TOUGH CROWD
The light inside the Mercedes continues to dim as Karen and I continue battling with our hips and our mouths. The individual parking garage flourescent lights have begin barely perceptible thru the double layers of condensation on the car window--one on the inside and another on the outside.
I wipe away one of the layers of moisture on one of the rear side windows, and am startled by the site of our fight spectator and instigator, Denise, doing to the to the outside moisture. I had wondered how closely she was able to watch what has become the very long fight between Karen and me. Just as she gets her first extended view for awhile, Karen's lips and mine are engaged in a deep mutual lip-lock, as we orally stimulate each other to keep our clits as erect as possible.
But from Denise's perspective, all she can see is two women in the backseat engaged in an aggressive make-out session. For the first time in the 12 hours that I've known her, I see her temper flare, as we hesr her muffled voice shout at us thru the closed window: "Are you bitches fighting or making love?? I'm fucking leaving if you two won't throw down!! I have your car keys right hear, Michelle!".
My heart sinks. My insecurities about being able to keep up with Denise return. But more importantly, I have a large wad of cash, and most of my physicsl possessions, in my car. If Denise drives off with it, I have nothing left in the world. I should be in that car right now with Denise, headed south on I-95.
Karen and I maintain our grips on each others' shoulders, but separate our hips and back them up against the car doors for leverage, me on the driver's side and Karen on the passenger's side. We become wary of the intentions of the other, as we each now have the freedom to slam the others' head into the front or back seat of the car. Instead, we simultaneously grab a fistful of hair with our left hand, and form a closed fist with our right hand.
After a half-dozen or so punches to the face in the extremely enclosed space find nothing but hard skull, doing more damage to the hand of the hitter than the face of the hittee, we adjust tactics and begin swinging lower, throwing underhanded punches, literally and figuratively, aimed between the legs of our enemy. Those punches land with sickening accuracy, as the kneeling position Karen and I present perfect targets for our fists.
There now can be little doubt to Denise that the two rivals for her affections are engaged in combat, not congress, as each blow lands with a thud which draws a pained "ooomph" from the recipient. In a room or ring or pretty much any other combat setting, we would have long since sltered our posture to avoid presenting such vulnerable targets to each other. But the limited space of the csr backseat offers us little freedom of movement, and the sickening exchange of low blows continues unabated.
> You fucking bitch, you should have never messed with me.
> Are you fucking kidding me? I hate you so much, ruining you is the best choice I ever made.
> Fuck you.
Karen and I exchange more undefended low blows, but each one is land with less force. We've been fighting uninterrupted for a long time, and the air quality in the car is deteriorating. We need to end this fight with the only fight tactic we've been reluctant to employ so far. Our right hands pause on each others' bushes, as we scout out the next setting for an attack. I become insecure at the thickness of my bush relative to Karen's silky blonde version.
> Michelle, you really are a hairy fucking gorilla, aren't you?
I flash back to the summer of 1986 lake trip with my Boston College suitemates. The girl I had fought one night in the lake had made comments on my armpits, and how much stubble the had after I shaved them. I sensed she had provoked a chicken fight between her and me in order to get me to lift my arms and to see and feel what she considered to be my excessively hairy pits, and to note her disapproval by fighting me. Now I get the same feeling with Karen. She is priming for an attack on my bush, but this time neither of us know who should be insecure. Does Denise prefer my thick, dark bush, or Karen's silky, light version? If we could choose, which would we prefer to have?
We waist no time in grabbing a handful and twisting down mercilessly. As many and as intense the varities of pain I've experienced tonight are, this one takes the cake. Tears of pain fill my eyes, but I resist the urge to give to my enemy and reciprocate with ever more vicious pulling and tugging at her. This fight is now a pure contest of endurance.
> Bitch.
> I hate you.
> I can't take it. I give.
> Say it louder. So Denise outside the car can hear you.
> Please stop, this is torture. You win.
> Tell Denise I'm the better woman. So she knows.
> Don't make me say that, please. Can't you just win and go away?
> After what you've put me thru? No, I can't. Say it, before I twist harder.
> Denise, Michelle is the better woman. Leave me alone, please.
****************************
Denise and I had a long, painful trip down I-95 to Florida, and an even longer six months responding to paperwork from my ex and her former employer seeking signatures, recovery of property, surrender of bank accounts, etc. We held our breath, expecting any day that my ex-husband would demand the return of the $120,000 of cash that Denise and I started our new life with. He never did, apparently fearing the exposure to tax fraud charges. And possibly grateful that I had ended his affair with Karen--I learned from Ben that Karen never did serve papers on him; in 1999, Karen and Ben were still married. I wanted to ask him how long it took for Karen to be able to perform in bed again, but decided to just let it go.
As I did one day in 2003, seven years after our fight, when I was in an AOL chatroom and saw CapeKaren64 logged in. Wd both lingered in the chatroom for about 20 minutes. I didn't ping her, and she didn't ping me. Apparently there was nothing more to say.
2018 is almost over now. I'm 54, and Denise is 65. We're married in the state of Florida, and Denise has started taking Social Security, and we're on her Medicare. Our life is happy.
What more can you ask for?
THE END.
