[sinclairfan]

My name I'd Diane.  I'm in my 50s now.  Where did the time go?  I grew up in New England in the 1980s.  At least in my neighborhood, girls didn't really fight back then.  At least not in public, and certainly not "good girls".  I mean, we fought psychologically.  But not physically.

But looking back, there was a girl I should have fought.  Even an all-out catfight would have had less drama than eventually happened between her and me.  I find myself thinking about what could have happened, what should have happened, between us.

First, the tale of the tape.  I had maybe 2 inches on her, but she was a tad stockier, so we were in the same weight class.  I had long straight brown hair; Darlene was Portuguese and had jet black hair, straight and thick.  We were both attractive and popular.  I moved into her neighborhood senior year in high school, when we were both 18.

Almost immediately, there was miscommunication between us.  Darlene was trying to exclude me from neighborhood parties, which in the pre-Facebook era, we're always arranged by word of mouth.  So, when I would find out and show, Darlene would always snap at me with snide "surprised to see you here" sarcasm".  If this was today, a clear-the-air scrap would have eventually ensued.  Instead, we spent the next 5 years, counting college, driving each other crazy.  Dumb, really.

I recently find myself fantasizing.  What if, instead, I had just knocked on Darlene's door and asked her what her fucking problem was with me.  And what if she invited me in to "talk about it"?

What if I had gone in?  What if we had sat on a couch in her living room, just the two of us in the house, her parents not due home for 3 hours?

What if our eyes looking got our juices flowing?  What if we got jealous of each others' pretty faces and hair?  What if Darlene's primal territoriality instinct kicked in, sensing my "invasion" of her neighborhood?  What if I told her she was a bitch?

What if she asked me why I was shaking?  Was I afraid of her?  What if I said it was because she made me angry?  What if she asked me if I wanted to "work out" my anger?  What if I asked her how?

What if she asked me if I had ideas?  What if I was so aroused, I forgot that good girls don't fight in 1980s New England?  What if I remembered a fight 2 "bad girls", Sandy and Lisa, had at out school?  What if I remembered that that fight, too, was over social snubs?

What if I remembered a girl slap I saw on a daytime soap?  What If I slapped Darlene in the face?  What if my face was weak, and then she backhanded me hard in the face?

What if we both stood up?  What if the slapping exchange outcome discouraged me from that tactic?  What if I always wanted to dig my nails in her thick black hair, and did it now?  What if she headlocked me, we went to the floor, and wrapped our legs around each other?

What if I was afraid now, and started scratching Darlene?  What if my long hair wrapped around her wrists, and she tugged as hard as she could, tearing out whole handfuls?  What if we started kicking on the floor?

What if the kicking broke our hold, we leaped to our feet, and both verbalized the unthinkable:  "You wanna fight, Diane?"  "Yes, Darlene, let's fight!"

What if?

[Ginny38]

YEAH! What if....?

[sinclairfan]

INTERLUDE--MY ACTUAL FIRST FIGHT

Diane, here, again.  Now, I'll tell you how my "do over" neighborhood catfight ends.  But before doing so, some necessary "additional data".  You'll recall that if I had fought Darlene when I was 18, it would have been my first fight.  Instead, IRL, my actual first girlfight would not occur for another 9 years. 

By the time I was 27, I was living in Las Vegas, working as a blackjack dealer.  I had this stupid idea that Las Vegas was growing and would never stop growing, so I would go out there, get rich, marry a prince, retire at 35 in a McMansion, etc.  Needless to say, the reality was quite different.  Most pertinent to this topic, my prince wasn't a prince.  He was a lot of fun, but he had baggage--in the form of a jealous ex.  Her name was Susan, and she was a bleach blonde bitch.  She was in my face constantly.

One day, Susan "cornered" me alone in my home.  She told me to stop seeing her ex.  I had been mentally preparing for this ultimatum for months, although I confess I expected it to be by phone or snail mail, not in person.  Nevertheless, there was no way I was backing down.  And I told her I never would.

The next 10 minutes seemed like some sort of vodka-buzz dream.  I heard the distinct thwacking sound of a fistfight--but could it be coming from Susan and me?  We're we actually fistfighting?  The disorientation fed my adrenaline.  There were no witnesses, but that's just as well.  If there had been, they would have demanded their money back.  All our punches were to useless pieces of each others bodies, mostly the heads.  And we didn't pace ourselves at all--we were gassed after 5 minutes of flailing and finished with 5 more minutes of exhausted ground fighting.  Draw.

And a moral victory for me--Susan never again issued her ultimatum.

But here's the point.  When I fantasize about a fight with Darlene, I'm always self-aware that a piece of technical beauty it would not have been.  It would have been a clutching, grabbing, wrestling match. 

[sinclairfan]

INTERLUDE 2 - MY ACTUAL FIRST WIN / MY ACTUAL FIRST LOSS

It occurs to me that so far, I've painted a bit of a pathetic picture of myself as a fighter.  A genuine enemy lives down the street for 5 years, and we never fight.  I roll around inconclusively with a romantic rival who challenges me.  Well, fear not, I did eventually come into my own as a catfighter.  You see, unlike 1980s New England, in 1990s Las Vegas, girls did fight, even good girls.  And so did I. 

After my throw down with Susan, my inhibitions were loosened just enough to begin sizing up potential opponents.  I saw there were actually many situations in my everyday life which presented fight opportunities.  I also recognized the importance of controlling my emotions during the actual fight, and pacing myself, so that when my opponent's initial burst was used, I could move in for the takedown.

Like a hot rodder with a shiny new car, my confidence and experiences were always fresh in my mind, and I wanted to use them.  About six months after Susan and I went at it, I was out on the strip with 2 girls from work.  We were looking good in our office-type clothes and look-at-me hair, eating wings and drinking beer after watching Cirque de Soleil.  We had a 3-top table, and found ourselves next to 3 women about our age and looks, who were in town for the week from Los Angeles.

One of the women at the table was an auburn-haired number, and we started eyeing each other.  As catty tourist-vs-local remarks began being lobbed, first playfully then a bit more barbed, the tension between her and I began to be apparent to all six of us.  I could tell she was a fighter, and told my table that I wanted a go at her.  My friends decided that the matchup was a sufficiently intriguing way to end the evening, and acted as seconds with my prospective opponents' 2 escorts.  After 5 minutes of negotiations, we agreed that the six of us would drive out to a spot in the desert, and Angela, as I find her name to be, and Diane (moi) would catfight for the amusement of our four witnesses.

I remember out short trip to the car and then to the fight spot.  I went through a checklist in my mind--was I hydrated?  Did I care if these clothes got shredded?  How much longer till my next workday did I have for any bruises to heal?  But mostly I was hoping Angela wouldn't back out--I wanted to throw down.

And I got my wish.  Angela and I got down to business, grabbing generous chunks of each others hair.  We tested each other with knees, kicks, and slaps, searching for vulnerabilities, but both holding energy in reserve.  My 2 friends cheered me on, providing real time coaching and encouragement.  The atmosphere--the desert sand, the steak surroundings--was primal and intoxicating, and the grunting and moaning from Angela made me want to destroy her.  Our hands found each others chests, and we diligently went about grabbing and twisting in a deliberate but vicious fashion.  We slammed down in a ball onto the desert floor, kicking up dust and desperately trying to avoid being on the bottom.  Our hate for each other increased with each new name we hissed at each other, and each new twist.  Angela had underestimated me, and we both new it.  Her friends considered interfering, but we're held back by mine.  For an instant, the 1on1 fight poised ready to become a 3on3 free for all.  But cooler heads prevailed, as I secured the pin in Angela.  My knees on her shoulders, I looked down at her face and hissed insults, asking if she gave.  She sensed the ugly situation potentially developing with our 4 spectators, and gave.  My friends got in the car, drove home, and talked about the fight, my victory, and girlfighting till sunrise.  (Fun fact--my should-have-been fight with Darlene was a discussion topic.)

Angela was my first win, but little did I know the my first defeat was close at hand.  I began dating a biker.  Something to know about Vegas/Nevada bikers:  they like watching their girls fight.  I was at a rally one Sunday afternoon, and the boys had been pairing me up, physically and experiences wise, with a girl named Peg.  I have to admit, they did a good job.  Peg and I were a match from a looks and height/weight perspective.  We were brought to a spartan (pun intended) ring under a tent, given 2 water bottle and a towel, and told to, at our leisure, "go".  I found the instructions bewildering but effective--the type of fight about to occur was clearly at our discretion from a tactical perspective (boxing?  grappling?  bitchfighting?), but would not be over until the crowd had had its fill--there would be no Susan's Tyler draw, clearly.

Peg and I had a long, fistfight style fight.  Wow, that girl was tough--I ground-and-pounded her three times, and she withstood it and escaped it each and every time.  I didn't even know you could get out of a ground-and-pound.  She covered up, gathered herself, and then used her feet to get ahold of my shoulders and throw me off.  Damn, it got frustrating.  And then my first mistake, she exchanged the favor, and began ground and pounding me.  And didn't make the mistake of letting me up.  She beat me up good, and I'm lucky the crowd intervened when it did.

So, hopefully I've painted a picture of myself as a woman who eventually developed into a bona fide catfighter.  Not a superwoman, but not someone you can steamroll over either.  I'd like to think that woman would have shone thru that weekday afternoon in Darlene's house, over three decades ago.

And I like to think it would have gone like this.....

[sinclairfan]

Darlene and I square off for a girlfight, knowing there is so much at stake.  The winner will be the neighborhood alpha and participate in senior year events, the loser will be shunned. 

And we are both about to have the first catfight we have ever been in.  A catfight.  I can't believe it.  Two girls trying to destroy each other, no rules, no mercy.  Anything can happen. 

The living room suddenly seems so small, the 8 foot ceilings so claustrophobic.  Maybe this is why people "take it outside" when they fight.  My head seems so vulnerable to the walls, the floor.  Will the winner even be standing at the end?  (Clearly the loser won't--that's not even a question.)

Darlene and I are on each other and hit the couch right away, tumbling uncontrollably, both hanging on to each other for dear life.  I attempt to hide my fear.  My objective is to get my knees onto Darlene's shoulders and straddle her, like I saw Lisa do to Sandy at school a couple months ago.  Goodness, what an un-feminie position I suddenly realize that is.  Is that why girls so rarely fight, even though our hormones are whispering to us to slap each other.

Ow--slapping.  That stings like crazy.  Darlene is hitting my face hard.  That passes me off even worse than I already am.  How will this fight ever end if with each second we're only getting angrier?

I hate everything about you, Darlene.  Did you hear me?  Answer me, dammit!!

We're on the hard floor now, pulling hair furiously.  Every part of my body hurts at once.  I'm so thirsty.  I'm so angry.  So many sensations to process.  I can't focus.

Darlene and I, locked together, lift each other onto our knees.  Our arms are free to swing now, and we're flailing hard, hitting each others faces.  The sound is like sleet or hail on a window.  And my face feels like sleet is hitting it.

I headlock Darlene.  That brings relief from the slapping.  I clamp on the headlock around her neck.  Her breathing gets more labored.  The fighting slows down for the first time to a speed I can process.

I semi-mount Darlene, elbowing and kneeling her back.  Her sweat is all over me, which grosses me out, I hate her so much.  The fight slows down even more.  I can hear cars outside.  How will this look if her parents come in?  How long have we been fighting?  What if we keep fighting and she gets on top of me?  I give her wraparound smacks to her face.  And scramble out.

And home.  I run in--no one home, thank goodness.  I lock the door and set the alarm.  I look in the mirror--I'm a mess, my hair not even recognizable.  I strip and get in the shower.  I go to sleep--parents can't see me tonight.  I wake up at 2am.  Was I just in a catfight?  Yes.  Was it worth it?  Yes.

[sinclairfan]

FAST FORWARD:  2016 DIANE VS. 2016 DARLENE??

I'm sure all of you ladies out there, at least the feisty ones, have figured out where this is going next.  The 1983 versions of Darlene and me would of course never have that catfight, where and when it should have happened.  That fight, between those two girls, would forever remain the stuff of fantasy.

But there was something else that maybe, just maybe, could still happen.  Couldn't it?  It's 2016, and we have Google and Facebook.  And while, at 52, I'm not what I used to be, I've kept myself in very good shape--I still turn heads.  If Darlene had done the same, and if she was sufficiently unattached from men and kids, maybe, just maybe, we could finally have that "chat".  At the very least, I didn't want to regret trying ten years from now, when I would definitely be beyond the catfight mandatory retirement date.  It was worth a shot.

A girl with regrets, free time, and a fast Internet connection is a dangerous thing.  Despite numerous name changes through marriages, divorce, and remarriage(s?), I found Darlene on LinkedIn, then Facebook.  She was now living, like me, in Texas.  My pulse quickens.  Driving distance.  Her marital status said "divorced".  Her photo album of pictures was minimal, but if the pictures were current, as they appeared to be, then she was, like me, quite fit.  My pulse quickens again.

You know who she actually looks like now?  She looks a lot like her mom looked in 1983.  Her straight black hair was now a bit wavy, and had a highlights theme going.  (Too hide gray no doubt--he he.  Goodness, do I still hate her that much?)  Still about the same weight, though, just like me.  Still the same weighclass.  So far so good.

I played through, in my mind, different scenarios for approaching Darlene.  Get close to her, not saying who I am until she trusts me, and then "surprise" her?  Nah, too Lifetime.  Just "invite myself" to her house, and issue a challenge?  Exciting, but what if she's spent time in the military or law enforcement and is a martial arts expert?  Too dangerous.

I ended up taking the cautious approach.  I sent a Facebook friend request, under my current (divorced) name, but putting in parenthesis my maiden name.  And waited.  And waited.  Accepted.  My pulse quickens again.  I sent a Facebook email, asking if I could call some time, convenient for her.  And waited.  And waited.  Yes, I can call some Monday night between 9 and 10.  My pulse races, my palms sweat.

I call Darlene.  She answers.

[sinclairfan]

Her:  Hello?

Me:  This is Diane, from Massachusetts in high school.  Am I speaking to Darlene?

Her:  Ya, this is Darlene.  How are you, Diane?  Everything ok?

Me:  Oh, you know, as good as can be expected--time marches on.  Darlene, this is so cool, how long have you been in Texas?

Her:  Awhile, actually.  1998?  Wow, 18 years?  My company moved me here then fired me.  How 'bout you?  What brings you here?

Me:  Oh, a guy.  Who's not in the picture, anymore.  Of course.  Came here with him 4 years ago after we got foreclosed in Vegas.  We were in subprime, lost our jobs in '08, squatted for four years.  Then the bank caught up with us.  We thought here would be a fresh start.  Sorry, by the way, I'm not calling to ask for money--you had just said you lost a job.  Anyways, I don't want you to think that's why I'm calling.

Her:  Oh, don't worry, it's ok.  I didn't think that.  Just coincidence we're in the same place.  Second time that's happened, huh?

Me:  I know!!  Funny, huh?  So, Darlene, since you bring it up, why DO you think I'm calling?

Her:  Hmmmm, let me think.  Well, like me, sounds like you're between guys, perhaps even done with them.  So you're building up your network in Texas, and came across me.  Now, I admit, unless by a huge coincidence you found out about that by accident, I must admit I'm intrigued as to why you LOOKED for me.  Not to be crass, but did someone die?  Is someone sick?  But that's my answer.  How'd I do?

Me:  No, no.  Nobody's sick.  But, yes, Darlene, actually you're right.  I looked for you.  I should probably just tell you why.  And, first off, I am between guys, but that doesn't have anything to do with it.  This is actually just a you and me thing, Darlene.  Can I explain?

<<<<<<I struggle to control my breathing.  This has gotten to the point way faster than I planned.  I don't want to scare her off.>>>>>>

Her:  Please do, Diane.

Me:  Ok, I didn't rehearse this, and didn't expect to be having this conversation tonight.  But I don't want you to think this is something else, so let me try to just get to the point.  Darlene, I don't know why, but lately I've been thinking a lot about the old neighborhood.  Like, I mean a lot.  I don't think anyone was at fault, but we didn't get along. 

Her:  We definitely didn't.  I hated you.  But no biggie, everyone doesn't need to be friends.  This isn't one of those 12-step AA calls, is it?

Me:  See, that's exactly what I mean.  I should just come out and say it.

Her:  Oh, boy.

Me:  No, no, I doubt it's what you think.  Darlene, here's the thing.  Darlene, I wanted to fight you back then.  Like, I mean, a girlfight.  And we didn't.  But I want to now.

Her:  Wow.... I'm here....ummmm.....I'm, like....

Me:  Too weird?

Her:  No, no.  Not weird.  I mean, to start with, yeah, I totally wanted to fight you back then, too.

Me:  Darlene, why didn't we fight then?

Her:  Just never worked out, I guess.  Diane, there were days I totally would have started swinging if out paths had crossed.  I mean, without ant pleasantries at all.  But then the day and time came and went, and it was back to us just giving the cold shoulder, you know.

Me:  I know, and I didn't was to cause trouble for my parents.  You know, with you mom.

Her:  Yeah, there was that too.  It's hard.  Like when you want to fight someone.

Me:  So, what about it Darlene?  Do you think we could, you know, fight?

Her:  I think we most certainly should.

Me:  Ok, good.  I'm glad it's settled then.  You and me, finally.

Her:  Finally.  I think we should do this quickly.

Me:  As do I.  But done right as well.  I want to be able to change before and after.  And clean up.

Her:  I know what you mean.  I have access to two condos at a park outside Irving, if you can get yourself there.  Non-adjacent, if you know what I mean, I'll give you your own key.  But running water, a bed for the night.  Bandages, etc.  If you know what I mean.

Me:  I do, and I can get there.  The sooner the better.

Her:  Wednesday afternoon work for you?  I'll give you your key at 2.  We take an hour to get ready.  Fight at 3.

Me:  I like it.  Send me the address.

Her:  Oh, I will. I will.

[sinclairfan]

TUESDAY--THE DAY BEFORE THE FIGHT

Darlene and I spent the next day messaging on Facebook, establishing ground rules for our catfight.  We agreed that above all our chemistry would drive how we fought, but that given this fight was 33 years in the making, it would be a shame if it last just 33 seconds.  So we agreed to, at least at first, to mutually abide by no clinching/minimal hairpulling standup rules, and that we would back off and let the other up if we achieved a knockdown.  Kicking would be allowed, but to the shins--no high kicks.

There was a subtext that the final takedown would be No Holds Barred, but we would attempt to control our emotions and save that for the final round.  We wanted a fistfight to remember before it came to that inevitable conclusion.  There was no namecalling in the messages.  It's interesting how superfluous all that is once you've already agreed to fight.

We posted pictures to each other of different clothes to wear.  We toyed around with elegant, with office clothes, even lingerie.  But we agreed that a serious fistfight called for fistfight clothes--jeans and tank top, no bra.  Hair would be down, of course--no braids.

I considered asking Darlene about her fight history.  But that would require sharing mine.  I didn't want her to know about my biker chick fights--I wanted her to underestimate me, like Angela had.  Let's find out the hard way what type of fighters we are, Darlene.

How did Darlene have access to 2 condo?  Did she own them?  Was she wealthy?  How was she able to be free on a Wednesday for a fistfight?

What did women do before the Internet?  How did they find an old high school rival and arrange a fight?

So many questions.

One of them would be answered tomorrow, finally:  Who was the better woman, the neighborhood alpha?  Diane?  Or Darlene?

[sinclairfan]

TUESDAY EVENING--A BITCHY PHONE CALL

Tuesday night.  Less than 24 hours to go before my fight with Darlene.  I eat dinner early--pasta, for the carbs.  I shower, get into my pajamas, and slip into bed, but leave the light on to read.

My phone rings.  Caller ID  says it's Darlene.  Wonder what she wants.

ME:  Hello, sweetie.

HER:  Ya.  So, anyways, I'm calling to stir the pot a little.  Thought it would make tomorrow more interesting.

Me:  Stir the pot.  Ok.  Tell me more.

Her:  I'm thinking we could take the opportunity now, instead of tomorrow, to tell what about each other we didn't like.  I can go first, if you'd like.

Me:  I'm listening.

Her:  Diane, that feathered hair thing you had going on in high school.  You didn't think that actually worked for you, did you?  How long before you got rid of that.

Me:  Um, so ok Darlene, every boy I was with wanted to touch it, and it was the style at the time like, oh I don't know, the frosted hair your mom had then.  That YOU have NOW.  What's up with that?

Her:  Ya, so ok, this was supposed to be why we hated each other then, not now.  But since you bring it up, ....

Me:  No, no, you're right.  Here's one.  Darlene, it was disgusting, do you know, the first time I saw you in the school hallway, you were tongue kissing that sophomore Eric Poff?  When you were a senior, Darlene?  In the hallway?  Really?  A sophomore?

Her:  And you had to watch, right Diane?  Diane, do you know what everyone would ask me about you, once they knew we were neighbors?  They would ask why you were so "awkward"?

Me:  Awkward, how?  That doesn't even mean anything.

Her:  Awkward, as in, you would laugh in the middle of a conversation.  Just, weird to talk to, I guess.

Me:  Well it would have helped to have someone standing up for me, not bringing me down.  I was the new girl.

Her:  Whoa, whoa, whoa.  I didn't...you were standoff ish with me, not the other way around.

Me:  Darlene, you were so, like, icy to me.  But whatever, what were you going to say about how I look now.  I think I'm damn hot for 52?

Her:  Well, Diane, let's just say that you haven't been in Texas long.  You're hair isn't layered at all.  It's just this, sort of a helmet-head-with-extensions thing.  You don't actually see other women doing that, do you?

Me:  I, .... well I haven't changed it in awhile, but I thinks it works for me...I didn't think I needed to...

Her:  And the Botox in the forehead.  You don't think you're fooling anyone, do you?

Me:  Darlene, you busy body bitch, ...

Her:  So vain.

Me:  Darlene, you hypocrite, you obsess over looks but then tsk,tsk anyone doing something about it.  Let me guess, you roll out of bed beautiful every morning.

Her:  Well, after working out, eating righ....

Me:  Oh, and you think I don't work out?

Her:  Cardio, maybe, but Diane, honey, there's not a lot of tone there, granted this is just going by online pictures, but...

Me:  Oh, your face will be feeling lots of "tone" tomorrow.

Her:  Ah, yes, about that.  I want to address something for the record, so there's no confusion.  We didn't fight back then, partly because I was afraid of trouble.  But I definitely NOT because I was afraid of you.  Because I wasn't, Diane.

Me:  Well, good, because I WAS afraid.  Of what I would have done to you?

Her:  Give me a break.  Like, what, Diane?

Me:  Like if we had ever been home alone?  Darlene, it woulda been bad.

Her:  Bad for you, maybe.

Me:  I highly doubt it, Darlene.

.....   <silence>  ......

Her: So I suppose you think you'll win tomorrow?

Me:  I do.  And I can...not...wait.

Her:  I can't wait to see the disappointment on your face when you lose.

Me:  You'll still be waiting, trust me.

Her:  I doubt it.

Me:  Good night Darlene.  You cxnt.

Her:  Good night, slut Diane.
 

[sinclairfan]

WEDNESDAY MORNING--UPPING THE ANTENNA

I sleep fitfully until 8am Wednesday, wondering how the afternoon catfight will go.  I get up and shower.  I lather my shins, my thighs, my chest.  How beat up will they be the next time I shower, later tonight?  Even if I win, Darlene will not be going down without a fight.  As I won't if she wins.

We both want a long fight.  We have, in effect, agreed to "rounds".  If you're stunned, winded, you take a knee.  The other woman needs to back off.  That's the hitch in a standup fistfight. 

But I'll take that over a first round KO.  I have a ninety minute drive in front of me.  And the same drive back home.  I'm not driving three hours for a 2-minute fight.

I dress.  The fight clothes are jeans and tank top.  But those are in my duffel bag, with two fresh towels and water bottles.  The towels are for sweat.  And blood.  If your nose isn't busted, a little pressure for a couple minutes will work.

What if my hands are better than Darlene's but she catches me one on the nose or mouth, and I can't close it?  What a sucky way to lose that would be.

What if I lose to Darlene?  There's no bouncing back from this , losing a fight you've waited 33 years for.

When Darlene and I meet in the parking lot for her to give me the key for the condo for me to change in, we won't be in our fight clothes yet.  What should I wear for the meet up?  I want to impress her.  I want her to be jealous of what I have to show for the last 33 years.  Living well is the best revenge.

I put on my best work clothes outfit.  Flannel skirt, matching blouse and jacket.  I overdo it with the scent.

I get an idea.  Stir the pot, Darlene said last night.  Stir the pot, my ass.  I'll stir the pot. 

I get out my jewelry chest.

I get out my best bling.  Bracelets.  Necklace.  Pearls.  Two anklets, even.  But best rings.

When Darlene and I fight, there will be stakes.  I'm putting my best jewelry up as stakes.  Whatever she can match.  In her own jewelry or clothes.  Or cash.

And if she can't match me, so much the better.  She showed up to fight, empty-handed.  Let her think about that.

I look amazing.  I mean, I'm my own worst critic, but I look good right now.  I'm not cocky about the fight.  But Darlene will have to admit that I look good. 

It's 10:30.  I need to be there by 2.  I should leave my noon.

What if I get hurt in Irving?  What if I spend 3 days in the condo after the fight?  I make sure all my bills here are paid.

I eat a banana and drink an orange juice.

I get in my car.  I'm leaving early.

Twenty minutes into the drive, I pull over at a rest stop.  I can't help it, but I need to rub one out.  Or maybe more.  I haven't done this, at a rest stop, since I was 35.  What's happening with me?  I'm so turned on.  Will I be able to keep driving there?

But I have to.  If my car broke down, I'd pull over and thumb a ride to Irving, even if I had to get in a cab with a garbage truck driver, and give him three blowies on the way.  I have a catfight I need to get to.

I suspect Darlene feels the same.  I call her.

Her:  Yessss??

Me:  Less than an hour away.

Her:  Good.  I left early too.

Me:  I can't wait.

Her:  Me neither.  If you're in the lot early, we can talk if we want to move up the 3 start time.  Or just prep longer.

Me:  Good.  Let's decide there.

Her:  Fine. 

Me:  Fine.

Her:  Fine.  <hangs up>

Won't be long now.

[sinclairfan]

WEDNESDAY MID-AFTERNOON, DARLENE AND I FINALLY MEET

After hanging up on Darlene, I finished the final 70 miles of the drive to Irving, but only after making 2 more roadside stops to furiously rub myself off.  Is it true that boxers abstain from sex before a bout?  Was I weakening the endurance in my legs with my behavior?  But I needed to do it so bad--the past 2 days, 2 months, 33 years, had put my libido at the breaking point.  I was turned on like a teenager.

I arrive at the address and pull into a safe looking spot.  I touch up my make up in the car mirror--need to look my best.  I want to make Darlene jealous.  I look damn hot.  This territoriality battle is doing my complexion good.  I could easily pass for 37.

I text Darlene, saying I'm here.  She responds that she's in the sales office at the center of the condo complex, at a private table in the back.  I realize this is my last opportunity to turn back and pretend this never happened.  A girlfight is unstoppable once we set eyes on each other.

I decide to go into the sales office.  My hand shakes as I jiggle the handle.  I need to calm myself.

Two receptionists look up as I enter.  I say, "I'm here for Darlene."  Here to fight her.  Would they believe me if I said that?  Would they want to watch?  They nod me to a long hallway with a large office at the end.  It had a wall-size window.  Darlene, it must be her, is visible, facing away fromm us.  I recognize her hair, that frosted, wavy Portuguese black hair.  Which I'll be pulling later today.

I take a deep breath.  I walk down the hallway.  This is like walking a gauntlet.  Can't get my damn breathing under control.

Darlene's clothing comes into form.  A leather jacket, tight fitting slacks.  Fucking bitch, trying to all-that.  I hope she's overcompensating.

She must hear my footsteps by now.  Why isn't she turning around?  Chicken.

I walk into the office, and shut the door.  I can tell it's soundproof--conversation will be private.  Darlene flips her hair and looks at me, saying nothing.  I go to the opposite side of the table and pull out a chair.  She's wearing knee-high leather boots.  She smells, umm, slutty.  But, shit, she looks beautiful.

I sit.  Me:  "Been a long time."

Her:  "Too long.  They're gonna think you're a real estate agent, dressed like that."

Me:  "They're gonna think you're looking for trouble."

Her:  "All kinds of trouble, honey.  All headed your way."

Me:  "Those two girls out front would get quite a show if we just started here.  What do you say?"

Her:  "Tempting as that is, I like our first idea better.  Fistfight at 3.  In private.  Here's your key, Unit G-1622.  Has a full shower, hot water, furished, bed with sheets.  You'll need all of those tonight.  Hope you weren't planning on driving home for at least a day.  Get changed like we agreed.  Then meet me in C-3862.  Private, no one will interrupt us."

Me:  "There's something you forgot.  I want stakes.  I'm wearing at least four grand of jewelry.  Beat me and it's yours.  What do I get?"

Her:  "My lucky day.  I get to kick your ass and take your bling.  Fine.  You could wonder what you would have spent this on.  I'll bring this to the fight room" 

Darlene writes out a check to "CASH" for $4,000.00.  And signs it.

We sit staring.  Darlene kicks me under the table.  I kick her back.  Her boots make her kick feel 10 times worse.  Haven't even started our fight yet, and I have my first bruise.

Good.  I'll use it to motivate myself between now and 3.  Not that I needed it.  I pick up my duffle bag and head to my condo, my dressing room.

I undress.

I'm soaked like a 20 year old.  I resist the urge to rub another one out.  Need to focus.

I put on my jeans and tank top.  The crotch of my jeans soak thru.  Will Darlene notice?  Is her crotch the same.

I put the towel and water bottles into the duffle bag.  2:52.  Time to walk over to the fight condo.

I have a catfight in 8 minutes.

[sinclairfan]

DARLENE AND I FINALLY FIGHT

Almost exactly 3.  I knock on the door of the fight condo.  I'm less nervous than I was an hour ago--the pre-fight meet up was a good idea.

Darlene lets me in.  She 's wearing jeans and a tank top, just like me.  Her shoes are already off.  I bring my duffle bag to a corner, put it down, and remove my shoes.  I take out a clean towel and a water bottle, and put them on the kitchen island, where Darlene has already put hers, as well as the check for $4,000.00.  My jewelry and rings are in a plastic baggie--I ostentatiously place them on the island.  Whoever gives will be forgoing eight thousand dollars. Darlene locks and latches the front door.  It won't be opened again until Darlene and I have resolved our 33-year old feud.

Darlene and I go to the center living room.  The floor plan is open, and there is no furniture in the unit.  Darlene and I face off, 10 feet away, hands on hips.

Darlene: "So, three things.  Two to stir the pot some more.  First, this unit is going to be gutted next week--including carpeting and walls.  So blood on the floor and slamming into walls is permitted.  That ok by you."

Me: "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Her:  "I figured as much.  Second, I spoke to the two girls in the sales office after you left.  They had noticed our little tension convention.  I told them I thought you and I might being going toe-to-toe someday, and asked them who they thought the victor would be.  The brunette picked you, but the blonde picked me.  I expect to gloat to the brunette on the way out tomorrow if this goes my way right now, and wanted to give you the opportunity to do the same to the blonde."

Me:  < heart races again>  "Thank you for informing me of that.  I expect to follow up."  <That will be sweet, making the blonde eat crow.>  "And how fascinating that they think the matchup is even."

Her:  "I agree.  So, finally.  Let's bare knuckle box, rounds end with knockdowns, if any, for, what do you say, 20 minutes?  Then if neither has had enough yet, we'll not rules catfight till a decisive finish.  If you're agreeable, the set the microwave timer for 20 minutes, and come out swinging.  I'll wait right here."

I walk over to the microwave.  Goodness, the not rules catfight sounds delicious.  I'm tempting to just start that part now.  But, no, having that prospect lingering in the room will make the preliminary fistfight even more primal.  If that's possible.  I set the timer for 20 minutes.  I return to the living room.  Darlene's hands are already up.

Darlene and I jab with lefts, measuring each others speed and strength.  Shit, she's clearly fought before.  Not quite biker chick style though--her elbows are higher, like she's done cardio kickboxing at a gym.  We now use our feet, kicking each other in the shins.  We punch each others tits, each scoring audible grunts.  The hatred is raw between us.  Good.

Darlene comes at my midsection with a running knee.  I grab and hold, awkwardly trip her.  Darlene lands on her butt.  I back off.  Was that a knockdown?

Her:  "No grabbing, bitch.  This is bare knuckle boxing."  She goes for her water bottle.  I do too.

Me:  "I was blocking your knee, slut.  I thought we said no high kicks."  I'm thirsty as hell already.  This break was well-timed.

Her:  "A knee isn't a kick, bitch."

Me:  "Ok, smart ass, let me come at you with my knee, and show me what you do."

We slam our water bottles down, and return to the center of the room.  We resume jabbing, and I start lining her up.  After 2 fakes, I aim a knee direct at her belly.  She blocks me by crossing her hands, and then before I can regain my balance, I lean forward, and her hands tangle in my tank top shoulder strap.  I break free, my tank top loose, my right tit out.

I continue bare knuckle boxing, pretending to not be flustered.  Darlene's eyes clearly are attracted to the new target presented to her, and she starts swinging harder and faster at my tit, connecting with half the swings.  But she's becoming careless, and I continue swinging to, connecting to her face.  But a particularly direct jab from my enemy scores a direct hit.  I'm stunned, Darlene notices, and she put me on my butt with a right cross to my jaw.  I'm up right away, but she's retreated to the island for water.  I do the same, starting to repair my tank top.

Her:  "No repairing clothing damage between rounds, bitch."

Me:  "Excuse me?"

Her:  "That would be like putting on a new shirt.  No way."

Me: "Then you leave me no choice.  Let's go.  The fistfight part is almost over."

We return to "center ring."  The jabbing is fast and furious now.  But mine has a purpose.  I get under Darlene's tank top strap with a left hook.  I grab it, and tear down hard.  Both her tits pop out.  I push her against the wall, half jabbing, but half leaning.  I step back, plant a left in her gut, and upper cut her with a right.  She drops.  The microwave timer rings.  I walk over for water.

Darlene slowly stands, glaring at me.  I glare back.  "Well.  Do something about it bitch."

We are both thinking the same thing.  A rules fight between us won't work.  The only way to fight is all out.  Even the microwave timer seemed to know.

We both know something else.  Our clothes, at this point, are a distraction from the fight.  We stare and begin to strip ourselves, the shredded remains of our tank tops first, then our tight jeans.  We inspect each others naked bodies, probing for sensitive targets.  Our hatred is palpable.  We sarcastically toss the jeans to the side, and strut to center ring.

Her:  "You and me at last, no rules."

Me:  "Long time coming.  Hurt me."

We go for each others head hair with our left hand, and our pussy hair with our right hand, pulling as hard as possible.  Pain racks my body, and we drop to the ground in a catball.  Both of us refuse to release out grips.

We begin rolling on the carpet, sweat pouring out in proportion to the many quarts of water we have been drinking.  Our scent has turned from penthouse to outhouse.  Darlene grabs my head with 2 hands, slams it into the wall, and mounts me.  She grabs both my breasts, I grab both of hers. 

It no longer matters what our life fight experience is.  This has no become the type of fight two women have once, ever.  It should have occured in 1983.  But it's happening now.

I realize now why we both spent a lifetime trying to avoid this fight.

We realize this will be a breast squeezing contest until one of us gives or passes out.  And neither woman is going to give.

We squeeze with all our might.

Minutes pass.

I realize both of us are trickling blood from our noses and mouths from the fistfight.  Good. 

My nails dig into Darlene's flesh.  I feel my strength subsiding, but her subsiding faster.  I log roll her and now I mount her.  I slap her face mercilessly.  I ignore the pain from her clawing me.  More minutes pass.  I'm winning.

Darlene is defeated, and she releases her grip.  I roll off, unable to get up on my first attempt.  I want to get out of here.  I gather myself.  I take the jewelry and cash.  I get dressed, and go back to my condo to shower.  I'm scratched everywhere.  I shower and go the sleep.

I wake up the next morning.  Did that fight just happen yesterday?

I pack to drive back home.

I stop in the sales office.

I see the blonde.  She recognizes me.

"You were wrong, blondie.  I won."

[Trudy]

At first I was doubtful about the 1st person style, but the more I read the more I got into it. Nice job   Liv d the insight to their emotions and thoughts. I thought the fight itself might go longer and get even nastier. Who knows maybe Darlene will call in a few weeks and want another go.
Hmmm maybe we should let this guy write a story called Vanessa vs Trudy. 

[Snakee]

I enjoyed this story. I particularly liked how they set up the fight so matter-of-factly. Nice job!

[Trudy]

Vanessa my dear, Epic indeed! I wonder if Sinclair has enough virtual ink in his cyber typewriter to get us to the end.
I think it would involve us somehow crossing paths semi publicly, and realizing that a fight right then and there would not suit our needs. What we need is a hotel suite where we can sort this out in private, woman to woman. It might take all night and part of the next day.
What do you think Sinclair ?