[sinclairfan]

My name is Denise.  I'm 53 today, and my 2 children, 1 boy and 1 girl are off on their own now.  5'8", thin and fit, naturally brunette but it looks WAY better blonde, so I've usually worn it that way and straight to my shoulders.  40d if you're wondering.  Sometimes I think my blonde hair was a way to get people to stop staring at my 40d's.

I'm enjoying my freedom, don't get me wrong--but I do miss the days my kids were young.  People would tell me all the time that "they grow up so fast", and at the time it didn't feel like it.  But I can see now what they meant.  Sometimes I wish it was 2003 all over again.

2003.  I find myself returning to that year in my mind.  September of that year.  September 17 to be precise

It was the year my first marriage started to break up.  It was the month my youngest started kindegarten.  And it was the day another woman in my town challenged me to a fistfight.

Now, those 3 events weren't a coincidence.  They were all inter-related.  I got tired of my husband never helping me at home ..... never BEING at home.  He was a cop, and worked constant overtime.  But not for the money--just to avoid home life.  When he WAS home, he demanded sex, no matter what else I had going on.  So I didn't react in the best way .... I withheld sex, thinking it was the only way to get him to listen.  So he started sneaking around to get it--not so much physical affairs, but phone sex and sexting with different women.  We started therapy, but once you start therapy, you're admitting it's over.  We both knew he had one foot out the door and that we were both waiting for one of his new women to take him into his house.  Fine.  Good riddance.  My family never liked him anyways.

Plus, for someone who wanted sex all the time, he wasn't that good at it.

I found someone who was.  My massage therapist, Bill.  It all came about in the stereotypical way you sou expect.  I went in for appointment at his legit chain.  I'd be naked under the towel, he'd give me straight massages.  I'd start talking about how my large breasts were a strain on my back.

He'd say, Oh, your breasts are large?  I hadn't noticed. 

Here, let me show you. 

Oh, now I see.  Yes, those are some large hooters, missy.  I envy your husband. 

No need to envy him--my husband is a dud.  Our marriage is breaking up.

I'm sorry to hear that, Denise.  That's sad to hear.

I'm not sad about losing him.  But the loneliness sucks.  Can ... you help me with that?

Are you asking me out.

Kinda.

I'd get fired.

Oh.

Bill's recourse to professionalism did exactly what it was meant to do--made me want him even more.  At our visits, the towel started covering less and less of me.  Then came off entirely.  And the massages stopped being therapeutic, and became totally sexual.  I started putting the towel in my mouth to muffle the sounds of my groans when orgasming, so the rest of the parlor wouldn't hear us.

I told Bill I wanted to have sex with him "the right way".  Dinner.  Watch a movie.  Long kisses on the couch.  And mutual sex--where I could get him off, too.  And, of course, I wanted him IN ME.

What would we talk about at dinner?

My family.  My kids--I have two young kids, is that ok?

It is.  I love kids.  I'm infertile.

Oh.  Sorry to hear that.  Do .... other women .... are they bothered by that?  You ARE single, right?

[Laughing] You ask me that NOW?  After what we've been doing?

Sorry, that was wrong of me.  So, ... you're married?

Not married.  But in a reletionship.

Oh.  What's her name?

Carrie.  Her name is Carrie.

Oh.  Well ... "in a relationship" isn't married, right?

I suppose it isn't. 

Where does Carrie live?

Here in Manchester [meaning Manchester, Connecticut--where I lived].  So, if we dated, we'd talk about Carrie.

Well ...  I was going to say no ...  but if she's in Manchester .... I might run into her.

Where at?

At Stop N Shop ..... or, well, how old is she?

34.  Same as you.  [For some reason, Carrie living in the same town and being the same age got me horny.]

Oh.  Well, wait?  Never married?

Divorced.

Oh.  Kids.

One.  A boy.  3rd grade.

Oh.  Both of mine go to the K thru 3 school.

Oh.  Then you've probably seen her at school.

Well, see!  We'd definitely need to talk about her, then.  Because I would defonitely run into her.

......[Awkward silence from Bill]....

Wait.  Did I ruin ...  us ... now.  Do you not want to date me now??

I thought we agreed.  "In a relationship isn't married," right?  Do YOU still want to date ME?

Yes, but....

But??

Does Carrie know about me?

Do you want her to?

No ...  but she'll find out, right?  And I don't want drama.  If our kids are in the same school.  [This was a bold-faced lie.  I wanted drama.  I wanted Carrie out of the picture.]

Ok ...  I can tell her .... about us.

How far we've taken it already?  Or that we're going to start doing it ... outside of your workplace?

Which do you want me to tell her?

Both.

I will.  Tonight.

Good. 
***********************
Rhat night, I found Carrie's picture in the school handbook.  Blonde, like me.  Pretty.  Couldn't tell her size. 

I masturbated all night to the thought of her and I fighting. 

Over a guy I hadn't even fucked yet.
***************************
The next morning at 9am, after I got my kids on the bus, my doorbell rang.

I looked in the peephole. 

Shit.  It was Carrie.

I opened the door.

> May I come in?

> Yes.  Bill talked to you?

> Yes.

> I'm glad you came.  I wanted to keep any drama away from school.

> Good.  Then we understand each other?  [We were now nose to nose in my foyer.  Carrie was an inch or two shorter than me.  I didn't appreciate that she was in my face.  But it excited me.]

> I dunno.

> Don't play dumb.  You and I are gonna fight eventually.  Let's get it over with.

> [My pussy was soaked.]  Fine by me.  What rules?

> Rules?  It's a fight, bitch.

To be conrinued......

[sinclairfan]

Carrie's nose and mine were touching.  Our bodies were also touching through our clothes, but the nose touching was flesh on flesh.  I remembered in high school girlfight staredowns growing up in East Hartford, once two girls' skin made contact, whether their hands or arms or shoulders or faces, up until that moement either girl might back down, but once skin touched skin it was on.  Even the crowd instinctively understood this and would sometimes push the two relectant girls together, making them collide and start fighting.

I was surprised Carrie and I weren't throwing down yet.  We rubbed our noses together slowly but roughly.  I found it erotic.

She spoke first.

I've seen you at school since last year.  I've wanted to kick your ass since then?

[I couldn't place Carrie's face, but I had been distracted by my sucky home situation last year.]  You can't kick my ass.

I can and I will.

Why hasn't it happened yet?  What stopped you last year?  [Carrie's face was so close I could see the pores on her face.]

Two women our age usually need a reason to fight, dumb ass.

Well?  Have you found one yet?

Yes.  If you keep seeing Bill.

I'm going to see him.  And the next time I do. it will be to fuck him.  Bitch.

Not if I fuck you up first.

I don't think you can.

I know I can.  I think I'm harder.  Slut.

Let's find out.  Whore.

Love to. 

[I can smell cum between my legs.  Even through Carrie's heavy make up.  She smells good.]

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

As Carrie and I continued our nose to nose confrontation, I thought back to the significance of the 5-day period from September 13th to September 17th when I was growing up in the East Hartford Catholic school system (already by the 1980s, East Hartford public schools had degraded pretty badly, and you wouldn't think of actually attending if you had options).

September, after Labor Day, was back-to-school time in New England, and in Catholic schools, September 13th to 17th provided a solid 5-day window of Feast Days to start the year off strong in Theology class.

September 13th, St John Chrysostam, the great Orthodox theologian from 4th century Constantinople.

September 14th, the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, on which Christ died.

September 15th, the Feast of Our Lady of Sorrows, the Virgin at the foot of the Cross on Good Friday, witnessing her own Son endure his Passion.

September 16th, the Feast of Saints Cornelius and Cyprian, the Roman bishops from the Great Plague of 258 (still known as the Plague of Cyprian, for how he treated the victims, at great risk to his own safety).

September 17th, the Feast of Saint Robert Bellarmine, who has high school and a college in Kentucky named for him.  I almost went there.  Maybe I should have.  I would have met a better first husband.

We were told once that if we prayed for all 5 days straight, our every prayer would be answered.

I believed it then in the 1980s.  And I believed it now, in 2003.

My prayer was to kick the shit out of Bill's girlfriend so I could date him myself.

It was about to happen.

I could feel it.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

When I was finishing high school in East Hartford and my bust was growing as large as it was, I assumed my body shape .... and my maturity in general .... would prevent me from getting into fights anymore.  Then one Saturday morning I was home alone  getting a slow start after drinking too much the night before, when pro wrestling came on the TV, and I gpt my first look at Wendi Richter.

Wendi was everything I saw in myself, just that she was more glamorous at it:  big city attitude and bluster and confidence, big 1980s hair with a not necessarily perfect dye job, big chest.

And she was catfighting another woman in front of a crowd, not caring if her body was .... well, 'out there'.  You know, coming out of her clothes?  Her top, especially.

I mean, she cared.  She was being careful to keep her balance and not fall flat on her face. But she kept her balance by pulling the other girl's hair, by grabbing her shoulders, by kicking her in the shins.

And eventually pinning the other woman under her.

As soon as the fight was on, I was masturbating to it in our living room.  And it was better than the sex I had the night before.

I wanted to fight like Wendi Richter.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Growing up in East Hartford in 1988, it wasn't hard to find a fight, if you were looking for one, especially on Friday and Saturday night.  There were enough of us deadenders, even girls, with too much time on our hands and angry at life.

No, the problem was finding a girlfight which wouldn't attract a crowd, either of Good Samsritans wanting to break up the fight, our other troublemakers jumping in and not letting the two original girls finish their fight.

If THAT was the kind of fight you wanted .... a long fight, possibly even with rounds, to a decision, to find out who the tougher ('harder', the word would become in the 1990s), you fought on Sundays.  And if you were white ethnic Catholic like I was, you did it Sunday afternoons, when the adults were cleaning up Sunday dinner, or headed to their parents or spinster aunts to pay an obligatory Sunday visit, or to check on their health (a 'wellness check', as it's called today).

So on Sunday afternoon, a group of about 8 of us, 6 girls and 2 boys, were loitering in the backyard, some us smoking, the boys doing pot out of a bong (so dumb--they mouth was gross to kiss with the pot taste on it, and the bong gave them a ring of zits around their mouth).  Another tall girl, Joan, and I were still in our church clothes from Sunday Mass.  The ground was thawing from the long, late New England winter.

I told Joan I had a problem with her and wanted to fistfight her.

"Here?  In these clothes?"

The 4 other girls in the circle told us we should do it.

I should in the middle of the circle, fists cocked.

Joan thought of a face-saving way out.  There was none.

"C'mon, Joan.  Kick her ass."

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

When I was a parent of grade-school kids in the 2000s, and then of middle school kids in the 2010s, and neighborhood mom's would wax nostalgic about growing up in the 1970s and 1980s, and we as kids being free to roam and play our own unsupervised games from dawn till dusk when it wasn't a school day, and from the school bell till dinner time on school days, I would roll my eyes and thibk, "Ok, clearly you grew up in Simsbury or Farmington or Granby or Avon or Glastonbury," because those of us who grew up in East Hartford (or Meriden or East Haddam or Portland or Windsor) knew the 'real deal':  that packs of kids left unsupervised on their own will find trouble more often than they find enrichment.

They'll find the TV and find Batman and Speed Racer and Three Stooges.

They'll find their mom's copy of 'Joy of Sex' and their dad's pile of Playboy magazines.

They'll sniff magic markers and glue, and then find cigarettes and pot.

They'll find their parents' liquor cabinet, and realize if you refill what you consume from the vodka bottles with water, the parents will never notice.

They'll pair off and kiss and go to second and third base, and eventually go all the way.

And the girls will pair off and fight.  Sometimes the boys too, but honestly less and less as we got older.  By the time we were 19 and 20 and 21 years old, the neighborhood fights were pretty exclusively chickfights.

Why just the chicks?  Mostly because of the boys.  Not all of them were confident enough to initiate sex with a girl.  The girls would usually say yes to sex, or at least give blow jobs--but you had to have the balls to ask (only a total slut would give her body unsolicited, and we were loose but not sluts).

But any boy could watch a chickfight, then jack off to the memory of it for months.

So the boys were always pairing us girls off.  Two of us were dating the same boy?  'I wonder who would win a fight between them.'  Two girls were on the ballot for Class Treasurer?  'I wonder who would win a fight between them.'  Two girls were competing for starting second baseman at soccer.  'I wonder who would win a fight between them.'  Two girls were tall.  'I wonder who would win a fight between them.'

That last one was Joan and me.  We were the two tallest girls in our group, and the boys had been trying to talk a fight between us into happening for years.  Which I was down for.  Joan wasn't, because she always found a way out.  Either her Girl Scout older sister got her out of needing to fight, or she was applying to the Catholic School I was going to (she never did end up enrolling ... hmmm) and said she didn't want to mess up her status.

But that 1988 Sunday afternoon, her older sister was off at college, and we were high school seniors so the 'Catholic School enrollment'-ship had sailed--so Joan was out of excuses.

She either needed to fight me, or get a permanent neighborhood reputation as a wimp, a wuss, yellow, scared.  Even Joan knew she was out of options.  She agreed to fistfight me.  We were going to determine the neighborhood Tallgirl Chickfight Champion.  Only 6 witnesses would see the fight, but by the time 60 Minutes was on tonight, all of our East Hartford neighborhood won know who won.

Joan had lots of Irish freckles and thick frizzy-ish dirty blonde hair.  She was athletic, so I knew I was in for a long hard fight.

Which is what I wanted.  Visions of Wendi Richter pinning her opponent under her were consuming my psyche.

Joan I kicked off our church shoes, and stood facing each other in sweater-skirt-nylons.  My 40d tits pressed thru my sweater was already giving me confidence--I knew the looked better than Joan's smaller one's.

And Joan's first couple of punches were direct hits to them, causing me to exhale in un-feminine oooomph's.

I don't think Joan meant to punch me in the boobs.  I think her slippery nylons on the slick grassy ground, combined with our tight sweaters, made it hard for her to lift her arms all the way up to my face or jaw.  But that didn't make the pain of a boob-punch any less, and just a few seconds in, our fight was already personal.

I went from fistfight to catfight mide fast. 

My right hand sunk deep into Joan's scalp, and my left latched onto her sweater.

I don't know what material it was (sweaters wrre already falling out of fashion in 1988), but it was as tick as wool but soft and slippery as cashmere.

I ould feel Joan's warm, firm back and shoulder blades through the sweater.  I pulled her close to me.  I wrestled her to the cold ground.  We locked our legs together, and higged each other close and tight.  We were bearhugging.

I loved the feel of Joan's sweater, and felt a craving to caress it.  I craved to hear ftom here the 'oomph' sound she extracted from me.

I punched her boobs thru her sweater as hard as I could, over and over.  She was groaning like I hoped to hear.  She was retaliating on my boobs.

> Bitch.

> Bitch.

> I hate you, bitch.

> Fuck you, bitch.

We both struggled to get on top, driving our knees into each others' midsections.  Above and below the belt.

Wendi Richter's wresting fight had been a standup slapfest.  How were Joan and I on the ground?

Wendi had controlled her opponent by grabbing the hair.  I could at least grab Joan's hair.  I did, and starting ripping at it as hard as I could.  She did the same to me.

Joan mounted me and started rocking back and forth.  I opened my legs to her.  We were both groaning in first agony, then arousal, then sheer pleasure.

"Are you two fighting or fucking," one of our audience asked in sheer bewilderment.

"We're fucking, dumb ass," I thought to myself.

Joan and I were fucking.

And we both came.

And I loved it.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Lying in my bathtub at home that need nursing my fight wounds, I realized that Joan and I had gotten different things out of our 1988 neighborhood catfight.

The mystery of Joan never being around boys, and never quite enrolling into Catholic school,  melted away for all those who had witnessed our fight that day.  She spent the entire 'fight' trying to force herself onto my body.  It's a little chickfight tactic to maneuver your enemy undrr you--once Joan and I were on the ground, I was trying to do it myself.

But I knew the difference between trying to pin a girl under you, versus trying to rub yourself off on her.  Joan was trying to do the second.

Joan was into chicks.

Not that I had an isdue with that.  But it would have been nice to know before fighting her.

I was different, of course.  I was into boys.

But fighting girls got me aroused.  Both as it was happening, and afterwards.

It was 2003 now.  Carrie and I were about to fight.

Would I cum?

What would Carrie think?

Would she tell Bill?

Would my husband fight out?

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

As Carrie continued to stick her face into mine and her forehead was bumping against my chin, we were so close that I could smell her breath and feel her hair on my mouth.  Her hair had already been washed this morning.  I hadn't done my morning shower yet because I made my two kids breakfast before throwing them on the school bus.  I let the sides of my hair dangle in Carrie's face.  I wondered if she would grab it and start puliing it once our fight started.  I wished it was clean--I didn't want her to zhink I walked around with greasy hair all the time.

Our hair in each others' faces reminded me of the Thanksgiving after the spring Joan and I had out backyard catfight, when she and I were in my mother's kitchen making dinner.
*************************
In the fall of 1988, Joan went away to the University of Rhode Island for college.  About half of us in our East Hartford group were trying college that fall (I wasn't one of them), but it was either Manchester Community College or Eastern Connecticut State College, which we knew in our hearts wasn't "real college".  How Joan got interested in, and then into, URI, none of us knew.  We suspected her mom had connections or something, because Joan's older sister was deep into a college career too.

So deep, that she didn't come home for Thanksgiving that year.  Instead, Joan's parents flew out west to HER.   And Joan was home alone.  So Joan's Mom asked MY mom if Joan could stay with us for the weekend.  My Mom said yes.

I was glad I already knew about Joan's, ummmmm ...... sexual proclivities and preferences ..... because she was going to be sleeping in my bedroom.  In a sleeping bag, on the floor.  For Tues-Wed-Thurs-Fri-Sat night.

5 nights in my bedroom with a girl I had a catfight with the last time I saw her.
***************************
My mom joined us when Joan arrived at our place Tuesday afternoon.  She quizzed Joan about URI, not doubt hoping to shame me about getting MY act together and getting some sort of college plan to come together.  Get thd hell out of East Hartford.  Eventually get the hell out of my Mom's house.

I actually did have a plan.  It was for some Prince of a man to come rescue me, sweep me off of my feet, and bring me to the Connecticut suburbs.  It hadn't happened yet.  But that was my plan.

Joan disabused my mom of any idealistic notions she had of 4-year colleges as centers of academic excellence.

> The classes are just ok, and the partying is kinda ridiculous.  Even more drinking than goes on in East Hartford.

> But .... where do these kids get the money?  [My mother didn't see the irony that the three of us were actually drinking Budweisers at the island.  A 3pm on a Tuesday afternoon--not even Happy Hour yet.  Even though Joan and I were 2 years under the legal drinking age.]

> Well .... if you go to a party with a keg and get started there, you only need to dip into your own stash later that night. 

> But how do they afford even THAT?  A side stash?  Like, in a mini-fridge, right?

> They put it on their college loans.

> What?!?  That's outrageous!!  My taxpayer money at work??

> Kinda.  Spring Break, too.  The drinking .... AND the plane tickets to Florida.  [Out of no where, Joan lifts her top and shows us her belly flesh, a small but modest 'spare tire' circling about her belt.]  The 'Freshman Five' isn't cookies from care packages at home.  It's from beer.
**************************
As my Mom started to make dinner for us, Joan and I moved to the couch in the living room, her head spinning from the 3 beers each we had with my Mom.

> I like how you look in blonde hair, Denise.  [Joan runs her hand thru my hair.  I want to touch hers, but I don't.  I'm into boys, not girls, and don't want to mis-lead her.]

> Thanks.  And thanks for not making college seem so great.  My Mom is RIDING .... MY .... ASS about it.  About 'my future'.

> I think your ass is sexy.  I liked grabbing it when we had our catfight.  Do you remember that?

> How could I forget.  You punched my boob.

> I know.  Sorry about that.  Are we good now? ...... [Joan whispers in my ear] ..... Can I kiss your boob in bed tonight and make it better?

***************************
That night, once the lights were out, Joan climbed in my bed and sucked my tits for an hour.  I came like Niagara Falls.
****************************
I punched Carrie in her boob.  The first hit of our fight.

She backed off and looked me up and down.

> The tits, Denise?  Really?  You punch me in the tits?

> 'It's a fight, bitch.'  Isn't that what you said, Carrie??

Carrie punches me in the face.  Right on the cheek.  I grab her hair and starting ripping it out by the hadful.

She pushes me by my shoulders against the inside of my front door.

> I'm gonna enjoy fucking you up, Denise.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

In 1988, the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, after drinking too much with my Mom at dinner, Joan and I went to my bedroom and latched the door.

We turned on Baba O'Riley by The Who.  We climbed in her sleeping bag on the floor and latched together, semi-nude.  And we shut up and listened.

Three things we noticed about that song.
<1> The keyboard at the start.  One ... and ... Four.  One ...  and .... Four.  One .... and ....  Four.  One ...  and ... Four.  There was a TV show at the time.  Its theme song went One ... ah ... Three.  Just once at the top.  So close to Baba O'Riley.  But not.  It was addicting to listen to, holding someone.

<2> The bass guitar.  Gotta love bass.  But this was something .... different.  It was so .... hard.  It just ...  made you want to get pounded.  Get fucked.  Get beat up in a fight.  Joan and I both .... felt it.

<3> The violin at the end.  How do you transition from a hard rock song to ..... violin??  How was what we were listening to possible?  Were we really with each other in a sleeping bag?  The night before Halloween?

Joan and I had our botyoms off, grinding together, but our tops on.

We both liked feeling each other with tops on.  Or ...  I liked it better that way, and she went along.

Tomorrow, we were going to make a turkey for my mom and dad.  The four of us would have dinner, along with two of my spinster aunts who were coming over.

Then Joan and I would go to bed early to go Christmas shopping first thing Friday morning.

Friday night?

"Wanna go to Waterbury and look for a catfight?"

"To watch?  Or be in?"

"I dunno.  What do YOU want?"

"Honestly?  To be in bed with you."

"You're in bed with me now."

"Then go down on me."

I let Joan mount my face while I go down on her.  I have no idea what I'm doing.

She gets off anyways.

"How was it for you?"

"The best I've ever had."

To be continued.....