisa. I wanted you to want to hit me back.
> [I didn't know that.] I didn't know. But it's sexy.
> Now that you're doing it .... hitting me back .... do you like it?
> I love it. And .... it's not weird anymore ...
> Why not weird, Lisa?
> Because you'll never be my mother in law , silly.
> Ah. I see. But don't call me 'silly'. Call me 'bitch'.
> Don't call me Lisa. You call ME 'bitch', .... bitch.
> Fuck you, bitch.
My Dad's ex and I line up our mouths and start tongue kissing. We strip each others' clothes off.
By the time we stop kissing, we've missed lunch. We've both cum more times than we can count.
> Wanna go out and grab dinner, bitch?
> Yes. But somewhere quick. Then let's come back here and hurt eaxh other more.
> You read my mind, bitch.
> Fuck you.
To be continued........
-
Sunday morning, as my Dad's lay in bed next to me sleeping (and recovering from our long night of hurting each other), my Mom called me on the phone. She was fired up.
> Did you hear that that snake Maria is shacking up with your father?
> I did. She's a bitch. I always hated her. Even when she and I were friends.
> Do you remember senior year in high school? When you and her fought in my backyard?
> How could I forget?
> I always knew she was a snake. I was watching, hoping you'd beat her ass.
> [I don't have the heart to tell my Mom that I did beat Maria's ass, 3 weeks ago.] I know. I saw you peaking thru the curtain. I thought maybe you just wanted to see a wild bitchfight.
> Nah .... saw enough of those growing up in Pawtucket .... we were really poor, Lisa. No ... I was hoping you'd kick her ass. I was tempted to come out there and help you do it.
> You never told me about Pawtucket. Lots of girlfights then? Even in the '50s?
> Lisa, the '50s were the original Teens Gone Wild. Car culture, leather. Girls fighting over the alpha male.
> [My Dad's ex has overheard what my mom is saying. She's turned on. And knows I am too. She starts licking my pussy.] Mom, can I call you back? I gotta pee.
> [She senses I'm lying. And am with someone in bed.] Actually, I'm leaving for Sunday Mass now. You should go more often. Bring a nice boy home.
> Or beat up another girl and take hers?
> That's how I got your Dad. Bye, sweetie.
My Dad's ex and I flip into a 69 for the next three hours.
To be continued....
-
When I went into work next Monday, after a weekend of escapades with my Dad's ex, I was super-sleep-deprived.
When I'm sleep-deprived I get bitchy. And I knew exactly who I wanted to take my bitchiness out on: Blondie.
When she came in and sat down, I lay right into her.
> You're wearing more make-up than usual this morning. Covering up your zits?
> Fuck you, Lisa. My skin is clearer than your. Your back-ne is disgusting.
> [How does she know about my back-ne? Is it that bad? I change topics.] And your hair has its usual brillo pad look.
> [This touches a nerve. Blondie stands up.] What's your fucking problem, Lisa? Get stood up this weekend?
> I had non-stop sex this weekend, you clueless fucking bitch.
> With a man ..... or a woman???
> [How does this bitch know my fucking deepest darkest secrets? Is she spying on me? Now I stand up.]
Sex with a woman is still sex, cxnt.
> Call me that again, and we're throwing down right now.
> cxnt. cxnt. cxnt.
> I'm not fucking kidding, Lisa.
> cxnt.
> Bathroom. Right .... now. [Blondie turns and marches to our tiny, lonely ladies' rest room. Is she fucking serious. That's where we're fighting?]
> [I can't gracefully decline her challenge .....Nor do I want to. I'm crabby as hell right now.]
I strut into the ladies' room, my hands and knees shaking. I lock the door behind me. Blondie is standing next to the dirty potty.
> Just like high school. Loser gets dunked, Lisa.
> [How does she know about my high school bathroom fight wizh Maureen??] Fine by me.
We close the space between us, and dig our hands into each others' scalps, trying to slam each others' heads and bodies into the stall wall and door.
Fuck, Blondie is strong is hell. She's definitely been in fights before.
We start kicking each other in the shins as hard as we can, causing our high heels to fall off. Blondie releases her right hand and starts punching me in the face, landing one blow direct on my bottom lip, which I can already feel swelling.
> Fuck you, bitch.
> I fucking hate you, Lisa.
We waltz over to the bowl, desperately trying to push others' faces down into the water. The smell is so gross that I feel myself getting dizzy. By pure luck, I get my right leg under Blondie's, and she falls towards the lav.
I instinctively .... and desperately .... press my advantage. Blondie loses her footing, and her left shoulder makes contact with the brackish water. Her silk top absorbs the water and soaks thru.
> Get off, Lisa!!! Get the fuck off me!!! I give!!!!
I have an instantaneous choice to make. Show mercy .... or humiliate my enemy.
I decide to humiliate her. To completely dunk her.
But my hesitation foils my plan.
Our office manager open the ladies' room door. He sees us fighting.
"Lisa!!!!! Get off of her!!!! Now!!!!!"
To be cobtinued.....
-
After breaking up my bathroom fight with Blondie, the office manager took her out the backdoor, telling her he was taking her back to his place to clean her up. I immediately wondered if Blondie and the office manager had been having an affair all summer, or maybe even longer--maybe that's how she got her job here. And maybe that's why she was so cocky with me about having regular sex.
I assumed I'd be allowed to go home early as well, but was told by one of the NYNEX technicians that if I left, I shouldn't bother coming back--that I'd be fired. I used my fat lip as dvidence for a lie I began telling that morning that Blondie had sucker-punched me in the bathroom. Word of mouth was passing around the story pretty quickly that Blondie and I had fought in the bathroom, and I wanted to make sure it was MY version, and not Blondie's, that took root.
I figured out over the courae of the morning that my sitting behind my desk for the rest of the day with my fat lump, my crumpled clothes, and my wrecked hair was the point. Every NYNEX employee in the damned Back Bay, from our mini little sub-station to one's in walking distance from the neighboring high rises, made a point to come into the lobby and check out my face. I could hear them giggling and tittering as they left, gossiping about me being one of the two combatants in a NYNEX bathroom catfight. It was pretty much self-explanatory what the only explanation was for my battle scars.
I wondeted if this offices tradition of pitting 2 college girls in an end-of-summer brawl against each other was so that this "look at her" parade could happen post-fight.
Well, all the NYNEX voyeurs were getting their Summer 1987 show today.
I hope they were enjoying it.
Was I?
I was happy I had won the fight. Hearing Blondie beg me to stop was sweet music to my ears, that was for damned sure.
But I wished I could have finished the job and dunked her.
That would have been real sweet.
She's such a cocky bitch.
To be continued.....
-
If you learn one thing in Catholic School it's the God works in mysterious ways. And that was certainly grue for me during my 1987 NYNEX summer job.
I was going to clear out my NYNEX apartment, quit the next morning at work, then drive to Rhode Island to spend the rest of the summer with my Mom.
But I had a voice mail from an old P&G fellow intern from LAST summer. She gave me her number in the voice mail, so I called her back, and got an answer. She told me everyone at P&G missed me and had wondered why I hadn't returned (so, the story of my impulsive anti-Lorraine screed hadn't gotten around, at least not to the Average Bear). I asked about Lorraine, and was told that she was living in downtown Cincinnati in an expensive apartment with a female 'roomate', who was rumored to be her lesbian lover. The lover was her roomate at Wheaton.
Those 2 fucking bitches. I was instantly jealous as fuck.
I was jealous of Lorraine's luck with women.
But I was super-jealous that Lorraine's P&G paycheck was allowing her to live a grown-up lifestyle and be in a grown-up relationship.
While I was still having high school bathroom catfights.
If I quit NYNEX, I would have now burned bridges at 2 Fortune 500 companies.
2 down, 498 to go.
I was already behind financially from where I was hoping to be.
Miami of Ohio was relaising tuition again, and I was falling further into debt.
I ask my intetn friend if she has a Cincinnati phone book l, and can find Lorraine's number. She does, and gives it to me.
I call. It goes to voice mail.
"You fucking bitch, Lorraine. It's Lisa. I'm back in Ohio in September. Jope we can meet up for some Girl Talk."
To be continued....
-
After swapping threatening voice mails for a week, Lorraine and I finally connect live by phone on a Tuesda night in August.
> Hey, bitch. Enjoying pathetic NYNEX.
> Better than boring dinosaur P&G [P&G in 1987 is indeed resting on its laurels, and NYNEX feels is still in its Baby Bell honeymoon. But as I write this in 2023, P&G is still around going strong, while NYNEX didn't even make it all the way to the year 2000]. Best thing I ever did quitting there, cxnt.
> Fuck you, Liar Lisa. You lie, lie, lie. You tried to get ME fired, but I got YOU fired.
> [The gears in my head turn 850rpm--well, wait, she's not saying anything about the letter I wrote. She must not know the WHOLE story of what happened.] You call me a liar, Lorraine?? Fucking look in the mirror. You write me a rave review, then before the next summer are getting me fired?? What kind of useless mentor are you???
> I knew it, bitch. It's KILLING YOU that you have no future at P&G, isn't it? Admit it, slut.
> Fuck you, Lorraine. I got the spend the summer back home in in Boston, while you live IN THE FUCKING CLOSET FOREVER in Puritan Cincinnati. [In 1987, there was no way of knowing the lesbianism would become as accepted and mainstream as it has the past 40 years. The hardest thing about moving in with a permanent exclusive partner, especially in Middle America, was facing a lifetime of hiding your true self.]
> [Lorraine doesn't even try to pretend I've 'got her' on the repressiveness of the Queen City.] Fuck you, Lisa. I'm on the Fast Track here. I'll have my pick of transfers. And my partner will follow me.
> [Shit, is Lorraine actually THAT serious with her partner? My heart breaks a little bit.] Then face me when I'm back in Ohio next month slut. I'll fucking kick your ass. LIKE I ALWAYS DO.
> I'm scared, Lisa. So fucking scared. NOT. [Lorraine hangs up.]
> [So, are we fighting when I go back to school? Not? Did she hear there's life after P&G and get frustrated? Was her lover laying in bed next to her that entitlre conversation, and Lorraine was trying to get her jealous enough to move to her transfer city with her?]
In the dark of the night, I start to think my last guess is the correct one.
In which case ..... FUCK .... Lorraine just fucking used me. Again.
I always win rhe skirmishes with her. And dhe walys win the damn fucking war.
I pick up the phone and call my Dad's ex. She answers.
> Can you come to Boston this weekend?
> To help you move out of your NYNEX apartment.
> That. And one other thing.
> What?
> Hurt me bad. So .... fucking ... bad.
To be continued....
-
That Thursday night, my Dad's ex arrives to spend the weekend with me and to help me move out of the NYNEX apartment.
On Friday, Blondie's last chance to show up and work and face me, ..... she's a no-show. I guess our fight in the bathroom will end up being our brawl for the summer. Our NYNEX coworkers didn't get to see their annual summer catfight.
They just got to see me for a week with a fat lip. Oh well--some of them enjoyed that more than they would have enjoyed a fight anyways.
I don't end up getting much of a sendoff. Am I invited back next summer? Or am I blackballed because I impulsively fought in the bathroom with no one watching.
So I guess my next fight is with Lorraine, in Ohio in the fall.
In bed Friday night, my dad's ex tells me:
> I'm jealous of how much .... and how often .... you and Lorraine hurt each other. Do you prefer her company over me?
> Not even close, Babe. With HER, I like hurting her, but not getting hurt BY her.
> And with me?
> I like you hurting me. A lot.
> I like you hurting me, too. I should have asked sooner.
> Or ... forced me to do it.
> Oooooo, that IS sexy.
> Well, do it now then. Force me to hurt you.
Tonight is gonna be fun.
To be continued.....
-
As my Dad's ex and I cleared out my NYNEX apartment and got onto the road back to Rhode Island Saturday morning, we talked about growing up in the 1970s to Saturday morning cartoons. Saturday morning cartoons were already dying out by 1987, morphing in transparently marketing oriented fare like the Transformers and My Little Pony. Our 1970s classic cartoons were just as marketing oriented, existing just for heavily sugared breakfast cereals. But at least the cereal companies were opaque about their intentions--there were no breakfast cereals in the actual cartoons themselves. Transformers broke the wall between the show and the commercials--the show WAS the commercial.
The first infomercials, in fact.
That's pretty damned brilliant, Lisa. P&G lost a genius when the picked Lorraine over you.
The most classic morning cartoon of them all was Bugs Bunny, with its snarky violence.
Which they then upped a notch, with Sylvester and Tweety.
And then brought to a climax with Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner. The violence between them was more intense than any 1970s R-rated movie.
My Dad's Ex and I talked about how much we were drawn to the violence in those cartoons. We didn't have the terminology, at that tender age, to explain what we were feeling.
But it shaped our sexual personalities.
The childhood Mount Everest of Saturday mornings was followed by the Death Valley of Sunday mornings. No cartoons on TV. Intlstead, you'd get dressed up for Sunday Mass. Sunday Mass had violence, too. And not just the Crucifiction--although there was plenty of that, blood and all, both in images, statues, and words. There was the adulteress woman who was about to be stoned in the street by a mob. There was David and Goliath. There was St Paul (as Saul), present at the martyrdom of St Stephen. There was St Paul being captured, imprisoned, and fleeing across the Mediterranean, knowing the whole time his likely fate was his own crucifiction. There was Cain killing Abel on impulse. There were the world wars in Revelation.
My Dad's Ex and I, in our own ways, internalized these influences into our sexuality.
My Dad's Ex found fulfillment by joining had biker gangs, fighting her way up to ride in the bitch seat with an Alpha biker. Then fighting the baddest bitches in other gangs.
She told me my expression of sexualized violence was to pick a fight with Lorraine while I was a senior in high school. She said I was sub-consciously looking for someone to kick my ass.
And that I still was. Especially since Lorraine had failed to do so the first time around.
I told her how, during Spring Break, Kelsey had rag-dolled me in the alley in Cleveland.
"Got your blood pumping, huh?"
"I don't know. I was pissed her friends were hitting me."
"Yeah, that was sucky. Women should let two women settle their business alone."
"Yeah. They should."
"Women should settle things alone more often."
Ain't that the truth.
To be continued....
-
Miami of Ohio welcomes us back with a Convocation Mass. I'm starting my junior year of college now. The age Lorraine was when she had her beard high school boyfriend, heard I was dating him, and came to my house to catight me. Even though she knew I was in high school, too.
How incredibly immature that was of her, I can't help but observe. I can't picture sleeping with a high school senior at the age I am now. And I can't picture driving to a high school senior girl's house to catfight, no matter what the reason. Just the opposite--this spring I met a 28-year old in a Cleveland alley to street fight. That was way tougher than what Lorraine was doing at my age.
And yet it's Lorraine who has the career up and going at P&G. And me who they banned for life. And who NYNEX banned.
How fucked up is that.
I hate facing nine more months of school. Not because of the schoolwork--I actually enjoy that. But because of the opportunity cost of not earning pension service credit, which I'd be getting if I was still at P&G.
If I hadn't sent that impulsive letter saying Lorraine sexually harrassed me by basing my evaluation on me dating her that summer.
When did I get so impulsive?
Was I copying my Dad, who impulsively divorced my Mom, and started dating young chicks?
Or was he the one with the Grand Plan all along? Patiently waiting for Maria to turn 20, and then asking her to move in with him? Is that what he wanted all along, from the time Maria had our primary school sleep overs?
If it was, his patience sure paid off. He had her now. Even if it meant giving up me.
What would happen to me in May 1989 when I graduated Miami? Move into my Mom's small house? Where would I work? What kind of guy would I marry?
Should I just run away somewhere with my Dad's ex-girlfriend. She and I had undeniable sexual energy between us--but it was dangerous. We wanted to hurt each other all night long .... and twice on Sunday's. We'd never survive each other.
Should I dive into the surprisingly active underground lesbian commjnity in Cleveland? Hope to find a partner there?
Cleveland, Lisa? Really? Cleveland?
I wish the Church welcomed women in leadership positions. Not as priests--there's no way I'm committing to celibacy--but as parish finance directors. Maybe if I commit to being a greeter/receptionist for a few years, they'll let me on the Finance Committee. Somw really thriving suburban parish with a budget. Then I can go to a diocese.
The Cincinnati Archdiocese is thriving in 1987. The Catholic Church has some generous benefactors in Cincinnati. It sctually tithes--gives away 10% of its revenues--to other dioceses in Appalachia and the Midwest.
I don't know why Church Finance is speaking to me, but it is.
Maybe I'm trying to "quit" women--they've been nothing but trouble to me--and what better way to do that than to hide inside the Catholic Church.
Maybe in my receptionist role, there will finally be a man with the balls to ask me out, then to ask me to fuck, then to ask me to get married.
And I can keep doing Finance work for the Church. And stay away from women.
And the trouble they bring.
To be continued....
-
Other than finally finding a career calling ..... well, my third career calling, but this one feels like THE ONE ..... my Junior Fall semester is off to a sucky start. I'm 21 now .... legally of age to get into bars and buy liquor, and all of my suitemates are pressuring me to buy for them all the time. Like, all weekend long. I can't even get enough time to myself to masturbate.
The final weekend of September, I can't bear the thought of another Saturday/Sunday stint on campus with no classes.
I know what I'll do. I'll drive down to Cincinnati and kick the shit out of Lorraine.
My last Friday class ends at 12:05. I go back to my dorm and dress in club clothes. I bounce back and forth on whether I should warn Lorraine I'm on the way. Nah, I decide .... let her pee her pants when she sees me, and realizes why I'm there.
The drive down is lonely. My 21st birthday came and went without my Dad taking me out for a beer, something he and I had talked about my entire childhood. All because he decided to start dating ma childhood friend Maria.
Falls used to be such an exciring time of year for me and Maria growing up. New classes, new weekend sleepovers. Staying up till 1am one Friday night and seeing Freddy Mercury and Queen doing a Bohemian Rhapsody music video before MTV was even a thing. Realizing immediately why they called themselves Queen, and that Freddy was gay. Did I realize then that I was gay, too? In 1987, had I 100% accepted it yet?
Have I 100% accepted it even in 2023?
Four hours later....
I arrive in Cincinnati. A heartbreakingly beautiful early Fall sunset over the Ohio River.
I love this city. Even with its dying downtown department stores. Lorraine is so fucking lucky to live here. To be building a career here. To be fucking her girlfriend here.
I'm gonna kick her ass.
To be continued.....
-
As I park in the street and walk to Lorraine's apartment, I come to the realization that downtown Cincinnati has already deteriorated badly in the 22 months since I had my Fairy Tale Black Friday 1985 trip to the Cincinnati Tea Rooms in rhe Downtown Department stores. There's nothing but sirens blaring from every direction. Foot traffic isn't close what it should be for a Friday Happy Hour. Everyone's retreated to the suburbs for the weekend.
Except for pathetic Lorraine, sitting in her boring downtown apartment. Trying to eke out the last few nice weekends before the frigid Cincinnati winters set in.
She can't even spend the weekend watching football. The Buckeyes (Ohio State) are playing out the string in what will be Earle Bruce's last season. The NFL is playing wirh replacement players during their Strike.
Good. My Dad has nothing to watch on weekends with Maria. I hope they break up soon.
I'm starting to feel better about the two years I have remaining at Miami of Ohio, learning Church financial administration so I can work for an Archdiocese somewhere. Not Cincinnati, tho, I decide. The collapse of downtown is taking on Cleveland-sized proportions. Poor Cleveland. So many parishes are going to need to close. The beautiful Churches cost ssooo much to maintain.
The Catholic Church's beauty. That, more than anything, is what draws me to it. The organ music. The Gothic architecture and art. The liturgy. The chant at the end of the Eucharastic prayer: Through him, with him, and in him; O God Almighty father ...... forever and ever. I lose myself in that prayer everytime. I feel as one with the Church. I hope to never lose that feeling.
In this life. Or the next one.
I feel that warmth, that sense of safety, wash over me as I enter Lorraine's building, talk my way thru security, go up the elevator to Lorraine's door, and knock.
Please answer-Please answer-Please answer.
Phew. She does.
Her jaw falls to the floor.
> Lisa??? Lisa. How are you.
> Good, Lorraine. Good .... but not so good. Can I come in?
> Yes, sure. I'm alone this weekend. Did .... did you drive here???
> [Lorraine closes the door. She and I are alone.] Yeah. Impulsive, I know. But I needed to ask you something.
> Uh-oh. But ok. Go ahead. Ask.
> Lorraine ... do u wanna fuck?
> Lisa .... Yes. There's almost nothing else I'd rather do.
As we begin to strip and kiss, we both know what the 'almost nothing else' refers to.
It's that we'd rather fight.
But that can wait.
Lorraine and I go to her bedroom.
We strip.
And we fuck.
To be continued....
-
The Sunday drive home back to school makes me feel sad and lonely. I get the "Sunday Scaries" that the P&G management trainings always used the talk about--the dread that 9-to-5 employees get about getting ready for work on Monday mornings.
Why am I feeling so .... sad?
> Is it because I'm not in a relationship? and don't even know how to carry on a relationship? I've never been out on a date. All I have is fuck buddies.
> Is it because of how Lorraine and I fucked over the weekend? She's better at 'doing it' than I am. The eating out pussy, the tit-sucking, the scisdoring, all of it. She more ... purposeful .... at it. She stays with it longer and more intently, with a single position. I'm all over the place, ADD-ish ADHD-ish almost. There was one point where I was fingering her pussy, and she got completely dry but kept moaning. She was probably faking, to patronize me, but I was too afraid to ask her. I'll be mortified if Lorraine is better in bed than me. Where did she learn so much? At Wheaton? Should I have gone to a women's college?
> Downtown Cincinnati is Deadsville on weekends. Not lesbian bar scene to find a catfight at. More chance of getting mugged than getting into a lesbian catfight.
> I saw Lorraine's 401k/ P&G deferred comp account statement. She over $11,000 already. I have nothing to my name. NOTHING. She waking up every morning richer than when she went to bed. So unfair.
At least I have a realistic career path. Maybe I should be throwing myself into that.
I go to Sunday evening Mass on campus. Good ole Catholic Church--always my refuge whenever I'm having a pity party for myself. All of the students hug at the sign of peace. The hugging feels good--no sexual intent.
I need hugs now more zhan anything, I decide. My Mom and I talk, but have never been huggers. Feeling her aging skin and bones on mine scares me--my Mom is getting to old, too fast.
My Dad and I were always the huggers. On the couch watching football. Now he's on that couch with Maria, my ex-best friend. He's acting out on her lifelong crush with her. All those years he was hugging me, I assumed it was ME he had the crush on.
It wasn't. It was my friend Maria he wanted. And now he has her.
So gross.
And even after I beat the shit out of her.
Although he had been wanting to watch that, too. Maybe not me winning, but at least her and I fighting. He had been imagining that for years.
Trying to get me to talk about it. About her and I bickering. Whether it would become a chickfight.
Whether I'd be in my tennis skirt when it happened.
I wonder, now that he has Maria, if it was all worth it.
And I wonder if Maria thinks it was worth it, displacing me from my own house.
And I finally realize, getting hugged in Church, why I feel so sad.
To be continued....
-
In Theology class the next day, we were reading aloud from Saint Bonaventure, the 13th century Catholic scholar. There was a sentence in there which resonated with me--don't quote me exactly, but it was something about the Great One, the Good One, wanting nothing more to embrace us. And not together, but one by one.
I was craving embraces so much. In our suite, we did an affirmation exercise on Monday night. Monday Night Football had been a big deal for years, but the 1987 NFL strike had ruined it, at least for September and October. We did affirmation exercises instead. The one that night was giving each other chest hugs close enough to feel each others' heartbeats. About half the girls were tearing up during the exercise, so I didn't stand out when I did.
"Lisa. I never noticed how good you smell." That comment came up a lot that night. Was I really stand-off-ish with my suite mates? Why didn't they already know I usually smell good? That it's my 'thing'?.
My suite mate from Cleveland made sure we were hugging at the end of the exercise. She said she wanted to spoon with me in bed. Clothes on; nothing sexual.
Four hours later, when the crappy Replacement Player football game was over (I hope my Dad fell asleep on the couch with Maria), my Cleveland suite mate and I were naked spooning, me behind her, my erect clit touching her pussy lips.
We were humping, but so gently. Sort of sexual, sort of not. She directdd my hands to her hard breasts. I carressed them gently.
We came together after 3 hours of humping.
Then we faced each other and kissed and hugged. I liked that better than the humping.
Maybe I was making progress.
The next morning I was tired.
But less sad.
To be continued....
-
I start attending Mass at Miami, both Sunday and even on weekdays, specifically for the Sign of Peace hugs. I wonder if the other students who are here, especially the coeds, are doing it for the same reasons I am.
That they're sad. Of trying to keep away the sadness they felt in the past.
That they miss their childhood home. And miss their parents, before they turned into old women and midlife crisis men.
That their fed up with men. Men who don't know thd right way to approach women. How to ask them out on a date. How to ask them for sex. What kinds of things to do with them .... and to them .... once they're in bed together.
At Mass one day, they read the parable of the Five Wise Virgins who brought oil for their lamps, and the Five Foolish Virgins who didn't prepare properly. The Five Wise Virgins refuse to share their oil, and the Foolish Virgins get locked out of the Wedding Feast.
I wish one of the uncharitable Virgins dropped her oil and got locked out too. I wonder if in real life one of the Foolish Virgins would offer to fight for the oil.
Or if one of the Wise Ones would.
Some things are worth having a girlfight over.
To be continued....
-
On Friday, October 16, 1987, the wheels started to come off the U.S. stock market. Lorraine called me Friday night in tears, telling me she had bought P&G stock and call options on margin. If the market didn't recover on Monday, she would get a margin call, be forced to sell, and lose everything.
The market crashed on October 19. Down 22% in total, with P&G stock down almost as much. It bounced up a bit on Tuesday the 20th, but crashed again on Wednesday the 21st.
The account balance statement I had sneaked a look at when I drove to Lorraine's apartment at Cincinnati now said $0.00.
She was broke at 25.
> What am I going to fo Lisa?
> Hang in there, Lorraine. Xou have your career.
> I don't, Lisa.
> Wha? .... why not?
> My selling ... the margin call .... I wasn't allowed to do that. It was restricted stock.
> They won't fire someone for that, will they?
> Not that .... alone.
> Well? You haven't done anything else? [HAS she??]
> Lisa .... they got out the letter you wrote. The harrassment letter.
> I'll withdraw it, Lorraine. I',ll say I lied.
> They fired me.
-
Lorraine's rent in her Cincinnati apartment was paid through December 1987, but she had no way of paying anything beyond that. She asked if she could crash in my suite at Miami until she figured out how to get home to Rhode Island. One of our suitemates was in the process of flunking out, so we all agreed to let her use that bed and space (and meal plan).
Incredibly, I had to pick Lorraine up from Cincinnati and drive her up to Miami. Because she didn't own a car.
> Lorraine?? You didn't own a fucking car that whole time in Cincinnati.
> Nah. I just walked to work. Or took a cab on rainy days.
> But what about groceries? How'd you get them home?
> I ate out a lot. But if I needed a guy to deliver something, I'd barter.
> Barter?
> Ya know--you carry my stuff; I'll give you a blow job.
> Ew. Slut.
> Don't tell me you've never done it.
> Lorraine .... listen to me carefully ... I ... have .... never.... given ... a stranger .... a blow job. [I don't tell her this, but the total number of blow jobs I've given is less than five.]
> Prude.
> Slut.
It's good to have you back, Lorraine.
Bitch.
To be continued...
-
Within a couple of nights of temporarily moving into my dorm suite, Lorraine was finding her way into my bed every night. I showed her the erect-clit-from-behind spooning my Cleveland suitemate and I had figured out. We loved doing it while hissing insults to each other.
I fucking hate you, Lorraine.
You're such a fucking bitch, Lisa.
Loser.
Harrasser.
Failure.
Broke-ass cxnt.
Both of us were broke as fuck. We had nothing to show for our education to date, despite getting all the advantages of internship at P&G. We were pretty sorry fuck-ups.
On top of that, Lorraine had 2 other addictions. The first one I noticed when I would come back from class, and Lorraine would be listening to the stock market update on WCBS on AM radio. She'd have this checklist of stocks she'd be following. I was pretty sure she got into a hole on her P&G stock not just from the October 19 crash--that she had been trading other stocks on margin. Not for income--but as an addiction.
Her other addiction I was more sure off--alcoholism. Her breath at night would reek of rubbing alcohol. Anything she could scavange up in the suite. My Dad and I in the late 1970s watched a ridiculous TV movie where these plane crash survivors were stranded on an isolated island, and a doctor was performing makeshift surgery on a wounded fellow survivor, and begged aloud for "Alcohol! I need alcohol! Anyone here have rubbing alcohol??", and another survivor gave up his flask of rubbing alcohol which he had been sipping from the whole movie. My Dad cracked up at what a lame, contrived scenario the writers have conjured.
But that's what Lorraine was actually doing inour suite. Sucking on hand sanitizer or eye-moisturizer or anything with even semi-alcohol content.
I thought she was pathetic.
And yet I knew exactly the sad, empty place she was coming from.
The man-boys of this world who couldn't flirt with you. Or, if they did flirt, didn't ask you out. Or, if they did ask you out, didn't invite you to bed.
Wanna know what made me the saddest?
The men who were just curious if you would get into bed with them. And once you said, "Yes,' were like, "Oh, sweet." They didn't want to fuck-- no, no, no, they were goid, thank you, at this point. Knowing that you WOULD fuck them.
No actual fucking was going to happen. Not now. Not ever.
They were just curious. And I had satisfied their curiosity.
It made me sad everytime that happened.
Lorraine had experienced it, too.
I turned to fighting.
Lorraine turned to .... rubbing alcohol, I guess.
And we were both headed no where because of it.
To be continued.....
-
In early November 1987, I call my Mom to give her a heads-up that when I come home for Winter Break, I'm bringing Lorraine. Yes, Lorraine. the College Girl that came to our house to fight me in 1985. Yes, Mom, THAT Lorraine.
> Lisa, is everything ok? Is there something you're not telling me.
> [There's 1,000 things I'm not telling you, Mom. Isn't that what a mother-daughter relationship is? Not telling each other stuff?] Mom, ..., remember when your Dad died? In 1974?
> Yes, of course, sweetie. What about it?
> Remember how before the funeral, you told me Grandma might cry?
> [I'm pretty sure I hear my Mom gasp. Or sigh. One or the other.] Lisa, sweetie. Wherever are you going with this?
> Mom .... the only one crying at the funeral was .... you.
> Lisa .... honey ..... how do you remember all this?? WHY .... do you remember all this?
> [I actually momentarily forget why I'm bringing all this crap up.] Mom .... Mom, I'm really sad. Lorraine's really sad, too. .... Mom, she and I need each other right now ..... I don't know for how long ... But for now, we need each other.
> Lisa ..... and I don't mean this confrontationally .... I'm asking out of pure curiosity .... are you and Lorraine gay?
> Mom ..... don't ask about me AND Lorraine ....
> I'm sorry, honey drop Lorraine .... I didn't mean anything by that ....
> [i'm glad my Mom caught herself .... this isn't a Lisa-Lorraine-reveal conversation .... This is about me .... or needs to be] Thank you, Mom .... Mom, I'm gay.... Mom, I like being with girls ..... Mom, it's too hard with guys ... Mom, the ... what's it called .... not flirting .... Mom, the small talk .... the beating around the bush, pun intended ... [I never thought I'd be talking 'bush' with my Mom] ... the propositioning .... Mom, it's easier with girls ..... Well, girls like Lorraine, at least .... Mom Tommy was Ssssooooo Ssmmmmaaall ... [my Mom chuckles..... is my Dad small? I've never seen him] ..... Mom .... I feel sssooo goood dpooning with Lorraine .... since she came here .... [My Mom has been quiet for awhile now] .... Mom, am I rambling???....
> Lisa, I love it when you ramble. It reminds you when you're 7.
[My Mom and I are both sobbing into the phone by now. We awkwardly say goodbye. .... We forget to say we love each other.]
Later that night, Lorraine comes into my bed and asks me what I need to hear.
> Lisa ..... Wanna fuck?
To be continued....
-
Lorraine and I spend Thanksgiving in Rhode Island at my Mom's house. My Mom thoughtfully lets Lorraine and I use her queen-size bed in the master bedroom, while taking the twin bed in what had been my bedroom for herself. Lorraine and I do the same spooning at night the we hsd been doing at school, and both manage to cum a few times, although not as frequently .... or as enthusiastically .... as we hsd been cumming in my dorm bed. Knowing my Mom in a few yards away .... and can probably hear us, at least if we get carried away ..... subdues our coital gynmastics.
And, when we hiss in each others' ears, we do it in a whispering voice.
-You're sssuccchh a slut.
-You're a dirty wench.
-Your cxnt is filthy.
-You're a nasty bitch.
Thanksgiving Dinner is intimate but sad. We decide to confront the sadness elephant directly, by talking about him openly over turkey.
> Did Dad say what he and Maria are doing for Thanksgiving?
> They're going to Maria's parents house.
> [Gasp] WHAT? And Maria's Mom is ok with that?
> Maria's Mom is ok with .... THEM??? With them together?
> Well, the rumor is ... and this is uncorroborated .... but the rumor is that Maria's Mom is developing Alzheimer's .... and that the Dad already has it.
> Oh .... that's kinda sad ..... Mom, how many times must I have had sleepovers there in grade school and middle school .... the Dad always WAS kinda quiet .... kinda like he couldn't keep up with the conversation.
> Still, so young .... stil in their 50s, right?
> I wonder if that why Maria ran to your Dad, Lisa. Fear of both her parents slipping away. Trying to find a new one.
> Yeah, great .... by taking mine. What a bitch.
> Yeah, what a fucking bitch.
> Is that who you two were whispering about in bed last night?
> Wha....?
> Huh?
> I dinstictly heard from xour bedroom last night .... both of you saying 'fucking bitch' ..... over and over.
> [Blushing]
> Umm, .... Mom .... , I'm not gonna lie .... when Lorraine and I are doing it, we call each other names.
> Ohh .... and, that's a turnon?
> If it was anyone else? No. But wizh her? Hell yeah.
> Oh.
> .....
> .....
> You 2 girls are full of surprises.
To be continued.....
-
On the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend, Lorraine and I attend the Vigil Mass for the Feast of Christ the King at a basilica just outside Providence. Since I've graduated from a Catholic high school and attend Miami of Ohio, I know that the Feast of Christ the King was instituted in the 1920s by Pope Pius XI, in the wake of World War I and the fall of the Hapsburgs, the Romanovs, and the Hohenzollerns. Various strongmen were setting themselves up as dictators of their countries, and the Pope wanted them to know that the Truly Risen Christ wasn't just King of Heaven--he was King of the Universe, on and outside Earth.
The celebrant of the Mass was was a heavily-accented but clearly pious Filipino priest. His every gesture was saintly, untainted; so different than mine since 1985. He chanted the concluding Doxology of the Eucharistic Prayer in such perfect Latin that it may as well been from an angel--
Ipsum, cum ipso, et en ipso.....
Through Him, and with Him and in Him;
In unity with the Holy Spirit,
All Glory and honor is yours, Almighty Father,
Forever and ever.
Amen.
The Filipino priest is chanting in Latin, but my mind is comprehending it in ..... English .... I guess .... I'm understanding and feeling every word as if my native language is Latin. Lorraine and I hold hands so tight that a complete Love washes over us.
A love for each other.
And an acceptance of ourselves. Who we are. Where we stand in our lives.
I wish the Filipino priest could come home with us, and chant his prayers endlessly to us.
As the soundtrack to our lives.
I stand in line and receive Holy Communion from the Filipino priest on my tongue. I wonder if he comprehends how much his chanying has helped me.
Lorraine and I drive home in silence, a completely pious and holy silence. My Mom has dinner waiting for us--lamb chops, which are expensive to buy and awkward to prepare. I wonder when she thought yo get us that. It reminds me of my suite mates in Cleveland, women always remaining behind at home to prepare a homecooked meal for those at Mass.
I crave that lifestyle for myself after graduation.
I ask Lorraine if she does too.
'I crave fucking you constantly, Lisa.'
That answer foesn't address my question. But I like it.
To be continued.....
-
As Lorraine strips in my Mom's bedroom at night and I'm unable to see her in the early New England Nov/Dec dusk, I think back to my high school sleepovers with Maria--some at my house, some at hers.
At bedtime, we would strip unashamedly in front of each other, thinking nothing of it. And in the Nov/Dec dusk, without consequence anyways, as we could make out each others' nude forms only in outline anyways.
But the June sleepovers were an entirely different matter. We would frequently change into pajamas as soon as 7:45pm (so as to be ready for Lawrence Welk at 8pm on WCVB-5), with the full pre-twilight sun still glaring into the windows.
Our now-fully formed adult breasts were now on display, completely and transparently, to each others' side stare. We silently acknowledged that while I had been the prodigy in breast develolment, Maria had entered womanhood as the winner and champion. Both in bust size, and cup size, she had somehow surpassed me.
Of all the things I ended up hating about Maria, I hated her late-bloomer breasts the most.
Is that why my Dad eventually left my Mom?
To make himself available to the plus-sized Maria?
I ask Lorraine in bed, "What fo you think of me having better breasts than you?".
> "I hate it. And I hate you. Bitch."
> "Good."
To be continued....
-
I made the drive back to Miami alone, leaving Lorraine behind at my Mom's place until 4 weeks from now and Christmas Break. My Mom realized that if Lorraine didn't get a job and get out of the house soon, she'd sponge off of my Mom and I, but even worse build up an ugly gap in her resume.
Lorraine and I had both stepped off of the P&G hamster wheel. But there was no stepping off of the capitalism hamster wheel. We were both getting closer by the week to being single middle-aged women with no careers.
But worse than having no careers .... having no careers after having P&G shareholder wealth in our grasp. Stock compensation. Shaerholder dividends. Capital gains.
How had we blown it all? ..... and so fast?
Was it because of the fight I had started with Lorraine when she was still at Wheaton? We didn't even finish that fight the first day. We both ended up fighting each others' Wing Girls. We fought each other later .... and became lovers .... after finding out we were both gay.
Had 'the system' figured out we were gay .... and filtered us out .... by our strange behavior?
In 1987, we didn't have the words to understand privilege and oppression. Lorraine and I had privilege by being white .... and attractive blondes. But we were women in a man's world. And lesbians in a straight person's world.
And we made mistakes that people like us didn't recover from in the 1980s.
Get serious, Lisa. No more fighting. No more chickfights.
No matter how much you like it.
Can I pull it off?
To be continued....
-
During the last couple of weeks of the Fall 1987 semester at Miami, a few of us in the Catholic office staff training program get taken to a hermitage in rural Ohio.
Hermitage. More holy than a chapel, but less holy than a parish church or a basilica. I had heard that word before in middle school--it was what Andrew Jackson, the 7th U.S.President called his estate-home in Tennessse. I now understood why he called it that.
Hermitage comes from the word hermit. As in contemplative monks in the Early Church who withdrew from the world to contemplate the Gospels and the Commune with the Lord and prepare to meet him in the next life. Today, in 1987, the residents were mostly nuns, and novices considering becoming nuns. There really were monk and nuns in 20th century Ohio--a jarring thought to contemplate for even a Catholic High School graduate. I mean, of course there were priests, and always would be. But actual monks?
The women in in hermitage were really naive in the ways of the world, in more ways than one. One of those ways being finances and money. They need full-time educated secular women like me looking out for their property and their nutritional and shelter needs.
And, maybe .... maybe, just maybe .... they were trying to "tempt" us Miami undergrads into becoming novices ourselves. Shoild I become a nun? Had I already sinned too much? Would that just be me hiding my non-heterosexuality? the fact that I would never get married?
Andrew Jackson. Funny he felt the need for a Hermitage. He had a major chip in his shoulder his entire life. Would fight on a moment's notice. Almost looked for fights.
Like me. Always looking for a good chickfight.
Maybe if I spent my life in hermitages I would chill out. Not be catfighting all the time.
To be continued....
-
Sitting in the quiet stillness .... the serene stillness .... of the rural Ohio hermitage (my new favorite word .... and place), I reflect on the parallels between a chickfight and a girls' tennis match.
> You face each other 1on1. No teammates. No substitutes. Just you and her.
> You're each carrying a fairly menacing stick.
> There's a waist-length net separating the two of you. Like dogs in a kennel needing to be physically separarted.
> You both get sweaty. But mostly the losing girl.
> You trade blows; unlike other sports, literally you take a shot ... then her .... then you .... then her .... like a faceslapping duel. If that's not primal, I don't know what is.
> You both dress snappy .... yet practically.
> Two girls enter, one girl leaves.
> Only one girl can be the best.
Do these thoughts show I'm growing into a better version of myself?
Or that I'm going to fall to my addiction.... like Lorraine fell to her trading addiction.
I'm guessing I'll know by 1990.
To be continued....
-
Love this
-
Christmas 1987 was a bittersweet pill to swallow. On the one hand, Lorraine was still staying with my Mom and me, so my Mom's home was the liveliest it had been since my Mom got divorced. I think she enjoyed the busy house. Lorraine was also showing signs of genuine .... happiness. I think she realized how sterile her downtown Cincinnati apartment was ... how there was nothing to her life but her career.
She and I would sit on my Mom's couch for hours just kissing each other. I loved the moans of contentment I could get out of her if I kissed her just right.
That was the sweet part. The bitter part was not seeing my Dad for Christmas. He was still living with Maria, my childhood friend. There was no way I was going to see him if he was picking Maria over me.
When we (Mom, Lorraine, me) went to Christmas Eve Mass, I felt the house calling to me, beckoning to me, to skip Mass and just kiss with Lorraine for another hour. I wasn't tempted by the voice ... I wanted to go the Mass, and anyways I had a whole Winter Break ahead of me to kiss with Lorraine. But it reminded me of 11:15am Sunday mornings growing up. My Mom pestering me to get dressed and ready for Mass .... and that same voice tempting me to skip Mass and which NFL pre-game football with my Dad.
In the days after Christmas, that same voice began tempting me again. Not anything about Mass or Church .... but about getting into a catfight during Winter Break. Maria was the obvious choice ..... but I had beat her ass so bad when we fought over the summer, I wanted that memory to stick in her craw for awhile.
A better choice was Maureen. My high school classmate, who I had fought in the bathroom while our friends guarded the door.
What a hard fight that had been; more like two guys fighting with fists than two girls catfighting. Maureen still lived in yhe neighborhood, in HER childhood home, with het Mom.
On December 29, Lorraine and I drove past her home. It was a mild day for Rhode Island in December.
Maureen was in her driveway on a lawn chair with a bottle of beer in her hand.
Lorraine and I parked the car and got out. There was no where for us to sit.
> Real classy, Maureen.
> Lisa, Lisa. I was wondering if you might be home for the holidays. Did you bring me my Christmas present?
> I think my purse has $100 in it. ..... If you can take it from me.
> [She gets up slowly, precisely understanding the challenge I just issued her.] Let's go in the backyard, bitch. No one will interrupt us.
> Lorraine can watch, right?
> Lorraine can drag your sorry ass home after I kick your ass, Lisa.
> Ok. Let's go. Bitch.
To be continued.....
-
Writing about these events, and my life and family and friends, three and a half decades, I can definitively say that the North Star of my life has been the Catholic Church. By that, I don't mean that I always followed the teachings of the Church. What I mean is that no matter how off track my life got, I could return to the Church, and it had barely changed. And cumulatively, over three and a half decades, it still hasn't changed much, despite half my lifetime having passed me by. Contrary to the consensus of today's secular society, there's value in that. It brings real actual comfort to real, actual, damaged people. No matter how much longer I have to live and breathe and write, I'll continue to speak those words. Because I believe them to be true.
But, back to my story. What HAS changed since 1987? In 1987, there was no texting, no internet to speak of, no wifi, no social media, no Xbox or PlayStation. When it was the two to six weeks of Winter Break, depending on where you were in your education journey, you couldn't just post on your Instagram where you were hanging out for the duration, if you were amused or bored, if you were looking to hook up, if you were looking to fight an old rival or enemy.
So, a perverse reverse logic kicked in--if you "lay low", everyone would just assume you were one of the cool kids with rich parents with access to a beachside condo in Florida, and were escaping the cold and ice and drear of the New England winter, so don't even bother calling your number (on a freakin' land line!). So your voluntary laying low would morph into involuntary solitude, and missing out on every party, for 6 weeks.
No, no, no ...... if you were around, you needed to "get out there", show your face. Like Lorraine and I were doing, driving around aimlessly ('cruising'). Or like Maureen was doing, sitting on lawn furniture in her front yard.
The free-floating electron found the ionized atom, and attracted each other.
And we both felt like fighting.
We both liked it. And were good at it.
Although it was seasonally mild, it was still chilly out in absolute terms. So Maureen and I left our sweatshirts on. Which made us less vulnerable to scratching. And gave a layer of protection from fists and knees. Those would need to come at the endgame of the fight. When we could aim directly for the nose and mouth.
The opening and middle game would have to resort to the chickfight classic tactic ..... hairpulling.
And Maureen's was long and thick. And was wearing it down.
I grabbed two handfuls and twisted and pulled and yanked with all my might. Because I was fucking angry.
And I wanted Lorraine to see me win.
> Fuck you, bitch, let go of my hair.
> When you let go of mine.
> That ain't happenin', Maureen.
> I should have fucking reported you after our high school fight, gotten you expelled.
> [I wonder if she's heard that I managed to get myself expelled from my career path anyways.] Because you're a rat narc, Maureen, you fucking loser bitch.
Whether she heard MY story or not, I've managed to stumble into HERS. All the fight comes out of her at my insult.
Maybe it was 'loser'? Does she think of herself as a loser?
I mount her. Earlier than I expect, I can start aiming my fists direct at her mouth. She's bleeding after less than 20 hits. She can taste it and gives.
> Anytime you want a rematch, bitch, just ask.
> Fuck you, Lisa.
> You want more, Maureen.
Lorraine grabs me and drives me home.
We have the best sex since I get back from Winter Break.
I fall asleep for 2 days.
My Mom shakes me out of bed.
> Happy New Year, Lisa. It's 1988!
To be continued....
-
A terrible blizzard hit Rhode Island on January 7, 1988--lots of snow and very cold. Lorraine and I put on our winter clothes and dug out Mom's driveway with the snowblower, then shovelled out the walk and driveway.
My Dad was such an ass to leave my Mom and leave this work for her in her old age. How was an old woman supposed to keep up with New England winters? And leaving her to sleep with my childhood friend Maria.
Who lost to me in a fight.
I assmed once I best up Maria that he wouldn't find her arousing anymore. Maybe he didn't - was he just going thru the motions with her? Because he was afraid to admit he made a mistake shacking up with a woman less than half his age?
When Lorraine and I get inside from the snow, my Mom warms us up with hot chocolate.
With Kahlua in it. After a while, lots of Kahlua. Lorraine and I get really buzzed.
We pick up the phone and call my Dad's number.
> Hello?
> Hey Maria, you fucking bitch. Is my Dad there.
> We didn't know you were still talking to him. You didn't call for Christmas.
> He didn't call me, either. And stop using 'we' when you refer to him and you. You're just a skank he's fucking. He sees teenage you when he looks at you, Maria. Not adult you.
> He and I are 'we'. You gonna make me stop saying that?
> Oh, silly me, I thought I won our catfight. On Father's Day, remember? Remember who won, bitch?
> I lost that fight on purpose, Lisa. He can't stand to see you get hurt.
> Are you fucking serious, Maria?? The fight me with him not around.
> He'll know I beat you up.
> Excuses. You're a fucking coward. [Lorraine in background: Hang up on the bitch. Don't give her the satisfaction.
I hang up on Maria.
Lorraine and I make out wildly on the couch. My Mom doesn't exsctly ogle us.
But she doesn't leave the room either.
She's genuinely curious to know what Lorraine and I do with each other.
While we're making out the phone rings.
My Mom answers, and listens for 30 seconds. She hangs up.
> Lisa, it was your Dad. He apologizes for Maria not putting your call thru. He says she was a bitch to fo that.
Lorraine and I resume kissing, and I cum on the couch. Loudly.
To be continued....
-
One Saturday night, Lorraine, my Mom, and I are in the mood for a movie. We decide to watch 'Less Than Zero' because I had read the Bret Easton Ellis novel it was based on in a class at Miami. And because it starred Andrew McCarthy, who was the type of guy I was wishing my first sex partner, Tennis Tommy, had been. Maybe I would have been straight if Tommy was as good in bed as Andrew McCarthy.
About halfway into the movie, Andrew's character has a nude sex scene with his girlfriend. The two of them are really going at it, and the camera shows a lot. All of the actress, of course--but even a lot of the actor, which is unheard of in 1980s movies.
My Mom, Lorraine, and I are all uncomfortably blushing. My Mom breaks the awkward silence.
> I doubt that's how Maria and your Dad fuck. He's not nearly that energetic in bed.
> [Upset that my Mom 'went there' with my Dad. I hate MARIA, not my Dad. I try to steer the conversation elsewhere.] Ewww, Mom. And that's not what makes that scene .... awkward. Right, Lorraine? [Lorraine nods.]
> Well, girls? What makes it awkward? That I watch you two make out?
> [My Mom is irritating me tonight.] No, Mom. You only watch me and Lorraine kiss--not actually get intimate.
> Which ..... I'm still curious about. Maybe another time. But I still don't get the awkward silence.
> It's, ummmm, .... Mom, remember how Lorraine and I met? Mom, Lorraine and I were both dating thay boy Tommy.
> Tommy?
> From tennis, Mom!!! Remember?
> My goodness, that's right! Lorraine, you came here one day to fight Lisa! Girls, where does the time go?
> ........
> So, ummm ..... DID you two fight??
> Mom ..... I drove the Wheaton and fought her.
> Lisa, I remember that .... But I thought Maureen ended up fighting Lorraine .... and you fought a different Wheaton girl.
> Well, Lorraine and I fought first .... really hard, too. Right, Lorraine?
> Oh, totally hun. [Lorraine strokes my hair and kisses me.]
> But if you two were sleeping with the same guy now .... would uou fight like that.
> .....
> .....
> Oh. That's why you're awkwardly silent.
> ......
> ....
> Can I watch you two kiss more?
We never finish the movie. That noght, or ever.
To be continued.....
-
In bed the next morning, Lorraine and I talked about how our first attempt at heterosexuality (Tennis Tommy) had gone so off the rails. How we had put ourselves on a collision course with each other. How The Other Woman in the relationship became our obsession, not the boy we were having sex with. How we tried to keep the boy with jealousy to each other, rather than bonding to him.
Would we be straight now if our first straight relationship hadn't been so ..... unconventional?
And yet .... it wasn't our fault, was it? We were two smart, attractive, extroverted blonde girls. Why weren't boys competing for us? There were more of them than there were of us. Why were Lorraine and I the one's without a Musical Chair?
Why did men still, even now in 1988, fumble at asking me out? What were they afraid of? Rejection? I hardly ever rejected a man. And even when I did, I did it in the most non-humiliating, face-saving ways imaginable.
I never showed up a man for making a pass at me.
Lorraine and I talk about me going back to school in Ohio soon. Will we date other people? Girls? Boys?
Will we be jealous of each other? Of our dates?
If one of us dates a girl, will the other one want to fight that girl? If a fight happens, will it be a vicious catfight? Will that make us horny?
Why do we both like to fight so much?
Do lesbian girls get into love triangle fights? We're lesbians ourselves (or, bi-, at least), and don't even have anyone we can ask these questions to.
We're still practically virgins at this, even after all we've been thru yhe past three years.
Wash outs at business. But virgins, virtually, at sex. Well, not at sex. At relationships.
Either that, or, .... maybe .... maybe we just suck at relationships.
And always will.
Maybe we have 35 years of loneliness ahead of us, after which we'll wake up in 35 years and be pathetic sociopathic spinsters. Like the 'Old Maid' in the card game I used to play with my parents.
Or in my sleepovers with Maria.
What will 2023 Lisa be like? 2023 Lorraine? 2023 Maria? 2023 Maureen?
Will we still catfight a lot?
Because if we do .... I can handle all the other stuff.
I do enjoy a good chickfight.
To be continued....
-
My last Saturday before heading back to school in Ohio, Lorraine, my Mom, and I headed into Lechmere to buy some supplies and bedding for me. Lechmere doesn't exist anymore, but it was a big deal in New England in the 1970s and 1980s. It was a department store that had washing machines and beds and clothes and shoes--all the essentials of living. More specialized than Sears and J.C.Penney, but before Home Depot and Lowe's made their way up north.
Lorraine and I must have been letting out some pheromone, because we were getting hit on like crazy by boys the whole trip. (My Mom even got hit on my one!)
Is this what the secret was all along? Just go out shopping?
I had missed the whole mall scene in my high school years because of my travel tennis. So I didn't know how to flirt in a mall--how to show your hair, your ass, your legs.
Lorraine and I started competing to see who could get the most numbers. The custom was that the girl GIVE her number .... but that wouldn't work for Lorraine and me, because we were living in the same house, and had the same number. It's 1988--no cell phones. Remember?
Some boys were confused by the script-flipping and walked away. Others were intrigued .... relieved, even .... that the ball was now in Lorraine's or my "court" [pun intended] to call or not call. The pressure was off them.
At night, Lorraine and I discussed what we'd do with all the numbers we'd received. Would we actually call the boys for a date.
> You mean, will I? You're going back to schoool. You can't call.
> Gheezh, I'll be back for spring break. That's just 6 weeks. We can talk on the phone fpr a month, thrn I come back and fuck.
> Boys don't wait 6 weeks.
> They would for me. And what yhe fuck do you know about boys anyways?? [The part comes out harsher than I meant it to. But, too late .... it's ON now.]
> What the fuck is thst supposrd to mean, Lisa? I've fucked boys.
> How many? One?
> I fucked before Tommy.
> Was it as fake as your joke relationship with him?
> That relationship was a joke because a slut inserted herself.
> A slut??? .... Me???
> If the shoe fits .....
> Lorraine ... you really are a bitch.
> I learned from the best.
> Fuck you. You were a bitch before I came around.
> And you made me worse.
> Lorraine .... you're three fucking years older than me. How did I influence you?
> Because you're such a bitch inside.
> Fuck you.
> Fuck you, Lisa.
We go to bed. We don't kiss.
Are we breaking up?
To be continued....
-
When I got back to Miami for my spring semester, I tried to forget about Lorraine, and Rhode Island, by obsessing over my beautiful, glamorous classmates in my Finance classes. They were spending their summer and winter breaks working internships at banks and brokerages and investment firms. Their looks got them in the door, but it was their glamour, which spoke, "You can trust me with your secrets, and I'll be discreet with them," which was making them advance.
Advancing to the point of the ladder Lorraine and I were already at at P&G, before I torched both of our career thru my impulsivity.
That what these Miami girls' glamour actually was--the utter absence of impulsivity. They would never do .... would never imagine doing .... the impulsive shit Lorraine and I did at P&G. Fighting each other. Driving 200 miles on a Firday afternoon to fuck esch other. Dating each other when we have supervisory authority over the other. Writing accustory letters to management.
I liked these girls' discipline better. Even Maureen and Maria were trashy compared to them. Maureen wanting to catfight me in a filthy bathroom. Maria wanting to fuck my Dad, enen though he was thirty years older than her.
The Miami Gamour was the anti-dote to my white trash Rhode Island upbringing. My Mom had hoped travel tennis was my path out. Then Catholic college at Notre Dame, Boston College, or Holy Cross. And she was right--she just gave up too soon when I didn't make the grade at the Big Three. Miami and Villanova and Providence and Pepperdine and Creighton and other swam in the same waters as BC--the trained us in the same Glamour cache as their more prestigious brethren. And these girls had figured it out.
While I was sill in the gutter, literally and figuratively, with Lorraine. With Maureen. With Maria. With my suite mate and her Cleveland family.
With my Dad's ex.
Who went behind the butcher's shop and kneed each other in the groin. Who enjoyed hurting each other.
No Miami of Ohio girl would do that.
I wanted to be more like them.
I started studying Finance with them.
They knew I had played tennis.
They knew I had washed out at P&G (thpugh not why).
They knew I understood the downtown Cincinnati department store Tea Houses.
They thought I was attractive.
I was in.
To be continued....
-
One of the Finance majors started hanging out with me--her name was Fallon. Such a glamorous name, I thought.
I showed her mine and she showed me hers.
Not our naked bodies--nothing like that. Fallon was so stiff, I don't think she even got naked in the shower.
We showed each other what we had been doing with our Miami education.
She showed me her Finance homework. Not much in the way of numbers--just lots of complex mathematics. Lots of symbols, variables, and formulas. Pretty impenetrable stuff if you didn't have someone to guide you thru it. Manageable if you were patient and curious. And smart.
For the first time since high school, someone was thinking of me as smart.
I was thinking of myself as smart. Why had I stopped thinking of myself that way? After I got rejected by Notre Dame and Boston College and Holy Cross? Fuck them. I was still smart.
I showed Fallon the Catholic chapel on campus where I liked attending Mass. The reading was Second Corinthians, Chapter 4. About being broken but unbowed.
I thought of myself that way.
At the Sign of Peace, Fallon hugged me. Our hands were on each others' asses. I liked it.
To be continued....
-
Fallon sits on my bed in my dorm room and we talk about school and boys. We rub each others' asses, through each others' skirts and panties, as we talk. Fallon tells me she likes when I rub her ass, because I do it how boys at Miami do when they're fucking her. She asks if boys rub my ass when they fuck me. I tell her no. She says she's surprised to hear that, because I have a nice ass. I blush.
Fallon would be surprised by a lot of things about me. She's so Straight Edge. I'm not. Would that turn her off?
I used to hear boys call having sex "getting a piece of ass". With Fallon, I finally understand why. Boys must like women whose asses they can hold as they fuck. I wonder why Tennis Tommy didn't hold my ass as we fucked.
It's because he just did the girl-on-top shit that he learned from Lorraine. I should have gotten suspicious right then that he and I would have no future. Or a present, even--that the sex beteeen him and me would always suck.
What a bitch Lorraine is. She's been ruining my life for three years, already. 1985 to 1988.
I need to lose her. But now she's living in my home.
With my Mom.
In my Mom's queen size bed.
I wonder if my Mom has been tempted yet to climb into that bed yet.
At 1 AM.
That would be a typical bitch move for Lorraine to pull.
What a fucking bitch she is.
To be continued.....
-
An a brisk March day in 1988, Fallon and I got permission to make a "field trip" to the Cincinnati diocesan offices to see how their accounting department worked. Well, I got permission to make the trip, and Fallon got permission to be my "chaperone", so that I wasn't travelling alone.
In the car on the way, I jokingly told Fallon to make sure she didn't "harrass" me on the way. Sexual harrassment didn't become a criminal, or even firable, act until the early 1990s, so it was more of a taboo, almost naughty topic to bring up in polite conversation in 1988.
Fallon giggled like I hoped she would. But then she also got serious and said harrassment was a common behavior in investment banking, and discouraged a lot of women from pursuing the field.
She asked me if I had been harrassed at P&G.
I brought up the topic of Lorraine.
> My intern advisor harrassed me. I was pressured into having sex. More than once. For a whole summer, really.
> In exchange for a good evaluation?
> Yes. It sucked.
> Did you tell anyone?
> Not at the time. Months later, I wrote a letter to the company.
> Oh, Lisa. I'm sorry. What happened? [Fallon is rubbing my thigh in the car. I love when she does that.]
> They rescinded my internship for the next summer. It's why I washed out at P&G. Forever.
> That's terrible, Lisa. What an asshole he was.
> Ummm.... it was't a he. It was a she. Her name was Lorraine.
> Lisa!!! Get out!!! A woman pressured you into sex???
> Yes. It's embarrassing. Don't tell anyone.
> Lisa. I won't. Don't worry.
> [We listen to the radio all the way to Cincinnati. We're early, so I drive Fallon past the sprawling P&G complex.]
> So many young people.
> I know. But, Fallon .... most will wash out in less than three years. That's the 'P&G Way'.
> Lisa .... I'm not saying it's the same as xou're situation.... But .... I have a confession too. ['Confession', to Catholics, refers to sin.]
> Oh?
> I've have sex with women, too.
> Do you .... like it.
> I love it.
> [The radio keeps playing. More awkward silence.]
> When we get get home tonight .... wanna have sex with me?
> Yes. Yes, Fallon, yes.
Fallon and I spend a distracted day at the Archdiocese Office. They have us sit at 1950s metak desks rolling pennies and nickels, dimes and quarters. They show us how budgets are prepared, how variance analysis is written.
Neither of us is paying attention.
We're just thinking about getting back to school and fucking.
To be continued.....
-
You've probably noticed by now that in describing my history with Lorraine to Fallon, I left out an awful lot of important details. I depicted myself as an innocent victim and Lorraine as an older predator, when in fact I had initiated all the trouble between us by going after her boyfriend.
And that Lorraine and I had grown up close each other in South Eastern New England.
I had also left out the fact the Lorraine and I had had three fights, and I had scored a draw or won each of them.
And that I had gotten Lorraine fired from P&G.
And that I had driven to Cincinnati and re-initiated the relationship between us, including inviting Lorraine into my childhood bedroom.
Once I knew that Fallon wanted to sleep with me, there was no way I was going to blow my chances with her by filling in the gaps in the Lisa-Lorraine story. I wanted to know what Fallon was like in bed.
Was she better than Lorraine?
Was she better than Elena?
Was she better than my suite mate from Cleveland?
Was she better than my Dad's ex-girlfriend?
Why was the list of women I had been with so much longer than the list of men?
Was I more attractive to women than to men?
Or, was I right along .... That I was so attractive to men that I intimidated them?
Should I wear a plainer haircut .... or even color it something other than blonde .... to make men ask me out more?
Was it already too late? Had my formative years sexually already gone by, and now I was a fully-formed lesbian?
Really, was it that men didn't know how to talk to me?..... Or was it that I didn't know how to talk to THEM?
As Fallon and I kiss and strip each other, I ask her if she really wants "to do this" ..... that I'm not ruining her for me, am I?
> Don't worry, Lisa. Someday I'll find my Prince, and he'll marry me.
Will that ever happen to me?
Fallon wasn't very good in bed. Or, she was ok .... if I did all the "work".
I wasn't used to that.
Fallon could tell my interest was waning.
I'm pretty sure she didn't cum.
We didn't talk much after that.
To be continued......
-
My bad sex with Fallon made me feel bad about myself. It was a killer to my self-esteem. Was I not attractive enough for her? Not smart enough? Not successful enough? Not rich .... or connected, well-bred ..... enough?
OMG, what if it was all of the above.
I felt like a loser.
But, I also had a revelation. Was the rejection I was feeling the same rejection guys felt when they wouldn't flirt with me? Had they been burned by too many attractive girls in their past? Or, worse, gotten them into bed only to have bad sex with them?
Is that why they went for the 7's, not the 9's?
Did I need to show them that they didn't need to worry about that with me? Or, at least, that I was worth the risk?
Fallon just lay back when we were in bed and waited for me to do everything. Was that how guys perceived me?
Did I start needing to do more work in the flirting process? (It's not a 'process', but you know what I mean.)
I had a spring break coming up.
Should I check in on Tennis Tommy? See what he's up to?
This was 1988, tho. There was no way to Google people to find their lastest addresses and phone numbers. Everything was hard copy phone directories. I could call MY Mom and ask her to call HIS Mom at the number she was listed at in the phone directory.
How did I have a high school boyfriend and never know his phone number, never mind not remember it 3 years later?
No wonder my love life was so fucked up.
Back to basics, Lisa. Back to basics.
I wanted to call my Mom. But I didn't want Lorraine to answer the phone. She and I must not be on speaking terms, seeing as it's been 8 weeks since she and I bickered and not talked since.
If Lorraine is still waitessing, she must work evenings.
Thursday's are busy at restaurants. I'll call her then. Around 9pm. (Long distance tolls are lower then, too. It's fucking 1988--the goddamned Stone Age of technology.)
> Hello? [phew. it's Mom]
> Hey, Mom. Lorraine's not around, right?
> Ummm, no. [Why did she hesitate? Are the two of them fooling around sexually?]
> Can you do me a favor? Can you look up in the phone book Mrs H****n's phone number? If they still live in Cumberland?
> Oh? Let me get up and check. [Mom at least has a chordless phone. Maybe it's the Bronze Age of technology.]
> Ok, good.
> Why do you want to talk to her? If you don't mind me asking.
> Oh .... I don't know .... wanted to check in on how college is going for Tennis Tommy.
> Tennis Tommy?? You want to talk to Tennis Tommy? [In the background: 'Lisa wants to talk to Tennis Tommy????']
> MOM???? WAS THAT FUCKING LORRAINE????
> ['Don't give her the number.']
> Mom??? What's happening??? Why is Lorraine bossing you in your own house???
> [Shuffling on the phone. Lorraine's voice is talking to me now.] It's not HER house, anymore. It's OURS, bitch. We're both on the lease.
> Lorraine!!!! Put my Mom back on the fucking phone!!!!
> Ha! [Click!]
Oh my God, oh my God. Has Lorraine, like, taken over my Mom's life.
Is my Mom ok?
Why did I go 8 weeks without calling?
Did my Mom think I had ditched her?
Does Lorraine think I'm going to sit back and take this?
To be continued.....
-
Besides Father Time quickly taking away all the security of my childhood, what with me getting older and my parents getting divorced, now the two biggest bitches in my life had actually horned into what was left of my childhood homes.
Maria, my childhood sleepover best friend, was my Dad's live-in girlfriend, alienating his affection for me and keeping me from having any kind of father-daughter relationship with him. (Not to mention making him reveal to all 3 of us, by his actions, that he had had a crush on Maria my entire childhood; that the entire time he had been "waiting for her to grow up" so that he could have a relationship with her. Was that why he finally divorced my Mom? Because Maria was now available?)
And Lorraine, my rival for my only high school boyfriend, was now living with my Mom. Literally sleeping in her bed. I didn't know for sure if the two of them were actually doing it--I put odds on that at 50/50. But I knew for damn sure that my Mom was watching Lorraine masturbate. And that Lorraine got off on tricking me away from my Mom's home.
I had to get these two bitches out of my parents' lives. I knew that part of growing up was letting go of your parents. But I couldn't just let Maria and Lorraine take care of them as they got older. Or let them make me lose touch with my parents.
And I didn't have a home yet, anyways. My years at Miami of Ohio were dribbling away--a little over a year from now, I'd be out in the cold, unforgiving world. Rents were increasing, and I had committed to a career that wouldn't pay much at all.
I was locked out of the cushy world of P&G, with its February 15, May 15, August 15, and November 15 dividends.
Gawd, how sweet those would have been.
Not to mention the long-term stock appreciation.
At least I had blocked Lorraine from all that shit. And her pathetic lonely single existence in downtown Cincinnati. With $2 drink specials on Thursday nights. Trying to pick up non-existant out lesbians in a conservative, Catholic place like Cincinnati. Where the grand department store tea rooms were dying in plain site.
Cleveland was such a better place to pick up lesbians. Flirt with them, then catfight their girlfriend in the alley at midnight. Kneeing each other in the gut and crotch. Ripping each others' hair out. Clawing each others' eyeballs.
Calling each other bitches and sluts.
That was the life I wanted.
I should make sure I get my Parish Finance job in Cleveland, not Cincinnati.
A grittier, more authentic lesbian lifestyle.
I masturbate in my dorm room to the thought, .... the fantasy ....., of midnight alley catfights in Cleveland when I graduate in 1989.
Two hot bitches mad at the world and beating the shit out of each other.
THAT's my future.
I can't wait.
To be continued.....
-
My Cleveland suitemate invited me back home with her for Spring Break'88 .... or, didn't say No when I invited myself [I think she could tell I had no where else to go] ..... but she had warned me the neighborhood was changing.
She was right--there were more unfamiliar commuter-types living in the neighborhood, blocking the street and sidewalks with their Toyota Camry's--but the more depressing changes were in her own house. Her Mom and Aunts were getting older and noticably slowing down. The Saturday night dinners, while we went to Vigil Mass in shifts, were less bountiful ..... and didn't taste as good.
And the Mass was said by a hard-to-understand priest on loan from the Phillippines. America wasn't generating enough priests to support its own flock .... we needed to borrow then from Third World countries. The priest did chant a hauntingly beautiful version of the Per Ipsum in flawless Latin.
That restored my mojo.
And my horniness.
I went out after Saturday dinner with my suitemate to the lesbain bars looking to see if Cleveland lesbian alleyfights were as good as I remembered them.
To be continued....
-
1988 was definitely turning out to be the crappiest year ever for.
But there was something else going on, too. Something I couldn't pin down, but which I could perceive going on all around me.
The universe was conspiring against me. Intentionally torturing me.
I wanted my parents to be married forever. They were divorced.
I wanted to visit my parents when I came back home. Instead, they were each living with a bitch I hated.
I wanted to be building P&G stock option wealth. Instead, I was banned from there for life.
And from NYNEX, too.
I wanted sex with lots of boys. Instead I got very little .... and very bad .... sex with women.
I wanted to spend weekends and vacations in Cincinnati. Instead, I was spending them in Cleveland.
And tonight, instead of getting into an alley fight with a lesbian .... I got into a fullblown barfight with a straight woman.
Let me explain....
My Miami of Ohio suitemate and I hit the same rundown, underground, after-hours dives which in 1987 had been lesbian bars.
But the world had changed from 1987 to 1988. This place we were at in the wee Sunday morning hours still had lesbians. But not exclusively lesbians. It had gay men. Transvestites (a popular 1980s term which is gauche today). Drag queens.
Pretty much anyone in the late 1980s who checked the "Other" or "Miscellaneous" boxes.
So naturally, my straight cisgender blonde suuburban white ass stood out like a sore thumb.
And finally .... finally .... straight cis- males were hitting on me. Buying me drinks.
Wanting to fuck my brains out.
Heaven.
One of them was married. His wife didn't like it. I pushed her. She pushed me back. I was drunk as fuck. And horny. (She was attractive--perfect catfight opponent.)
In other words .... it was on.
Oh, the bouncers saw us. Don't worry. But rather than throw us into the street.... they angled us towards a bit for a band.
And the whole bar ran over to watch the show. And they got a show.
Hair all over the pit floor in clumps.
Torn top.
Broken high heeled shoes.
Two women scratching each others' faces off.
For 10 minutes.
I got on top.
The guy I had won took me to the pool table on top.
He lay me on the pool table.
I found out why straight girls like cock. And guys.
Best Spring Break Sex ever.
And it was just getting started.....
-
I wake up late Sunday morning, most of my upper body sore and unrested--the Cleveland March low-angled sun is coming thru the window shades, which do not sit flush against the warped, decaying window frame. The paint is chipping and is presumably laden wirh lead.
I go downstairs for morning coffee, and the smell of Sunday dinner being prepared for those currently at Sunday Mass. It's the Third Sunday of Lent. The 5-times-married woman trysting with Jesus at the well. My favorite Gospel reading.
> That's quite a pair of shiners, Lisa.
> [Really? Shit--I should have looked. I must look like hell.] You should see the other girl.
> [My suitemate validates my version of events.] It's true. Lisa even fucked her husband!
> [Shocked disapproval. WWAAAYY too much information. And fucking a married man doesn't go over well in this devout household.] Still have all your teeth Lisa?
> I don't know. Good point. Is there a bagel for me? I cann see if I can chew it. [I gingerly bite down. Thank goodness I can.]
> Maybe you should do some indoor activity this week, Lisa. Something more analytical. What do you know about Warner-Lambert stock? Should I sell and buy a CD?
> [I actually know the answer to this.] Lipitor is about to hit the market. A cholesterol drug. See how that sells first. It could be a blockbuster.
> Wow. Sexy .... AND tough .... AND smart.
> [My suite mate is glowing in pride.] See, Mom. I told you.
To be continued....
-
With my body getting sorer by the hour as the springtime Cleveland Sunday afternoon languidly moves along (my left shoulder hurts like crazy--either I tore something during my barfight last night, or I pinched a nerve)--there's women's college basketball on in the background of my suitemate's Cleveland family room.
'Family room'. Such a Midwest description. No room in Rhode Island would ever be called a 'family room'. Not in the 1970s or 1980s. I mean, we had families and all. But family were people you tried to get space FROM, not space WITH. Because that's how trouble started. Yelling. Throwing things. And I grew up as an only child and felt that way.
Only child.
Maria was an only child. She and I became best friends over that. And did sleepovers together over that.
How could she stab me in the back and move in with my Dad? Knowing the bond we had, and how that would hurt me.
Maybe she did it TO hurt me. If so, that was really cold.
Cold-hearted bitch.
I remember watching a women's college basketball game on TV with Maria and my Dad. 1978 I think, maybe 1979. Louisiana Tech. The Lady Techsters. They had a redhead point guard named Nancy Lieberman. You could tell she was spunky, feisty.
My Dad asked Maria if she could take Nancy Lieberman in a 'scrap'. Matia blushed; I wasn't sure why. I said I'd avoid Nancy in a fight if there was a face-ssving way to do so--she looked mean.
My Dad asked Maria what he thought of what I had said. Maria said there's no saving face when avoiding a fight with another girl, no matter how tough she is. If she beats you up, so be it--you need to take your beating.
How prophetic.
In 1987, I beat up Maria in front of my Dad.
And he picked her anyways.
Over me. His own daughter.
I get up ftom the 1988 family room and go into my suitemate's bedroom.
I masturbate my brains out.
I take a shower.
I get changed and return to the family room.
Almost time for Sunday night dinner--pancakes and sausage.
My suitemate asks me if I'm ok.
"Yes. Sure."
"Liar."
To be continued....
-
After my Saturday night barfight and hard fucking, I wasn't much in the mood for Spring Break'88 lovemaking with my Miami of Ohio suitemate at night in her bed.
But she was in the mood for cuddling with me. So I showed her the mutual ass rubbing Fallon had taught me during my fling with her. We'd lay side by side in bed at night, touch toe to to and nose to nose, and start carressing each others' buttcheeks. My suitemate's ass wasn't as firm or hard or shapely as Fallon's ..... but it was better than I was expecting, based on the rest of her mediocre body. (Is that mean to say? I don't mean it that way.)
Do even average women have firm asses?
Is that why guys call girls "a piece of ass"?
In 1988, I have close to zero understanding of guys. But my understanding of girls basically sucks, too.
Kinda like tennis, which I devoted my life to from 1975 to 1985. I was ok at the basics .... but never came close to mastering even a full aspect of it.
Forehand--meh
Backhand--inconsistent
First serve--weak
Second serve--weaker
Unforced errors--numerous
Groundstroke winners--nonexistent
Volleying--pretty dam good, actually
Stamina--strong
Hard court--Good
Clay court--Unconfident
Footwork--unconventional
Actually, my forehand was above average.
But you get the point. No obvious strengths to build a career off of.
My sex life was turning out the same way.
Lots and lots and lots of experience under my belt.
No sign of development .... growth.
How do people who are goid at something .... who master something .... how do they grow?
How do they become someone they weren't before?
How do they change?
To be continued....
-
In the car on the way back from Cleveland to Miami of Ohio at the end on Spring Break'88, I had time to do lots of thinking.
I thought about the bad rap we native New Englanders get for being resistant to change.
It's not that we're resistant to change.
It's that we don't like being Rookies at something. Because Rookies make mistakes. That's why they're called Rookie Mistakes.
My Dad is with Maria. But it's because she's a Sure Thing. He's been watching her for over a decade, when she would do sleepovers at my house, and me at hers.
Even Maria and I doing sleepovers with each other long after we had outgrown each other--long after our friendship had outgrown its mutual usefulness--betrayed our New England roots. We didn't attend sleepovers with newer girls ... newer, more compatible friends... because we didn't want to make Rookie Mistakes at those sleepovers. Better to stick with the familiar, with each other. Clinging to the remnants of our dying friendship.
What does this have to do with anything?
Easy.
It has to with sex.
Sex is the one thing in life where you CAN'T skip the rookie chapter. If you do .. you're still just a rookie.
I thought I could have an exotic summer affair with Tennis Tommy as a non-rookie. I'd swoop in and be his worldly-wise lover to his naggy bitch girlfriend Lorraine. He and I would have sophisticated lovemaking sessions behind Lorraine's back.
But out of the three of them, I was the virgin. For all of their quirkiness, even Lorraine's closeted lesbianism, it was me who was the Rookie. The loser. The cuckold.
Thinking I could fake it till I made it.
Thinking the Game of Life has an Advance-to-Go-and-collect-$200 card.
Spoiler alert: when it comes to sex, it doesn't.
Everyone needs to have a rookie season at sex.
There's no exceptions. It's the Great Equalizer, the great leveller.
The nakedness of sex.... figurative and literal .... is the great Universal.
Trying to get around it just makes things worse.
And delays the inevitable.
Does any of this make any sense to you?
I hope it does.
To be continued....
-
My ability to think thru long chains of past and current events, to make connections, are what finally got me back on the career/money-making path which I had self-sabotaged for myself at P&G and NYNEX.
As my junior and then senior years barrelled down the tracks at Miami of Ohio, I started writing big picture, 30,000-foot essays which caught the eyes of a couple of my business professors. They started talking ABOUT me, and then TO me, about my eclectic ideas. And starting working with me to develop these ideas.
I took rhe theme of rookie mistakes, how costly they can be, but also about how fear of rookie mistakes can freeze us into a slow, smothering death. 'Us' is us as people, us as business contributors or managers, us as small-, medium-, or large-sized companies. I invented a saying, "The second mouse gets the cheese."
Ever heard that one? That was me. Lisa, in 1989. I invented that saying.
It means that the first mouse that ventures into the mousetrap gets decapitated. And the third one is too late.
But the SECOND mouse climbs over the corpse of the first one and gets the cheese.
In the late eighties and early nineties, the business world was brimming with pithy sayings, parables, proverbs like that one. They'd get picked up by the MAS, Management Advisory Services, wings of the Big Eight accounting companies, and other advisory firms like McKinsey and EDS. EDS was founded by Ross Perot, a media-savvy Texas oil baron. He ran for President in 1992 and got more popular votes than most any third party candidate ever. He probably caused President Bush, the first one, to lose to Bill Clinton.
EDS hired me when I graduated in May 1989. Because of my business Deep Thoughts at Miami.
But also because on my looks. EDS new that sex sells, and many of the business consultants they hired were fetching-looking blondes like me. We didn't complain. We appreciated the paycheck. And the prestige of working for EDS.
And we learned a ton about business, about money, about technology. We were all mapping out our futures. Building our network. Earning frequent flyer miles, and using them for vacations to the Bahamas, the Grand Cayman.
It was great while it lasted.
Which was a grand total of 17 months. I got pushed out in October 1990, when Saddam Hussein's asinine invasion of Kuwait put the world economy into a recession. Consulting contracts dried up. EDS didn't need as many of us blondes. I saw the handwriting on the wall, and got a job with the Archdiocese of Cincinnati. But not to live in Cincinnati.
It was to live in Cleveland. To start closing down Catholic parishes there. The city of Cleveland was de-populating fast, and had way way too many 95%-empty churches. Which were way too expensive to maintain.
We needed to decide which churches to close, and who to sell the properties to. It was all very complicated.
And wrenching. Closing an inner city Catholic church is devastating to the parishoners. They were baptized there. They attended K thru 8 school there. They were married there. Then their own infants were baptized. Then their parents' funerals were held there.
The parish was the center of their social life. Lenten fish fry's. Christmas bazaars.
And I was closing their parish on them.
Using my knowledge to devastate their memories, their link to their childhood.
I needed to distract myself from the pain I was inflicting.
I'm not proud--but I did it by finding women my age who shared my proclivities.
Getting in bed, and getting rough with each other.
Really rough.
To be continued....
-
When I moved to Cleveland in the ealy 1990s, I was still in my early 20s ..... ok, fine, mid-20s ..... and was still a fast learner, so I learned quickly how girls in downtown Cleveland would find each other for rough lesbian sex.
You might think you would dress up goth and tough-looking, but you would only go half-right. That's how you end up in bed with a girl who wanted YOU to be rough to HER. What if you wanted mutual rough sex? Ironically, you would dress like a traditional homemaker wife--what they're calling today a 'Trad-wife', what we called in the early 1990s 'Amish'. You still needed to look the other girl in the eye, chat her up, and make sure she really was 'hard', not too submissive. Or, at least that she would turn that way once she had a few drinks in her.
The chatting-up was the 'date' part of the night. Put all the best parts of yourself out there; embellishing, but not with anything that would get you busted later. Dating. Something I hadn't done nearly enough of in high school, and so was doomed to be permanently bad at. Late a youth tennis girl, if she started at 15 instead of 11. No amount of practice or coaching would ever get her up to the level she needed .... or wanted .... to be at.
So this was it, my dating life, forever. Which was fine. Especially because: the traditional clothing thing worked out perfect for me, and my new job. I mean, who has a fuller closet of traditional housewife clothes than a full-time paid Archdoicesan employee of the Catholic Church. Especially before the Boston Globe 'Spotlight' story came out in 2002 and destroyed parishoner donations forever.
Yessirree Bob, 1991 thru 2005 was my cash earning 'Make It Rain' golden epoch. Union-like benefits (except that abortion wasn't covered; which I wouldn't need if I stuck to fucking gitls), and a paycheck every bit as good as a non-managerial career at P&G or NYNEX. And intellectually stimulating as well--rubbing shoulders with commercial real estate brokers (more on THEM later), city and county zoning officials, Parish Advisory Council volunteers who were big honchos in their former jobs, before they retired. I dressed like an Little House on the Prairie school teacher or Preacher's wife by day.
And, by night .....
I hit the back alleys of Cleveland's decaying downtown, or non-Catholic ethnic neighborhoods (to avoid anyone who I might run into on my job), and looked to hook up with a 20-something or 30-something similarly inclined woman.
And we'd go to my place or hers .... either was fine with me, as long as she kept her bathroom reasonably clean .... and we'd kiss to get each other aroused.
And then we'd start hitting.
The face was as good a place as any to start. The shoulders and biceps. The chest.
The crotch, if she was into it. I know I was. I mean ... it hurt like the dickens and all to get hit down there.
But it got my adrenaline running like nothing else ..... except an all-out catfight .... ever has.
And all-out catfights were usually too short. I needed a honeymoon-night-length hitting experience. And only rough sex with a suitable .... and sexy .... sparring partner could get me there. And get me over the top .... screaming orgasms .... the way I craved.
I enjoyed it so much.
Especially the honeymoon-night angle.
Bwcause it was becoming obvious to me, with each passing year, that I would never be going on my own honeymoon.
Nope, that ship had sailed.
To be continued.....
-
You might be wondering: how did I reconcile the double life I was leading, collecting a paycheck (and those ever-generous benefits) and gifting my Time, Talent, and Treasure to the Catholic Church, all the while engaging in shady, casual lesbian sex?
To which my rejoinder is: you have to keep in mind what my LEGIT, supposedly above-board job was. It was closing Catholic parishes, scores of them at a time. The beloved, tangible, architecturally beautiful settings of the baptisms, weddings, and funerals of hundreds of thousands of ethnic Clevelanders. Where many of them had attended Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve for generations. And sought comfort, or at least peace and hope, on quiet Sunday mornings. Where they listened to organ music, for many the highest quality live music they would hear their whole lives, even though they were living in the home of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
I was the Angel of Death. Closing, repurposing, or demolishing the structure forever. A building THEY paid for, by the way. Many secular people don't fully comprehend that when a Catholic or Christian or Hindu or Jewish or Muslim community builds a place of worship, possibly with an adjoining gathering place, meeting rooms, library and administrative office, it comes from the pennies and nickels and quarters and dollars of the congregation. The centralized or diocesan office can rarely provide more than technical assistance, and in the U.S. we have separation of Church and States that walls off even indirect funding.
So the ethnic Cleveland communities would sacrifice for generations to build, then maintain, their parish.
And then in 1997, Lisa would come to town and close it. Without much in the way participation from the parishoners.
So, let me ask you this question.
If you spent your days figuring out ways to physically demolish the tangilble legacy of Cleveland's Irish, Germans, Poles, Slovacks, Croats, Italians, French Canadians, and Ukrainians to their descendants, such that by 2023 the world would already forget that Cleveland was once a vibrant, bustling hub of Catholic culture, where you could hear Mass and receive communion 24/7/365 with 6 blocks max walking distance of wherever you happened to be standing at this moment.....
.....wouldn't the comparative guilt of engaging in some Sapphic forbidden bedroom calisthenics with some energetic aggressive like-minded sparring partner pale in comparison?
Wouldn't it?
To be continued....
-
I had promised you a 1991-2008 diversion into the world of Cleveland real estate brokers, and more specifically sex and fighting with them. Female real estate agents live in a world with constant sexual subtext--using their looks to make a deal happen, to turns a 'maybe' into a 'yes', to have key access to empty properties alone with clients (or each other), and just generally meeting by car in random locations. Lots of opportunity for sex.
They would rarely just agree to go home with you after meeting, or at least not with me in my status as rep-ping a perpetual seller--the Catholic Church. No sense scotching a piggy bank of potential future deals with a roll-in-the-hay gone wrong. So, I didn't have many sexual encounters with real estate brokers.
Now, hitting each other, though--that was a totally different kettle of fish. Being alone with a real estate broker wasn't particularly sexy--I still did .... and do .... believe in the Lord and the Baby Jesus, and didn't want to do anything kinky in their sanctuary. But an abandoned parish K thru 8 school (especially the kitchen) or storage closet or basement? Totally different story.
There was something about being in heels, skirt, business jacket, and coat during the long, gloomy Cleveland winters that made us want to face off alone in a staredown.
> Tough girl, huh?
> Tougher than you.
> Oh, is that so?
> You got soft ever since your bf bought you that new Lexus.
> I bought it, bitch. With MY money.
> It'll be gone soon, next real estate crash. You'll be a bag lady.
> Fuck you, bitch. I could buy and sell you. [They all assumed I was poorer than I actually was.]
> [Slap] Take that back, sweetie.
> MAKE ME, take it back. I'd love too see that.
> [Double-slap.]
> You think that hurts? [<Slap> to my breast.]
On and on like that for 30 minutes or so, by which time it was time to head back to our cars. To masturbate to orgasm.
> Forgive my Father, for I have sinned.
> How long since your last confession?
> 7 days, Father.
> State your sins.
> Impure thoughts, Father. A lot of impure thoughts.
I'd still be living that life today, I think. Here in 2023.
If not for the 2002 Spotlight story in the Boston Globe, the collapse of Catholic Church collections in big- and medium-sized cities.
And the 2008 Financial Crisis, which destroyed Cleveland's lower middle class forever.
And got me fired from the Archdiocese in December 2008. Four days before Christmas.
My world changed forever. Like Fitzgerald says, slowly, then all at once.
To be continued.....
-
On January 2, 2009, my Dad died. Maria was still living with him. For 21 years, officially, so she was in Common Law wife, and inherited all his stuff. Including his debts. They had been living off of Home Equity Lines of Credit, HELOCs, from my childhood home in Rhode Island. Rhode Island got nailed when the subprime mortgage market collapsed, and Maria was was way underwater in the house.
Good. Serves her right.
Fucking bitch.
The funeral a few days later in St Peter Claver Church was awkward af. Maria, my childhood best friend, as the 'widow'. Lorraine, still living with my very aged Mom, escorting her as the Ex.
Maria and Lorraine were somehow Catholics in good standing at the funeral. They had separately gone thru RCIA, the Rite of Catholic Initiation for Adults, in the late 1990s and early 2000s. How they qualified, as adults living in sin with my parents, escapes me to this day.
I was escorted to the funeral by my Dad's biker ex. She was letting me live with her while I escaped Cleveland. She was older, too. We weren't sexually attracted to each other anymore (SHE thought I had gotten older--can u believe that shit?? I was still only 42 years old), but enjoyed each others' company.
Neither Maria nor Lorraine spoke to me at the wake(s) nor the funeral. I thought that was rude.
Then again, what did we have to say each other. They both knew they were on my shit list.
They both knew I was back in New England for revenge. To get back what was mine.
Lorraine last.
And Maria first.
My last conversation with my Dad had been in late 2008. We watched his beloved Red Sox lose in thd round before the World Series to thr Tampa Bay Rays.
J.D.Drew struck out on a key at bat.
At least before he died, my Dad got to see the Red Sox win 2 World Series. 2004 and 2007.
And he got to see me fight Maria. In 1988.
"You know I'm better than her, right?".
"I know, Lisa. I always knew."
To be continued....
-
After being back in Rhode Island, I realized I had a lot more reasons than even before to be pissed at Maria. She had caused me to miss most of the last two decades of my Dad's life. She had bled the equity out of my childhood home to support her lifestyle for those twenty years. And she had let the house fall into disrepair.
I don't know what her backup plan was now that foreclosure was staring her in the face. Her parents were still alive, but were ill and broke. One drunken night, my curiosity got the best of me and U called her to ask.
> Hello?
> It's Lisa, bitch. Your worst fucking nightmare. I have a question for you.
> What is it, slut?
> Where are you fucking gonna live when you get foreclosed on?
> Foreclosure takes years, hun. I'll cross that bridge when I get there.
> The house will fucking fall apart around you, sweetie. Long before then.
> Shows what you know, cxnt. I'm getting free repairs. Well, not quite free. But Sal across the street owes me for years of favors, if you know what I mean. [Maria must be drunk, too. She's divulging secrets I can use against her now. Sal is in the commercial construction business and always had access to hard to find building supplies .... and skilled workers .... during the housing boom. He must have lots of free time now that construction has slowed.]
> So you were banging him while my Dad was still alive? And YOU call ME a slut? You have a lot of nerve.
> Your Dad slowed down in that area as as he got older, Lisa. And he was too proud to ask for Viagra. And anyways, just looking at my boobs is enough to get Sal off. Unlike yours.
> You're giving me a headache. I want you out of my fucking house. [Especially now that I know I can go to Sal to get it fixed up.]
> Correction, sweetie. MY house. All mine.
> I'll fight you for it, tough girl.
> Now THAT's the first interesting thing you've said all night?
> Well? Is that a yes? [Have I fucked up with my offer? Shouldn't I just wait for the banks to catch up with her? Or maybe offer to short sale it? This was a trick from my Cleveland Diocese days.]
> Call me tomorrow. I'm tired of your voice now. Fuck you.
> Slut.
> Bitch.
To be continued.....
-
Sal was more than just the contractor who would get me building supplies and workers to rebuild my rundown (not quite decrepit) childhood home in exchange for blowjobs.
He also got me a job. At Stop-N-Shop. A job as a store manager.
My cash from my Cleveland Diocese job was running low. But I also needed the health and dental insurance. My teeth and gums were getting .... kinda gross. From my years of growing up with flouride in my water, some of my molars needed fillings and even crowns.
This stuff was freaking expensive.
I reflected on how much I'd have rolling in of P&G quarterly dividends by now if I was there. I'd be up to 23 years of service. I'd be in management THERE now, not at Stop-N-Shop. I wonder what downtown Cincinnati was like now. How much the gentrified communities had been built on the crumbling sand of subprime mortgages, and what kind of toll foreclosures were taking now. Cincinnati was more financially conservative than Cleveland, so I was sure they were faring better.
But still. If that was the case, why had all the department stores like Pogue's, and their classy tea-rooms, failed in the late 1980s?
The men and women in Lorraine and my intern classes who had stuck it out at P&G and had big houses now in Warren County, or over the state line in Northern Kentucky to minimize their Ohio taxes ..... with their kids getting ready to go to college now .... were they happy? Was it worth it?
Were they getting laid?
Because I was. With the employees at Stop-N-Shop.
Grocery store employees have lots of casual sex with each other. In the store. In the parking lot. At each others' house after work.
I was finally learing the fine art of good sex with a 20-year old boy. At 45. I didn't tell them I was 45. They assumed I was in my young 30s.
I wonder if they would have fucked me if they knew my real age.
Most of them were bigger than Tennis Tommy. But a couple of them were small like him, but still fucked pretty well.
Or ate me out.
Damn, I love being eaten out.
Almost as much as I like catfighting.
To be continued....
-
As bad as the econmy, and Rhode Island's housing market, were in 2009, my real estate experience from my Cleveland Diocese years told me that the bad times wouldn't last forever. My access to my cheap materials and free labor to get my childhood house gutted and repaired and modernized had an expiration date, probably in a year ot two, tops.
I needed to get Maria the hell out of the house, so that construcyion work could begin.
Was she serious in her offer to fight me for the house? Would she actually leave if she lost the fight? Would she actually expect me to go away if I lost? Because that second scenario wadn't gonna happen.
Was I confident enough in my fighting ability to be assured in my ability to beat her up and throw her out?
It was my best shot, I decided.
I wasn't getting any younger.
All of my Stop-N-Shop coworkers were so much younger than me.
Where had the years gone?
I call Maria one afternoon.
> [She answers.] Hello?
> It's Lisa.
> Oh, hey bitch.
> Fuck you, too. You free to fight for the house now?
> I thought you'd never ask.
> I'm 10 minutes away.
> You better bring it. Cuz I'm gonna try and maim you.
> Good.
To be continued.....
-
It really is true.
It really is true that when you return to your childhood home, it seems .... small. Tiny, actually.
This house didn't seem tiny all those years in the 1970s, when Maria and I would hope sleepovers. My Dad silently crushing on my friend Maria.
And then in the 1980s, as Maria and I grew apart, and slowly became frenemies. And finally one day had a catfight in the backyard, my Mom watching the whole thing from inside the house. Not breaking us up, because she had always been curious who would win a fight between Maria and me.
And because she thought it was a good learning experience for me to learn how to fight.
And, most important of all .... because, who doesn't enjoy watching a good catfight?
No one will be watching Maria and me catfight today. We'll be fighting alone.
I knock on the door. Maria lets me in. We stare at each other. This is the first time in middle age we've set eyes on each other in person. It's been decades. We're sizing up how time has treated us. And the disappointments of life.
We look into each others' faces. Maria looks like a classier version of herself. Older, no doubt .... but classier too. Elegant. She has an expensive haircut.
> I'm not saying this as a put-down .... but....
> Everything you say is a passive aggressive putdown, Lisa .... [at least she didn't call me a bitch] ..... but go ahead .... say it....
> Your hair .... it looks .... good on you .... you never did a lot with your hair before .... it does look good.
> I could never afford to do anything with my hair before, Lisa. That's something you never understood about our friendship. I couldn't afford the blonde haircut you always had .... the sexy clothes .... the Catholic education ....the tennis lessons .... to going away to college in Ohio. I never got to do any of that, Lisa.
> Maria ..... I wan't exactly rich. And neither were my parents. Is that why you stole my Dad? Because you thought he was rich?
> [Maria slaps my face] Lisa, you dumb fucking bitch.... your Dad manipulated me .... worked on me for years .... complimenting me, flattering me .... divorcing your Mom for me....
> Maria, time out [she's pissing me off now] .... My Mom and Dad had issues that went way beyond you ... you're flattering yourself if you think he .... or ANY guy ANYwhere .... would get a divorce over you. [I slap her back.] Dumb Fucking Bitch.
We stare angrily at each other.
We're both shaking and breathing hard.
> I think we're done talking, Lisa. [She removes her jewelry.]
> Fine by me .... bitch. [I put my purse down.] Let's do this..... Oh .... and your haircut is fucking ugly.
To be continued.....
-
To this day, I wonder if Maria realistically expected to beat me in a fight, take my home, and live in it happily ever after.
Or, instead, if she knew that:
<1> Our friendship was over
<2> Our childhood and our youth was over
<3> The house needed to be torn down or at least completely renovated, something beyond her competency the achieve,
<4> She never had been, and never would be, in my league as a fighter and as a woman,
and therefore decided to go down in a blaze of glory, like Davey Crockett at the Alamo.
During our childhood sleepover, Maria and I had talked about the Alamo a lot. This was the 1970s, when that whole story was more patriotic .... and politically correct.... than it is today.
What it was like for them knowing they were trapped. We found it .... not so much erotic, but titillating .... to talk about. Maria was always titillated when she was over my house.
<> Knowing my Dad was crushing on her.
<> Knowing my Mom had a secret fantasy of Maria and I having a spat, and catfighting over it.
Mom knew how two close girlfriends from different sides of track are. Around middle school, their social differences.... and their socio-economic differences .... become harder to gloss over. They become more noticable to the girls around them.
And to themselves.
So the girls either "power thru" and remain friends despite those differences.
Or they begin to distrust each other. The less popular girl starts to wonder if she's being frozen out by .... or left behind by .... the more popular girl. Tiny disputes escalate into bigger arguments.
Both girls feel betrayal .... disloyalty .... anger.
Sometimes it ends in a catfight.
Which my Mom was curious about watching.
When I had my 2009 catfight in my Dad's house, I was half-tempted to call my Mom and ask her if she wanted to watch it.
But the fight I was about to have with Maria wasn't the slappy-punchy roll-around we had in the 1980s.
It was 2 middleaged women trying to hurt each other.
And that's what happened. Maria and I didn't say much. We just went for it. Throwing haymakers, knocking each other down, and going for a kick to the head or face of our downed enemy.
In a lot of TV show or movie catfights, if one woman gets the other down, she backs off and baits her enemy: C'mon, get up. Get up, I'm not done with you.
That never struck me as realistic, and it sure as hell didn't happen in my Final Fight with Maria.
When one of us knocked the other one down, we strutted over her and tried to stomp the guts out of her. Kicking the head, the guts, the kidneys.
Stay the fuck down, bitch. So I can fucking maim you.
And I was better .... and meaner ... at it than Maria was.
The fourth time I got her down, she never got up.
I was the winner, and we both knew it. Maria sat on the floor and cried. I undid my pants and made her eat me out.
It was the most satisfying cunnilingus I ever received.
And probably ever will.
To be continued....
-
As we were remodelling my Dad's place and I cleaned up my Dad's 25 years of accumulated stuff (and junk), I noticed he had been saving years of Alumni magazines from Miami of Ohio, keeping alumni up at happenings at our alma mater, and on each others' accomplishments and successes. I sent in a blurb on myself:
Lisa M. (B.A. Finance-1987) recently returned home to Rhode Island after serving 15 years as the the Director of Advancement and Development for the Diocese of Cleveland. She learned her management skills from Internship and full-time assignments in the prestigious Management Development Program at Proctor & Gamble's headquarters campus in Cincinnati, Ohio. She is hoping to reconnect with classmates and can be reached at lisa*****@ameritech.com.
I wondered if anyone would remember me and reach out.
I took pride in how my bio looked. But it left out a helluva lot. My dysfunctional relationships. My fights. That I had been fired from both jobs. That I was now working at a grocery store. That I was having my childhood home remodelled in return for sex. That I was neither New Hire nor Girlfriend material to anyone who reached out to me.
Why DID I want people to reach out?
Was I lonely? Was I sensing age catching up with me?
Was I writing the bio for myself? Was I a narcissist? Maria had called me that. More than once.
But she's a bitch.
Who never graduated college.
But I did.
And I beat her up ..... twice .... in no-rule catfights.
So suck it, Maria.
I'm going for Lorraine, next.
To be continued.....
-
My 2010-2013 encounters with my grocery store coworkers taught me something very discouraging about myself. I had thought of myself as enlightened about sex and lovemaking and positions and varieties of sex.
But I was actually pretty clueless about many forms of heterosexual intercourse, especially one of the most common one's--the guy bending his female partner over and doing her from behind. I had always been confused about what "piece of ass" meant. I thought it was just a secret saying that had become disconnected over years from its meaning.
Do guys actually find that arousing? Taking a girl into a stock room, her turning away from him, undoing her belt and taking her slacks down to her knees, and him doing all the work, standing up, and banging her for two minutes?
Yes, Lisa. Yes they do. The enjoy it, they did it all the time. And when not doing it, they're fantasizing about it.
How would my life have turned out different if my first time with Tennis Tommy, in 1985 .... almost 40 years ago .... had been like that, instead of the boring girl-rides-boy style he did with Lorraine?
Would I have stolen him from Lorraine?
And had a regular boyfriend?
And fiancee?
And husband?
And life?
Instead of the screwed up life I ended up having?
To be continued....
-
Around 2011, before Tinder and other hook-up apps came out, and then even continuing into after their release, but before they became fully mature, and before they had a critical mass of members (especially female members--the initial interations of Tinder were 97% male and 3% female: not too many 'matches' were happening), there WAS one under-appreciated way to hook up on your cellphone.
With the first versions of the iPhone, you could see on the Maps section of your phone how many other iPhone users were near your location. Sometimes as few as thousands of feet from where you were located.
And you could see their gender.
And you could "ping" them and see if it was ok to text them.
And if they said yes, you could almost instantaneously start a text conversation with them. (Or a phone conversation, too, in theory. But as time passed, the iPhone pretty much stopped being used for voice conversations. Except to 'voice verify' that someone was the age and gender they claimed to be.)
A male manager at my grocery store job asked me what someone would use that iPhone functionality for.
"It's for sex, asshole."
"Oh. Just wondering."
"I think you just wanted to hear me admit that I have hook up sex."
"I guess. Guilty as charged."
I went thru a several month period of having hookup sex like that. With both M's and F's.
How was it? The sex--mostly underwhelming.
But the dopamine rush of meeting a stranger? And of little-to-no-foreplay sex?
Intoxicating. Addicting.
My dopamine tolerance rose and rose.
Soon, as the popularity of the iPhone increased, there were so many iPhone users "near your location" that it was .... less exciting than before.
Might as well just walk up to any attractive stranger and offer sex. Eww.
But I still needed my dopamine rush.
I knew only one thing could give it to me.
I pick up my iPhone. To make a phone call....how quaint.
> Hello?
> Maureen?
> This is she.
> It's Lisa. What's going on?
> Not much. Bitch.
> I'm glad you said that.
> Why, Lisa? What's on your mind?
> Wanna fight?
> Where? When?
> I was hoping .... tonight. My place.
> Deal.
Good.
To be continued....
-
When Maureen came to my house that day to fight me and I opened the door, my first thought was that we both looked damn good for being in our late 40s. I had been dreading how close the year 2017 was to arriving--the year I would turn 50. I'm not sure why 50 was the age I had a secret dread of. I recently learned that one of my favorite actresses, Hillary Swank, had twins at age 48. Was she dreading 50 as well? Is that why she got prrgnant at that age? To 'get in under the age 50 wire'?
Was this my last chance to have a no holds barred fight with Maureen? Like the one we had in the rest room in high school, with our friends looking out for teachers at the door?
Hillary Swank. A few years earlier she had been in Million Dollar Baby, an Oscar-winning movie. She played a female boxer. Her opponent hit her after the bell and permanently injured her character.
I like watching rhat movie. I like women's boxing. Women's MMA was just taking of. I liked watching that, too.
But more than watching fighting....I liked being in fights. My opportunities to fight other women had decreased since I left my Catholic Church Archdiocese job. No more late afternoon meetups with sexy real estate agents in abandoned Catholic church halls or school gyms. No more removing the earrings, kicking off the shoes, and setting down the purse and satchel of legal papers, and cutting loose.
Cutting loose. I let Maureen in.
> I didn't think you'd show, bitch.
> I'll show anytime to cut loose with you, slut. [She's ghinking of the 'cutting loose' phrase at the same time as me? That's freaky.]
> Ffffft-slut. What women not getting any call women who are. [Last I had heard, Maureen never married.]
> Lisa, goddammit, you're a total slut. Customers at the Stop N Shop know where to go to get some from the cashier.
> [Ok, one, I'm not a 'cashier' there. Two...I fucked ONE customer from there. Who's been talking about me? The customer? My coworkers?] Maureen, your voice is getting more annoying with each passing year. Let's just do this. [I slap her face.]
> [She double slaps me.] Fine by me, slut.
We grab each others' hair and yank hard.
I feel my soaked groin.
To be continued....
-
When Maureen and I had fought in the high school restroom in 1985, our tactics had been exclusively fists. Back then, once you hit high school and college, fighting a girl by pulling hair, even if just to gain a hold advantage, was considered a baby-ish reversion to middle school slumber party tactics. Even scratching an opponent accidentally would lead to being ostracized from the party circuit. But .... give your opponent a shiner or a fat lip, and it would be HER who would need to take a sabbatical from the party scene (and, in high school or college, miss days or weeks of classes until her face was back to normal).
Once the mid-40s arrived, the tables of catfight battlescars completely flipped. My returning to my Stop N Shop coworkers with a black eye would, if necessary, be easily explained away by saying a box had fallen off a shell and caught my cheekbone. Or a delivery-truck trailer door had swung open on me.
But, rows of scratches across my face? On my neck and shoulders? Or even my legs?
I could already hear the romour-mongering which would follow:
> Did Lisa get in a catfight?
> Was it with a customer? Or the angry wife of a customer?
> Was it with the girlfriend of that contractor doing her house?
> Was she out drinking this weekend? Was it a barfight?
This was the scarlet letter/(s) Maureen and I were trying to inflict on each other. To subject the other to a week of a hermit-like existence to avoid the rumours from everyone in each other's personal life.
Not even rumours. Since .... the rumours would of course have a core of truth.
We were really in my house. Having a vicious catfight.
Trying to humiliate each other.
Trying to act out our hate of each other.
> You fucking bitch, Maureen.
> Fuck you, Lisa.
To be continued....
-
Because we were fully clothed in jeans and long-sleeved tops, the only exposed flesh on Maureen and me was our faces and our necks. Since we were both attempting to scratch each other as completely as possible, and there was so little surface area to cover, we were both thoroughly marked up within 5 minutes of the start of our fight.
Maureen's fight with me in 2014 was as 'efficient' time-wise as our 1985 high school restroom fight had been. That fight had been with fists and this one with nails--but in both cases we had given each other all we could handle in a relatively short amount of time. I had lost track of Maureen's fight frequency when I left Rhode Island for Ohio, but her fight card must have been as full as mine had been, because she was just as much as I could handle as she had been in high school.
> I call 'uncle', Maureen. I don't give....I'll keep going if you force me....but I'm already gonna miss a couple days of work. I'm afraid to look in the mirror.
> [Maureen pauses, weighing the pro's and con's of continuing. Then releases me.] That was a good fight, Lisa. And, yeah... don't look in the mirror just yet. .... do you have any towels?
> [I go to my linen closet. At first I grab 2 white towels, but then think better of it. I grab 2 dark blue one's, so that Maureen and I can stay in denial for another hour or so about how bad our scratches are. Hopefully neither of us will be getting stitches later tonight. I hand her one of the towels, and we sit next to each other on the couch.] That fight was intense.
> It was, wasn't it .... and even, Lisa. I guess you and I have always been even fighters, haven't we.
> Well..... one of us is better than the other. We'd just kill each other figuring out which one.
> Ya....you're actually not exaggerating there...... Shit, how MANY cuts do I have on my face? Am I missing one.
> There's one on your forehead you're missing .... little further over .... [I guide Maureen's hand with the towel to the cut she hasn't wiped yet....our eyes catch at the gentle flesh of flesh contact we're making....I can tell we're both turned on.....]
> [Maureen reaches down and unbuttons her jeans. She's wearing no underwear. I replay our fight in my head, this time with the erotic awareness that the entire fight she had no underwear on. My entire body is aroused.] Go down on me, Lisa.
> [Maureen doesn't need to ask me twice. I face goes between her legs, and my tongue inserts itself into her soaked, swollen pussy. I love how she tastes. Maureen's legs wrap around my face and head. I put my tongue in as far as it will reach. Her hips start grinding into my face. Maureen starts coming so hard that we both fall to the floor. She cums for seconds.....then minutes.....then longer than the duration of our fight. Maureen's cum washes over my face. We stop after 10 minutes. I look into Maureen's eyes.] Now you do me.
> Just try and stop me, bitch.
> Fuck you. Just do it. [I open my jeans to Maureen's eager tongue. I'm cumming within seconds.]
To be continued....
-
Maureen and I continued to recuperate on my couch from our face-scratching catfight, holding towels to each others' cuts which were slower to clot. We were running our upcoming social and work calendars through our heads, figuring out how many engagements would need to cancelled or postponed until our faces were again presentable in public.
> Shit, Maureen. I just realized .... I'm hourly. Not salaried. What am I gonna do about my missing paychecks for, ... whattaya think? .... 2 weeks? 3? .... Wait.... are YOU hourly?
> Salaried. I'll just use sick days.
> FFFfffffuck. Lucky bitch.
> Shoulda though of that before you invited me over to fight. Dummy. [She leans over and kisses me on the lips. I realize I have a fat lip.]
> I keep forgetting I'm not salaried anymore. [I was supposed to be retired on P&G pension by now. Ahhhh.... the humiliations .... and regrets .... of getting old.] That was .... totally worth it, tho .... wasn't it?
> You mean.... the adrenaline rush .... or taking things to the edge of .... going too far.
> [My pussy gets soaked again. Its smell mixes with my post-fight B.O.] Now that you mention it.... I came for the adrenaline rush .... but stayed for the ... fear .... that we might maim each other. Maureen ... am I a sociopath if I crave that feeling?
> If you are ... then I'm right there with you. .... Have you ever .... gone TOO far .... with an enemy?
> Lost control in a fight? ... Maureen ... the closest was... when you and I drove to Wheaton to fight Lorraine.... Remember that?
> Lisa .... I think about it all the time.
> ....
> ....
> Maureen, .... , Lorraine's living at my Mom's old house still.
> ....
> ....
> Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Lisa?
> If you're wondering if Lorraine would fight me ..... ABSOLUTELY NO RULES .... then .... yes.
> [Maureen kisses me hard. Fuck, this pain in the ass fat lip.]
To be continued....