[sinclairfan]

WOMANHOOD

My stepmom's commentary about being a woman cuts deep.  Exploring the changes Wendy's body reinforces the contrast of what we have to show for our lives in the eight years since high school ended for each of us, in graduation for me and in dropping out for Wendy.  In theory, I should be more accomplished than my rival; but in reality, am I?

Wendy is living with a relative on generous welfare from the Coomonwealth of Massachusetts.  I'm working my ass off at a job that's not quite deadend but not quite lucrative, and so I still live with my divorced stepmom who knows she'll never have a better, younger lover than my ex-best friend.  Wendy 1, Lisa 0.

Wendy has raised a well-adjusted daughter into middle childhood and pre-adolescence.  I'm practically still a virgin.  Wendy 2, Lisa 0.

Wendy's muscles are toned, her tits large but firm, her pussy wet and barely stretched from pregnancy.  Push.

Am I better than Wendy at anything?  Has she lost her fistfighting edge?  Is she wondering like I am?

> If we fistfight right now, what are the rules?

> Rules in a fistfight?

> For example ..... say I go down.  Do you start stomping me?  [I'm thinking of Braintree Mall Sunday Night Williams-Spelman fights behind the Braintree Malls.  I've heard that by 1990, those aren't a thing anymore due to Massachusetts repealing their antiquated Puritan Era Blue Laws.]

> What would you prefer, bitch?

> I wanna see who has the better hands.

> But if there's no hitting the girl who's down, the girl getting beat will just take a knee.

> Is that what you used to do against your brother when your mom would force you two to fight?

> Stop delaying and distracting, Lisa.  Answer the damn question.

> Ok, fine.  The girl standing up can hit the girl who's down, but fists only.  How about hairpulling?

> Not banned.  But no takedowns by the hair.  Let's see whose fists are harder.  So no kicking.

> Fine.

> Fine.  So why aren't you letting me up?

> Beg, bitch.

> Please let me up so I can knock your fucking teeth down your throat.

> [My stepmon is already touching herself, and chimes in.....] That's a pretty fair request, Lisa.

> Fine.  Let's do this.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

BARE KNUCKLE BOXING

As Wendy and I circle each other with our fists cocked, I get another look at her nude 26-year old body, but now with her tight butt and thigh muscles more evident as they support the full weight of her upper body and pivot and swivel in dodging my left jabs, which I frequently throw in a desperate attempt to keep her right cross from unloading on my jaw.

When Wendy and I fought in high school, her musculature was not nearly as prominent, her hips and even her upper legs presenting a nearly boney appearance, her diet unsufficient, or unbalanced, or both, to fully develop to its full potential.  Now at 26, after 8 years of exertion from childrearing, and in a structured home environment, her flesh is toned, her muscles taut, her posture erect.  Is this what years of lifting a toddler does to the female form?  At Catholic school, the nuns had ingrained in us the belief that pregnancy and motherhood outside the holy confines of sacred marriage would ravage our female form; that modest attire and dress would transform from an imposed burden to a welcome shield from the gaze of gawkers on the accumulation of cellulite on our deformed and misshapen busts, bellies, hips, butts, thighs, and ankles; and hair retreating from all the right places and sprouting generously in all the wrong places.

But Wendy's body as we box is feminine perfection itself.  I'm suddenly grateful we agreed to no kicking during this phase of our fight--her legs look like they could break and crush mine at will.  Her knees remain bent and cocked, and her feet perch on their balls and not on her heels, enabling her to nimbly retreat at my left jabs and return immediately to threaten my jab with her dreaded right cross, which I've avoided by pure luck at least four times in the first five minutes of our standup battle.

Despite no knockdowns yet by either of us, the unmistakable *thwack*ing of flesh on flesh, bone on bone, as hands collide with hands, forearms with collarbones, is providing satisfaction to my stepmother's bloodlust.  She fingers herself furiously as Wendy and I bob and weave, clinch and release.  My arms are getting weary from the tense dodging of Wendy's ever-fearsome right cross, just as quick as it was in our high school battles.

I start aiming my jabs lower.  At Wendy's tits.  Partly because my arms are getting tired.  Partly because her swings at my jaw are slowing down.  And partly out of erotic temptation.  I miss the long pin I had on Wendy's prone body, our flesh pressed together. 

Wendy grunts in pain at each blow that lands.  She retaliates by swinging and jabbing at my breasts, which hurts with a sting of 25 simultaneous hornet stings which brings literal tears to my eyes, which I pray Wendy and my stepmom will confuse with the droplets of sweat accumulated on my face.  Wendy acknowledges the switch in tactics each of us has adopted.

> I'm glad you hit me there, Lisa.  I'll fucking destroy your tits.

> Do it.  Hard as you can, bitch.  I can take it.

> You'll regret saying that, whore.

> Just like you regret me taking your high school boyfriend?

> Bullshit, Lisa, I let you have him.

> That's fucking, crap, Wendy, I took him from you.

> And you're fucking proud of that?

> You snoize you lose, white trash bitch.

> Stuck up Catholic school bitch.

> I hate you.

> I hate you.

> Show me.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

BEATEN

There was a precise moment in my Friday night tit-boxing match against Wendy that my arms turned to rubber and I could no longer defend myself from Wendy's punches.  Wendy was weary and fatigued herself, but picked up her second wind the instant she recognized my exhaustion.

And just as I would have done to her, Wendy immediately sought to extract every ounce of advantage she could from my helplessness.  My grunting at every blow that landed on my defenseless breasts became a continuous groan of agony.  I struggled to maintain my footing, ruing my voluntary agreement to rules which allowed punches to a fallen opponent.  Wendy's downward-aimed punches would hurt me much worse than her level-swung ones.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Bitch.

Thwack. 

Thwack.

Thwack. 

Bitch.

Wendy was battering me, physically and verbally.  My only hope was to stoically accept my punishment, hoping that her fatigue would lead her to relent.

> Can't knock me out anymore, has been bitch?

> Bullshit, YOU can't even HIT me.

> Don't be so sure, cocky slut.

> Show me.

Wendy and I stare at each other with pure hate.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Bitch.

Fuck, this sucks.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

COLLAPSING

I succumbed to exhaustion before Wendy did, losing my footing and falling to the floor.  Wendy wasted no time mounting me, partially to capitalize on my helplessness, but also likely because she was as happy as I was to give her exhausted legs a breather.

Not wanting to give Wendy my back, but not wanting to directly face her for the impending humiliation, I flopped on my left shoulder, with Wendy's knees stradding me on each side of my hips.  My entire right side was at her mercy.  Wendy looked down at me, leaving me to wonder if she was considering her next course of action, or simply enjoying her victory.

> When your brother used to pin you down like this, did he used to humiliate you?  Is that why you're such a bitch?

> He didn't humiliate me ....  because .... he didn't hate me.  But I ..... hate ..... you.

> You hate me because you know I'm prettier than you.

> Maybe ...  AS pretty .... but not anywhere near as sexy.  Not then, not now.

> I stole your boyfriend then .... and would have stolen any you had gotten.

> Boys like being stolen, dumb ass .... GETTING a boyfriend proves sexiness, not stealing one.  You're 26 and still have never GOTTEN a boyfriend.

> [Wendy's capacity for introspection is surpassing my expectations.  This conversation is already deeply distressing.  My stepmom's flagging interest is The Main Event is reviving, judging by how close she is listening.]  I'll be married before you are, bitch.  No baggage like you.

> Maybe.  Or maybe guys will question why, at 26, you have no baggage.

> I'll tell them it's because of you.  [Shit, now my stepmom is REALLY listening.]

> What about me, Lisa??  Say it.

> [Wendy can already sense I'm clamming up.  She squeezes my right breast and twists.]  Leave me alone, Wendy.  What do you want?

> What I've always wanted.  To make you cry.

She's succeeded.

I took her almost 9 years.

But she's succeeded.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

SATURDAY MORNING

I spend a long, uncomfortable night on the floor, drifting in and out of sleep--my chest sore, my face swollen, my hands in terrible pain, my mouth and throat parched.  At various times during the night, I hear Wendy and my stepmom in the shower, then in bed, then in the tub, then on the couch.  I hear my stepmom tenderly nursing Wendy, and the two of them kissing and rubbing together.  I hear them laughing and giggling.  I hope it's not at me.

I feel completely defeated by Wendy, despite my victorious middle rounds in our long brawl the night before.  Her victory over me in our bare knuckled rules fight, and my inability to get her off of me afterwards, has negated my beating her in our initial catfight.  But it's also done more than that.

Normally, an unwanted guest in my house, which by 1990 I'm the primary breadwinner in, on a Saturday late morning would provoke my primal territorial instincts.  I would march into the living room and unceremoniously throw the intruder, Wendy, out onto the front lawn.  I should be doing that right now.

But I'm not.  For two reasons.  First, the thought of another defeat at Wendy's hands is beyond mortifying--it's an unacceptable risk.  It would nullify my 1981 and 1982 standing up to Wendy, and my 1990 challenge to her of a rematch.  And second, my battered flesh and limbs don't want to be in another fight quite yet--not this winter, not this month, and certainly not this weekend.

The real winner last night was my stepmom, watching two motivated women fight, while she pleasured herself.  Now it's my turn to be a spectator.

I think back to Wendy's and Maureen's fight behind Braintree Mall 8 years ago.  I think back to Maureen's 4 year affair with my stepmom.  I wonder if Maureen will react to Wendy beating me up last night; and if not to that, then to Wendy bedding my mom.

I pick up the phone.

> Hello?

> It's Lisa.  I need you.

To be continued.....

[Thommy1982]

Maureen will fucking destroy wendy

[sinclairfan]

WOMAN ON WOMAN

Maureen was over 35 minutes after I called her, and she wasted no time calling Wendy out.  Wendy wasn't thrilled seeing Maureen, but she must have been feeling overconfident from having beaten me, because it took very little coaxing for her to pick up the gauntlet Maureen laid down.

The two of them squared up, and each woman was moving in only one direction:  forward.  Their fists were clenched, and they were swinging full force.  Both Maureen and Wendy quickly learned to keep their hands high up to protect their face, and had their tempers not been long broken, they likely would have more thoughtfully and strategically widened the targets for their swings to more locations of the body.

But Maureen and Wendy were never good cooling off from a temper tantrum.

I thought back to senior year at Brockton High School, and Wendy's almost laconic approach to my friendship.....and then more.... with her boyfriend Craig.  Behind closed doors, though, I could now tell there had been object-throwing blowups, on her own, and with Craig on the phone and maybe even on purpose.

Wendy worked so hard squashing her fury because when it escaped the tube ..... it was out there for all to see.  Her red face.  Her throbbing forehead.  Her shaky knees.

Wendy "thwacked" Maureen direct in the face over and over.  And Maureen "thwacked" back just as hard, maybe harder.  Maureen was like a cornered cat in a fight, puffing up her shoulders and chest to a larger size.

The stares the two women exchanged communicated pure hatred.

The first day of high school, when I was tested by school bullies like Lisa, I sought protection from Craig.

But needed it from Maureen.  Or some like her.  A BHS schoolgirl, not a schoolboy.

Only women can protect other women.

I was loving every second of this fight.

I hope Maureen wins.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

PROTECTION

Maureen's punches to Wendy's face are deliberate and, increasingly, devastating.  That the fight isn't really fair--Wendy has been fighting me almost non-stop since the night before; Maureen appears thoughly rested--only increases the adrenaline rush I get as her blows send Wendy first to her knees, and then gradually onto her back.  Maureen mounts Wendy and continues pummeling her, as the childhood sense of safety which I lost that first day at Brockton High School in 1981 starts to return, even though I'm now a full-grown adult of 26.

I sensed I needed protection the day I went to public school for the first time.  That's why I had asked to walk with the football player, Craig.

But I should have asked for protection from someone like Maureen.  Or a BHS co-ed student.  Even my stepmom.

Only women can protect women from other women.  Men are fine for protection from men.  But protection from women can only come from other women.  Wendy never used her older brother to protect her from girls.

A lot of the public school myths about Catholic schoolgirl fights got the details wrong.  But they tapped into a deep psycho-sexual truth; the banding together to protect each other from girls from other schools.  The deep need for a sense of safety that it reinforced.  The sense of protection when a classmate of yours took down a girl that was hassling you or flirting with a boy you liked.

For 9 years, I hadn't felt safe from Wendy.  Her ability to have lure, sexually, any boy or man I dated.  Her ability to fight me anytime she wanted.

Her ability to be a better mother than me.  To raise a girl to near adolescence.  To make that girl feel safe.

I needed someone to show her that she needed to back off, to get out of my life.

I could finally move on from Wendy now.  After being stuck in place for 9 years. 

I wonder if Maureen knows any single men.  One who's ready to settle down.

I can picture Maureen as the bridesmaid at my wedding.

I can picture her helping my groom and me move into a duplex in Brockton. 

I can picture her coming to pre-natal vists and ultrasounds with me.

My husband will try to hook up Maureen with one of his buddies.  We'll break the news to him that Maureen is only into boys.  He'll make an immature comment wanting to watch her make out with another woman.

And then Maureen and I blow his mind by kissing each other passionately for five minutes.  Or twenty. 

Then he'll bring up Maureen everytime he and I are in bed.  It will get me so turned on.

In other words.....

After tonight....

I'll live happily ever after.

THE END