[sinclairfan]

RHODE ISLAND, 1977-1981

My name is Vicky.  I'm 57 years old now, and I'm just gonna come out and say it--when I was in my teens and twenties, I had a series of bitchfights with a woman, a mom, who by the time we were finished, was the age I am now.  I don't know if she's still alive, but if she is, she's 83 years old.

And I had four separate fights with her.

Did I lose you yet?

If not, here's my story.

I grew up in Rhode Island in the 1970s.  My childhood was pretty standard, and pretty happy.  I was an only child, but I wasn't too spoiled.  I was athletic, and did several track and field events.  I grew to be tall, 5'9", and had thick blonde hair that I could wear different ways.  I liked boys and girls, but since it was the 1970s, I kept the girl on girl experiences discreet and rare.  I didn't get too serious with any particular boy--I was focussed on school and sports.

My life changed (meaning, Mrs Silva came into my life) in the November of my senior year in high school, in 1977.  I had just turned 18, and the school tradition the Saturday before Thanksgiving was a powder puff football game.  I normally skipped it, but my senior class, especially the girls, had a big rivalry with the junior class, and pressured all the athletic girls in our class to "volunteer" to play.  I was the fastest senior girl, and ended up being the feature running back in the game.

That Saturday was a beautiful fall New England day, so we got a standing room only crowd.  The mood was tense, and the blocking and shoving between the 2 teams of girls got a little chippy, with some extra-curricular jostling after the whistle. 

My natural competitive instinct kicked in, and with three minutes left in the game, tie score, I was tossed the ball on a sweep to the left.  I bobbed and weaved through the line without getting my flag pulled, and was running loose in the other team's backfield.  A pretty junior girl named Maria was all that stood between the go-ahead touchdown and me.  I put on a juke move, as if I was some Tony Dorsett wannabe, but Maria read it, as if she was Jack Lambert.  I was leaning left, with my right shoulder down, and Maria reached out to try and remove my flag.  We both stumbled, probably out of weariness as much as anything--it had been a long day in the warm sun.

It all happened in an instant, but the entire crowd of over a thousand students and parents, and players on both teams, watched, in a mixture of awe and horror, as my elbow slammed into the side of Maria's head.  In another instant, she was down, flat on her back, and I stumbled and planted my right foot on her ribcage, knocking the wind out of her in an audible grunt.  Finally, my left foot landed on her face, stamping a layer of caked mud onto her face.  In four more stumbling strides, I had my balance back, and was galloping into the end zone.

Half my team was gleefully following me into the end zone, shouting " Great move, Vick!  Awesome stiff arm!"  (Stiff arm?  When did I give her a stiff arm?  I thought we collided.)

And why can I hear you?  Why aren't you being drowned out by the shouts of the crowd?  Why is the crowd so eerily hushed?  Is there a penalty flag down?

But the other half of my team, and the referees and the entire other team, was tending to the flattened defender, Maria.  My right arm was killing me, so I sensed our collision had been a serious one.  I hurried to see if Maria was ok, but my teammates escorted me to the sideline.  The chippiness of the game, and the intra-class rivalry, had been bitter enough that some of the girls were none too concerned at the moment in Maria's well-being.  Or figured other's could take care of her.

After getting her wind back, Maria gingerly walked off the field.  Thank God.  I had nothing against the girl, and our collision had been entirely accidental.  No one thought I had hurt her on purpose, did they?  The game ended with a bit of a subdued atmosphere.  But we won, and I was the hero.

Because of my hurt right arm, I skipped the post game celebrations, and went home alone to shower and rest.  I got out of the shower, still sore, to the sound of an urgently ringing doorbell.  I rush to the front door, in a t-shirt and towel, expecting to see and crowd of friends coming to celebrate the game.

Instead, it was a pretty, dark haired, leather coat blue jean clad 44 year old school parent i knew as Mrs Silva.  Maria's divorced mom.  She looked serious.

"Mrs Silva, Thank God, is Maria ok?"

"That's actually why I'm here.  Can we go somewhere to talk?"

That's odd.  Why won't she just tell me?  Is Maria in the hospital?  If she is, why isn't Mrs Silva with her?

I get dressed quickly, not putting a bra under the t-shirt and throwing on shorts with no panties.  I leave my hair wet and down over my shoulders. I throw on flip flops and direct Mrs Silva to my side yard, then my back yard, then the woods behind my back yard.

I sense something unexpected is about to begin.

We stop and face each other.

Mrs Silva slaps me hard across the face.

"You and I have a problem," she says.

She and I are about to have our first catfight.  One in 1977, one in 1981, one in 1985, and one in 1994.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

FIGHT #1

I'm sure a lot of questions are going thru your mind right now.  I know a lot were going thru mine in that momentg in the woods.

First:  a parent slapping a student.  That would be pretty scandalous today.  Possibly an arrestable offense.  Borderline child abuse.  Even tho I was 18, I was still a high school student.  And she was a parent.

Looking back, tho, 1977 was a different world in many ways.  Parents didn't think twice about verbally correcting other children.  In fact, there was a semi-joke going around for awhile that if another parent corrected you, and you complained to your parents, that you the child would get smacked again--this time from your own parent.  So, Mrs Silva's action, while bold, was not beyond the pale.

Second, me calling her Mrs Silva.  At this point, this was the only name I knew her by.  I literally didn't know her first name.  I knew she had moved to town 2 years ago, after her divorce.  Divorce still had a whiff of scandal, and danger, to it in 1977.  So, yes, i was intimidated by her slap, her leather coat, her jeans, her boots, her fit body.  Was she here to beat me?

Which brings me to number 3.  I wasn't a fight virgin, but I was close to it.  I had had 2 fights with 2 different girls, resulting from a single grudge.  I had tangled with another girl, spontaneously, at a house party.  Then, the next weekend, a planned fightvwith her best friend as payback.  The planned fight was long, violent, and witnessed by 10 girls.  Even though I regretted how far the grudge had gone at the time, the gossip about the fight afterwards bought me protection all thru high school.  Every girl in the school feared tangling with either of us, so we were never bullied or challenged.

So I was willing to fight Mrs Silva.  But first I needed to figure out if this is what this was.

"What the fuck was that?"

"Some junior girls say you told Maria you were gonna stomp her face during the game."

"Whoa, whoa, Mrs Silva, I did NOT say that.  EVER."

"Admit it, tough girl."

For the first time, I smell red wine on Mrs Silva's breath.  Is this the liquor talking?  And pushing me?

When you're 18 and not in bra and panties, you might as well be naked, That's how vulnerable you feel.  I feel that way in the woods right now.

"Mrs Silva, stop pushing me."

"Or what, tough girl?"

"Mrs Silva, this isn't fair, my arm hurts."

My words are conciliatory, but I'm actually itching for a fight.  Did Maria start the lie about me threatening her.  If so, I'd love to send her mom back to her with a shiner.

<<<<Mrs Silva tugs my right arm.>>>>

"Owwww."

"Baby."

"Bitch."

Yep, That's always the magic word isn't it?

Mrs Silva digs her nails in my soaked hair, getting her nails into my scalp.  My good arm is close to useless, so i use my feet (my flip flops go flying) and knees to hit Mrs Silva in the shins and belly.  I head lock her with my left arm.  We're the dirt in a heap, dirt caking into mud on my just-showered skin.

In my 2 previous fights, I tried to forego catfight scratching and slapping tactics.  But my injured right arm leaves me little choice.

Not to mention Mrs Silva's 26 years of experience on me.  What's thus, like her 257th FIGHT?  And my third?

So, in no time, We're viciously scratching each other in the face.  And screaming and shouting.

I suddenly feel alone in the woods.  Isn't this year teen bodies get dumped?  Is she mad enough to kill me?  Or drunk enough?

Whether by fear, or 18 year old athleticism, or both, I mount Mrs Silva.  My right arm feels semi-usable.  With it, and my left arm, I punch Mrs Silva in the mouth.  Over and over.  She's stopped fighting back.

I climb off.

I kick her in the head.

I run to my yard.

Into my house.

I lock the door.

I get in the shower.

I cry for an hour.

I wait for my parents to ask what happened between Maria and me.  Or between Mrs Silva and me.

For hours.

For days.

For weeks.

No one mentions anything.

Maria talks to me in school.  I ask if She's all right.  She says, "Yes, We're cool, Vicky."

I detect no sarcasm.

Months go by.

I graduate high school.

I go away to Providence College.

I don't see Mrs Silva again.  Until 1981.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

BETWEEN FIGHT #1 AND FIGHT #2

Living thru an intense experience, like my first fight with Mrs Silva, and not talking about it with anyone does surprisingly strange things to your memory of it.  I didn't want to go to my parents or friends about the fight for fear of getting into a she-said-she-said battle with an adult:  everyone would automatically believe anything Mrs Silva said about the encounter, right?  On the other hand, since Maria had told me "We're cool, Vicky" in the school hallway, Mrs Silva had obviously never told anyone, even her own family, that she was coming to my house that day to confront me, either before or after it happened.  She must have come to realize what a reckless move that was, and was sheepishly trying to forget it happened.

Or maybe she was humbled by the ass-kicking I had given her.  More on that later.

So, she and I continued in our silent stalemate for three-and-a-half years.  Years in which I attended Providence College.  Huge mistake.  Good school, don't get me wrong.  But the wrong school for me.

To start with, I had delusions of a track and field career as a college athlete.  I had competed in several running distances and many field events (shot put, javelin, long jump, triple jump) in high school.  But college track doesn't work that way.  Only events where you're good enough to earn points matter.  Specialization matters.  And I didn't have a single event I was special enough in.  I could have travelled with the team for four years, competing and not getting points.  But that was a waste of everyone's time, especially mine.

So, I came to a school I had picked for the athletics, and was off the sports team withi n 3 weeks of the start of my fall semester.  And not wanting to go home with my tail between my legs and admit my error to my parents and friends, I decided to stay at Providence and make the best of a school I didn't particularly like.

I wasn't totally without friends at school.  I latched onto the men's hockey team, which was a source of athletic pride at the time at a school with no men's football team.  My tall, fit, blonde looks got me regularly invited to what was the official/unofficial men's hockey fraternity house.  During hockey season, everything stayed pretty structured.  But once hockey season ended in March, it was one long drinking party until school ended in May.  Drinking, and sex.  And I participated fully.  AIDS wasn't a thing yet.

One of the things the hockey players liked to watch during parties were girlfights.  There were enough of us girls hanging around, hoping to stand out in the crowd of groupies, to pair off by size and by looks and get some intense battles going.  Almost from day, I made known my willingness to enter myself as a participant in such donnybrooks.  Since broken noses are a buzzkill when two girls are fighting in your house, punches to the face were usually disallowed.  But pretty much anything else was allowed and encouraging--punches to the chest and sides, slaps to the face, hairpulling, kicking.  Two girls would square off and just go hard for 3 to 5 minutes until one got on top.  It was quite the Fight Club.  And since no one talked about Fight Club, it continued all four years I was in school.  I later heard it got busted and ended the year I left.

I was partially participating in the hockey house girl fights to keep my access to the parties and the social life.  But the truth was, it was also a proxy for my inability to verbalize the fight in the woods I had had with Mrs Silva.  I needed that fight to be "real", and participating in the house fight reassured me that I hadn't fantasized about or just imagined that fight with a real, live grown up.

Between the planned, long, violent high school fight against the other student Laura, the intense private battle in the woods with Mrs Silva, and the hockey Fight Club fights, fighting gave me positive feedback and confidence that other girl's my age got from sex and dating, or studying.  Two areas of my life that were giving me only disappointment.

On the sex and dating front, I still hadn't quite clicked with guys.  The guys I did like were intimidated by my blonde hair and tall build, and the ones who weren't intimidated were inevitably arrogant and not nearly as good in bed as they thought they were.  And girls, well, I was interested.  But it was so hard to meet LGB girls in 1980.  Especially at a Catholic college.  Dumb, Vicky, just dumb.

Meanwhile, academically, I was drifting.  I had vague plans to get my masters in Education and become a high school teacher, so that I could coach Track.  Not realizing that my lack of college Track accomplishments would give me a pretty thin resume when it was job interview time.  And rather than change my major early, I just drifted, drifted.  Again, not wanting to admit an error.

Not wanting to admit an error.  Is that how my collision with Maria escalated into a post game fistfight with her mom?  Once I stomped on Maria's body on the field that afternoon, and knew Maria was hurt, shouldn't I just have taken a knee and stopped the play?  I already had the first down--our team could have continued with the game-winning drive.  I could sympathize with Mrs Silva sitting in the stands, watching some tall, blonde senior steam roll her daughter in a supposedly non-tackle football game.  Being a single mom, asking around afterwards with her daughter's friends about who I was, where I lived.  Was she expecting my parents to answer to door?  Did she just want to vent to them about whatg I had done?  Did she lose it when I looked so nonchalant, showering at home after winning the game?  Was our fight planned or was it spontaneous?

Was she impressed at how I fought.  For a mom, she was a vicious fighter.  My fight with Laura had had plenty of face punching.  But Mrs Silva and I had dug our nails into each others faces.  Without any hesitation.  Even my hockey house Fight Club girl fights never got that vicious that fast.

Years go by.  I'm now a junior at Providence.  Time to start student teaching.  At my old high school.  It's spring 1981.

Setting foot in my old high school was a strange experience.  Everyone, the students, looked so young.  Was that really me three years ago?

I lie and tell my old teachers and coaches that I'm enjoying Providence.  That I left sports voluntarily.  That I'm enjoying teaching.  I'm not.  Even student teaching sucks.  I hate it.

The teachers invite me out for a drink after work.  Most of the m go home.  I stay out with some of the younger single ones.  Maybe one of them will try and hit on me and pick me up.  I go to the restroom to freshen up.

I hear a voice behind me.

"Well, well, well.  Look what the cat dragged in."

Shit, it's Mrs Silva.  Looking none the worse for wear.  Still thin.  Still jeans and boots, but now a tank top.  Hair with blonde highlights in it now.  Late 40s instead of mid 40s, but looking pretty damn fine.

I turn.  "Mrs Silva.  Fancy meeting you at a dive bar."

Her:  I could say the same.  You ran off at our last meeting.  I wasn't done talking to you.

<<<<We step closer to each other.  I'm braver than I expect.>>>>

Me:  You knew where to find me.  You had no trouble finding me the first time.

Her:  Slutting it up at school, college girl?

Me:  Jealous?

<<<<My hockey house Fight Club experiences have given me experience and confidence in the pre-fight staredown.  But pre-fight trash talk, not so much.  The shouting in the room usually makes any banter pointless, so I'm coming up dry in witty comebacks to my enemy.  But We're both getting our point across--our fight isn't over yet, and now It's just a question of where and when It's going to resume.  Which is fine by me.>>>>

Her:  There's an overflow parking lot out back where we can chat and, um, catch up.  Care to meet me there?  Alone?

Me:  Let me pay up with my friends.  See you in 10 minutes?

Her:  Fine.

Shit.  How did that happen so fast?  And I'm pretty sure I coulda gotten laid tonight by one of the teachers.

Instead it will be Round 2 with Mrs Silva.  Whose first name I still don't know.

To be continued.....

[dfoulup]

Looking forward to reading more.....

[sinclairfan]

FIGHT #2

Mrs Silva and I briskly pace to an isolated, muddy, gritty, gravel parking lot.  In my first fight with her, I remembered hearing in the news about bodies of teen girls being dumped in the woods.  As we silently walk to the venue for our second fight, I recall hearing about 20-something girls being taken to isolated parking lots and getting gang raped.  Is that what Mrs Silva has in mind for me?  Or does she just want a nice, clean fight?

I remember reading at Providence College that Sun T'zu said to "know your enemy".  I realize I know almost nothing about Mrs Silva.  Why is she fixated on me?  What does she do all day?  Who's she fucking?  Is she a barfly at this bar?  Does she always fight in this lot?  What does she do when she wins?  What's the bitch's first name?

I notice how hard the gravel is in the lot.  Rolling on the ground will be no fun.  Are we going to fight standing up?  My hockey house Fight Club fights haven't prepared me for that kind of fight.  But fuck it, I'm 21.  Mrs Silva is 47.  I should win just about any kind of fight.

We get to the center of the lot and face each other.  "So, college girl," Mrs Silva angrily hisses, "You fought like a real woman yet?  Tits out?".  Without waiting for me to answer, Mrs Silva has already removed her tank top over her head.  She has no bra underneath.  Her breasts aren't super large, but, wow, no bra at 47?  My eyes can't stop looking at them.

Trying, unsuccessfully, to maintain a poker face, I slowly undo the buttons on my blouse.  I strip it off, fold it neatly, and place it on the ground.  I undo my bra, revealing my 36c's to my adversary.  Now It's her gawking.

"Reap ' em and weep, old hag," is all I can come up with, recalling a hockey house insult from a boozy late night strip poker game.

"I can't wait to fucking rip them off, slut."

"So that's how It's gonna be then?"  We raise our fists.

"Look who's all grown up."

"Show me how <<<air quotes>>> real women do it."

At my ill-advised air quotes gesture, Mrs Silva unleashes a right-left-right combo direct at my tits.  Fuck that hurts.  I try to counter immediately, but my arms are temporarily paralyzed, and Mrs Silva quickly retreats.  When Laura and I had our violent planned fight, Laura made no attempt to move her head, to Bob and weave, to retreat from my reach.  If Mrs Silva is going to make me work to hit her, this fight could go awhile.  I slow down, trying to control my breathing.  I test how she plans on moving by testing her with left jabs.  Shit, she's fist.  Clearly an experienced bare knuckle boxer.

My eyes alternate between her nipples and her eyes.  When staring at her nipples, I become self-conscious that she thinks I'm envying her tits.  When staring into her eyes, I struggle to control my temper.  This fight is super-personal--if I stare too long, I'll drop my guard trying to scratch her eyes out, and she'll have an opening to make good of her threats to rip my tits off.  I have no doubt she'll do it if given the chance.

I remember that kicking served me well in our first fight.  I catch her in the knee just as Mrs Silva is moving in for a tit combo.  She goes down, but It's a slip, not a knockdown.  We both know it.  She waits to see if I'm going to take this fight to the hard ground. 

"Get up, grandma.  I'm just starting to have fun."

Mrs Silva gets up.  I'm relieved I'm finally finding my voice.

We continue sparring, our fists on flesh making a sickening slapping sound in the damp, brisk, spring, evening air, raw hate reverberating through the lot.

Our breathing becomes labored.  Shit, the broad has damn good cardio to be keeping up with me.  I realize for the first time that I'm not in the running shape I was in all my life.  The "College 15" weight gain becomes tangible, as each punch to my torso hurts my lungs.

In an instant, I'm down.  And Mrs Silva doesn't hesitate.  She mounts me, her soaked upper body locking with mine.  She must notice, too, because we simultaneously call each other "Sick pig."
She tries to ground and pound me, but our arms are moving too slow--mine feel heavy as tree stumps.

We begging to roll on the hard gravel.  Being on the bottom is excruciating on our bare flesh.

We instinctively face each other sitting on our butts.  We've been staring at each others tits for 10 minutes now, so we can't resist.  We reach out our hands and begin mauling, Mrs Silva scratching mine, me pinching hers.

We settle in and begin torturing each other.

Slut.

Whore.

Bitch.

Little girl. 

Old hag.

Now I begin to pinch.  And she begins to scratch.  She draws blood.

"First blood."

"So what?"

We try to meet each other's eyes.  But tears are streaming down our cheeks.

"You're right, actually.  I'm not done with you.  Round 2?"

We stand and face each other, raising our fists.

"Ok, hag," I say.  Let's go.  "Round 2."

I crave water like I never have before.  But there is none.

To be continued.......

[sinclairfan]

FIGHT #2 ROUND 2

Mrs Silva has just given away a fight factoid about herself.  My lack of information about her has been an advantage of hers in our fights to date.  But her "First blood" slip has given me a window to her fight habits.  It sounds like she and the other barfly bitches pair off, and then fight until someone draws first blood--a bloody nose, and bloody lip, a well-placed scratch.  It's a face-saving way to end a fight before mutual exhaustion sets in.

Mrs Silva and I won't be fighting that way tonight.  To start with, we have no audience.  But more importantly, I refused to give when she drew first blood.  I'm not done with her.

I regret not messing her up more when I had her on the ground in the woods in 1977.  I won't make that mistake again.

Mrs Silva and I continue sparring, mostly aiming left jabs for each other's tits.  I'm angry that she dug a cut into my left breast.  If that scars, I'll be thinking on tonight the rest of my life.  I need to permanently disfigure Mrs Silva somewhere before tonight is over.

As we bare knuckle box, I realize what the next phase of my life will be.  I'll never be a teacher.  I don't want to be around kids my whole life.  I want to be around adults.

Downtown Providence in 1981 has a sleazy but hopping peep show scene.  Sort of like Times Square, New York, just way smaller.  I remember one of the hockey house groupies telling me that girls who strip there make 10 grand a month.  $120,000 a year.  I'll never make that teaching.  Or doing anything else.

And I'll finally meet other girl's.  Guys aren't cutting it for me.  And I'm tired of working so hard at it.  Sex shouldn't be work.

Mrs Silva and I continue smacking each other's tits.  She's getting tired fast.  I'm not in the shape I should be in, but I'm 21, and the bitch fighting me is 48.  48 years old.  Father Time is the real winner in this fight.  Father Time is undefeated.

Tomorrow, or whenever I get out of bed from this fight, I'm getting an apartment in downtown Providence.  I'm disenrolling from Providence College.  Someone more deserving can have my spot.  I'm gonna strip.  While I'm still 21.  My tits still standing at attention, my natural blonde hair still thick and shiny.

I patiently wait for Mrs Silva take a too-hard swing at me.  She loses her balance, ending up at my left shoulder.  I wind up, and land a right uppercut to her jaw.  Then a right hook.  Both land flush.  She goes down.

I mount her.

"I'm......Gonna.....Fuck.....You.....Up....You....Goddamn....Psycho.....Bitch."

For the first time since 1977, I know who I am.  I know what I'm doing the next 3 to 6 months.  Feels so right, feels so good.  Is that a song?  Feels like that should be a song. 

I grind Mrs Silva's face in the gritty gravel.

I stuff mud in her mouth.

"I'm gonna maim you, bitch."

I scratch my initials in her tits.

VVW

VVW

One in each tit. 

This is fun.

I pull down her jeans.

VVW

VVW

One in each butt cheek.

"Explain that to the next guy you fuck, bitch."

Yes, I think that'll do.

That'll do real nice, bitch.

I put my blouse back on.

I step on Mrs Silva's face.

"It was an accident with Maria, bitch.  But on purpose with you.  Don't you ever forget it."

I strut back to my car.

I drive home.

I stay awake until 7am.

Providence College admissions opens at 8:30am.

I'm first in line.

I disenroll from college.

I get an apartment in Providence.

I apply at the strip club.  The owner asks to see me topless.

"Heckuva scratch."

"You should see the other girl."

"I bet.  When can you start?"

"Today."

"Good answer."

30 days go by.

They were wrong.  I didn't make $10,000.

I made $13,416.75.

Each shit, Mrs Silva.

To be continued.......

[sinclairfan]

1981 TO 1985

From 1981 to 1984, I stripped in Downtown Providence.  The money was fantastic.  I saved it pretty systematically.  We were taught how to deposit it to fly under the radar of the IRS, then invest it in mutual funds so that our bank accounts weren't sitting there with huge balances.  The cash came in so fast that it was a full time job recycling all the cash.  It was actually pretty exciting.  I loved hitting new milestones in account balances.  $10,000.  $50,000.  $100,000.  That was a big one.  I remembered thinking I was probably the only member of the Class of 1978 with $100,000 net worth.

I also dated other strippers.  It's not utopia, just so you know.  Sometimes if a girl is really hot, she'll feel entitled if she's in bed with you.  As in, she feels you should be so grateful to be in bed with her that you should do all the work.  She should just lay back and enjoy it.

But, unfortunate episodes like that aside, I confirmed for myself that I prefer women.  The wave after wave of ecstasy, rather than just a single climax.  The full body contact.  The female bonding.  The female body.  I learned many varieties of female sexuality, positions, and foreplay.  Sometimes I wished for a permanent partner, and sometimes I felt lonely.  But those were exceptions.  Generally, life was good.

That all changed in mid 1984.  There was a change in mayors in the city of Providence.  The previous mayor, Cianci, had turned a blind eye to the strip clubs, adult book stores, and streetwalkers in downtown Providence.  He even semi-encouraged it, as sex tourists and, I kid you not, sailors, brought their money from Massachusetts and Connecticut to look for action in Providence.  But a new mayor, Paolino, took office, and he wasn't having any of that.  I have to admit, downtown had gotten pretty creepy by 1984--I spent as little time as I possibly needed to there.  The restaurant scene had gotten pathetic, and surrounding cities like Boston and Hartford and even New York City were passing us by as hangout spots for young, single, rich people.  Heck, people like me.  We were called YUPpies.  Young Urban Professionals.

The strip club i worked at started getting hit with a bunch of liquor license fines.  The fees the girls had to pay the owner to dance there were going up and up.  Drinks got more expensive, so customers didn't tip as well.  The handwriting was on the wall.  It was getting time to think about doing something else.

Thinking.  I had been thinking about Mrs Silva.  For weeks after our 1981 fight, I had been looking over my shoulder.  Expecting to get arrested for what had happened between her and me.  Expecting her to send a pack of her barfly friends to jump me.  But, no, nothing.  And I didn't talk about it to anyone, that's for sure.  Like my first fight with her, she and I were apparently the only two people who would ever know what had happened.

In early 1985, I quit stripping.  Another girl had found out that Prime Computer in Framingham, MA liked hiring blondes as secretaries; you didn't need a secretarial certificate.  They'd train you.  I interviewed, and I was in.  After 4 years in a sleazy strip club, I loved the glamour of working in an office, wearing nice clothes to work, buying new clothes and new shoes every weekend.  I got an apartment in Natick.  This area was the famous "Route 128", which at the time was the U.S.'s Silicon Valley.  There were established tech companies like Digital and Data General, as well as startups who would later become famous, like EMC.  I was doing pretty darn well for a college dropout.

The tech companies were a magnet for young people from all over the area, including from my high school in Rhode Island.  I started gradually meeting, and/or hearing about, girls and guys from my class who were either employed full time at Digital and Prime, and/or who were working as contractors for them. 

I viewed this as mixed news.  On the plus side, I definitely wanted to build a network and move up the career ladder.  Secretary was great for now, but wasn't my ultimate career ambition.  But there were 2 huge negatives.  The first negative was that I didn't want word of my stripping career to get around.  I wasn't so much ashamed as much as I didn't want pervey stalkers thinking I must be easy and giving me attention.  And second, if Mrs Silva had a grudge against me to settle, I didn't want her knowing I was in Massachusetts and doing anything to mess things up.

Call it women's intuition, but my gut told me I wouldn't be able to stay under the radar for long.  I joined the employee fitness center at Prime, remembering my depleted cardio when I fought Mrs Silva in the gravel parking lot.  I never wanted to be in that position again.

Prime had a summer coed softball league.  I signed up, realizing how little I had gotten outdoors in Providence. 

After softball, players from all the different teams would go out drinking.  As the summer progressed, we'd congregate by age, and, with Framingham being a draw for people from all over, area of origin.  Pretty soon, there was a well-established "Rhode Island Table".  Against my better judgment, I joined in.

I could tell all the people I met and vaguely remembered me were jealous of my looks.  That was good.  I also took at is a good sign that no one mentioned Powder Puff Football.  The game senior year.  The play where I hurt Maria.

So far so good.

It was what I couldn't see that would bite me in the butt.  The summer night after-softball drinking conversations didn't stay in Framingham.

They got all the way back to Rhode Island.

To Mrs Silva.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

FIGHT #3, November 1985

On a chilly Friday evening in mid-October 1985, a handful of girls and guys from the Prime/Digital/Data General summer softball league got together for Happy Hour at a Ground Round restaurant in Shoppers World in Natick.  The Happy Hours had been held into the fall after the softball season ended, but i usually didn't attend.  The first reason was, I was being frugal with my money.  I had built up some big savings from my stripping days, but i didn't want to tap into it, and my secretarial strategy left me with little extra cash after paying rent and for clothes.  Second, it was a pain in the butt driving home buzzed and hoping not to get pulled over for DUI.  And third, I wasn't looking to get hit on in a bar.

This week, however, reason number 2 was removed.  Two guys offered to be my designated driver.  And since they offered as a tandem, obviously neither would expect to be invited in after dropping me off.  So, I figured, what the heck.  I'll go.

I arrived at 5, which became 6 and then 7.  We ate appetizers, so I didn't need to head home for dinner.  So our go up was down to 6, when I got a tap on my shoulder.

"Hey, tough girl.  Can we talk in private somewhere?"

Holy.  Fucking.  Shit.  It was Mrs Silva.  I hadn't seen her in four years.  She was still in her patented jeans and boots, with a leather coat and the same highlights in her dark hair.  Maybe a hint of grey in the hair, but otherwise looking way way way younger than her 52 years.  What was this woman's fucking secret?

She must have noticed my hesitation.

"Don't worry, I'm not here to fight.  Just to talk."

"But, but.....Mrs Silva, how did you know I was here?"

"Well, I'm not going to tell all my secrets.  But word got back to Rhode Island that you were at Prime and played softball.  I asked around and found out about the Happy Hours, and I gave a guy, I won't tell you which one, a blow job to get you to come tonight.  And here you are."

"And YOU call ME a slut??"  <<<<half-jokingly>>>>

"I call you a lot of things."

"I thought you weren't here to fight."

"Good point.  Shall we?"  <<<<motioning to a booth>>>>>

We sit down at the booth.  I start.

Isn't it weird we've never really talked?

What do you want to talk about?

Well, to start with....this is weird, but.....what's your fucking first name??

Donna.

Ahh.....Donna Silva.

Are you gonna start calling me that?

Actually, Mrs Silva works.  If you Don't mind.

To make me feel old, huh?  Cuz I know It's not out of respect.

What makes you say that?

Just a vibe I get.

It, just that.....Mrs Silva, when you came to my house that day of the football game.....came to my door, angry....that was kind of reckless, Don't you think?  What if one of us had a knife?

You're right.  I guess I've never thought of it that way.  How about the second fight, tho?  You Don't blame that one on me, do you?  You sure didn't hesitate starting that one.

I know......i think about that.

And.....what do you think now?.....seeing me?

<<<<I hesitate>>>>>

I can go first if you want.

Please do, Mrs Silva.

Well, I'm not happy about losing the fights.  Not happy at all.  <<<<Mrs Silva leans forward>>>>  But I loved every second of fighting you.  I felt so fucking alive.  My only regret is we never fought with me in my prime.  Ya know, maybe 28, 30 years old.

<<<<<I think.>>>>>

Tell me you Don't feel the same.

<<<<Not hesitating now>>>>  That about captures it.  I loved fighting you, too.  Every minute.

I have a proposition for you, but not what you think.  I'm dating a visiting fellow at Wheaton College.  <<<<Wheaton is in Norton, MA, about halfway between Natick and Rhode Island.  In 1985, it was all-female.  It became coed in 1988, three years later.>>>> Her 40th birthday is a couple Fridays from now--November 8.  She loved to watch me fight.

Why me, though?

She saw the VVW initials you carved into me in 1981.   <<<<Mrs Silva opens her coat and shows me the beauty mark I left on her 4 years ago.>>>> She's always wanted to meet the real VVW.  It will make her day watching us fight.

What's in it for me?

We'll pay you......and....

....and.....

You get to fight me again.  Admit it.  It's been too long.

I'm in.  Just one last question tho, Mrs Silva.

Anything.

Did some girls actually tell you I hurt Maria on purpose in the football game.

One girl did, yes.

Who?

Laura B______.

Fuck, that bitch.

What?  Is it not true.

Not true at all.  A total lie.

Interesting.  She have a grudge on you or something.

You might say that.

Well, do me a favor and hold off on acting on it till after November 8th.

It'll cost you.

Not a problem.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

INTERLUDE--1970Ss SLEEPOVERS AT MY GRANDMOTHER'S

As I sit in bed in 1985 in my apartment in Natick, thinking about my encounter with Mrs Silva, I flash back to the 1970s.  My parents would make me do summer weeknight sleepovers at my grandmother's house in Westwood, MA.  My parents probably wanted a break from me.  And it gave my grandmother and me a chance to bond.

We would watch 1970s Primetime TV.  Which, for those of you who don't know, was pretty damn awesome.  We would watch The Rockford Files.  Starring Jim Garner.  The theme song that started thast show--I don't even know how to describe it.  It's on YouTube--go watch it if you've never seen it.  Some sort of synthesized keyboard number that would get you psyched to watch an hour of quality prime time TV in the best damn country on Earth.  Literally a fifth to a quarter of the country watching with you.  Only the Super Bowl offers anything like that today.  That's what prime time TV was in the 1970s--a Super Bowl every weeknight.  My grandmother and I sitting there watching, with frozen pizza on our TV trays.  I remember watching with her in August 1977, live, as it was announced that Elvis Presley had just died.  Watching her so shocked, then telling me it reminded her of the Friday afternoon fourteen years earlier when JFK died.  How quiet everything got that afternoon in Massachusetts.  How everyone wondered how the world would go on.

I remember when I would go to my grandmother's guest bedroom.  How I would shut the door and unpack my suitcase.  I'd go to the walk in closet door, which had a full-length mirror on it.  I'd look at myself in the mirror.  My 5'9" runner's body.  My blinders hair beyond my shoulders.  My 36c tits.  I'd undo my shirt.  Then my bra.  I'd look at my own tits in the mirror.

I never do this at home.  Why am I doing it at my grandmother's house.  I'd undo my shorts.  I'd let my panties drop.  I'd look at my bush in the mirror.  I'd never look down at it directly--Only through my grandmother's mirror.

I liked what I saw.  I'd sleep with me.  I'd fuck me.

Is this what other girl's see when they see me?  Is this what boys see when they see me?  Do they like whatg they see as much as I do?

I fast forward to 1985.  The girl in that mirror should have had better sex than She's had by now.  Someone should love her.  They say someone can't love you until you love yourself.  But I do love myself.  I have for 8 to 10 years now.  Why doesn't someone else love me yet?

Does Mrs Silva love me?  Does she like me?  Do I want her to?

I turn on Miami Vice.  The music in that show does what The Rockford Files music used to do to me.

I miss my grandmother.  She died in 1983.  Was she heartbroken I dropped out of Providence College?  Is that why she died?

When she went to heaven, did she see me stripping?  What did she think?

I miss those sleepover at my grandmother's.

I miss watching with her in 1977, the night Elvis Presley died.

I remember reading in 1984 that Elvis liked catfighting.

I fucking love catfighting.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

A SUNDAY NIGHT PHONE CALL WITH MRS SILVA

After thinking about Mrs Silva, about our Friday Happy Hour conversation, and about our planned November 8 fight all weekend, I toy with the idea of calling her at the phone number she left with me.  As Sunday night arrives and I go to bed to get ready for work Monday morning, I finally can't resist anymore.  I pick up the phone and dial. 

Hello?

Hey, it's Vicky.  Now a good time.

Sure, What's up.

Well, I thought of a question I meant to ask you Friday night.

Oh, good, because I thought of one to ask you, too.

Oh, good.  Me, first, Then?  It's a little bit personal.

That's ok.  Probably.  Go ahead and ask.  I might not answer, but go ahead and ask.

Ok, umm....so you said you're dating a visiting fellow from Wheaton....you, know, a woman.....

That's right.

So, ummm, I take it you're gay?.....Have you always been?....or, no, have you always known?.....

Well, you were right, that IS personal.....

Too personal?  Should I not have asked that?

No, no, It's ok to ask.  Except then I get to ask you.

Ok, That's fine.

So, let's see.  How do I answer this.  So, I got married when I was 22.  In 1955.  So, Vicky, in 1955, being straight or not being straight, that wasn't even a thing, ok?  Know what I mean?  Unless you were an artist, maybe an actress, maybe a writer, you were straight.  I never even gave it a second thought.  Which isn't to say I didn't love my husband or wasn't attracted to him.  I was in love with him.  And we had plenty of sex......You're being quiet.

No, no, I'm listening.  Or thinking.  Sometimes I think too much.  So why did you two get divorced?

Right.  This is cliche, but we grew apart.  He worked long hours at work.  He was said we never had a son.  He came from a family of four boys.  He didn't know how to be a dad to two daughters.  He was just sad all the time, I couldn't take it.  I told him to "fix it"--his sadness.  It wasn't even depression, it was just this constant sadness.  He was letting himself grow old prematurely.  And he didn't.  So I filed papers, and before we knew it, I was divorced.

Wow.  I'm sorry.

No, you're not.

<<<<<Awkward chuckling.>>>>

So, being attracted to women?  That came after?

Oh, yes, way after.  I sort of just socialized with women.  Men would hear I was divorced, and either ran away clutching their wallets, <<<<chuckling>>>> "Oh, no, she wants child support from me!".......or assumed I was an easy tramp....anyways, I learned who I like.  Then what I like.  Sort of like being 20 and single all over again.  Anyways, I'm still learning.  But, yes, I prefer women right now.

I see.

How about you?  Anyone special for my favorite sexy blonde?  I bet you can have whoever you want.  Playing the field?

Ya, as if!  I don't know, It's complicated.  I guess I like the other person to make the first move too much.  This is going t o sound really whiney, and, I don't know,....self-pitying....but.....i would stick with men if they were, like....MEN.  But they're not.  They don't ask for my number.....or, at least, the wrong one's do....the one's who are trying to trade up, or whatever......it's like, women ask me.....or, ask me the right way......so I tell them yes......does that make sense?......

Sort of.

I guess, I'm still learning.  That's why I asked you.  Just trying to learn.

I can see that.

So, you said you have a question for me?

I do, and some info.

Oooooo, tell me.

So, this girl from high school you don't like?  Laura?

Yes?  The instigator between Maria and me?  What about her?

What's the deal between you and her?  What's the grudge?

Oh, you know?  Stupid high school clickie party gossip bullshit.  The summer before senior year, we were having drinking parties at whose ever house had no parents for a few days, or a day even.  Anyways, Laura always brought this shy girl Jen with her.  Jen was pretty but was totally awkward in an annoying way--at class or at parties, i didn't matter.  She'd talk quiet, look at her shoes.  Well, anyways, we're at a party one afternoon, and I'm talking to this guy Carl.  Just telling him some dumb story.  And awkward Jen comes over and butts in and asks me something, i don't even know what.  And I'm so dumbfounded at how awkward she's being, i blurt out really loud, "I'm talking to Carl here."  But it comes out wrong--it sounds like I'm telling her to leave the conversation or even leave the party.  I meant it more like, "I'll answer your question in a minute, Jen, just let me finish my story to Carl real quick."  But instead, everyone gets real hushed.  Like I was just bitchy to Jen.  So she storms off and sulks.  And the party goes on.  A half hour later, she storms over to me, and says, "Care to go outside?"  Like she learned that line from a movie or TV show or something.  So I just follow her, I'm so aggravated with her, and we catfight in the grass, you know, slapping and hairpulling for 60 seconds tops, and then she runs off in a huff again.  And I'm like, leave it to awkward Jen to ruin a party.......you still with me Mrs Silva?

Hanging on every word.  This is good shit.  So, now, the main event.  You and Laura.

Exactly.  Laura, Protector of Jen.  The next day, she calls me.  She says Jen told her that I assaulted Jen at the party for no reason, and that if I'm gonna pick on anyone I should pick on Laura, and do I want to fight Laura at this other girl's house this weekend, but don't tell anyone.  Only girls invited.  So I say, "You know what, Laura, you're always standing up for Jen, and it got her ass kicked, and now it's gonna get your ass kicked too."  By the way, these two fights--these were my first actual girl fights, like ever.  I never had a sister to practice fighting with.

Oooooo, how exciting!!!!

So, I go to the other girl's house, and Jen and Laura and like 8 other girl's are there......i don't know how everyone kept this secret.....and Laura and I go out to the backyard....it's grass, pretty small fenced in area.....enough room to fight, but closed in is the point.....we both realize, one we start, there's no turning back. ..only one of us can win this fight.....and, we just go, throwing each other by our hair into the fence......onto the ground....like, throwing each other around like rag dolls by the hair.....using the fence as a weapon......raking each other's faces on the fence......then slamming each other's heads into the fence and into the ground.....Mrs Silva t his fight was.  SO .   FUCKING VIOLENT......like , if there were boys or adults there, it woulda got broken up......both all the girls are too afraid to break it up.....either that or they all secretly hate both of us and want us to fucking maim each other......so we're fighting and hairpulling and fighting and both of us have chunks of hair all over the grass....and finally the fence, just like, leans......it doesn't fall, it just leans into us.....and there's like, no room to fight now......so we let go of each other and get out breath.....and everyone is like, where do we go to finish the fight....except the girl who's house the fight is at is crying now, like, "You bitches, my dad is gonna be so fucking mad, he spent all summer fixing that fence.  Get out before I call the cops."  And we all run home.  And Laura and I never finished that fight.

Did you want to?

Yes, but not if I,  like, had to do any work to make it happen?  Does that make sense?

Sort of like when you date?  Maybe?  Not saying that to be bitchy.

<<<<<I think for a mjnute>>>>>

Did I touch a chord.

That was actually very insightful of you Mrs Silva.

And with that.....

Yes, and with that, I have work tomorrow.

I'm glad we talked.

Me, too.

<<<<We hang up without saying goodbye.>>>>>

[sinclairfan]

"HEY, IT'S VICKY"

After my phone chat with Mrs Silva, I'm absolutely sure of one thing:  Laura and I, wherever she is now, need to finish that fight we had in high school which was interrupted by that broken fence.  Leaving it forever undecided who is the better woman, her or me, is unacceptable.  And I'm going to initiate the fight.  The only excuse I'll accept is if she's currently raising a child less than, say, 2 years old.  But even if that's the case, I'm going to make it known to her that as soon as that child becomes a toddler, I expect that she and I will arrange a fight.

In 2017, making those arrangements is pretty straightforward.  Get on Facebook or LinkedIn, connect, and make contact either by phone or email or text.  But it's October 1985 right now.  Tracking someone down takes time.  Meaning months.  And I have a fight planned for November 8.  The Laura fight will need to wait, probably deep into 1986, depending on how far away from Rhode Island she moved after high school.

Speaking of the November 8 fight--i need a ride there.  And a corner person, to clean me up.

Mrs Silva gave me an idea.  I need to be less passive in initiating relationships.  Now would be a good time to start.  As a secretary, I have access to home phone numbers of Prime employees.  Home phone number listings are as high-tech as information gets in 1985--it's golden.  I decide to start putting that access to work.

There's a single, cute 30 year old engineer at Prime who gets shy around me.  He has a crush on me.

On a 9pm Tuesday night, I call his home number.  He answers.

Hello?

<<<<Seductively>>>>Hey, Greg.  It's Vicky.  From Prime.  I've been thinking about ya.

Oh, hey, Vicky.  What's new.

Oh, umm, so this is weird.  I was just thinking about you.

You liar.

No, really.  I was just watching tv.  The Fall Guy.  Heather Thomas, you know?

<<<<kiddingly>>>>  Sounds like you were thinking about her, not me.

<<<defensively>>>No, no.  Well, seeing her made me think of you.  You're both tall blondes, us know?

Who's prettier?

You.

Liar.

I'm serious.

What was the episode about?

Well, it was kinda cool.  She got taken prisoner

Ooooo, kinky.<<<<this is going better than I could have hoped>>>>

Well, wait, it gets better. 

Tell me.

Well, the reason she got taken prisoner is that she tried to bring in a bail jumper, a woman, on her own.  The woman didn't like being cuffed by Heather, so the 2 of them started fighting outside her car.  And these two slimy cops pull up in their patrol car, and bring the two women to this corrupt prison.  Well, Heather gets put in the underground cage in the sun, then to get herself out, tells one of the guards that she wants to fight the bailjumping woman.  So, they're in their prison gowns, rolling around in the prison courtyard.  Pretty darn hot.

Greg.

What. 

Guess what.

What?

I like you.

I like you, too.

I'm horny.  Can I come over?

I have a better idea.  I don't have any condoms.  Can I pick some up on the way to your place?

Yes.  Good thinking.  Get here now

Shit, that was easy.  Greg and I have typical booty call sex--we each take care of ourselves first.  Him getting his hard on taken care of.  Me getting my ride and corner man for November 8.  I ask him how he'd like to see me fight.  Like he watched Heather Thomas fight.  The Fall Guy episode coincidence makes it less awkward for me to bring up the topic.

Ready to go for November 8.

Watch out Mrs Silva.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

FIGHT #3

On November 8, 1985, Greg and I pack towels, bandaids, gauze, and bottled water, and drive to Mrs Silva's girlfriend's house in Seekonk, where Mrs Silva and I will fight for the girlfriend's entertainment on her 40th birthday.

The bottled water will come in handy.  I remember the second fight Mrs Silva and I had, four and a half years ago in the isolated gravel parking lot.  My mouth was parched, but there were no drinks available.

The girlfriend's name is Miss Tower.  I'm expecting to see a butch, short-haired woman with glasses.  The reality could not be more different.  Miss Tower introduces herself as "a lipstick lesbian".  She's tall, like me, has thick wavy sandy blonde hair to her shoulders, a very pretty face, no glasses, and is wearing a green dress, pearls around her neck, and diamond earrings and bracelets and rings.

We hug each other when I arrive.  Mrs Silva watches us jealously.  Her voice is husky, the only whiff of masculinity in her body.  That, and, oddly, she doesn't seem to be wearing perfume.

Hello, Miss Tower.  I'm Vicky.

Ah, yes, Vicky.  The infamous VVW.  The marks you left behind on Donna--were those in affection or in anger.

Well, just so you know, I refer to Donna as Mrs Silva.  And to answer your question, I have zero affection for her.  But you'll be seeing that shortly, won't you?

We can only hope.  "Mrs Silva" tells me that after tonight there may be another fight in your future, an old adversary named Laura.

I'm hoping.  She moved away after school, says the grapevine.  To Maryland.  10th high school reunion is in 2 years.  Wouldn't that be neat?  Fighting there?

Splendid idea.  Donna, where did you find this one?  <<<Does she genuinely like me?  Or is she just trying to make Mrs Silva more jealous?  The tension in the room is high.  Greg has unwrapping the towels and sitting on a couch in the corner with them.>>>>>

Miss Tower, I'm frisky as fuck right now.  How's this fight gonna work, birthday girl?

Oh, well Vicky darling, since you ask.  I think, "Mrs Silva", and she hasn't told me this, but I think Mrs Silva would appreciate the opportunity to leave some, body graffiti, on you.  Maybe the two of you should strip.   <<<<Mrs Silva stare at each other, then being stripping.>>>>>  Vicky, consider this a practice run for your fight with Laura at your 10th reunion.  Imagine her surprise when you challenge her to strip.

Splendid idea, Miss Tower.  <<<<Mimicking her oddly seductive educated/highbrow demeanor.>>>>

<<<<Miss Tower and Greg, on opposite sides of the room, are already masturbating at the 2 nude bodies facing off in the middle of the room.  Mrs Silva's body is much as I remember it.  Her body is fit, and her tits point straight forward, defying gravity.  She could pass for much younger than her 52 years, and it's no surprise she has a 40 year old girlfriend.

I hiss at her:  "Before tonight's over, I'm gonna be with your honey."  She threateningly replies, "Your body won't be in any shape to enjoy it," holding her right hand in my face in a claw.

"Hurt me," is my involuntary reply.

Without meaning to (or maybe she did mean to--Maybe Miss Tower's fellowship is in psychology), Miss Tower has knocked me off my game with her pre-fight chatter.  My mind has already fast-forwarded to a still-unplanned, entirely hypothetical fight with Laura.  Fighting at our 10th high school reunion?  Where the fuck did that come from?  I didn't even attend our fifth reunion in November 1982.  That was the peek of my stripping career, plus I was still a bit ashamed I had dropped out of Providence College.

But all of a sudden, I'm consumed with the idea of getting Laura alone in a room, dropping my clothes off, and challenging her to a scratching fight.  Would she be shocked?  Would she be afraid?

I want Mrs Silva and I to have that kind of fight now.  To see what it's like.  To see if i can handle it, if it comes to that between Laura and me.

Mrs Silva and I lock eyes.  We wrap our left arms around each other's head.  Our chests come together.  Our bodies are twisting in a waltzing motion, so we go to our knees on the floor.  We form our right hands in a claw.

"Just dig in, huh, bitch?", she hisses at me?  "Just dig in," I hiss back.  "Hard."

Mrs Silva did our right hands into each others crotches.  We feel each other's wetness--I know I've gotten totally aroused during the pre-fight chatter, and apparently she has too.  Mrs Silva and I don't attack ruthlessly right away, even though we are completely at each others mercy at this moment.  We are jostling our bodies, trying to get a feel for the best angle to unleash an imminent all-out attack.  We squirm on the floor, testing which headlock is most effective:  arm around the neck?  left hand grabbing hair?  face-to-face?  side-to-side?  We test which kneeling position will be the most devastating:  get low, like a football block, and attack upwards?  Or use my height and push downwards on my enemy?  We squirm around like two mating snakes, our hands poking inside each other's pussies.  Our voices are moaning, partly in fear.  When we cut loose and start attacking for real, we will both be defenseless.  The winner will be whichever bitch can tolerate more pain, plain and simple.

Our bodies meld closer together.  "Feel my young skin, asshole," I taunt as Mrs Silva.  I know she can tell it's even younger than her girlfriend's.  They're jealous of the cute guy I've brought.  The rematch catfight I have lined up.  My young blonde body.  "No amount of money can buy you two bitches what I have," I hiss at Miss Tower.

"Now or never, Donna," Miss Tower coaches her lover.

Miss Tower is right.  Mrs Silva and I are now embracing so tightly and intimately that we are 20 seconds from either fighting or hand fucking.  Was our restaurant conversation and phone call just foreplay to makeup sex?

I honestly think that if Miss Tower had not brought up the idea of a tuneup for my upcoming fight with Laura, that Mrs Silva and I would have made love right there on the floor, with Miss Tower and Greg watching.

But I didn't want to pass up the golden opportunity to test myself in a practice, but real, scratch fight.  I wanted to gain an irreplaceable experience.  I made a fateful decision.

I unsheathed my nails, and dug them into the flesh of Mrs Silva's womb.  I embraced myself for her inevitable response, which was instantaneous.

I almost pass out in agony.  I have a strange out of body sensation.  I ask myself, what the fuck is that screeching, and realize it's me.  I lose control of my voice.  I want to hiss insults at Mrs Silva, but am unable to control my hysterical ranting.  Mrs Silva is emitting deep throated o's:  oh oh oh oh oh oh.  Rhythmically, no matter how hard or deep I scratch her.  I feel the sensation of having once cut my thumb with a kitchen knife, but inside my pussy.  We are still tightly wrapped together, but now on our sides of the floor.

Mrs Silva and I had told each other we loved every minute of fighting each other.  Am I enjoying this?  I'm in the worst pain of my life.  I don't hate this, but I don't enjoy it either.

What happens when 2 women keep fighting like this.  I better find out now before I fight Laura like this.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

FIGHT #3, CONCLUSION

Whenever I fight Mrs Silva, she's cock blocking me from sex.

When we fought in 1977, she blocked me from sex at post-Powderpuff Football victory parties.  When we fought in 1981, she blocked me from Happy Hour sex with a high school teacher.  Here tonight, we should have just had another fistfight, which I would have won by now.  Miss Tower and I would be fucking each other's brains out right now.

Instead, there's something profoundly Freudian occurring.  I recall how even though I'm itching to fight Laura, I won't do it if she has a pre-toddler at home.  I'll respect her prerogatives as a mother.  Why is Mrs Silva maiming my vagina?  What if I want to have kids soon?  I'm 26.  Why am I maiming hers?  Am I trying to destroy where Maria came from?  The girl whose collision with me started this trouble?

Why do Mrs Silva and I hate each other so much?  Why do our fights always go too far?  When we were talking at the Ground Round, it felt like we were bonding.  What happened?  Why are we hurting each other again?

We refuse to release our grips, even though it is costing us any chance of sex for weeks.  I just found Greg.  Even though his fucking me is selfish, I love how he can't hold back when he's with me.  I love how bad he tries to get me into bed.  Mrs Silva is giving up 40th birthday say with Miss Tower.  Miss Tower seems way out of Mrs Silva's league.  Unless Mrs Silva is "all that" in bed.  Should I have not dug my nails into her 10 minutes ago?  Should I have made love to her, with Miss Tower watching?

I feel tendons or ligaments or catiledge or something tearing within me.  Mrs Silva is breaking something inside of me.  Will Greg and I be in the ER tonight?  How will we explain what happened?

I hear Mrs Silva calling me a no good, pathetic bitch.  I feel a calm come over me.  I feel warmth on my inner thighs.

I feel my eyes rolling up into my forehead.  Everything slows.  Sounds get lower.  I feel Mrs Silva rip my hand out of her pussy.  I feel her punch me in the jaw.  It hurts, but it doesn't.

Mrs Silva grabs my hair and shakes my head.  She calls me a pathetic rotten whore.  Why aren't I defending myself?

Mrs Silva is punching me in the face.  I feel warm liquid coming out of my nose.

So sleepy.

Let's fight, Mrs Silva.

You and me.

I always win right?

You're 52.  I'm 26.  Half your age.

No 52 year old woman has ever beat up a 26 year old, right?

Right?

I need ....to... close....my ....eyes.

Why are you kissing me, Mrs Silva?

Why aren't we fighting?

Why?

So....sleepy.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

RECOVERY, 1985-1987

Greg took me home the early morning of Saturday, November 9 and, thank goodness took care of me, because I was in incredible pain "down there" and still bleeding "down there".  Not tol get too graphic, but it had actual vaginal tearing, the only cure for which is time, plus make sure you take antibiotics for the infection.  We found a women's health clinic that gave me the drugs without asking too many questions.  Now, we just needed to wait.

Prime Computer had a policy in 1985 that you could miss 4 straight days of work, but needed to show up on the 5th day or short term disability insurance, at 80% of your paycheck, kicked in.  By a fluke of the calendar, Monday November 11 was a holiday, Veterans Day, was a company holiday, so I was good for that week.  Through a superhuman effort, I hauled my ass into work on Monday November 18, covering that week.  And then the next week as Thanksgiving, and the next week was Hannukah.  I showed my face on Mon December 9, and then I was good for the year.  Route 128 computer companies had a tradition of taking the last 2 or 3 weeks of the year "off"--mandatory time off without pay.  It was an expense saving move.  To tide us over, we were given a year-end bonus.

So, my point is, I was in such bad shape from my fight with Mrs Silva that I got out of bed a grand total of 2 days from November 9, 2016 until January 5, 2017.  It was horrible.  How had I allowed this to happen to me?

Even if I had managed to inflict corresponding injuries on my opponent, our situations were completely different.  I still wanted to have children someday.  Mrs Silva had already had hers.  And there was no way of knowing, for certain,  if my injuries were significant enough to jeopardize conceiving without actually trying to conceive.  Which became my 1986 New Years resolution.  More on that later.

I had built up at least a minimal rapport with Mrs Silva, I had thought, during our restaurant chat and during our phone call.  Surely she would ask how I was doing.  She had figured out how to find me at Happy Hour in Natick--Surely she must have heard, if she wanted to, that I had missed every day at work except two for 2 months.  Wasn't she curious what was up with me?

Or, maybe, was she injured and waiting for me to inquire about her?  Miss Tower and her couldn't have been having much, ahem, conventional sex with each other after the fight.  Unless, was I misremembering the fight?  Had the damage I had inflicted on Mrs Silva actually been minimal?

And what about Miss Tower?  Was she curious how my fight plans with Laura were developing?  Why Wasn't she reaching out?

Or, were they both scared about what had happened?  We're they waiting to get sued?  We're they waiting to deny they knew me?  Is that why Mrs Silva delivered her fight challenge in person?  In our only phone conversation, I had called Mrs Silva, not the other way around.

By January 1986, I had to face the cold, hard truth that two older women, Mrs Silva and Miss Tower, had pretty blatantly used my body, literally and figuratively had treated it like a piece of meat.  I of course had allowed this to happen, by making myself vulnerable.  It was a bitter, bitter pill to swallow.  Mrs Silva had at last gotten revenge for my Powder Puff stomping of her daughter in 1977.  There was no one, but me, to get revenge for my 1985 humiliation.  And the fact was, I wasn't even positive yet just how serious my injuries were.

My fight plans with Laura, meaning my plans to make plans to fight her, were delayed for two reasons.  First, I could never imagine fighting another woman the way I had just fought Mrs Silva-- never wanted to feel the way I did during and after that fight, and I could never live with the guilt of doing that to a woman still in her childbearing years.  No matter how badly I hated her.

But second, I couldn't bear the uncertainty hanging over my head of whether or not I was "broken" down there--if I was sterile.  God, what an awful word.  Sterile at 26, going on 27?  From a catfight?  What would I do?  I needed to find out if i could get pregnant.  By having unprotected sex.

During 1986, I thought about little else besides having unprotected sex.  Without catching AIDS or something else.  Which is as hard as it sounds in 1986, pre-internet, pre-Match.com, pre-okCupid, pre-Tinder.  So what tools did a girl in my predicament have in 1986?

I had newspaper want ads.  The Boston Globe singles section had want ads come out every Thursday.  Just in time for the weekend, get It?  You would place an ad, set up a voice mail box, and check the messages.  You, of course, could also respond to messages placed by men, but I found I rarely generated any leads that way.  I liked to be in control and use my own voice mailbox.

It was as much of a pain in the ass as it sounds.  A shitload of work just to get a first date, who was often too gross to even consider sex with.

I moved on to The Advocate, a gay-and-lesbian-oriented newspaper which had rapier ads.  "Entre nous".  In effect, married people seeking affairs.  This was the good stuff.  I somehow convinced myself that a married man would be less likely to have an STD.  If he was just with his wife, he wouldn't catch anything, right?  Now, mature me can look back now at naive immature me and tell her, "You asshole--if he's putting an ad in a newspaper for sex, he's obviously openly seeking it, and finding it, in real life too.  And exposing himself to STDs.

There was a lot naive me was being naive about.  What if he had had a vasectomy.  Or was otherwise just infertile himself? Then having unprotected sex wasn't getting me any further along in discovering if i was able to pregnant.  Also, naive me had this cockeyed plan of, if i did get pregnant, quickly aborting.  Well, pregnancy isn't just about getting pregnant--it's about holding the delivery for the full 40-week term.  And how would I know if I could do that without doing It?

So, this is all a way of saying, 1986 was a wasted year.  Lots of answering ads, going on horrifyingly disappointing dates, and a little bit of bad sex.

With one exception.

One of my ads led to a date, then another, then sex with a soldier at Fort Devens, Massachusetts.  He told me how insanely jealous she was, how if she ever caught us, she would come after me in a fury.  He showed me her picture.  Attractive.  A good physical matchup with me.

I have a confession to make. 

I wanted her to catch us.  I wanted her to come after me, and for her and I to fight like hellcats.  I slept in their marriage bed fully prepared for that to happen.  It never did.

But I was "back in the game" from a catfighting perspective.  I knew the exact scenario I wanted my next fight to play out under.

I wanted to be the other woman, caught redhanded by the wife or girlfriend, and for she and I to have it out right then and there.

I became obsessed with the thought.

As the year progressed, I became more and more disappointed that it wasn't happening.  Half the time, the wife wasn't jealous or vigilant enough (or was out having her own affair).  And the other half, the wife was so crazy that the guy would be careful, waiting for sex with me to happen on occasions where it was 100% guaranteed that the wife was busy elsewhere.

So, 1986 became 1987.  No pregnancy.  No fights.

But, what if?

What if one scenario could fix both my problems? 

What if I found Laura.  Found out who she was sleeping with, slept with him, and got "caught" by her?  And foughtg her there in her bedroom.  Damn, that would be a sweet fight.  It might be work to find her.  But less work than finding sex with strangers.

Our high school class 10th reunion was coming up, Thanksgiving weekend 1987.  I made plans to definitely attend.  Definitely.

Find Laura.  Ideally by meeting her there, or if she didn't attend, by asking where she was these days.  Getting caught with her man.  Fighting.

Shit, I needed to fight again.

VVW was back.

Watch out, Laura......

[sinclairfan]

10TH REUNION CATFIGHT VERSUS LAURA, NOVEMBER 1987

In the pre-Facebook era, I can't think of a human event of any kind more awkward than the high school reunion.  You want around a room of people you sorta-useda know quickly applying this decision try to every new face:
1.  Are you one of my former classmates, or are you a spouse/significant other/guest/companion of one of them?
2.  If the former, are you a classmate I gave a shit about or one I didn't?
3.  If the former, did I hate you was I sorta ok with you.  (Note the lack of a "Did I like you option?"--by the 10th reunion, except for those few of us who married a high school sweetheart, we realize in high school we didn't much like any of our classmates.)
4.  If I hated you, am I thinner than you and/or am I aging more gracefully than you?
5.  If I hated you, do we still hate each other or are we just completely indifferent to each other now.
6.  If the former, are we both chicks?
7.  If yes:  how long are you in town for, and wanna fight?
I "work the room" in the crowded hotel lobby, every set of eyes silently calculating the answer on one of step 1 thru 7.  I've come looking for Laura.  I missed the 5th Reunion, on purpose, in 1982.  Was she looking for me there?  Is she here tonight?  Does she remember me?  Does she want to finish our "fence fight"?

Greg the engineer is at my side again.  Once you've seen a real girlfight in person, you never turn down an opportunity to see another.  Plus, he's attractive enough to make all these bitches jealous of me.

I thought it would take a long time for Laura and I to find each other.  But as soon as I spot her, I realize we're pretty much the two tallest women here.  Our eyes lock from across the room.  We definitely want to speak to each other.  She's with a guy who does not appear to be from our high school, our class or any other.  Good--that will make this whole situation cleaner.  Eyes on the prize, Laura--your mission this weekend is to bed that dude.

We, Laura and I and our respective dates, are inching our way, as politely as possible.  People I barely knew see my pretty 28 year old blonde hair and pretend we were best friends.  Annoying.

I mentally compare my 28 year old self to the 28 year old version of Laura.  Her hair is still the identical shade of brown.  Bug it's straighter than the frizzy perm thing she had going on in 1977.  It's still packed in densely against her head, but shinier.  Her complexion has also grown in gracefully, her childhood freckles faded.  Her figure looks cut--she's in good shape.  Her bust looks perfectly proportional.  A worthy rival in every way.

"Time to fight a classmate, Greggy, not the PTO", I tell my escort.  I see his hard on bulge throb in anticipation.

We've navigated ourselves through the crowd to each other.  Show time.

Laura has a wedding ring.  Fuck, is this gonna get complicated?  I don't particularly want to be a homewrecker. 

Laura introduces herself to Greg first.  Ballsy. 

L:  Hello, my name is Laura.  I was in Vicky's class.  Are you her husband?

G:  Hello, I'm Greg.  No, we're just friends.  Well, I mean, more than friends, but no we're not married.

<<<<Laura's speech is slurred and I detect vodka on her breath.>>>>

L:  Oh, I see, more than friends as in friends with benefits? fuck buddies?....

Me & Laura's husband, simultaneously:  Laura?!?!?

L:  Oh, I'm sorry, how rude of me.  Laura, this is my husband, Tom.  Tom is a vvverry successful condo developer in Connecticut.

V:  Oh, Connecticut?!?  <genuinely shocked> Laura, I thought I heard through the grapevine you were in Maryland??

L:  Oh, darling, I'm flattered you were asking about me throughout the grapevine.

V:  <<<stepping up to Laura in a challenging pose--this bitches arrogance is getting under my skin>> When did I say I was asking about you?  I said, "I HEARD..."

L:  <<<answering the challenge is my pose and stepping into my personal space, almost nose to nose>>>  Well maybe if you had been here 5 years ago, honey, you could have known the story direct from me.

V:  <<<<us talking nose-to-nose like an arguing manager and umpire in baseball>>>>  Well, I'm here now....

Laura and I are about to throw down, and humiliate ourselves and our high school forever, in the middle of the hotel ballroom.  Luckily, our escorts recognize our mutual hatred and separate us, with "Ladies, ladies.  This is hardly the time or place.  Neutral corners, neutral corners."

Glaring at each other, the 4 of us concoct an ad libbed plan for Laura and I to catch up, indirectly, via each other's escorts.  I'll pair up with Laura's husband Tom by having a drink with him.  And Laura will catch up with me by, separately, having a cocktail with Greg.

Tom and I retreat to the hotel lounge.  We bring a private booth.  Although this was ad lobbed, this plays perfectly into my plan.  Time for me to get Tom into bed.  He not my type, not even close.  But that's not the point.  He and i will fuck.  And then Laura and I will fight.

Tom:  Well, that went downhill fast.

Me:  It's an old score.  We apparently both came to settle it.

T:  Ya, she said that might be the case.  You and her had a catfight over a diss at a party?

M:  Something like that.  She designated herself protector of some wallflower girl.  The wallflower and I fought, so it was bitch Laura to the rescue.  You two have kids?

T: We don't.

M:  Good.

T:  <<<gasping>>>Excuse me??

M:  That came out wrong.  What, I mean is, <<<<seductively>>> Tom, do you like me?

T:  Tall, blonde, and thin.  You're the whole package.

M: Ewww, but that'll do.  Wanna go up to your room and help me settle my score with Laura.

T:  <<<Tom gets his room key out of his pocket and motions me upstairs without speaking>>>>

M:  Good boy, Tommie.

Tom is as brusque in bed as he is with his small talk.  I grit my teeth and try to get thru this phase of the pre-fight routine as quickly and painlessly as possible.  When it's over, I ask Tom when we can expect Laura back.  Because, when She's back, "it's on" between her and me.

T:  I doubt She's coming back.  At least not tonight.

Me:  What the fuck?!?!?!?

T:  She and I haven't been intimate in months.  I assume She's separating from me once the holidays are over.

Me:  <<<angrily>>>  So where is she now?

T:  I assume in bed with your, ummm, fuck buddy, as she called him.

Me:  Well, I need to FUCKING FIND THEM.  Do you have any way of getting in touch with her NOW?!?!?

T:  I can call her car phone.  It might be in her purse.

Car phones.  Cellular phones.  They were the precursors to today's iPhones, for you youngsters.

<<<Tom picks up the hotel land line and dials a number.>>>>

T:  <<<into the phone>>> Hold please for Vicky.  <<<to me>>> Here, she answered.  <<<I tear the receiver out of his hands>>>>

Me:  Where are you, bitch?!?!?

L:  In bed with your man, Greg.  Bitch.

Me:  What room?!?!?

L: Why. The. Fuck. Should. I. Tell. You.

Me:  To finish what we need to finish, slut.

L:  <<<<Thinking>>>> Suite 1206.  There's room.

Me:  I'm.  Gonna.  Throw. You.  Out.  The.  FUCKING. Window.

L:  Can't wait.

<<<<I slam down the phone.>>>>>

Me:  Guess I shoulda let you say goodbye to your wife.

T:  Meh.  No need.

<<<<<I head to Suite 1206 as quickly as I can get there.  This will be the fight of my life.  And that's saying something.>>>>

To be continued.....