[sinclairfan]

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....

[sinclairfan]

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....

[sinclairfan]

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....

[sinclairfan]

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....

[sinclairfan]

Since it was so difficult for me to kiss with my battered and cut lips, Maureen and I got each other off with erotic rough cuddling of each others' breasts, while our tangled, sweaty hair draped over each others' faces.  I loved the smell of Maureen's straight auburn hair, it being the one part of her body which had barely changed since my 1985 catfight with her in the high school restroom, while our girlfriends stood outside as sentinels against patrolling teachers.

> Maureen, that was such a fucking turning.

> Which part, Lisa?  The cuddling?  Or the fighting?

> Well ...... both .... but I meant .... the fight.  The trying to hurt each other.

> I know .... I liked it too ... so primal... so dangerous ..... [Maureen pinches my breast] ..... that's the right word .... you're dangerous, Lisa .... you like hurting the other woman when you fight ..... why is your nipple getting so hard?..... who are you thinking of?

> Lorraine.  She lives so close .... I still haven't fought her yet ....

> Fighting her again is why you moved back here again, isn't it, Lisa?  [Maureen releases my breast.]

> Oh, sweetie .... don't feel bad .... I made sure to call you first ....

> [Maureen leans in and kisses me.  Hard.] 

> Ouch .... that hurt .....

> Sorry, Lisa.

> Don't be ..... I like it .... I like pain.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

The bad thing about labor unions is that when they do lay-offs, they go from the bottom-up on the seniority list (when it should really be the other way around, to at least capture the benefit of clearing out dead wood).

And that was bad for me in 2015, when my grocery store got bought out by a Dutch chain, and starting laying off employees.

And I was too close to the bottom of the seniority list to escape.  I couldn't believe it.  I got laid off.

Figures.  All that time I wasted at P&G, then working for the Cleveland Archdiocese, I could have been building grocery store seniority.  By now I could have been bullet-proof, so high up on the seniority list that I'd be on the way to a secure middle age.

In 2017, for example.  When I'd be turning 50.  Now the Big-Five-Oh was really looming super-large. 

Was I destined to be a bag lady?  Some of the areas of downtown Cleveland which had church property past its sell-by date had ladies I had seen who looked one illness away from being a bag lady, the type that made news when I was growing up in the early-1980s.  In hindsight, that wave of homelessness was fueled not just by economics, but also by the release of patients from public mental health institutions, which were no longer considered ethical.

How was MY mental health? The structure of my job had always kept me grounded..... had kept my enjoyment of catfighting just that.

An enjoyment.
A pasttime.
Amusing.
Exciting.
A release.

That's why I had provoked Tennis Tommy's college girlfriend back in 1985.  For the enjoyment.  The buildup.  The release.

And what a release it was.  Finding out that Tommy's girlfriend went to college up the road a bit at Wheaton.  That she was a sorority girl.  That she was open to a fight.  A catfight.  An honest-to-goodness girlfriend-versus-sidechick catfight.  That her name was Lorraine.

My Mom and my hairdresser coaching me on what to do during the fight.  Thinking it was a great idea.

Seeing Lorraine in the field of her sorority that afternoon.  Waiting for me to walk up to her.  So that we could finally dig our claws into each other.  How turned on I was.

It was 30 years later now.  Lorraine lived 15 minutes away from me again.

I wonder what she's doing right now. 

I wonder if she still thinks about fighting.

And about me.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

I pulled up to Lorraine's house.  Well, ...., my mom's old house, after she divorced my Dad.  Meaning, when my Mom died, I should have inherited it.

But Lorraine had wormed her way onto the deed when my Mom got caught in the 2008 subprime mortgage crash. 

Lorraine had stolen a house from me, in effect.

After stealing my P&G career.

After I stole her first boyfriend.

So, yah..... it was confusing which of us was 'winning'.

Which is why we had had so many catfights.

I wanted to catfight her again.  This afternoon, if she was willing.  And able.

I sure as hell was.

Lorraine is out in the front yard doing some gardening.  I can tell it's her from how her ass looks from the back.  It still looks good, even at 51, or however old she is now.  Some women just always have a nice ass, their whole lives.

Her blonde hair is much longer than last time I saw her.  It's gotta be artificially enhanced.  Like with hair extensions or something.  I heard once that it's risky to catfight a woman with hair extensions--that the clips can dig into the flesh on your hands and cut you.

She turns her face.  It's showing her age.  My face is aging much more gracefully than Lorraine's, if you ask me.  Hers has wrinkles.

Still a pretty face, tho.

I'd love to scratch it up now.

I pull into the driveway.  Lorraine doesn't seem surprised.  Was she expecting someone?  Does she live with someone?

Did she "get over" my Mom as soon as my Mom died?  Was she already cheating on my Mom by then?

I turn the car off.  I grab the keys in my hand.  I want to slash Lorraine's face with the keys.

> Hey, Lorraine.  Remember me?

> How could I forget, Lisa?

> ....[how is she so composed?  My hands are fucking shaking.].....

> Heard you were living back here?  What took you so long to swing by?

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

I'm about 15 feet away from Lorraine now, and her cockiness is triggering me.  Doesn't she remember I kicked her ass the last she fought?

Speaking of remembering.....I suddenly remember that this is the house where my Mom watched Maria and me have a catfight.  In the backyard.  There's more privacy back there.  As if on cue, a school bus drives by .... then another .... on the busy street in front of where I'm confronting Lorraine.

> Can we go and have somewhere more private, bitch?

> You're not invited inside my house, cxnt.  [I think of this as rightfully MY house.  But, whatever.]

> I was thinking the backyard.  Unless you're to chicken shit to face me there, slut.

> Let's go, Lisa.  Follow me.

Lorraine grabs a pair of three-prong digging hand-tools, and walks briskly to the backyard.  Is she going to attack me with them?  I clutch my car keys in my hand.  If she comes at me with the gardening tool, I'm going for Lorraine's eyes with my keys.

The hostility we have for each other gets my blood pumping.  Is she as excited as I am?

I remember Maureen and I driving to  Lorraine's sorority to fight her in 1985.  I remembered wondering it would be like to fight a college girl.

Now it's 2015 and we're straddling to two sides of 50.  What do 50-something women fight like, I wonder.  I've almost never seen women our age in a real, actual fight.

Is that why each of us have grabbed weapons?  Are we too old to hurt each other with our bare hands anymore?

Or should I be fearing the opposite?  Are we so old and pre-osteoperosis that our bones will start breaking as soon as our bodies collide?

Lorraine and I are quickly in the backyard.  It's more grown-in than when Maria and I catfought on near-gravel back here in front of my Mom.

Lorraine swings around and faces me.  She tosses one of the garden tools as me, and holds the other for herself.

> You wanna fight, tough girl?  Fight me with these.  I've wanted to fo this for a couple years now.

> What the fuck, Lorraine?  Living out some prison-fight-with-shanks fantasy?

> Something like that.  Let's fight like cavewomen, bitch.  Let's hurt each other.

> [Is Lorraine playing with me?  Testing me?  Trying to scare me?]  You think I won't do it, bitch?  I had alleyfights in Cleveland.  Just warning you.

> Then show me, bitch.  Let's fo it.  Let's fight like savages.

Lorraine takes a swipe at me with the tool in her right hand.  I avoid it, but as soon as my face turns her way, her left fist is ready and catches me right in the nose.

> Shit.

> Can't take it, Lisa?  What good did those alleyfights do you now?

I use an overhand motion to try and get Lorraine's hair tangled in my garden tool.  But she charges at me and tackles me to the ground.  Her forehead links on my right boob and makes me winded.  Plus my nose still hurts from the punch.

I knee Lorraine from the ground in her midsection.. She winded, too now.

We each use our free left hand to grab the others' right wrist, so as to prevent a swipe from the garden tools.

Lorraine was exaggerating.  We're actually fighting like cavewomen.

I feel myself starting to cum.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

As Lorraine and I roll on the grass, garden tool weapons in hand, I think back to my 1990s days in Cleveland, when my Dad's girlfriend would visit me.  She would always derive pleasure from hitting and hurting me .... and I would enjoy the pleasure she got from that.  She and I would go outside to an alley and hit each other .... then go back to my apartment bedroom and have sex.

I wanted sex right now with Lorraine.  Her shapely ass in her tight jeans, her long thick blonde hair with her new hair extensions.  I probe her hair with my 3-pronged garden tool, and sure enough it gets entangled in the clips of her hair extensions.  Some of the blonde extensions fall into the grass.  Others stay tangled in her scalp, and she cries out in pain at the hairpulling sensation in her head.

Lorraine retaliates by dropping her garden tool and digging into my scalp with both fists, digging her sharp nails into my scalp.  We shake each others' heads from side to side, and slam each others' heads into the soft grass.

I get more and more aroused.  I wrap my skirt and legs around Lorraine's jeans, craving a rubbing sensation in my crotch.  I notice Lorraine rocking back and forth, seeking contact with me as well.

My mouth craves Lorraine's mouth right now.  Her teeth are so white and straight--she must have had work on them.

> Kiss me, Lorraine.

> Bite me, bitch.

I want to bite her.  But not until we share long kisses.  So I kiss her hard and wet, craving contact with her tongue.  Our tongues find each other and flick at each other uncontrollably.

I slide off my skirt.  I want Lorraine's jeans off.  She struggles to remove them, not wanting to unlock our mouths.

But we finally reluctantly do so, so strong is the desire of our pussies to directly touch each other.

We sit up, facing each other, and scissor our legs together.  Both of our pussies are wet and slippery, and ready to fuck.

We rock together, already climaxing alternately.

> Fuck you, bitch.

> Blonde slut.

I feel my clit on Lorraine's.

> I hate you.

> You're a bitch.

We rock back and forth, me staring at Lorraine's wrecked hair. 

> I was winning that fight.

> You weren't, liar.

> Take that back.

> Make me.

> After we fuck.

I can't believe I'm fucking Lorraine in the same backyard where I fought Maria.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

With the waves of ecstacy from lawn sex with Lorraine slowly waning, and me on all fours slowly catching my breath, I feel Lorraine's right arm snake around my throat and clamp down, attempting (and partly succeeding) in strangling me.  Her books are almost exactly lined up with my shoulder blades, and her knee in grinding into my right ass cheek.

Every breath I take, the bitch uses as an opportunity to tighten her grip on my throat.

I feel myself starting to get woozy.  I think back to an Anthropology class 30 years ago at Miami of Ohio.  We were talking about the scientific theory at the time that human evolution outstripped the other primates because the female vagina slid forward, and men needed to actually talk to women to get sex from them.  And that men still having a residual reluctance to approach, because they would need to put their club down for 5 minutes, and be vulnerable, if she actually said yes.

We got into a free form discussion about innate versus socially-constructed differences between men and women.  One of the guys in the class (a Miami of Ohio football player) said, "Have you ever seen girls fight?  They're animals."  I was raising my hand, impulsively, to offer up that I had been in a fight (over a boy, with his girlfriend Lorraine), but the prim-and-proper Professor Wilkinson had interjected, more suddenly than necessary, "Where I come from, ladies don't fight."  So I never got to tell my story.  Probably just as well.

Anyways....I was having no luck at all getting out of Lorraine's chokehold.

I reverse-elbowed her into the stomach.  She exhaled out in pain....but did not release her grip on me.

Where did Lorraine learn a chokehold like this?

Her sweat dripping on me reeked of b.o.

I kept me from passing out.

For another 3 minutes or so.

But then everything went black.

Lorraine choked me out.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

I needed help licking my wounds, literally and figuratively, after my choke-out catfight against Lorraine.  I went to the only real local friend I had, Maureen.  She took me into my home to recoup my confidence.  And to get my hair fixed.

You know:  the essentials.

Trying to live a "normie' life as a grocery store manager was softening me up as a street fighter.  I used to routinely beat up Lorraine whenever I faced off against her.  But this time she had KO'd me.  And made it look pretty easy.

I wondered how she was keeping her fight skills so sharp.

When Maureen would go off to work during the day, I'd snoop around her drawers.  In her kitchen, in her office, in her bedroom.

First guiltily.  Just shamelessly.

I don't know what I was looking for.  Just curious about how she led her life.  And what sort of grown up she had become.

A surprisingly mature, responsible one.

Her home office drawer was filled with brokerage statements from Charles Schwab.  Recently paid dividend confirmations.

Sept 30--640 shares of Travelers.
Oct 1--300 shares of Coca Cola.
Oct 2--1,290 shares of Hartford Financial Services.

This was a modest yet impressive list of quarterly income sources.  And an even more impressive stash of savings.  Almost a quarter of a mil just in those three companies.

I tried to see if she had a listing of her entire portfolio anywhere.

But didn't want to get caught snooping.

So, instead I sulked.  Over the 30 years' worth....the 120 quarters' worth .... of missed dividend payment which could have been mine if I had stayed at .... and flourished at.... Proctor and Gamble.

THAT was supposed to be my future.  A P&G middle manager.  And shareholder.

I'd have tens of thousands of shares by now.  If I had just stayed in Cincinnati.  And not whistle-blown on Lorraine.

All those dividends. 

The statements alone I would have piled on my bed.  And done snow angels in.

And the masturbated in.  I strip and masturbate on Maureen's bed.

I cum.  Then I fall asleep.

Maureen comes home work.

> Ummm, why are you in my bed, bitch?

> Why do you have shares in Travelers and HFG, Maureen?

> I inherited them up from an aunt in Connecticut.  And stop going through my stuff, Lisa.

> Make me.

> [Maureen slaps my face.]  You know I will.

> I know.  Lick my pussy.  Make me cum.

> [Maureen eats me out.  She's ssssoooo good at it.]  Now make out with me, bitch.

> I love being called a bitch.

> I know.  Shut up and kiss me.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

With each passing day I'm a guest at Maureen's house, I get more and more brazen in intrusively searching through her personal belongings.  At first, I'm genuinely curteous about the financial windfall Maureen seems to have fallen into via her Connecticut aunt.

I had a couple wealthy-ish aunylts and uncles on both my Mom's and Dad's side who passed away in the early 2000s.  Where did their fortunes go?

Did Maria get the one's on my Dad's side?

Did Lorraine get the one's on my Mom's side?

So unfair.

I dominated Maria in my catfights with her.

I won most of my catfights against Lorraine.

I deserved those inheritances, not Maria and Lorraine.

I think back to when my Mom and Dad were married and together, back in the 1980s.  Having Maria over for sleepovers.

The whole time, my Dad and my Mom having masculine and feminine catfight fantasies about Maria and I getting into a catfight.

My Dad's masculine fantasies involving Maria and I gradually losing pieces of clothing during the fight.  Our tops and then bras peeling off as the fight progressed, our cleavage becoming visible.  The our nipples.  Then our entire tits, including the underboob.

My Mom's catfight fantasies about Maria and me would have been more feminine.  Maria and I fighting would be an expression of the sorting of status between Maria and me.  Who was prettier?  Who was the leader, versus who was the "sidekck".  Who brought more to the table as a friend?

The feminine style of catfight, ironically would be the more violent fight.

Because it would be over status.

Not over tits.

As Maria and I ate popcorn and talked about boys till 2am in the basement, my Mom and Dad were in bed fucking.  Both aroused by the private fantasies they were imaging about a catfight between Maria and me.

I masturbate in Maureen's bed to the thought of them fucking.

I lose track of time.

Maureen comes home from work.  She catches me masturbating.

> Why were you going thru my jewelry drawer?

> I can explain.

> I don't want to hear it, Lisa.

> What do you want to do?

> I wanna punch you in the mouth, bitch.

Gawd, that never gets old. 

Getting called a bitch.

And getting hit in the mouth.

To be continued....