[sinclairfan]

1970s RAYNHAM

My name is Michelle.  I've lived all my life on the South Shore of Massachusetts.  I grew up in the 1970s in a town called Raynham.  There was a greyhound racing track there at the time, pretty much the only one within driving distance.  I knew I was growing when I became aware that creepy guys in rusted out Ford Fairmonts weren't coming to Raynham at night to watch the cute little doggies run; they were coming to gamble--to bet on the dogs. 

There wasn't much legal gambling available in Massachusetts in the 1970s--the state didn't even start a lottery until 1975 or so.  The local newspaper would publish the results of the prior day's races and the odds for the next day's.  I taught myself to calculate the payouts, the different types of bets you could make, and the basics of probability and games of chance.  I pictured myself growing up, working at the track (I was smart enough to figure out that in the long term, The House always wins), and making a living from all the creepy guys goving me their money in the vain hope of winning enough to get booze and hookers for a night.

A girl who was good with numbers was a bit of an exotic being in the 1970s, and I quickly came to the attention of the guidance counselor's office at our middle school.  The local Catholic high school, Coyle Cassidy in the neighboring rundown industrial town of Taunton, realized that they were going to have trouble in the future finding enough nuns who could teach high school-level math, so they had a program offering free tuition if you could pass a math entrance exam, which I aced.  Since my family was an Italian working class family for whom Catholic high school tuition was out of reach, my very devout mother was on Cloud 9 (see?  Numbers!) that her prayers had been answered, and I could now avoid the somewhat seedy public high school, Bridgewater-Raynham, and all the predatory boys (my mother's opinion) and bad-influence girls who enrolled there.

In reality, although I was wise beyond my years in the adult world and doing related to Raynham, I was excessively sheltered from the world of my teenage age group, and my 4 years at Coyle Cassidy, in particular the accelerated academic schedule I took, only made that worse.  To make matters worse from the , I was exposed to all manner of radical 1970s Massachusetts feminist theory about women needing to be career focussed to avoid the fate of women like my mom, who was at the mercy of the paycheck and good behavior of her well-intentioned but unambitious husband.  In fact, that drumbeat only got louder when I won yet another scholarship, this one to Boston College, where the Jesuits were teaching Liberation Theology imported from Cental America and a famous Catholic Bishop named Oscar Romero.

I became a math teacher, and in 1988, at age 24, I was spectacularly unprepared for my first boyfriend.

I got pregnant.

So I needed to marry him.

Even after I miscarried.

My life with men was off to a bad start, and would get much worse in 1995, when I busted my husband flirting online with a married bitch from the Cape named Karen.

To be continued.....

[catfightlover40]

It's yet again a wonderfully written entry into what I'm hoping will be a series I do have one contention though... at least in real life, it wasn't the drug cartels who came up with employing women as counters. While the Outfit was sure their codes like sandwich was so secure in hiding they actually mean racketeering and extortion money, their underlings left so many trails that it was easy to follow. About the time in the '70s when a bloody coup diverted the mob from the policy of no drug dealing into becoming top distributors, the new change was to use women for these jobs as they thought, and rightfully so, that the feds wouldn't accept them trusting "broads" with so important jobs, especially non-Italian ones as something that is a fact.

[sinclairfan]

MARRIAGE OF THE INNOCENTS

Ironically, it was my supportive upbringing which caused me to remain in a marriage which never should have started, and should not have continued for long after it began.  My husband and I weren't in love with each other; not even close.  But two things kept me in the marriage.  The first was the smile it put on my Italian mother's face.  She was of the belief that the worst fate that could befall a woman was to be an Old Maid.  So, with me successfully married off at age 24, I couldn't bear snatching away the joy my married status had bestowed on my Mom.

The second thing that kept me married was my profession, as a secondary school math teacher.  I had officially changed my name from Miss X to Mrs Y.  How could I possibly change it back?  Or, worse, keep going by the name Mrs Y, then sheepishly explain that I was actually unmarried.  "Then why ...  b-b-but why .... is your name ...  MISSUS."  I could handle that question the first and second time.  But the twentieth?  Puh-leeze.  Spare me.

Better to stay in a mediocre marriage.

Mediocre, not terrible.  My husband was gentle enough.  He was a contractor, which my Italian family could understand and respect.  He usually got paid in cash, which sure came in handy a lot.  Everything around our house in Carver, Mass was always fixed.  And we had ok sex.

But I could tell my husband was holding a piece of himself back, sexually.  I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew there was SOMETHING  there.  Something he enjoyed more than intercourse.  He had a stash of porno mags which he said he would get rid of as soon as we had kids (which, conveniently, we agreed was no time soon, until my career was better established).  But his type of porn wasn't the Tits-and-Ass type I had seen crumpled up in the trash with the losing bet tickets at the greyhound track growing up in Raynham.

It was porn of women fighting.

Sometimes naked women.  But not always.  In fact, the clothes the fighting women in the pictures were wearing--formal dresses, nurse's uniforms, leather, exaggerated high heels, Wonder Woman costumes, cutoff jeans--often seemed to be more the point than the bodies underneath.

So I shrugged my shoulders and comforted myself, "Well, at least he's not interested in other women.  And at least he doesn't have a gambling problem like those creepy Raynham men growing up."  And my approach might have worked.  Until the internet came along.

Around 1993 or 1994, this clunky online service came along.  It was called Compuserve.  I was the designated "volunteer" at my school assigned the task of figuring out if there were educational ways this new technology platform could be put to use.  So I signed up with a username and password, and started "surfing the Web".  It was exciting.  But it was slow.  I spent most of my time watching my screen refresh.  But I could see the wealth of material which was available.  Pornographic material--both the Playboy/Penthouse/ Hustler kind.  But also the kind my husband enjoyed--pictures of women fighting.  He would have a field day with this stuff.

So I knew exactly what my husband was up to in 1995 when my husbsnd bought and hooked up a home PC and loaded one of those AOL disks which would come free in the mail.  I found his scratch pad where he had scrolled his username and password.  And I loaded AOL on one of the school PCs, and I started "cyberstalking" him from school, while he was logged in from home.

I assumed he was looking for websites with fighting pictures.  And, sure enough, he eventually found the ones I had found in my 12-18 month head start on the Web.

But he was also going into AOL chat rooms, and flirting with women.  Including one named CapeKaren64.

Being well versed on internet naming customs circa-1995, I already could tell a lot about my potential rival.  She probably had some connection to Cape Cod, which was about 20 minutes from our home in Carver.  Her name was Karen.  And she was probably born in 1964, the same year I was. I looked on her AOL profile, which was public.  It said she was blonde, 5'3" (same as me), married, and a "Southern Girl".  The Southern girl thing was a bit confusing--why was "Cape" in her name?  I'd have to figure it out later.

Screw it--I'd have to figure it out now.  From my YoungEducator31 username, I direct messaged Karen:  "What does 'Cape' mean?".  No reply.  No reply.  No reply.  I double check her AOL profile to make sure I'm pinging the right person.  Shit, blocked.  It was public just 10 minutes ago.  Did I scare her off?  Is she avoiding me?  Shit, is SHE looking at MY profile??  Shit, the name of my school system is in my profile--will she ask my husband if he's married, and if he is, what his wife does??  Fuck.

I make my profile private.  But too late?  Dis CapeKaren64 already see it??

Shit, that didn't go well.  This bitch is as good at the Net as I am.

I'll need to be more careful going forward.

To be continued......

[catfightlover40]

It's a very worthy second installment and very much spot on The single difference from my 1990s is that while such disks offering free minutes did exist, they weren't DMed into our mailboxes, I had either had to buy them in PC stores (remember those being a thing? or as part of magazines. I'll look keenly forward to it if you have a plan to incorporate mudsex into the story.

[mytime5584]

great start

[sinclairfan]

ME?  A FIGHTER?

When I was a college student in the mid-80s at Boston College, I was watching TV one night on my black-and-white portable TV with rabbit ears.  There was a melodramatic series that was ahead of its time (and therefore did not last long) with "frank depictions" of extramarital sex.  On one episode, a beefcake handyman is doing some remodelling work at the home of a ditzy, spoiled, bored housewife who is ignored by her highly-paid but absent husband.  Her imagination and boredom get the best of her, and she starts seducing the handyman, who is tempted, but fears being discovered by his client, the man of the house.  Finally, as the job nears completion, the horny housewife decides to throw a Hail Mary pass, and cooks the beefcake handyman his favorite meal, spaghetti and meatballs.  He sits down and eats, and on his second forkful, the horny housewife starts kissing the back of his neck.  The beefcake handyman can't resist and longer, and gives in and beds the horny housewife, and the two have scorching hot nooner sex.

I thought the episode was sexy at the time, but the hotness took on a new dimension when I married my contractor husband.  I started having fantasies of my husband being seduced by the woman of the house he was working at, my finding out, and she and I having a violent confrontation, concluding with me mounting her and punching her repeatedly in the face. 

I found everything about the fantasy to be erotic, and wanted to share it with my husband as I learned of his interest in catfights.  Perhaps we were more sexually compatible than we realized.  But the intensity of the fantasy was so real, I feared the Pandora's Box I might be opening by heading down that path. 

Well, CapeKaren64 ended whatever inhibitions I had on the score.  I felt violated by her flirting with my husband, and doubly violated by her cat-and-mouse game with me.  If she thought things were over between me and her without me finding out more about her, she was sadly mistaken.

Except, it wasn't that easy.  I could speed things along by revealing to her who I was.  But how could I?-- I had been cyberstalking her on my emploer's PC and internet connection   And even worse, that employer was a school.  I could jeopardize everything by showing her my cards before she showed me hers.

So the bitch and I played cat-and-mouse for a few more weeks, with both of us constantly changing username's me finding her via whoever my husband was flirting with, me attempting direct contact, and then her ghosting me again.

Rinse. Wash.  Repeat.

Frustrating, but I loved it.  And started masturbating to it.  And the thought of eventually fighting her.

C'mon, bitch.  Show yourself.

To be continued....

[catfightlover40]

Revealing to her who she is... sending a bulk of spam that perpetually redirects her homepage before pop up and ab blockers were a thing No joke, in the first month I looked at nsfw stuff, I got hit by those pesky, neverending pop ups filling the screen...

Back on track, do go on

[sinclairfan]

"DO WE KNOW ANYONE IN BARNSTABLE?"

In Massachustts schools, we get a February break the week of President's Day (which, in 1996, was still called Washington's Birthday--goodness, sometimes I feel like a trime traveller conveying this story from a different world--more on that later).  During February vacation, I resolved to stay at home and take a break from my Internet Cyberstalking obsession with CapeKaren.  I figured, without access to the school's internet-connected computers, I could take my mind off my rival for my husband's attention.

Well, that plan didn't last long.  One day, while he was out on a contracting job, I was at home helping him organize his paperwork for the 1995 tax year.  We had a professional prepare and file all the returns, but it was our job to have all the receipts.  Our tax preparer wanted to keep an arms-length deniability since so much of what my husband collected was under-the-table.  Every year my husband would do just enough "on the books" work to make his contracting business look realistic to outsiders who might see his van with his name on the side, or his ad in the Yellow Pages (remember the Yellow Pages?  that was the 20th century version of an ad on Yelp or a banner ad on Facebook or Google).  Our tax accountant played along, as long as we paid his preparer fee and organized the receipts.  I wasn't thrilled with the arrangement, but being a school teacher was turning out to be less lucrative than the nuns at Coyle Cassidy or the Liberation Theology Jesuits at Boston College had promised.

I was going thru some gas station and hardware store receipts, and saw several from late 1995 with addresses in Barnstable.  Right in the middle of the Cape.  As in CapeKaren.  Hmmm, that's odd.  My husband never said anything about having a job last year in Barnstable--or anywhere on the Cape.

I would have damn well remembered THAT.

I started shuffling thru the paperwork to find out who the underlying client was.  My fantasy of confronting a cheating woman client at her house came flooding back into my head.  But I was needed to careful not to alert CapeKaren that I was hot on her trail again, this time in the real world, not the virtual world.  I had already blown this once in the virtual world, so much so that she appeared to not even "do her trampy business as" CapeKaren any more.

I wasn't going to repeat that mistake and let CapeKaren slip thru my fingers a second time.  I wasn't going to ask my husband, "So, who in Barnstable did you do work for last year?  And why didn't you tell me about it, bastard?".

Calm down, Michelle, calm down.  Why are my fingers shaking uncontrollably?

This CapeKaren bitch is elbowing in way more than I thought if she's actually having my husband do contracting work for her.

But if their 1995 online flirting already "crossed over" to something physical online in Barnstable, why did they keep flirting online.  I busted them in chat rooms in December 1995 and January 1996.  Why would you still flirt online if you already consummated something for real?

Was my husband juggling multiple affairs?  I could barely picture him handling one.

I saw the name "Greenberg", Barnstable on one of the receipts.  With a home phone number--jackpot.  Greenberg, huh?  Jewish.  CapeKaren's profile said she was a blonde Southern girl.

But it also said she was married.  Maybe Greenberg is the family she married into.  Maybe Mr Greenberg will be interested in his blonde bimbo wife's online flirting.

Maybe I ought to give Mr Greenberg a call.

To be continued.....

[catfightlover40]

What a coinkidink, I feel a lot the same way about the world of 25 years ago not being the same, and not because I age. If this were in April Fools story, it would turn out, CapeKaren is a Southeast Asian dude of Karen ethnicity, who's also into the porn world of female wrestling.

It's genuinely refreshing that you're doing an authentic take on women's impressions of sexual fantasies changing when online entered the mix. What she can't ask her husband is simply that continuing online "flirts" (the very mudsex I was alluding to) is cheating on your significant other without leaving lipstick marks or abrasions on the ankles, the thrill of getting away with it.

I pity Michelle a bit that she's not Joe the Plumber's wife, that dude made over 250k a year legally and the taxes had allegedly killed him. The appeal of yellow pages was that at worst scammers called you to lure money out of your pockets with nonexistent products, Facebook can make an already agitated person into one who shoots up a place.

To be fair, the same time Jewish people were forced to take last names, a lot of others did too, and obviously, not all of them have Jewish German heritage. On the other hand, if Karen is an observing one, attacking her past sundown on Friday is an easy victory. That reminds me, Abrahamic religions have such strong ultraorthodox factions, that both outer space and the polar caps have special rules on how to observe prayer and Sabbath.

[sinclairfan]

"I KNOW IT'S YOU, CHICKENSHIT MICHELLE"

Another "different worlds" thing for you youngsters:  back in the 1990s, every phone call you made, except possibly one's made within your town, were reorded on your phone bill.  So I couldn't safely call the Barnstable phone number I had come across; my husband might see it on the next phone bill.  I still didn't know if he was being upfront with CapeKaren about his married status, and if he was, if the two of them talked about me.  I wanted CapeKaren to know as little as me as possible for as long as possible, and at least until I knew the whole deal about her.  She must have something to hid if she was expending so much energy hiding from me.

So, rather than dialling the Barnstable number from my home phone, and since I didn't yet have a cellphone (which were for emergencies only anyways in early 1996), I got in my car and dialled from a pay phone.  (I know, I know; another ancient relic--it was an outdoor phone at Seven-Eleven's that you put change in and dialled--you could also use your MCI card and dial a code, but that had the same problem for me that the home phone presented--it left behind "evidence" on the next home phone bill.)

I bundled up against the February New England cold around 1 in the afternoon, and took my chances.  I had no idea who might answer--Mr Greenberg, a child (I knew Karen was married, but didn't know if she had kids--but if she had school-age children, since it was vacation week, they would be home), or Karen herself.  If Karen answered, what would I do?  Pretend to be someone else?  Give her a piece of my mind?  Ask her if she was fucking my husband?

That was it!!  Brilliant!!  Don't say who I was-- if she was an adulteress, chances are there were multiple lovers of hers out there.  Let the bitch sweat and figure out which one had tracked her down.

I dial.  Shit, I mis-dial, my fingers are shaking so much from the cold.  And the tension.  I'm 7 numbers away from finally confronting this bitch.  I dial again.

> Hello?

Fuck, it's a woman's voice, about my age.

> Hello?  Hello?  Anyone there??

Too late to hang up now.

> Is this .... Karen?

> Who wants to know?

> (me:) ..... silence

> I said, who the fuck wants to know?  Speak up!

> So rude!!

> Well?  Are you going to say who you are?

> (me:) ....and bossy, too....You must be a peach of a wife ....

> I know it's you, chickenshit Michelle.

> (practically peeing) . .. And, how exactly do you know, bitch?

> I've heard your voice in the background at home when I've been talking to your husband. 

> Ya, right.<<<trying to process what I'm hearing.  They've talked on my home phone??  When I was at home??>>>>

> Including when you two were in bed. ..... Bitch.

> So how am I the chickenshit??  Why didn't you ever ask him to hand over the phone.

> That was coming soon, don't doubt it, honey.

> Well, I guess it's coming today, CapeKaren.

> I guess it is.  What shall we talk about .... Michelle?

<<<<My time on the pay phone has run out, and anyways I'm freezing and can't have the conversation outside.>>>>>

> I'm outside.  Can I call you back from home?

> I suppose.  I may or or may not feel like answering.

> I suggest you do answer, bitch.  I'm going to make you an offer.

> Ooooo, this should be good

I slam the phone down.

To be continued.....

[catfightlover40]

At this point you've inadvertently told us more about Michelle then Michelle would want us to know, was she a real person. Usually, women, especially ones who may or may not have worked for the mob would have talked about this sitch to a girlfriend, and just to be on the safe side, if a kid picks up, or she's a psycho, said friend would phone first to "explore the lay of the land".

In my real life, there was zero chance of getting made by calling through a public phone as they only operated with coins or with a prepaid card. When I was a kid, a phone line had to be applied for and the minimum wait time was 6 months, but usually 2 or 3 years, and the assurance that if you've relatives abroad, your every communication is monitored, which just might be reason 2 why prepaid cards were never tied to a number.

I didn't look into coverage in America today, but as far as I know, broadband and cell coverage is still spotty. Srlsy, one volunteers for the army, gets stationed in Korea and gets better and faster internet than they would back home. Imho an IPhone X is a good comparison to having a cell phone in '96.

Look forward to the second conversation and to the "conversation"

[sinclairfan]

"....SO I CAN SEE THE FACE OF THE BITCH WITH WHOM I'M SPEAKING"

I drive back home in my car, Karen's words ringing in my ear.  Unless her aggressive posture was a front that she thought would discourage me, she seemed positively gleeful that I had discovered her affair with my husband.  Further, she seemed like she was the one wearing the pants in the affair; deciding when to withhold knowledge of it from me, and then planning a time to reveal it, no doubt with my husband "springing the news" on me by leaving me when and only when Karen was good and ready to leave HER husband.

Karen had no doubt had my husband take the recontracting job, (a) to get bed time with him, and then (b) to remodel what would become their home together after she assumed possession after the divorce.  The divorces, actually.  Her from her husband; my husband's from me.

But.  Not if I could help it.  And I thought up a way I could gum up her plan.

But before I put my plan into action, there was still one thing I didn't know about CapeKaren.  I knew she was my size and blonde.  But I had no idea what her face looked like.  In early 1996, we were still a couple years away from early video cam's and from Skype.  We still relied on old fashioned Polaroids (we called them Polaroids even if they had been printed ['developed'] by Polaroids much-larger [but, equally-doomed] Kodak).  But if Karen's affair with my husband was as far progressed as Karen claimed, I suspected my husband was in possession of Polaroids of her somewhere in his personal space.

I wasn't disappointed.

> Hello?

> You answered, CapeKaren.

> Fuck you, Michelle.  What's that supposed to mean.

> It means you know EVERYTHING about me, honey, but I've never been granted the privilege of seeing your pretty face. 

> Why do you want to see it so bad, sweetie.

> So I can see the face of the bitch with whom I'm speaking.  I have no doubt you've seen mine.  Perhaps the comparison intimidates you.

> You listen to me and you get this straight.  Nothing.  About.  You.  Intimidates.  Me.  Bitch.   <<< Karen's Southern accent comes out when she's angry.>>>>>

> Then show yourself, homewrecker wannabe.

> Go in your garage.  In the stainless toolbox.  There's a couple hammers in it, but it's a decoy, bitch.  So it'll be at home, not out with him on a job.  Pull the top rack out.  Underneath are pictures of me.  That he jacks off to when he misses me, sweetie.

> Give me three minutes.

<<<<<I set my receiver down, since my 1996 hands-free device doesn't get reception in the garage.>>>>

I go into the frigid garage.  I find the toolbox my rival described.  Shit, it's light for such a big toolbox--she's right, it's a decoy to fool me.  I open the toolbox, and remove the shelf of decoy tools.

About 8 polaroids of her.

Well, at least she's clothed in them.  Even if I, or someone, had discovered them, they wouldn't have been damming evidence of anything.

But, shit, they would have raised alarm bells.

Because the bitch is fucking gorgeous.

I'm an 8, a 9 on a good hair day.

Karen is s fucking legit 9-and-a-half or 10.  No wonder my husband couldn't resist.

I need to handle this.  For me, and for him.

I storm in the house, knowing what I need to do.

> Here's my proposition.

> You sound jealous, sweetie.

> Fuck you.  Listen.  My husband loves catfights.  I've never fought, have you?

> Southern .... ladies ..... don't fight, honey.

> Good.  Let's give my husband the show of his lifetime.  If you win, you can have him.  But if I win, we never tell him I discovered the affair .... and you crawl back to the Cape ...  or Georgia or South Carolina.  Got it, Karen?

> That easy, huh, Michelle?

> Enough talk.  When, bitch?

> Friday night.  Your place.

> Don't back out.

> Not a chance, sweetie.

To be continued.....

[ralbright2010]

Sounds like CapeKaren is definitely in control. But so many possibilities! Is this a straight up affair? Is it a setup by Michelle's hubby who wants to see a fight? Is Karen a catfight psycho setting up Michelle as her next victim? Michelle is definitely the unsuspecting player waiting for this to unfold. I think her aggression is just what Karen wants!

[catfightlover40]

I've fully expected Karen to say "Southern ladies don't fight... we scrap, we brawl, push me, and I show your crotch how Atlanta felt"

[sinclairfan]

MY FANTASY, NOT HIS

The Thursday morning before my planned Friday evening catfight with my husband's blonde Southern lover Karen (a/k/a in online world as CapeKaren), I pull out my husband's plastic shopping bag of (offline) catfighting porn to look for fight apparel ideas. 

What do men enjoy watching their wives fight in?

Lingerie.  Lingerie definitely appears to be popular.  Including dominatrix lingerie.  But I'm pretty sure that's not my husband's "thing".

High heels.  Especially impossibly spiked heels.  My fight with Karen will be too serious to fuck with that fantasy shit.  If I'm anywhere near spiked heels tomorrow, I'll be using them to gouge her fucking eyes out, not to catfight in.

Dresses.  And miniskirts. Understandable.  Any woman feels strong in a dress or miniskirts. 

Nurses' outfits.  What's up with that?  Not sexy.  Ditto fight attendant uniforms.

Pirate costumes.  Meh.  Too andogynous.  Karen and I are straight.  I don't know her well, but I know her well enough to know she likes cock as much as I do. 

Naked.  Well, the fight goes long enough, we'll both be naked.

How long WILL the fight go?  I can't picture either of us giving.  She's not getting him from me except over my dead body.  And I'm gonna hafta beat her bad to fend her off--she was already willing to jeopardize her current marriage by fucking a lover in her own home.

In her own home.

In her own home.

Fuck, that's MY fantasy.  That TV show I saw on NBC in 1986.

The housewife that fucked the contractor.

I always fantasized of going to that wife's house, beating the shit out of her, and reclaiming my contrsctor husband.

Well, now it's actually happening.

Why aren't I acting on it?

Why is Karen acting on HER affair fantasy, but I'm not acting on MY cstfight fantasy, even though the entire script fell into my lap??

Why am I wasting time, looking at catfight pictures, looking for ways to satisfy MY CHEATING HUSBAND'S fantasy.

When I can satisfy MY fantasy??

I get in my car.

It's 8:30am.

I'll be to Karen's at 9:30, 10 at the latest if Route 3 still has rush hour traffic.

Watch out, bitch.

To be continued.....