[catfightlover40]

I'm starting to get it now... in reality, Michelle's husband is actually a secret agent, who neglects his wife, but once a sexy temptress tries to seduce him, her fantasy is to get a piece of the action, and the fight ends up in a limousine...

[sinclairfan]

IMPULSIVE, BUT CORRECT

As I drive down Route 24, headed for the Bourne Bridge and then Barnstable on the grey February New England morning, I am confident that my decision yo confront CapeKaren, though impulsive, is correct.

There is no chance that our fight this morming will end in a draw.  The only way she's throwing me out of her house before her husband comes home from work is to defeat me.  And the only way I'm leaving voluntarily is by beating her.  There's no in-between outcome that going to happen; there's none possible.

I think of the few conversations I had with CapeKaren, after cyberstalking her for months.  She always lashed out with such anger.  That's defensiveness on her part--knowing she was in the wrong.  I saw it in my extended Italian family in Raynham growing up--when they would see a conflict building, they would try to deflect it by lashing out at their adversary, hoping to scare off their opponent by intimidation.  90 percent of the time it would work.  10 percent of the time it would just escalate the conflict, but the other 90 percent made that 10 percent worth it.

Numbers--odds.  Raynham.  My Italian family.  I thought I could escape my past, but for some reason it feels very much with me this morning. 

And since it's still 1996, there's no GPS on my car.  I know the address I'm going to, but not the exact directions.  I'm going to have to make a pit stop once I hit Barnstable and hope somrone has heard of CapeKaren's street.  Then hope her neighborhood has clearly posted numbers.  I don't want to look like an ass driving around squinting at houses.  And I don't want her to see my Pontiac cruising her neighborhood.  My indiscreet husband probably told her what car I drive.

I remember growing up in Raynham, the suspicious cars circling our neighborhood.  It could have been lots of things--out of town strangers who got lost looking for the greyhound race track; down on their look race track losers looking for yard junk they could swipe and sell for cash; race track winners looking for booze or women to spend their cash on; pot dealers looking for race track customers with cash in their pockets.

I wonder if any of the cars were ever like I am this morning--cheated wives looking for the house of their husband's girlfriend.

I wonder if those wives felt as excited--as alive with possibilities of what today will bring--as I do right now.

To be continued......

[catfightlover40]

The history of the Mann Act is an interesting one, where nowadays it's being used to prevent adults from transporting minors across state lines with the intent of an illicit relationship, it had a different use during New Deal. Every jilted wife that got wind of their husbands taking their mistresses to a state, where adultery was less frowned upon, they reported them as kidnappers, and the cops brought them back to their doorsteps. In very extreme cases, women not wanting a divorce abused this law to prevent their spouses from leaving.

So based on actual historical precedent, and being madly jealous or possessive is only human, yeah, there have been a few cars like that.

Speaking of GPS, a factoid about your previous Memel work: while it was obvious that traveling abroad wasn't only made hardly possible, but also deeply discouraged, indigenous tourism was also manipulated. This has been done to hide the spots where the Red Army put barracks or listening posts, so, commercially available maps were skewed to hide them, including color signs on trees for wanderers. To counter that effect, American and British intelligence have found dupes they convinced with empty promises of relocation to the West if they pretend to be tourists or mushroom pickers, who "got lost" while they were tracking.

[sinclairfan]

PIT STOP

For a lifelong Bay Stater, a road trip to the Cape means going over the Bourne or Sagamore Bridge, and waiting in traffic for 30-45 minutes to get over the 1930s-built steel superstructures.  But that's because a lifelong Bay Stater is probably doing that trip during summer beach season. 

Today isn't summer beach season.  It's a dreary February Thursday morning.  And there are few cars or trucks going over the Bourne Bridge.  No wonder my husband was able to take a job here for weeks without my noticing--the commute here is quicker than I imagined.

I continue zipping down Route 6.  I follow the signs to Barnstable, the 5th town or so down the Cape.  It's barely 9:00--the morning is still so young, is Karen even out of bed yet?  When she would sleep with my husband these past months, was it in her marriage bed?  I'd love to kick her ass in the bed where she fucked my husband.  Maybe if I get there early enough, I'll get the chance.  I just need to stop somewhere and ask for directions to her street address.

I see signs pointing to the Barnstable Public Library.  Excellent:  I'll be able to find a Barnstable street map there.  I pull into the library parking lot, which is surprisingly full for so early in the morning.  Shit--school vacation week--a bunch of nerdy kids staying here instead of at home, and/or a bunch of patents using the Public Library as day care.  Whatever--I'll be in-and-out as soon as I have my directions.

Using my educator voice, I ask an old bag at the desk where I could find street directions to a Barnstable street address--I don't mention which one for fear of her being a friend/neighbor of Karen's and tipping her off.  The old bag offers to look up the directions if I tell her the address.  Shit--do I look suspicious to her or something?  Have there been break-in's in Barnstable recently? 

My Raynham "danger" instinct kicks in.  I can't give this woman the address I'm looking for--things might get .... violent .... if and when Karen and I are alone together this morning.  I don't want anyone .... a public servant, least of all .... to know that right before an altercation occured at a Barnstsble residence, that there was a 31-year old attractive Italian woman asking around at the public library for the street address of said residence.

So I shift gears, and pretend I can't remember the specific address, and instead ask if I can make a copy of a Barnstable street map.  I'm told all road maps have recently been placed online, and I'm welcome to sign up for 30 minutes on one of thr three PC's with public internet access.  Great!- where do I sign up?  The notebook is over there, ma'am.  Thank you!  I walk over to the PC's (it's 1996; no wi-fi yet--laptops can't connect to the internet); all three are occupied by tween kids--not a good sign.  I look at the sign up times.  Shit--all booked till 3:30pm. 

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

I could loiter, waiting for one of the kids to finish early.  Or even just ask to "borrow" 2 minutes from one of the kids real quick--I'm a teacher; I know how to talk to tween kids.

But the old bag librarian is eyeing my suspiciously.  She can tell I'm up to something.

I feel precious time slipping away from me.  The scheduled fight at my place is tomorrow. If I'm going to surprise Karen at her place, it's this morning or never.  This is my onle chance.  I need to get busy now.

I could just leave, go to a gas station or coffee shop, and ask.  But if everyone is as suspicious as the old bag librarian, I'll just tip of the whole damn village that I'm in town and looking for trouble.  I guess Cape residents get that way living some where that gets guests and visitors all summer long--you can tell who belongs and who doesn't.

So, shit, I'm stuck.  But I'm in a library, and I'm a teacher-- I should be able to figure something out.

I go to the reference section, and see three old-style (even for 1996) computer monitors with keyboards.  I start typing, and quickly recognize these to be some sort of indexing system for academic researchers.  I should be able to find a Barnstable street map on here, shouldn't I.  Fast, tho, Michelle fast--I don't want to waste all fucking morning in this hellhole.

Too fast.  Shit, I typed something wrong.  The system is hung up now.  Escspe escspe escspe.  Shit, that doesn't do anything on this machine.  I start clicking keys to hard, and now the suspicious old bag, and others, smare looking over in my direction.  Shit, this isn't going well.

Goddammitt, I made such good time driving down here, too.  What a fucking waste.

A creepy middle aged guy who looks down on his luck comes over to the chair next to me.  My instinct is to run, but he whispers in a perfect library voice--he obviously spends lots of time around books, how bad can he be?

Plus, I'm grew up in Raynham.  Creepy middle aged men are my people.

I stay.

He asks me what I'm looking for.  I tell him I need a Barnstable road map.  He tells me that this machine (in 1996, computers were "machines", not "devices") has a backdoor to AOL.  Do I have an AOL account?

I sure do.  Are you my guardian angel?  He chuckles at that.  I can tell he's into me.

What other men are into me?  Why am I wasting time with my dead end contractor husband?

I log into AOL under my YoungEducator id.  I print off the Barnstable street map--the creepy book guy lets me borrow his library card to pay the 5 cent fee.  I put the street map in my purse--I'll find the street in my car.  I get ready to log off.

Just then, my AOL IM dialog box pops up.  It's CapeKaren.

> Told you hubby about tomorrow night yet?

Fuck.  What do I do?  Have I ruined my element of surprise? 

Act cool.

> No.  I want to surprise him.

> Surprise him?  Or back out at the last minute, bitch?

> I'm not backing out, slut.  Are you home alone?  I want to call you in 10 minutes. 

<<<I actually want to kick her ass in 10 minutes, but she doesn't need to know that.>>>>>

> Yes, home alone.  Hurry, I can't wait. 

> Me, neither.

I log off, my hands shaking.  I head to my car.  Creepy book guy can see I'm agitated.

> Everything ok, Miss?  When will I see you again?

Hmmmm.  Might help to have clean up later this morning.

> Umm.... meet you back here in about an hour?

<<<<<A good catfight lasts 20-30 minutes, tops, right?>>>>

> I'd love to.

> Good.  Thank you for your help with the computer.

To be continued......

[catfightlover40]

You're actually bringing up a sore point here, namely that sometimes while writing one needs to rely on memory. Thanks to Article 11 or as it's better known, the news aggregator rule, come January, services like G**gle News will have to pay a tax for aggregating content (though, it is true, that before they didn't pay for it, as non-personal users always have to), so chances are not zero, that they'll stop sharing content, which doesn't just affect current news, but also that of the past. Sure, a catfight story doesn't need that high a percentage of verisimilitude, but others do. So, if you do another Memel-type story in the future, you might run into a wall of lack of access or lack of information.

Don't get me wrong, but I had a big chuckle at "all our roadmaps had been placed online". In today's era of simultaneously available smartphones, one's prone to forget the massive technological divide that existed back in '96. After decades of an embargo on goods and a need to invent one's own computer technology for the select few  (as in, while you could buy a Macintosh in '84, I, on the other hand, did not have access to any, and when they became publicly available, they were plenty expensive, like you could buy a car and a fridge for it expensive), it shouldn't come as a surprise that learning to use a computer has become a pastime, generally. Digitizing content has only begun in this millennia, and even now it's 50-50 if it's available or not. Though it's not like I'd be hot for public info, it might just cost me thousands of dollars to learn it (appreciate FOIA for what it is).

What isn't yet mentioned in the story is that this is also the time before internet cafés were a thing, which is why Michelle just can't go to one. Dishonorable mention goes to the fact that Windows '95 was heavily marketed as a new interactive and stable system (and not what they actually were, the Note 7 of their time), so almost every PC, especially ones used for education had this system on, with frequent blue deaths. I was a frequent library visitor myself, and when such a case occurred, given the aforementioned lack of computer skills in many, IT guys were gods (and remained ones until the XP came along) who worked in multiple places, so imagine the side-eye when you froze one up that others have already booked after you, and the responsible one is on the other side of the town.

Speaking of XP, she could have just used an interactive cd from the same publisher, back then they thought it'll be a hit You know, Encarta? but then again, the tension you're building up is organic and in line with her inexperience in sneaking around.

[mytime5584]

great build of tension

[sinclairfan]

DATE WITH A GENTLEMAN

My impending "date", one hour hence, with the gentleman who helped me with the computers in the Barnstable Public Library excites my already taut senses.  He's obviously very attracted to me, the first man to look at me that way since I can remember.  Parent-teacher conferences don't count--in the academically hypercompetitve environment of the South Shore, even horny Dad's who flatter me are just trying to give their kids a leg up in grades.

I decide that after my fight with Karen, I'm going to return to the library and have a celebratory fuck with the gentleman.  The fulfillment of my childhood fascination with the creepy dog-track bettors in Raynham.

Sitting in my car, looking forward to the two naughty events I've lined up for this morning, I can hardly get my hand away from between my legs.  I crave to find Karen's house, bang on the door, and tangle with her as a physical release to the uncontrollable anticipation overloading my senses.  Shit, I hope I don't get in an accident.

I'm barely able to remain focussed as I pull onto Karen's street and begin looking for her house number:  28.  Good, it will be one of the first houses.

Shit, it won't.  435 is the first house number I see.  Goddammit, they're descending.  How long is this fucking street??

The houses ate cookie-cutterish, unusual for Massachusetts, probably all the same developer.  Builders like this always skimp on the inside--that's probably why Karen's house needed work on the inside.  And why she contacted my husband.  And why she started her affair with him.  Fucking bitch.

I'll mess her up this morning.  Then have a quick affair of my own.

House 137--almost there.  Odd houses are on the right side, so Karen's will be on the left.  No other fucking cars on this road--my husband and Karen had plenty of priacy any time they wanted to do it.  He didn't have a prayer of saying no to a 10 like her.  I'm not even mad at him.  It's HER I'm mad at.

Here it is.  28.  I pull in the driveway--two car garage, so I can't see her car.  But on the phone she said she was home alone.  Room in the garage for toys, not junk; no toys in the yard, no slide or jungle gym in the side or back--she must not have kids.  Good.

I step out of the car without my purse and ring the doorbell.  Win or lose, let's get this over with.

She opens the front door, and we see each through the storm door (which, if it was summer, would be a screen door, but since it's February has glass on it). She has no makeup on and her hair isn't done, and her clothes are casual, so she looks less model-ish than her eight Polaroids.  But it's definitely her.  Fuck, yes, it is her.  My rival for my husband.  We do a double-take, pinching each other to make sure this is real and that this moment of confrontation has actually arrived.  My heart is racing, my hands are shaking.  I hope I can get my bearings quickly.  We begin speaking through the storm door, adding to the air of unreality, our voices softened and distorted by the plexiglass, the only physical barrier to our tearing in to each other.

> Can I come in?

> Michelle, what ....  what are you possibly thinking?  Coming to ... to ...  MY HOUSE??

> What?  You were coming to my house tomorrow?  What's the difference??

> But ...  but ... your husband would be there to .... separate us.  Michelle, there's nobody here to .... stop us.

> Bitch, he wasn't going to interfere. Coming here just .... removes the temptation from him ...  or anyone ... to ...  stop us.

Reading each others' lips to compensate for the distortion to our voices caused by the weather-proofed plexiglass of the storm door forces us to stare into each others' eyes.

We see the same things.

Hatred.  Hatred for one.

Rivalry.  For the hand of the same man.

Competition.  We're the same size and build.  A perfect fight matchup for each other.

So let's fight.  Here and now.  I check out the foyer.  Plenty of room there.

Finally, another car goes by on the road.  I can't stay here much longer without attracting attention.

> What's it goona be, bitch?  Can I come in?

Karen unlatches the storm door.  Her hands are shaking, too, just like mine.  I step in to the foyer.  She closes the storm door, and latches it.  As soon as I hear the click, I know neither of us can back out of this fight now. 

She closes the front door and locks it, darkening the room.  She turns on the foyer light, and turns to face me.  Our noses touch, the first parts of our bodies to make physical contact.

Our hands clasp, and our arms pull up to our heads.  Our hands release, and we place our fingers into each others' hair and start tugging and pulling.  Karen steps into me, my back pressed against a stairway bannister.  My shoes, covered in February slush and snow, make a squeaky sound on the tile floor, audibly expressing the struggle Karen and I are now fully engaged in.  She is wearing shoes as well, and now hers pick up slush from the floor and are also squeaking.  Our faces are pressed together, our arms snaking around our heads and our fingers pulling hair and gouging at each others' scalps.  My back slams against the wood bannister and the supporting sheetrock and plaster.  We are both moaning and groaning as the struggle gains in intensity.

> Fucking homewrecker.

> Italian cxnt.

> Slut whore.

> Weak bitch.

> I'll fucking kill you.

> Try, slut.  Now's your chance.

Nothing satiates my arousal--it's only building more.

To be continued.....

[catfightlover40]

This promises to be the best Marie Kay home presentation ever

[sinclairfan]

SCRATCH AND SNIFF

As Karen and I continue to rake each others' scalps and explore each others' curls and parts, I become aware that my husband is the only person in my age group with whom I ever interact.  By day, I supervise middle schoolers.  On night and weekends, I see almost exclusively my or my husband's older Italian relatives.  Karen's body feels and smells .... different.  Her flesh is firm to the touch, it doesn't yield to tugging or pulling or to ..... force.  Or violence--it resists violence.  It reliates against me as fiercely as I attack it.  I've become psychologically accustomed to being gentle .... nurturing .... with those around me.  Karen and I are being anything but nurturing with each other. 

I become aware of how she smells this morning -- morning bed head smell.  She's dressed, but hasn't showered yet.  She hasn't showered in a while -- her faint perfume is just covering her b.o. smell, not neutralizing it.  I feel clean by contrast.  I'm glad I showered--I hope she's noticing.

My husband has just about zero sense of smell:  I assume from being around building materials too long.  Is that why Karen enjoyed fucking him?  That he didn't mind how she smelled in bed?  Men like that must be hard to find.  "A good man is hard to find, but a hard man is good to find."  Mae West said that, years ago.

> You stink, bitch.

> Are you fucking three?  Do I have cooties too?

> You might not have cooties, but if you gave my husband herpes I'll rip your fucking tits off.

> Touch my tits and you're not leaving this house alive.

Karen has made a dare.  I can't not respond to it.  Her tits must hurt when they get touched--that must be why she's warning me off.

I've been wanting to grab her tits since this fight started, but I've been afraid to release the grip on her hair.  Time is ticking since she issued her threat.  I need to show her I'm not afraid of her and her bullshit.

With my right hand buried in her hair, I release my grip with my left hand and cup and twist her right breast as hard as I can.  Clockwise, then counterclockwise.

Even through her cloth top, her tits are firm as fuck.  How mine were at Boston College.  My husband loves firm breasts--is that how shd hooked him?

> Big mistake, asshole.

> Any more empty threats, big mouth?

> You don't know who you're fucking with, rookie.

> I haven't seen anything I can't handle, honey.  Just a short blondie who hides behind her Southern .... feminity ..... and her goddam fucking AOL account.

> Fine.  No more hiding.  Let me at your body, sweetie.

Karen pushes me back, and starts stripping her clothes off.  I crave to resume our clinch, and can see that will only happy after I've stripped.

So I do so.

Quickly.

We come at each other, again hairpulling and clinching with our arms.

The flesh on flesh sensation takes me past the point where I normally cum.

But violence, not cumming, is on my mind.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

COMPARISON

As Karen and I come back together and resume our clinch in her now-somwhat muddy, we are pressed together less closely before.  The reason is obvious, if unstated.  We are comparing each others' naked bodies to our own, which we are now seeing for the first time.

My eyes dart immediately to Karen's bush, which is thick with straight, fine sandy blonde hair, a somewhat darker shade of blonde than is on her head.  I've always been self-conscious about the thick, curly, raven-dark bush between my legs, always needing to trim it in the shower and dreading causing an embarrassing clog.  At Boston College, I would get up early to shower before any of the coed's in my dorm could notice me bringing scissors into the shower.  When I first got married to my husband, we would shave it, but that would cause stubble that would be unpleasant for him to touch.  So we let it grow out, and it seemed to grow back twice as thick as it had been before.

Karen's bush feels silky smooth to the touch.  Is that one of the things she used to seduce, and then keep, my husband?  Does he prefer hers to mine?

Karen's breasts are nothing to behold, somewhat smaller than my average-at-best 34A's, and less firm.  But her nipples are the opposite of mine.  They are larger than the sand dollars you can find on Massachusetts beaches in the summer, and nearly perfectly flat.  Mine are small, and point out like an outie belly button.  My husband enjoys sucking on mine.  Does he do that to Karen's, and if so, how?

Karen's skin has countless light brown, irregular shaped birthmarks or freckles or a combination of both.  Did she get a lot of sun growing up in the South?  Her skin has either a residual tan from last summer or just naturally off-pale, without being at all leathery.  My Italian skin is actually a tone or two paler tan hers, yet hers is softer to the touch than mine.  I sense that Karen has rarely done either yardwork or housework, nor cooked much for that matter.  All things required of me since age 12 or even sooner.

I'm consumed with jealousy over the contrast in our bodies.  Our height and age is all we have in common.  In fucking us both, my husband is getting what the nuns at Coyle Cassidy and the Jesuits at Boston College warned us men crave--variety.  Opposites   The Jesuits called it the Madonna-Whore complex--they put on a pedestal women that were perfect virgins, and women who were sex machines.

Is that what my husband has done with Karen and me?  Am I his Madonna?  Is she his Whore?

Which was I to the bookworm creepy guy at the library a half hour ago?

Our eyes are done surveying each others' bodies and return to each others' faces.  We put on a mask of contempt for what we have seen.  I speak first.

> Your chest looks like a fucking boy's, Karen.

> Yours is hairy like a fucking ape, slut.

We've both found each others' hot button, and we are now downright angry with each other.  One hand holds the other at arm's length by the hair, while the other descends to each other's bush and begins scratching.  Our bare feet slide in the wintry sandy-slushy mix I dragged in on my shoes and which has now melted, and we keep the fight on our feet to avoid having our sweaty, raw pussies from coming into contact with the grime.

I become conscious of acute pain, like going to a dentist except not in my mouth.  Karen's attack on me, and mine on her, are like the catfight drawings in my husband's platic bag at home--does she look at his catfight porn with him?  Is that part of how their affair started?  Or how it continued?

I slap Karen's hand away from between my legs, not solely from the excruciating pain she's causing me, but due in part to the "date" awaiting my return at the Barnstable Public Library.  I want to proposition him when I go back there after my fight with Karen is over.  To have sex, for the first time, with someone other than my husband.  And at the rate Karen is scratching me, that won't happen.

Karen responds to my knocking her hand away by quickly slapping my face, and then twisting my right nipple.  The face slap somehow feels even more of a personal invasion than the bush-scratching was, and the nipple-twist is doubly cruel, as Karen's flat silver-dollar nipples don't appear to be twistable.  I try, and get better results than apoeared possible at first glance, but I'm getting the worst of this round of our battle.  My protruding nipples are an irresistable, and unmissable, target for her greedy, grabby hands.  My body is progessively being drained of the euphoric, erotic state it was in at the start of this fight, and instead is becoming a pin-cushioned repository of painful scratches, pinches, and slap burns.

For the first time, the tought crosses my mind to flee the beating I'm receiving for the safety of my car in Karen's driveway, but I've stupidly voluntarily stripped myself, and am NOT going out into the damp February morning bare.  I primally desire a weapon to defend myself from Karen's relentless attack, but the foyer is empty--is thst why Karen is having us fight here.  I want to be somewhere else in the house, but don't want to give Karen the satisfaction, or the encouragement, she will get if she thinks I'm afraid of her.

So I bend my head down, bull rush at her waist, bear hug her lower body, both hand firmly on her butt cheeks, and push her backwards into what appears to be some sort of den/televsion room, with sectional couches and ottomans.  I pin her naked body awkwardly onto one of the sectional's, and begin raking her face and upper body with scratches and slaps.  Karen seems genuinely stunned by my shifting of the setting and momentum of the the fight, and is indecisive in deciding how to respond.  My body needs every second of the respite, as I still feel every sting inflicted during the foyer portion of the fight.

Plus, I now notice I'm desperately thirsty.

And I have to go to the bathroom.

I drove for over half and hour in my car, stopped at the the library for another 30 minutes, then still had a drive to Karen's house; all without a single break.  I want to knock this pain in the ass bitch Karen out, take a leak, put my clothes back on, and have a lunch-and-a-nooner with the library lurker.  Then I want to go home and divorce my cheating husband.  Karen and him can have each other.

I sit on Karen's face.  She can tell right away I'm trying to smother her, and resists desperately.  I maintain my pin of her, and grind into her.  My erotic arousal floods back, almost as intense as before.  The feeling of her flesh on my inner thighs is an irresistable turn on.  I grind and ride her, cumming in a release of jealousy and anger.  I call her a bitch over twenty times.  Time stands still, and yet it races.  I wish I could ride her face and cum forever.

She's out cold.  But breathing.  Not that I would care if she wasn't.

I get up, satiated sexually, but still desperately thirsty and hungry.  I grab a glass in the kitchen and inhale an entire glass of water, then another, barely slaking my thirst.   I grab a granola bar from the cabinet and cram it into my mouth.  And now I need to pee.  I find the bathroom, close the door, and sit, filling the toilet and flushing as I chew the granola bar--I could eat another ten and still be hungry.  I look down, watching it flush.  Is this the toilet my husband would use after fucking Karen? I look up, and Karen is standing there, looking down on me.

"You didn't think we were done, did you bitch?" she hisses.

To be continued.....

[catfightlover40]

The next installment just might give a new meaning to potty training

[mytime5584]

nice story

[sinclairfan]

CLOSED FISTS

As Karen and I stand facing each other inside her bathroom and begin swinging, I realize I don't even know how to form a fist.  I remember learning at a Boston College campus safety class to put the thumb over the clenched fingers--not under--so as not to break your own thumb.  But do I cradle my thumb between my middle and index fingers?  Between my index and ring finger.

My ring finger.  I realize quickly that while my ring finger on my left hand right now has a simple white gold wedding band, Karen has multiple rings with goddam gems poking out of them--aquamarine and/or some other cheesey shit.  As a fashion statement, they're strictly downmarket.  But as fight weapons, they're moderately effective, cutting my skin each time they strike just right.

Which, by the law of large numbers, is happening more than I'd prefer.  Karen and I are throwing a helluva lot of punches--our veins throbbing with adrenaline.  I'm angry as can be right now, having wasted my golden opportunity to tie up or otherwise bind and neutralize my rival which she was unconscious on the couch.  I had no idea, until now, that someone could so quickly snsp out of an induced slumber.  I'll not make the same mistake if given another opportunity--but then, neither will Karen, if our roles are reversed.  And so our fighting is three times as desperate as it was earlier, which was already viscious.

Although the ring cuts are painful and annoying, Karen's punches are surprisingly ..... weak.  Her harsh verbal tirades pack more punch than her fists, and I get bolder and step closer when throwing my strikes.  My granola-and-water snack begins flowing thru my system, and my gait is straighter and quicker than my fasting opponent.  I begin using my legs as well, kicking my rival in the shins and knees.  Taking our fight to the floor is unthinkable in the cold, not-recently cleaned lavarotory (is Karen's cleaning lady off duty this week due to school vacations?), and so Karen has few options other than to absorb a gradual beating from my fists and feet.

> Give, you blonde tramp, and I might not drown you in the tub.

> Give because why?

> Because you lost Round One, and I'm beating you again.  I vmcan see now why you Southern bitches don't fight.

> I can see why your husband calls you a frigid bitch.

> He drove home to me every night, honey.  You'll ..... always ..... be ..... a .... fucking .... side .... chick.

> I'm filling the tub.  One of us is fucking drowning in it.  And it's not me slut.

> Try it.

> I will.

To be continued.....

[wutong369]

good story i can't wait to read them all

[sinclairfan]

WHO IS SHE?

A scary possibility was spinning thru my head.  In our handful of online and telephone arguments, Karen (and CapeKaren) had always ACTED like a psychpath, hissing relentless insults and threats at me.  I had assumed it was to scare me off, as this was an age-old custom which my Italian relatives had imported from the old country--it was s time-honored method for scaring away fakers and posers and leeches.  You still needed to deal with the actual threats, but at least you had first filtered out the noise.

But what if Karen's sound and fury wasn't an act.  What if she actually WAS a psycho?  What if my husband had stayed with her, and done contractor work for her, not as a voluntary extended affair, but as a blackmail penalty imposed by her after a one-time slip-ip fuck?  What if she threatened to reveal the affair to me as a way of getting him to continue the affair? 

Karen had told me they were "about to" reveal their affair to me, and that my husband would presumably then leave me.  But what if the "hold up", the delay, was that my husband wasn't convinced yet?  What if he enjoyed the sex with Karen, but was put off by her bossiness, her constant crabbiness and bitchiness, her disagreeable body odor, her fading looks, especially when she wasn't in makeup.

Karen was the 10 , but was already headed to 9 and soon thereafter 8.  I was an, and aging quite gracefully.  Already on good hair days, of which I had many, I was arguably a 9.

And I was the better fighter.

Was Karen aware of all this too?  Is that why the bathtub idea?  To eliminate the competition by .... drowning her?

But, what if this wasn't a new idea?
What if Karen had done this before?

She had grown up in South Carolina or Georgia or Florida, all by the ocean.  She knew how to swim, and how to balance in the ocean waves.
 What if in her past, she and a rival "Southern lady", had met on the beach to talk out a situation, and things had gotren heated and then escalated.  What if their struggle had started in the sand, then spread to the waves?  Or the waves had come and overtaken them?

What if the ever-angry Karen had .... put her enemy's face under the waves.  And, then, to maintain the facade of Southern Ladies never fighting, had never spoken of it again?

It was February 1996, less than 6 months after the verdict in the O.J.Simpson trial.  We all were keenly aware that when love and rejection was involved, any one of us could snap and do anything.

Was Karen snapping right now?

I wanted to run.  To the safety of the Barnstable Public Library.  The books, the shushing, the creepy bookworm who seemed attracted to me.

But I was naked.  My clothes were strewn throughout Karen's foyer, possibly mudstained.  My car keys were hopefully in the pockets, but I didn't know for sure. 

Should I make a dash for it, while Karen was distracted, filling the tub?

I nonchalantly stroll down the short hall to the foyer.  I see my pants.  I pick them up and feel the pockets.

Shit.  Empty.

"Looking for these??," teases Karen in the hall, twirling my car keys in her fingers.

Fuck.

"You're not going fucking anywhere, slut, until we finish."

Since I feel genuinely violated and angry, I'm not putting on a charade when I defiantly answer, "Fine by me.  That fucking tub full yet??".

"Full enough, honey.  Let's go."

Karen and I eased into the hot water in the tub.  It was a 6- or 7-foot old-style vintage standalone tub with four legs, with the pipes intentionally exposed and the faucets extending over the water.  In-home jet whirlpools were all the rage in the 1990s, but the valves from the jets would turn out to be impossible to keep clean.  My contractor husband was aware of this had had apparently already passed on this wisdom to my rival.

Karen and spent 45 tense seconds allowing our sore bodies adjust to the hot water.  But there was never a doubt in my mind that we would follow thru on her plan to fight in here.  And we very quickly did.

We met in the center of the tub, latching vice-like claw grips onto each others' hair, and immediately pulling each others' faces down.  The objective in this type of fight wasn't to score a knockout or a submission--it was the get your enemy to inhale or swallow sufficient quatities of water to disable her.  And that's what we were each desperately attempting to do to the other.  Water sloshed all around us, some going over the sides of the tub, put there was still plenty available to do what was necessary to win.

As our desperate struggle continued in the tight confined space, I flashed back to a Boston College memory from summer of 1984 or 1985.  I was invited to one of our dorm's floor mates lake homes in New Hampshire for a 4th of July party.  There were maybe 8 girls there, and maybe 4 boys.  So, even though I was still a virgin, the other girls and boys thrre didn't know that, and as the day turned to night, a distinct "not enough boys to go around" tension filled the air.  The cattiness between the girls was thick in the air.

We got into our bathing suits, and went into the water and paired up and started chicken fighting.  Since at 5'3", I was on the short side and couldn't be one of the girls on top of a teammate's shoulders doing the actual fighting--I needed to be one of the girls on the bottom holding up a teammate.  So I was paired with a tall girl I knew, battling two blondes I didn't know very well.  My teammate and the tall blonde locked arms and started laughing and jostling above me, with me struggling to maintsin my balance and hold up my chicken fighting teammate.

When I felt a punch to my face.  I shrugged it off--arms and legs were splashing around in every direction, it was no doubt just a stray limb spladhing in the water.

But then I felt another punch, in the exact same place with the exact same force.  This was intentional.  I squinted thru my eyes into the dusky night at the direction of the punches.  The blonde bottom girl on the opposing chicken fight time, a girl I didn't care for named Tammy, was doing more than holding her teammate on her shoulders.  She was actively participating in the fight, by releasing her right hand and throwing punches at me.

> Hey, what the fuck, you can't do that, I protested.

> Who says I can't, replied Tammy, punching me in the face a third and fourth time.

> It's on, bitch, my Italian temper forced me to reply.

Punching in the water, with no way to balance your feet and pivot your hips, was a fool's game I quickly realized.  Instead, I put my palm perpendicular to the water, and motorboated a full 6 inches of water the direction of Tammy nose and mouth.  I struck pay dirt on the first attempt, and Tammy was gasping and choking in seconds flat, losing her poise and her balance, and dunking her tall blonde teammate into the lake.

And Tammy stayed out of my way the entire remainder of the weekend.

So, if you think about, I guess my declaration to Karen about never having been in a fight was partially misleading, if not outright wrong.

Tammy and I, during college, in the water, had been a fight.

And I had won.

I could win this one too.

To be continued......