[sinclairfan]

VICKY VS LAURA

My catfight with Laura was the only fight I've ever been in where the pre-fight trash talk occurred DURING the fight.  I knocked on the door of Suite 1206, Laura, in lingerie, let me in within seconds, I slammed and latched the door behind us, and we were in each other's hair in a catball in nanoseconds.

I bullrushed Laura into a coffee table full of magazines and hard cover "Welcome to Providence!" travel guides.  All the magazines and books went flying onto the floor, and the furniture made an ominous cracking sound.  As we were doing this, the trash talk began.

I asked Laura who had paid for the suite.  I didn't want to get my wingman Greg into trouble, as there was obviously going to be significant damage to the suite.  Laura assured me to "not worry about it"--she had put it on her husband's corporate account.  (Ten years later, I would chuckle when, on a Seinfeld episode, Kramer reassured Jerry that corporations "just write things off".)

Laura, meanwhile, was attempting to taunt me with Greg's cum.  She was scooping into her pussy with her hand, and rubbing the residue of her fuck session into my face.  "Smell your boyfriend, Vicky," she screeched.  "He's not my boyfriend, bitch," I mumbled, truthfully.  "Bullshit," Laura retorted, impotently.

Our fight, though, was anything but impotent.  As with our first fight, we were using our surroundings as weapons.  Walls.  Furniture.  An oversized circa-1987 TV remote.  Couch corners.  Credenzas.  End tables.  Lamps.  We had each other by the hair and were slamming each other's heads into the nearest hard object.  The sharper the corner, the better.

I was happy I had my 3 no holds barred fights with Mrs Silva under my belt.  I was afraid of nothing.

And, shit, I was turned on.  We had literally just fucked each other's man.  This was my ultimate catfight fantasy, actually happening.

I saw clumps of blonde hair on the floor, on the couch, in Laura's bra.

Shit, another December on sick leave at Prime.

We call each other goddammned fucking bitches.

There's no tactics to this fight.  First bitch whose skull collides with a corner loses, plain and simple.

I cum standing up for the first time ever.  I knew stripper girls who used to cum giving lap dances.  I never could.  Now I know why they liked it so much.  It feels, warm.  Comforting.

Laura slams my head into the TV.  For you youngsters, TV's in 1987 weren't flat screens.  They were these hard, unforgiving suckers.

I go down immediately.  My eyes lock with Laura's.  She's scared looking at me, which scares me.  What does she see?  What did she just do to me?

I pass out.

I come to.  In a hospital bed.  In January 1988.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

1988-89:  REHABILITATION

On a frigid New England Tuesday morning, January 12, 1988, at Morton Hospital in Taunton, Massachusetts, I woke up from a 6-week long doctor-induced coma into which I had been placed because of swelling in my brain.  The swelling was the result of a severe injury I had sustained in the hotel suite at my tenth high school reunion.  During a catfight against my hich school enemy Laura, the crown on my head was severely lacerated by the corner of a television, resulting in a flesh wound that required 46 stitches to close, and a concussion which would require 8 months of rehabilitation to fully recover my speech.  Pieces of my memory were lost forever.

After Laura and I had locked ourselves in the hotel suite to fight, my Prime Computer colleague and escort Greg, and Laura's husband Tom, had separately called hotel security to report what was occuring inside the suite.  When hotel security had been unable to gain access, due to the door being latched, they called the police.  They arrived just in time to find Laura semi-nude, in shock, and vomiting at the sight of me in a pool of my own blood, gushing from my scalp.  I was rushed to Taunton, was placed in the coma, and my mother was contacted.

My mother was by my side when I awoke on January 12.  My hospital stay was covered by my Prime Computer health insurance policy, and I was collecting a short term disability income which, around May, rolled into a long term disability income payment.  But I had already, or was about to lose, everything I had in my life.

The lease on my apartment in Natick expired.  My car loan had about 12 payments to go on it, so my car was repossessed--that one was just plain stupid:  24 on-time payments, all for nothing.  I had credit card back balances and utility and phone payments which ruined my credit.

And Prime Computer itself was starting to faulter financially.  The Route 128 miracle was running out of steam, entering a slow decline which would eventually cause even the God-like Digital Eqipment Corp, DEC, to lose its independence to upstart rivals like Dell and COMPAQ and Intel and Cisco and the next generation of tech companies, none of them based in Massachusetts.

They held out as long as they could, but Prime fired me on March 17, 1988.

I was 28 years old, and I had practically nothing.  Not even my looks or my health.  Being in bed had caused nearly every muscle in my once-athletic body to atrophy.  My face and hair showed the effects of my head wound.  Incredibly, Laura was suing me for assaulting her in thed hotel suite.  The police saw thru her actions as a pathetic side action to her messy divorce proceedings with her husband Tom, but in defending me legally, my mother had had to sign over the last of my savings from my years of stripping in Providence.

So, I was starting from scratch in every aspect of my life, doing physical and psychological therapy in Taunton.  Winter became spring became summer.  In July 1988, I turned 29 years old.

I was still in rehab.  What a sucky life. 

Part of my therapy was group occupational therapy.  I was discouraged from going into too much detail with the larger group about what had occurred at the reunion with Laura.  The other patients were in for things like drug and alcohol addiction, and/or bipolar disorder.  If I had started to go into my addiction, which is what it was, to catfighting, the group therapy sessions would have devolved into "fish tales", where my fellow patients would have felt compelled to discuss how much coke they snorted one day, how much vodka they would drink every morning before work, how many hours they would stay up when they got off their bipolar meds and went manic, etc.

We were not supposed to be ashamed of our respective illnesses.  But we weren't supposed to be bragging about them either.

But, in 1:1 sessions with a therapist, I was allowed to come to terms with my past.  First alone, then with my mother listening.

In October 1988, accompanied by my therapist, I confessed to her the things she didn't know about my past.

That in November 1977, when my mother wasn't home, Mrs Silva had come to our house when I was home alone and confronted me about injuring her daughter Maria at the Powder Puff Football game.  That Mrs Silva and I had had a fistfight behind the house.

That I went away to college, and was a groupie in a college hockey frat house, and fought girls for show at frat parties.

That in 1981, Mrs Silva had found me after work while I was student teaching at the high school, and we had had another fight.

That the next morning I dropped out of college, got an apartment in downtown Providence, and started stripping.

That I stripped for about four years, and moved to Massachusetts, where Mrs Silva found me and asked me to fight her for money in front of her girlfriend.

That in that 1985 fight, I sustained gynecological injuries.

That for two years, I "slept around" with want ad dates, hoping to induce a pregnancy with the men or a catfight with their woman.

That the fight with Laura at the tenth high school reunion was voluntary by me.

That I had become turned on, even after everything, by the thought of fighting other women.

That I would fight Laura again if given a chance.

That I was turned on seeing my mother getting angry at Mrs Silva for robbing me of a "normal" life.

That I had more rehab to do, didn't I?

1988 became 1989.

Mental health benefits were limited to 18 months, 540 days, generally.

My 540 days expired in late May 1989.

Morton Hospital in Taunton pronounced me cured (It's a miracle!), and released me to my mother.

I turned 30 in July 1989.

30 fucking years old.  And nothing to show for it.

Thast would make Mrs Silva 56.

I wonder what's new with her.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

"HEY, TOUGH GIRL"

By August 1989, I had settled into a routine of collecting my monthly disability check from Prime, buying enough groceries to last the month (just needing to supplement what my mother was cooking for me), and then working out, to get my body back, if not all the way then at least close, to what it had been physically before Laura put be in the hospital for 540 days, if you include the occupational therapy.

I had lots of time on my hands, so the workout routine was thorough, and included both weight training, running, and power walking.  I found a challenging, hilly walking path.  It went right by Mrs Silva's house.  Was that coincidence?  Should I knock on her door?  Would we fight, like we always seemed to do whenever we met?  Was I angry at her for the injuries she gave me in November 1985?  Hadn't I tried to give her the exact same injuries?  I wasn't even in good enough shape to fight--heck, I'm collecting a monthly disability check.

The decision was taken out of my hands.  One sunny September 1989 day, as I'm walking by her house, a car horn beeps.  It's a convertible.  I hear, "Hey, tough girl," in a playful voice.  I turn to look, and It's Mrs Silva, pulling into her driveway.  Shit, It's been almost four years since our third and most recent fight.

For the first time, Mrs Silva is starting to show signs of middle age.  Her frosted hair is struggling to mightily to keep out the hints of grey, and it's not quite as think or long as it used to be.  Her face looks much, much younger than her age, but for the first time, there are noticable wrinkles on all the vulnerable places--mouth, eyes, forehead.  The visible flesh on her hands, arms, shoulders, and neck are not as flawlessly tight as they used to be.  That's the best way to describe it--for the first time, I notice flaws on Mrs Silva's physique. 

I wonder if she notices mine.  The scar on my forehead, and the missing blonde hair that still doesn't grow there like it used to.  If she does notice, she keeps it to herself.  She seems genuinely happy to see me.  Which makes me happy to see her.  I miss her.

Mrs S:  Hey, I heard you were back in town!  Bet your mom is glad to have you around!

V:  Oh, you'd be surprised.  We get on each other's nerves a lot.

So, not to pry, but you're looking fit as always.  I heard that bitch Laura nearly decapitated you.

Yeah, it was pretty rough for awhile.  She got me before I got her, I guess.  <<<<<I spontaneously start weeping.  I regret my lost youth.  Mrs Silva and I aren't an 18 and a 44 year old chatting right now, and we never will be again.  That hits me hard right now.>>>>>

<<<<Mrs Silva climbs out of her car and is hugging me as I sob.>>>>>  Vick, Vick, I'm so sorry.  I'm so, so, so sorry.    <<<<a after 5 minutes of sobbing, I get "it" all out of my system.>>

<<<<I compose myself.>>>>  Sorry to do that, Mrs Silva.  I'm better now, I promise.  Sooooo....you aren't by chance still seeing Muss Tower, are you?

Oh hell no.  Miss Tower was just using me.  You know she wanted you to win the fight you and I had for her, right?

Oh, stop it.

I'm not joking.  Gentlemen prefer blondes, and so do bitches.

Do YOU like blondes, Mrs Silva?

Vicky, yes.  Why do you think I kept behaving, you know, inappropriately to you all those years.  I was a SUCKER for this mane of blonde hair <<<<<She tugs me hair playfully>>

<<<<<As Mrs Silva releases my blonde hair, her hands fall onto my shoulders, and my hands find her hips.  We lock eyes.  She's made me feel sexy for the first time since my hospital stay.>>>>  i thought i would never feel sexy again, Mrs Silva.

Don't start crying on me again, tough girl.

Kiss me.

<<<<Mrs Silva and I tongue kiss passionately and, yes, violently against her still running car.  We want to get inside and get naked, but neither of us wants to release the kiss and standing embrace we're in.  We both know It's the best kiss we've had, or ever will have, in our lives.  The spell is broken when an AT&T van drives by, the driver gawking at us.>>>>>  We should get inside.

Yes, please, let's hurry.

<<<<<Mrs Silva hurriedly pulls her car into the driveway, and jiggles the front door to unlock it.  We get inside, and are stripping our clothes off as fast as we can.  We fall onto each other onto a living room couch, and lay down, presenting out open legs to each other.  We insert our fingers, and begin stroking, not hatefully like last time we were with each other, but lustfully.>>>>

I've always wanted to fuck you, Vicky.

<<<<I return to sobbing, but not as uncontrollably as before.>>>  Oooohhhh, Mrs Silva.  I've fantasized about you saying that my whole life.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

MRS SILVA VS MRS MALLORY, 1973 CATFIGHT

For the next 6 months or so, during the fall of 1989 and the winter of 1990, Mrs Silva and I experimented with every possible type of sex 2 women can have with each other.  I didn't like everything she liked, and she didn't like everything I did, but we were both good sports and tried everything and anything.  One thing I loved was Mrs Silva ravaging me with her vibrator.  I got so into it at one point that I got scared that nothing would ever be satisfying enough for me again, so I actually asked to take a break from it.  But, all in all, we spent a lot of time indoors with each expending our lust for each other.

But by the time spring, and sunlight, arrived in March, I felt my urge for catfight scenarios returning.  No sex request I could make of my eager-and-ever-so-willing partner was more tempting than asking her, "Mrs Silva, who do you want to fight this weekend?," or, "Mrs Silva, who was your roughest fight against?".  One lazy, langorous morning in bed, I asked her, "Mrs Silva, was there a catfight that occurred around the time of your divorce in 1975?".  She told me a story which made me cum like a geyser.

In 1971, Mrs Silva and her husband went on a couples-only vacation to the Virgin Islands with work colleagues, the Mallory's and the Anson's.  In typical 1970s fashion, the did a 3-way wife swap one night, where Mrs Silva spent the night with Mr Anson, and Mr Silva spent the night with Mrs Mallory.  The agreement was that it would be a one-time only arrangement, with it never being spoken of amongst them again.

But as soon as the vacation was over, Mrs Silva became suspicious that Mr Silva and Mrs Mallory were speaking on the phone a lot.  And, as months went by and Mr Silva started spending more time away from home, she confronted her husband, who admitted that Mrs Mallory had become attracted to Mr Silva, but denied either of them had acted on it.  Mrs Silva then dropped the matter when Mr Mallory was transferred to a new office, and Mr and Mrs Mallory moved away.

In 1972 and increasingly in 1973, Mr Silva started spending more and more time at the Long Island office.  Mrs Silva wasn't thrilled, since the bulk on the childcare responsibilities in her house fell into her lap.  But the economy was scary, and she was just happy her husband had a job.

One day in 1973, Mrs Silva heard thru the grapevine that Mr Mallory had been transferred to the New York City office.  Her women's intuition gave her a bad feeling as to why Mr Silva was spending so much time in Long Island.  She got in her car and one night caught Mr Silva and Mrs Mallory in the act at Mrs Mallory's house.  Mrs Silva told Mr Silva to leave the 2 women alone "to talk".  His car pulled away, and the 2 women proceeded to have a knockdown drag out catfight which left them both bloodied, battered, and bruised.

Mrs Silva had lived out the caught-in-the-act woman scorned scenario I had unsuccessfully tried to induce in 1986 and 1987.  It turned me on go no end to hear her tell the story.

Mr Silva and Mrs Mallory were in love with each other, and each abandoned their families and initiated divorce proceedings.  Mrs Mallory cooperated right away, but Mrs Silva threw done every legal roadblock she could.  She hated Mrs Mallory with a passion, and courts in 1973/1974/1975 looked less forgivingly on dad's abandoning children that they do today.

But Mr Silva finally got his divorce, which is when Mrs Silva moved to my town, and how she and I "met" in 1977.

I quizzed Mrs Silva about every possible detail of her fight with Mrs Mallory.  They had gone straight after each other's tits, clawing and twisting and pinching in blind mutual fury.  I came over and over listening to her repeat the story.  I liked it as much as sex with Mrs Silva, sometimes even more.

Good ole Vicky was back.

For better or for worse.

Mrs Silva and I spent less time fucking.  So, we got on each other's nerves more.  I wanted to get back to dating other people.  But she wasn't tired of me.  Not yet, maybe not ever.

Mrs Solve became very possessive of me.

I wanted out.

Something had to give.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

FALLING OUT OF LUST WITH MRS SILVA

By April or May of 1990, Mrs Silva and I are just going thru the motions with each other in bed.  I know that's all I'm doing.  I spend a lot of time wondering what's up with Mrs Silva.  The magic is definitely fading.  But she's not letting me go, either.  A "normal" couple would have split by now.  Why haven't we?  Is Mrs Silva lonely?  I could find someone new, male or female, within 10 days, 2 weeks tops.  Mrs Silva is 57 years old.  Can she say the same?

Being in a healthy relationship with someone who you don't view as an equal is just impossible.  Mrs Silva's "sell by" date is coming up fast, if it hasn't passed already.  This is 1990.  Pre-Botox.  Pre-vaginal gels.  Pre-meds for osteoperosis.  Father Time is creeping up on her. 

I'm going to be 31 in July.  My horniness is off the charts, and age 35, my peak, is still 4 years away.

Our name calling In bed becomes crude.  We call each other bitches constantly.  The boundary between foreplay and abusiveness blurs.

Abusiveness.  That's an interesting word.  I enjoy abusing Mrs Silva.  Verbally for now.  But I have thoughts of abusing her physically.  Hurting her.  Twisting her tits like Mrs Mallory did in that fight in 1973.

Mrs Silva's finances are a shambles.  She's running out of money.  She tries to live a zero-cash lifestyle.  Is she using me for my long term disability checks? 

We stop even talking to each other, except in bed.  But, was there ever anything to our relationship beyond bed?  What did she expect?  In 13 years, Mrs Silva will be 70; I'll be 43.  A year younger than she was during our first fight.  And she thinks I'll drive her to dialysis appointments and change her Depends?  Are you fucking kidding me, Mrs Silva?

Where the fuck are your kids, anyways, Mrs Silva?  Why doesn't your precious Maria ever visit you?  Why doesn't she ever call on the phone?  Does she see what a bitch you are?

But, then, I spend yet another night in bed with Mrs Silva.  She uses her vibrator on me without me consenting first.  She knows it's one thing I can't say no to.  I hate it, but I love it.  I hate Mrs Silva, but I'm in lust with her.  At least enough to stay with her tonight.

But not for much longer.  Our relationship is more and more strained everyday.  We can barely stand to look at each other.  We avert out eyes when we talk to each other.  We hate ourselves for staying together.

Something has to give.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

MRS SILVA VS PAM

One day at the grocery store, I meet a cashier named Pam.  We strike up a conversation and agree to meet for coffee.  Pam looks Mrs Silva's age, but at coffee I learn she's only 48, 9 years younger than Mrs Silva.

What pact did you enter into the devil with, Mrs Silva, to fight off age like you do?

I tell Pam I'm in a verbally abusive relationship with a an older woman.  I tell her the older woman is cashstrapped and steals my groceries and lives off my disability check when it comes to going out drinking or to movies.  Pam is horrified for my sake, at my predicament.  Pam tells me I should leave.  I lie to Pam and tell her I have no where to go.  I neglect to tell her my childhood home, with my mom still living in it, is in the same town Mrs Silva and I still live in.  I don't know why I tell lies to Pam.  But there's no graceful way out of them, so I just go with it.

I broach the subject of catfighting with Pam, but Pam tells me she's not into it, doing it or watching it.  So I leave out my 3 fights with Mrs Silva, and the fight with Laura that put me on disability.  I lie to Pam by omission by leaving out the 4 most important events of my life.

The 4 most important events of my life are fights.  Is that weird?  Is that why I lie about it?

I ask Pam on our third coffee date, "What us this?  Are we dating?  Are we gonna do it?."  She says she wants to but that I'm seeing someone else.  "Why let that stop you?  It's not stopping me," I slyly tell her.

"I'm not like that,"  she tells me.  "Plus, I think you should leave Mrs Silva.  She's not good for you.  It can't end well."

In bed, in the throes of passion, I tell Mrs Silva that I've me someone, 48 years old.  That we haven't consummated anything yet, but that she wants me to leave.  Mrs Silva, while cumming, sassy, "I knew it.  I've felt you slipping away.  I'll kill her."

I'm playing a dangerous game.  Pam is going out of her way to do right by me, to do right by Mrs Silva.  And I'm putting Pam in Mrs Silva's crosshairs, making Mrs Silva think that Pam is a threat.  But Pam isn't the cause of me wanting to leave Mrs Silva.  It's August now, and I've wanted to leave since March.

After regaining our breaths from the sex, Mrs Silva asks, "Is that true you've met someone?".  "Naw, I just said it to get you hot and bothered.  Is it true you'd kill her?".  "Naaa.  Same here.  Just sayin it to get you hot."  We're both lying, and both know it.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Not yet."

Awkward silence.

I fantasize about Pam and Mrs Silva fighting for me.  Pam claims she's against fighting, but sometimes those women ate the ones thast are the meanest of all in a bitchfight.  Sometimes they've sworn off fighting because they know how violent they would get if they ever gave in and agreed to fight?  Is Pam one of those women?  Or can she just plain not fight?

Can Mrs Silva still fight.  I don't think she's had more than 1 or 2 fights since our 1985 fight where she hurt me in front of Miss Tower.  And definitely none since she and I became an item last September.

Last September.  Shit.  Coming up on a year.  Do I leave Mrs Silva before dumb one year anniversary gifts?  Leave after, but before the holidays?

The mood at home is tenser than ever.  Mrs Silva searches my laundry, looking for any signs or evidence of Pam.  A phone number.  Lipstick stains.  But Pam won't even kiss me until i leave Mrs Silva.

What should I do?

Think, Vicky, think, dammit.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

FIGHT #4. SEPTEMBER 1990

The last Saturday of 1990 is a sunny but chilly fall day in Rhode Island.  It's the one year anniversary of the day in 1989 when Mrs Silva pulled up in her car as I was walking past her house, I collapsed crying in Mrs Silva's arms about my wasted life, and she and I made love and became a couple.

Today is the day she and I will break up.  Just not in the way expect.

My plan for today is to move in with Pam, the supermarket cashier.  I'll bring my clothes and my food to Pam's place.  Once I've safely made the transfer, I'll break the news to Mrs Silva.  If that induces a confrontation and then a fight between Pam and Mrs Silva, so much the better.  I've built up a fantasy in my mind of Pam being my protector. 

By noon, my plan is in shambles.  Pam and I have coffee at Starbucks.  She breaks the news that she can't see me anymore.  She breaks up with me before we've even had our first kiss.  She gives my multiple explanations, any one of which would make it impossible for she and I to be together.

The first is that she's not even positive she can be with a woman, any woman.  All of her relationships until now have been straight.  She's attracted to me, but can't follow thru and actually consummate anything with me.  Our coffee dates have been nothing but a dead end flirtation.

But even beyond the whole bi-curious thing, Pam is uncomfortable that I tolerate the verbal abuse I put up with from Mrs Silva.  I have flirtatious coffees with Pam, but I don't leave Mrs Silva.

"But I want to leave her.  Today, Pam.  Our one year anniversary."

"It's too late, Vicky.  You've spent too long procrastinating about it.  The abuse has been going on too long.  You've lost too much self-respect.  I can only be with a strong partner."

"But I AM strong, Pam.  Mrs Silva and I, before we were lovers, had three toe-to-toe fistfights.  The first one when I was just eighteen."

<<<<Pam, exasperated, runs her fingers thru her blonde hair.  I've never made love to a blonde woman.>>>>" Vicky, Vicky, you and her are so....so....it's beyond even co-dependent.  You need to make a clean break with her.  I can't help you do it, beyond verbally imploring you like this.  I'm sorry if you've come to lean on me to get away from that horrible woman.  But, Vicky, please.  You have to let me go.  Then you have to let her go, too."

Pam and I hug goodbye without me making too much of a scene in Starbucks.  Two women out as a couple is still an unusual enough site in Rhode Island in 1990 that no one suspect's they've just witnessed a heart-wrenching breakup.

I go back to Mrs Silva's place.  That's weird--she's not home.  I take advantage.  I pack my stuff and load my car.  I bring it to my mom's.

I think about Pam the entire time.  Shit, I think, I was really looking forward to a Pam vs Mrs Silva brawl.  Good age and size matchup.  MILF vs MILF.  Nothing like a good MILF fight.  Nothing.

I eat dinner with my mom.  She's glad to have me back.  "I need to go back to Mrs Silva's and tell her in person, Mom."  "I understand, Vicky."

I get back to Mrs Silva's.  Still not home.  Ok, this is very odd.  I turn on ESPN.  Florida is getting their asses kicked by Tennessee in college football.  By the time It's over, It's 45-3 Tennessee.  I think the last Tennessee football game I watched was New Years Night 1986, when they beat Miami 35-7 in the Sugar Bowl.  I remember because I was in bed, recovering from the vaginal tears Mrs Silva gave me when we fought in front of Miss Tower.  Are Mrs Silva and I are to fight tonight?

We are.

"Where the fuck have you been?," I blurt out more jealously than I expect.

"With your buddy, Laura, cxnt,"  Mrs Silva replies with complete satisfaction.  I sure walked into that one.

"I don't believe it."

I've just stepped into it again.  "Well, do you believe me NOW???".  Into the room steps Laura, the high school classmate I fought to a draw in 1977, and who disabled me in the hotel suite at the 10th class reunion in 1987.  "She's given me some tips on how to throw your sorry ass out of here."

"I already packed and left, bitches," I defiantly tell both my enemies.

"Then just beat her up for fun, Donna," Laura arrogantly instructs Mrs Silva, taking a seat on the couch. "It's easy.  I've done it twice."

Mrs Silva removes her rings, jewelry, and coat.

My fight instincts (or hormones) kick in.  I tell Mrs Silva, "Let's fight like Mrs Mallory and you did.  If you dare bitch."  I remove my top.  Mrs Silva dares.  She removes her top and her bra.  We lock hold of each other's breasts, pinching hard.

Besides wanting to fight another woman this way ever since Mrs Silva told me about her 1973 divorce fight, I'm partially motivated by self-preservation.  My last 2 fights have been physically devastating defeats, in 1985 to my crotch at the hands of Mrs Silva, and in 1987 to my skull at the hands of Laura.  Both women are in the room now, and I need to change tactics If I'm going to avoid a third straight crippling defeat.  If they had been smarter and less cocky, they would have beaten me up when they had me 2on1.  But now I'm inflicting punishment on Mrs Silva, and Laura is perhaps even more compromised, as her hands are down her pants and she is pleasuring herself to the sight of the all-out titfight occurring before her eyes.  She is already cumming.

Mrs Silva and I claw viciously at each others chests, drawing blood from the scratches we carve into each others chests.  By wordless mutual agreement, tit mauling is the exclusive tactic in this, our fourth war.  Neither of us pull hair.  Neither of us punch.  Neither of us kick.  Just a total and complete breast war.  May the better woman win.

Mrs Silva and I tumble, standing, across her living room, sometimes inches apart, sometimes arms length apart, tearing, pulling, and slashing at each others breasts.  I want to gouge every freckle off her breasts, and I seem to be succeeding.  My pain is unbearable, but I have little choice.  Surrender will receive not mercy, but unremitting punishment, from my 2 enemies, who have somehow managed to coordinate tonight to destroy me.  Their only mistake was their overconfidence.

Mrs Silva begins to show her age.  Her arms weaken and slow.  Her pinching strength on my nipples begins to diminish, and her clawing becomes less effective.  I smell victory, and maul her mercilessly.  She goes down to both knees, and I tighten my grip on her.  I dig my nails upward into her underboob.  I twist in full rotations.  Now I'm cumming too.  Mrs Silva falls to the floor in a heap.

I walk past Laura.  She and I could have started fighting right then and there, the animosity between us was so intense.  And since I was weakened from my just-concluded brawl with Mrs Silva, Laura probably would have won. That fact that she just let me leave I attribute to both the brutality and the eroticism of what she had just witnessed.  The brutality, because there are no limits to how violent the fight between Laura and me would have gotten.  And the egotism, because I know she wanted to masturbate to what she had just seen.  Fighting would have put a damper on that.

Mrs Silva and I never spoke again.  In 1994, I noticed she didn't live in that house anymore.  I've not heard anything about what happened to her.  Like I said at the beginning of this story, if she 's still alive today, she's 83 years old.

Laura and I never spoke again either.  For years I assumed I would have one final showdown fight with her.  That never happened, and now that I'm 57, I have no desire.  I can still fight at this age, but not all out.  That was Mrs Silva's mistake in 1990--not recognizing tour limits.

Pam and I never spoke again either.

I've have a series of sporadic, unhealthy relationships since 1990.  I never emotionally recovered from having a grown woman knock on my door when I was 18 and take me out to my backyard to fight me.  It was just too obtuse of an incident to "get over" or "get past". 

There's no broader life lesson I have to offer.  It's just something that happened to me, for better or for worse.  And that I think about everyday.

THE END