[sinclairfan]

POST-HIGH SCHOOL CATFIGHT

My name is Meagan, and I was born on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River near Cincinnati in 1991.  I got married in 2017, and then experienced a terrifying attempt by a friend of mine to break up the marriage by a woman I assumed was a friend.  It taught me to be more aware of the people around me, and what they're saying to me, both verbally and non-verbally.

And here's why I'm writing this:  It was the second time in my life that I had been caught unawares by something unfolding right before my eyes.  I'm hoping that by writing this, I won't experience this for a 3rd time.  What's that old saying?--fool me one, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Anyways, flashback to 2009.  I'm a senior in high school.  I was a late bloomer as a teenager, and didn't really find my niche.  Mediocre academically, not one of the A-list popular girls, not elected to student government.  And athletic, but not clued into all the travel teams and private lessons that the wealthier girls participated in from an early age.

So, when I discovered a natural aptitude for shooting a basketball (even compared to other Kentucky girls--basketball is, after all, the state religion), and I developed a 5'10" body with a surprising amount of upper body strength, I was placed in the starting center job at my high school as an underclassman.  But my game was limited to the few skills I had somehow inherited naturally as a 6th generation Kentuckian.  My teammates, by way of contrast, were playing basketball 12 months a year and honing their skills.  By my senior year, the 2009-2010 basketball season, I lost my edge, and an 18-year old 5'9" junior blonde on the team, Jenna, beat me out for the starting center job.  I made the team, but only as a back-up.

The loss of status stung me, for several reasons.  First, Jenna was two inches shorter than me.  Why did she nned to try out for center?--why wasn't big forward a good enough position for her.  Second, Jenna was all the things I was "close, but not quite" to in high school.  I got C's and B's, Jenna got B's and A's.  I was cute, she was gorgeous.  I was tolerated, she was popular.  I was lower middle class, she was rich.  I was tracked to commuting to college at Northern Kentucky, Jenna was getting scouted by University of Kentucky and University of Tennessee.  And she had swiped the only thing I had on her--a starting position on the team--from under my feet.

In short, I hated her.  And I had to guard her every day in practice.  We would battle hard in scrimmages, muttering swears under our breaths to each other.

As the year wound to a close, I was coming to terms with a feeling that was building from somewhere deep down in my psyche.

I kinda wanted to fight the bitch.

I wanted to test myself against Jenna in the one area she hadn't bested me yet:  an actual, physical, 1on1 fight.  In private somewhere.

And not a boxing match or a WWE wresting match or anything with judges or scoring.  I wanted to catfight her--hairpulling, nails, kicking.  Two women letting their estrogen flair, and trying to get the better of each other.

I thought about it all the time at practice, when we would bang bodies in the sweaty gym.

I thought about it all the time on the team bus, when our eyes would occassionally catch the others', and we'd stare daggers at each other for minutes at a time.

I thought about it all the time in the locker room and the showers, where I longed to tackle her perfect nude body and battle to a finish on the steamy tiles.

I thought about it all the time in bed at night, where I'd fall asleep fingering myself as I pictured her and me in a vicious, private catfight.  I prayed that my dreams would be a vivid scenario of an argument between her and me erupting into a confrontation, a confrontation into slaps, and slaps into an all-out fight.

I was obsessed all season with Jenna, even though we rarely spoke or interacted off the court.

One day, towards the end of the season, we were under the basket chasing a loose ball.  The coach blew the whistle, but both of us were stubborn and continued chasing the ball.  We grabbed it simultaneously, and fell to the floor in a whirlwind of elbows, knees, grunts, and groans.  The coach blew the whistle, but Jenna and I disregarded her.  She finally got tired of futilely exhaling, and stopped.
 
The gym got dead silent, as all eyes turned to what Jenna and I would do.  The tension between us had been sensed by our teammates as the year progressed.

I wasn't thinking clealy, my head a cloud of anger, weariness, and, strangely, arousal.

But I crawled away from the scrum.

Even though my chance to fight Jenna there and then was laying right in front of me.

I think I wussed out because I wanted a private catfight with Jenna, not a public fistfight.

But the moment passed.

Hold that thought.  It would come to haunt me 7 years later, when I got married.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

NORTHERN KENTUCKY UNIVERSITY 2010-2011

My post-high school years were as messy as the end of my basketball career had been.  The Fall of 2010 was the peak of the Great Recession, and there were lots of young adult hanging out in college like NKU not because they were great scholars, but because there were no jobs available anyways in the Ohio Valley.  So they hung out and partied and smoked a lot of weed, and distracted those of whos trying to actually learn something.

We held lots of late night philosophy sessions in the NKU dorms, and talked a lot about our Glory Days in high school.  Making out, losing our virginity, fights.

I talked about Jenna.  How she had stolen my basketball starting position.  The semi-sexual tension between us.  Bumping flesh in the gym at practices, swapping sweat.  Seeing each other in the showers afterwards.

>  Why didn't you ever whup her ass for taking your spot?

>  I wanted to.  Trust me.

>  Did you two ever come close?

>  One day in practice, late in the season, we scuffled over a lose ball.

>  You realize she wanted to fight you, right?

>  Excuse me?

>  Meghan, think about it.  She thinks she's better than you.  The coach recognizes it.  But you never do.  She needs you to admit it, but you never do.

>  But, what, like ... right there in the gym??  With the whole team watching?

>  Well, she wanted you two to start there ....  then finish later.  Privately.

>  But ....  how??

>  You text her, silly.  Or call her.

>  Shit, that woulda been hot.

>  She probably doesn't understand why you never called.

>  But ....  she coulda called, too.

>  True.  But you were the senior.

I spent that night quietly masturbating in my bunk to the private catfight between Jenna and me that, tragically, never happened.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

INTERLUDE:  MY IMAGINED FIGHT WITH JENNA

Of course, which each passing minute of those late-night dorm room recollections of the high school catfight which "got away", my NKU grades were sinking deeper and deeper into academic probation territory.  But the temptaion was irresistible to my awakening female psyche, and my body delighted in arousal at the thought of the silent bunkbed masturbation session which would inevitably follow.  That session would begin with an imagined-recreated text session between the year-ago pre-NKU version of myself and my rival, after our coach had separated our catballed bodies on the gym floor, which, in my head, would go something like this:

M:  Do you have a minute to text?  I thought we should clear the air before we see each other at school.

J:  Yes, I have time.  And yes, that's probably a good idea.

M:  We're really lucky the coach didn't report us.  We could have been suspended.

J:  Yes, I agree.  I think she likes both of us.  I think she sees herself in us.

M:  Probably so.  I guess why I texted is ... is there something we need to resolve between us?

J:  That's the question, right?  When we were fighting, was that about basketball?  Or something else?

M:  I think it was about something else, Jenna.  Why don't you ever acknowledge me in front of your friends?

J:  Meg, do you want to know what my friends say about you?  They say you're trying to hold me back from getting playing time.

M:  With all due respect, Jenna, why can't you think for yourself, and support your teammate in front of them?

J:  Meg, I feel like I do.... but then later that afternoon we go to practice, and I feel like you stsrt shit with me, fouling me, banging me.

M:  But see how you want respect but don't want to give me any?  And please stop calling me Meg.

J:  No, I really don't see that at all.  So, what do we do now?

M:  I feel like that fight in the gym is unfinished.

J:  I feel the same.  What do we do?

M:  I think we need to settle it.  Not at practice, and not in the school hallway.

J:  Are you challenging me?

M:  My parents aren't home, if you want to use my backyard.  We can finish in private.

J:  Be right over.

In my mind, as I finger myself, Jenna comes in her new Toyota Camry, wearing cutoff jeans and a stretched tanktop, her blonde hair freshly showered from practice.  The sun is quickly setting in the early-spring Kentucky sky.  We walk briskly to a flat clearing in my backyard, and as if from a wordless cue, sink our claws into each others' long hair, tearing and ripping not for grip or balance or advantage, but purposefully tearing large chunks out and letting is fall to the grass below our struggling feet.  With our bodies fueled with an unexpecyed surge of adrenaline, we fight thru the sharp pain in our scalps and inflict sustained damage on each others' flesh and pride, stubbornly refusing to concede and inch. 

Minutes pass, and we fall to the unexpectedly hard grass in a clump of sweaty, bleeding teenage flesh.  Our exposed shoulders and chest bump and rub into each other, and feel the wrath of our slashing, clutching nails, which start to break under the exertions of our struggle.  Three years of pent up feminine competition unleash themselves in ten, then fifteen minutes of blind fury.

> Blonde bitch.

> Redneck slut.

And each of us know feels the primal sinking of teeth into shoulders.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

MEGHAN VS JENNA CONCLUSION

In my imagined showdown fantasy fight with my high school athletic and social rival Jenna, her biting of my shoulder signalled thd transformation of our fight from an athletic competition to a full-on catfight.  The gloves were off, and it was a now a fight to the finish.

I responded in kind, times three, to Jenna's vicious bite by finding her right bicep and biting into it as hard as I could.  Since the basketball season still had a couple of games remaining, my purpose was to injure her shooting arm sufficiently to cause her to miss playing time, or even entire games.  As a bonus, prom season was near, and a gash or scar on her right bicep would limit the range of available dresses for her to make an appearance in.

Having exchanged actual bites, each of us felt compelled to demonstrate a total absence of remorse by repeating the bites, deeper and harder with each escalation of our total female on female war.  Neither of us would hesitate to harm the other using any weapon at our disposal. 

As the imagined fight progressed, each received and given bite would induce waves of orgasmic pleasure and release in my soaked and aroused pussy, and my fingers penetrated myself ever more deeply.  I would muffle my gasps of delight in my pillow to prevent suspicion from my NKU roomate.  My surprise and shock at the vindictiveness of my hatred towards Jenna was surpassed only by the intensity of the desire and fulfillment the fantasy was prsenting to me sexually.

As the battle escalated to a fitting but realistic climax, realistic as measured by a scenario which might actually have played out had Jenna and connected and met that fateful afternoon, our flesh and nails and teeth became a tangled stew of sweat, dirt, grass, and spit.  I became aware of how familiar I was with the smell and taste of Jenna's sweat from our frequent banging during three years of basketball practices.

> I'm glad our hatred it out in the open, blonde slut.

> If you wanted to do this so bad, bitch, you should have said something.

> I needed to be sure before I hurt you.

> Consider your conscience clear, regardless of how this ends.

> Oh, I will, hun.

I get on top of my enemy, but I quickly find this to be a trap.  Jenna's legs snake around my hips, and she pulls down on my hair, leaving my midsection vulnerable to her pointy knees and elbows (no one better knows how vicious a weapon an elbow can be than a basketball player).  I can neither retreat nor advance.  If I stay in this position much longer, Jenna's feet will find my jaw.

In desperation, I push forward with my legs, bullrushing into Jenna's bust.  My teeth find her erect right nipple, and I bite down brutally, like an attacking asp in the 'Antony and Cleopatra' play we are reading in British Lit.  Out of fear, anger, and jealousy, I don't release the bite until my nails find Jenna's breasts and Jenna cries out and gives.

My orgasm is too strong for my voice to muffle.

My roomate whispers out in the dark, "Meghan??  Were you masturbating??"

"Umm, ...  ,  yes.  Sorry about that."

"I don't mind.  Just ..... was it thinking about that girl you didn't find in high school??"

"  Ya ....  it was .... How'd you know??"

"Cuz it sounded like you were saying, 'bitch ...  bitch ... bitch... ' ."

"Sorry, .... so embarrassing."

"Don't be .....  I'm jealous."

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

POST-COLLEGE LIFE

After an embarrassing summer of exchanging academic probation letters with NKU, and negotiating with my parents conditions for them continuing to financially support me, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor and withdrew from college.  (My decision was helped by the news that my rival Jenna's dreams of a big-time college basketball scholarship were dashed, and she had accepted a bench position at the significantly-more-modest D3 Baldwin-Wallace University in Ohio.)

But since reurning home as a first-year NKU wash-out was too much humble pie to swallow, I made the admittedly impulsive decision to head to the big city of Chicago and take an accelerated course in massage therapy.  Other girls my age justified their class placement, to themselves and to me, with the white lie that it would lead, eventually, to a career in physical therapy.  But I was under no such illusions, and knew I was simply trying to rebound from my disappointing high school and college careers, with no way of knowing what lay at the end of the dark tunnel I had somehow entered until I got to the other end.  Which would take years, not months.

Rents were cheap in the outer suburbs of Chicago in the aftermath of the Great Recession.  Many homeowners found themselves underwater on new construction house three times larger than they could ever afford, and were offering rentals for a price range within my budget if I was willing to room with one or two other single girls.  My parents, through relatives, helped me find two such girls who would leave me alone if I left them alone, and I started establishing myself in a town called Fox River Grove.

I appreciated the privacy my 2 roomates gave me, as I spent a great deal of my nights, and then days, masturbating to various version of the fighting fantasy with Jenna which still consumed my thoughts.  I allowed my excitement to build louder and longer than at my NKU dorm room, where my roommate was physically in hearing range.  My Fox River Grove rental afforded me a private room, allowing my thoughts and self-love activities more freedom to flourish.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

THERAPY

Now, here's where my story gets a little dark; a liitle bit, literally, depressing.  My two roommates gradually noticed how withdrawn I was, how I kept to myself and wasn't interacting with them and wasn't meeting new people.  I was young and single and on my own and had cash in my pockets and a great place to live--I should have been partying, or at least socializing, definitely on weekends, and even during days of the week.  I should have been meeting boys and bringing them back to my room and having my way with them, rather than having my way with my own hand to thoughts of a high school catfight which had never even actually happened.

So the roomates introduced me to two people.

The first person they introduced me to was a single boy, who was friends with one of my roommates boyfriends.  Neither he nor I were much for small talk, which ironically helped our relationship, since our strategy to minimize awkward silences between us was to fill them with tongue kissing and oral sex.  Ahhh, oral sex.  I was a late bloomer in that department, but once I discovered it, both giving and receiving, I was hooked.  I dove in enthusiastically, swallowing Eli's cum without hesitation, and then insisting he reciprocate until his jaw was sore.  I loved being on my back when he did me or riding his face, and then one night we discovered side by side 69, which was magnificent.  I was still withdrawn from my roommates and keeping to myself, but at least now it was for an acceptable reason.

The second person they introduced me to was a (low-cost) therapist, Susan.  The therapist could tell immediately that I was depressed, but she felt she could treat me without medication.  I told her about my robust sex life with Eli, hoping it would provide solid evidence of my improving mental health.  Instead, as therapists are wont to do, she got to the core of the issue with a disturbing question.

> What do you think about when you cum with Eli?

> Ummm ....  I dunno ....

> Think.  The last time Eli and you were intimate .... what were your thoughts when you climaxed?

> Ummm, ... ok .... this is gonna sound weird...

> It won't, I promise.

> I was thinking about a girl from high school ..... named Jenna .... she and I were on the basketball team together ......

> In your head ...  Jenna and you were .... being intimate?

> O hell no .... she and I were catfighting .....

> I see ..... had you and her ever actually fought? ....

> Well, close ..... one day at basketball practice, we were, like, on the floor, going after a loose ball .... like, after the whistle, and it went on so long that the whole team was looking over at us, waiting to see what would happen next, and ....

> So, they would have allowed you two to fight?

> I guess .... they would have at least let us start ..... you know how girls get when there's no boys around, right? .... 'Hmmmm, what do we have here?  A fight?' ......

> So it sounds like no fight happened.  Did you want one to?

> No .... and yes.  I wanted to fight her, I had all season.  But not like that.  Not in front of the whole team.

> Because you were worried you would lose?..... or because you were worried you would win?

> I,    ummm .... aren't you suposed to be telling me the answers.  Why would I be worried at winning?

> Because you evidently didn't call her later .... woman to woman ..... to finish your little skirmish privately.....

> [Squirming in my chair.]

> .... because you knew how violent .... how primal .... such a battle would become ....  She wanted to fight you, ya know.

>  She did?  ..   But, why didn't SHE call ME ??

> The question answers itself, doesn't it?  For the same reason ... she knew you two were primed for a vicious war.  18 is a little young to voluntarily enter into such a fight.  You'll be ready next time.

> I will??  How can you be so sure?

> Because you won't want to live with this regret ... the wondering what would have happened.

Eli and I had 6 hours of oral sex that night.

To be continued.....

[kelllyclaws]

Enjoy your stories, and can not wait to see where this one goes

[sinclairfan]

MARRIAGE

Since I frequently and eagerly swallowed Eli any time he craved it, and sometimes even when he didn't, he did what any red-blooded American male would do.  On Valentine's Day 2012, he bought me an engagement ring, got down on one knee, and proposed.

I said yes, because I thought that's what the girl is supposed to do.  My therapist thought my affirmative response was too hasty.

> Meg, I know you have frequent sex with Eli.  But he and you don't really  .... talk .... to each other.  Like, ever.

>  He and I are introverted.  We don't talk much to ANYONE ....  not just each other.

>  True, and being introverted is not a show-stopper to a happy marriage.  Here, let me organize my thought better.  Meg ..... when you cum with Eli ..... uour fiancee, now .... you're thinking about a catfight ..... a catfight from your past, no less, ..... and one that never actually happening.

> I think about that catfight ....  that girl Jenna .... breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  Am I supposed to stop eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

> You never told me ..... that there are ....  OTHER times .... you think about Jenna and you fighting.

> You never asked.

> True ....  I guess .... well, I'm asking now ..... let me phrase it this way ..... are there any times you DON'T think about a catfight between you and Jenna?

> [Without hesitation] No.

> You answered so quickly.

> It's a simple question.

> Fair enough.  I don't mean to give you attitude.  Meg, when you think about it, tho .... is it always .... in an EROTIC sense?

> 99.9% yes.  Essentially, ALL the time.  Maybe Sunday night at 2am, my hormones take a 5 minute break.  Or give me a 5 minute break.  But, yes, since I left Kentucky, I've been having erotic urges to masturbate to an uninterrupted, brutal fight with Jenna....... Why are you being quiet??  Is there a name for that?

> Not clinically reognized, no.

> How do you know?  Don't you need to look that up in your books?

> I already have.

> Because of me?

> No, because of ME.

> You have that same feeling?  About another woman?

> I did.  Years ago.

> How did you.... FIX it?

> Easy......  I fought her.  For real.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

MY THERAPIST'S STORY

One session, my therapist and I agreed that it would be best for me if we broke protocol and that SHE should do the talking and I should do the listening for the 50-minute session.  This is the story my therapist told me that day.

When my therapist was in grad school at Ohio State, working on her Psychology and Social Work degrees, she would work summers outside Toledo in a camp for troubled and at risk boys.  The 18- and 19-year old male campers were of course strictly off-limits to the college-age counselors, but a rivalry would develop amongst the female counselors as to who was the "most popular" amongst the campers.

My therapist, in the summer of 2007, entered into an, at first, friendly, then progressively unfriendly, rivalry with another female counselor about her age.  The two would first lightly tease each other about who was getting the most, or most earnest, flirting attention (really, catcalls) from the male campers under their charge.  But, before they knew it, my therapist (see what I'm doing there--role reversal:  I'm withholding my therapist's name to preserve HER confidentiality) and her rival were sniping at each other during staff meetings or over who got to shower first in the morning.  A long hot Ohio summer without sex wasn't helping matters.

In short, a major catfight was building between my therapist and her rival.  Which they managed to avoid all summer.

But the next summer, both applied for work at the same camp.  And were delighted to see each other at Councilor Orientation the week before the opening of the next summer's camp.  The lingered in the parking lot after that meeting, when all but a couple other cars had left.

> Hello, Aubrey.  I've been thinkin' about you since last August.

> All happy thoughts, I hope, sweetie.

> Of course not, darlin'.  I'd say we have unfinished business from last summer which we should conclude before the next summer starts.

> I don't disagree, ...   but....

> But, what, Sugah ..... you're hesitating ..... why?

> It's ... just .... you wanna do this now?  ....  here?

> You got a better time?   ..... or place?, hun?

> I suppose not.  No rules, I assume?

> That'd be my preference .... [The women square up, kicking off their flip-flops] .....

> Ok, bitch.... let's do it...[they exchange left jabs, in a bare-knuckle boxing-style to start]  .... fight me, bitch

> I've waiting all winter for this, cxnt.

> [Flesh on bone sounds rattle thru the dusky sky, as mosquitoes emerge]..... That makes two of us.

> I'll fucking knock you out.

> I doubt it .... [the women come together in a hairpulling catball, kicking each others' shins]

> You slut

> Whore

[The women fall on the hard pavement, their summer tops stretched, ripped, and ruined.  Their nails become their main weapon, tearing at each others' arms and shoulders.]

> YOU ....  FUCKING ..... BITCH

> I hate you.

[My therapist mounts her rival, and humps her hips with a grinding motion.]

> You're fucking getting off on this, whore.

> You are, too, slut .... this is why we both came back here this summer.

[Both women grind on the hard pavement and cum together.]

> Meghan?  Looks like our 50 minutes are up.

> Oh,.... ya ..... sorry....

> See you in 2 weeks?  Maybe we can discuss how this story ..... relates .... to your situation with Jenna?

> Ya..... ya....  2 weeks .... thank you

I don't even make it to my car -- in the stairway leading down and out of the building, I cum, standing up, in my hand.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

MY NEXT THERAPY SESSION

Two weeks later, I awkwardly stepped into the room for my next therapy session.  I wondered if we would talk about the story my therapist had told during the last session.

> Hello, Meghan, how have you been?

> I've been ok.

> How are things between you and Eli?

> The same.

> Ok.  And is that good?  bad?  indifferent?

> Ok, can I change my answer?

> If you wish.

> I've been masturbating uncontrollably for 14 days.

> At night, on bed with Eli?

> Night, morning, afternoon.  Breakfast, lunch, dinner.  At work, at home, in the car.  At intersections, when the traffic light is red, green, or yellow.  At the dinner table, in the shower, on the toilet.  I haven't stopped masturbating for 14 days.

> You're not masturbating right now.

> I want to be.

> Thst would cost me my license.

> That's the only reason I'm not doing it.

> I think you're exaggerating a little bit, but  ....

> ....(I'm not).....

> ....but ...  I take your point.  And, what may I ask, is causing this .... behavior?

> Your story last session.

> But .... what about the story?...

> Fighting a rival .... well, NOT fighting her .... THEN fighting her .....

> And, this made you think of ...

> ....Jenna

> But  ..... you didn't fight her....

>.... I know .... so what's causing this?..... what's THIS called?

> ......Meghan .....  trust me, there's no name for this .... and, in any case ....  in psychiatry, we discourage 'silver bullet' explanations ....  perhaps I shouldn't have told you that story ...

> Did you masturbate constantly after you fought that girl in the parking lot??

> Meghan, you're making me ....  very uncomfortable ....  yhis isn't supposed to be about me....

> Fine...  do women in ....  THAT situation .... masturbate after the fight happens?? ....

> Meghan, every case is different ....  but.....

> .....well?? .......

> ..... Meghan, no, I never masturbated .... again.....  AFTER the fight with THAT girl .... ABOUT that girl ....

> .But???..... you're being very ....  specific ....  with your words ....

> But ....  well ... Meghan ..... I told you that story for a reason ....  I'm very concerned about your relationship with Eli ..... the lack of verbal communication between you and him ....  Meghan, by your not fighting Jenna .... even though you and her CLEARLY wanted to fight ....  and have been apart from each other for ...  coming up two years now ....

> Yes??  Yes?? ...  I can't take it, spit it out ....  Doctor.

> Meghan, your body ....  your hormones ... are telling you that there's another woman ....  tryibg to start a fight with you ....  but you're ....  blinded, I guess is the word .... by your unresolved fight with Jenna ...

> Huh?

> Meghan, who did you say introduced you to Eli??  And how did they know him??

> My roomates knew him.  Hd had just broken up with a friend of theirs.

> And this friend's name was .... ?

> Cara.  Her name was Cara.

> And does Eli still ..... communicate with Cara??

> Cara drinks a lot.  She 'communicates with' [air quotes] anyone who will drink with her.

> Have you ever .... 'partied with' [imitating my air quotes] her ... and your roomates? ... and Eli.

> A couple times.

> And? ...... did she have a date??

> Yes.  No worries there.

> Not do fast, Meghan.   ..... How did she treat him??? .....

> Well .... she was drunk .... but she cut him a new one ...  for 'not knowing how to satisfy a man' [extremely protracted air quotes] ...

> Meghan .... she was drunk??  .... or she had Marriage Envy??

> Which is .... what??

> When a woman is jealous that a man eouldn't marry her, but marries ...  YOU.

> Eli and Cara broke up before I was in the picture.

> They broke up ...  because ?

> I don't know.

> Ah, yes ....  I forgot ..... Eli and you don't talk.

> Are you shading me??  Where the hell is this going??

> I think Cara has Marriage Envy and wants to fight you.

> I think you're trying to get me to kick my fixation on Jenna and Cara is some sort of decoy.  And I have no idea how this is connected to your story from last week.

> I think you were obtuse with Jenna and are being obtuse with Cara.

> Because? .... Explanation?

> Because after I fought my rival at camp that summer .... I started seeing who was .... provoking ... me, and that I was being .. obtuse about .... because of my obsessing about my LAST rival....

> Fine ... but why are you sure it's Cara  ..... I've never brought her up ...

> That's why I'm sure.

To be continued......

[JT Edson]

I can hardly wait for the next installment!

[sinclairfan]

TALKING ABOUT CARA

My next therapy session was dedicated to the topic of how I had gotten to know Cara, and what the interraction to date between us had been.

> When was the first time you met Cara.

> It was at a party with my roomates.  Or, not so much a party .... more of a Friday night drinking session, while watching a movie or something .... maybe a college football game.  Whatever was on.

> Was this before or after you were dating Eli?

> After .... but....

> ....Interesting .....

> ....but why does THAT matter??

> I'll ask the questions ..... was Cara with a ....  date .... at this party?  Where you met her?

>  Yes .... well, a guy.....

> ....and was there drama between her date and her at this party?

> Well, like I said, .....it wasn't really a party ....

> You specifically called it .... A PARTY.

> ....Well ....  yes,.... at first ...  but .....

> Did Cara and her date fight at this party??

> Ok....  like ..... he wasn't her date ....

> But when I asked if she was there with a date, you said yes.

> Again,   ....  at first ..... why are you doing this??

> I'll ask the questions.  What were Cara and her date fighting about at the party??

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

> Take your time.

> Shit, I better, ..... you keep taking what I say so  ....  literally.  Am I on trial or something?  Am I under arrest?

> Do you feel guilty of something?.... on the topic of Cara?

> Ok .... this is weird ....

> Should we stop?  I was quite open with you last session.

> You were .... but I didn't keep .... interjecting ....  I listened.

> I'm listening.  Intently.

> Fine .... ugghh .... ok, where was I then?

> Cara and her date were fighting about something in front of you and your new boyfriend.  What was she saying to him?  What was her .... complaint?  Was it sexual?

> How did you know that?

> Again, ...  please .... no questions, just answers.

> Ok .... right .... she was a little drunk, keep in mind ....

> Alcohol reveals truth.

> I suppose, .... well, she said he didn't understand .... how to satisfy a woman.  Whatever THAT means.

> What do YOU think it means?

> Well .... you know, some guys, some inexperienced guys, think about themselves .... you know, they blow their load too fast, or whatever?

> Interesting ..... or??

> Or,..... or what?

> Or, perhaps .... they want to get head ..... but don't .... reciprocate.

> I guess.  Or they're not good at it?

>  For example.  Is Eli like that?

> Hell, no..... why would you say that ....he and I have fulfilling oral sex together.  You know that.

> Did Cara know that?

> I doubt it.  I haven't told anyone that but you.

> Then, perhaps .... well, no ....

> Perhaps what???  What were you going to say??

> Perhaps Cara has received oral sex from Eli.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

A SEMI-RANDOM CATFIGHT

You might be thinking by now, "Meghan, you and your therapist were having mutual, extended conversations about catfighting.  You already had some latent, pre-existing thoughts in your head about the topic, left over from your high school basketball practice skirmish with Jenna.  But she, your therapist, was clearly trying to stimulate further thoughts in your head about expanding the range of your catfight experiences to include some actual battles.  Further, she was trying to sow discord between you and another woman, Cara, only tangentially involved in your life.  She was messing with your head, basically.  Didn't that in any way make you more open to the possibility of an actual real life catfight?"

It did.  The opportunity presented itself.  And I took it.

It happened at an LA Fitness.  Well, the fight didn't happen there.  But my introduction with a like-minded opponent happened there.  One Monday morning.

The office job I was working at was going thru a slow time, and rather than lay any of us off, they flexed us to 32-hour workweeks, meaning we each had to take one week off.  All of my more practical co-workers wanted Friday off, but I pounced at the chance to take Mondays.  My roomates and I were getting quite ridiculous with our Saturday night drinking benders, and Sunday was barely enough time to recover.  So Eli and I would have oral sex until satiation Sunday night, and I'd get up Monday morning to hit the gym and continue working down the Freshman Fifteen I had put on at NKU.

The cycles at the LA Fitness faced the free weights, and on Mondays there was a fit woman, maybe 5 to 7 years older than me, with frizzy-but-pretty auburn hair, and a totally buff body who would do curls and other toning exercises with some very impressive-sized weights.  She hsd a touch of the Howard Stern "butterface" theme going on (Everything is nice about her, but her face.') 

We had caught each others' eyes on Monday mornings, and began to recognize each other as regulars.  Our eye-catching began to become more prolonged, me on the bike and her doing her curls, and I began to notice that we were mutually challenging each other, holding our stares, trying to make the other look away first.  Our staring contest began extending to five minutes, then ten, then to about 12 minutes in duration.  Twelve minutes seemed about the longest two women could prolong a hate-stare without it becoming a parody of itself, so I assumed our wordless relationship had run its course.  Unless one of us introduced ourselves to the other, which seemed pointless given that I was straight (and in a highly sexually satisfying relationship with Eli), this "relationship"/rivalry was at a dead end.

So much so that I had never brought it up with my therapist.

One Monday, as we commenced what I presumed would be a run-of-the-mill staredown with my workout rival, she silently mouthed a word at me.

I'm not much of a lip-reader, but it was unmistakable.

BITCH.

My heart raced.  I gathered myself.  I considered my options.

FUCK .....  YOU .... I slowly but deliberately mouthed back.

I'LL  .....  FUCK  ..... YOU .....UP, she responded, again silently.

SHOW ...    ME.  My bike machine was on a programmed routine which I didn't want to interrupt, so I picked up my finger and directed her my way.  My semi-catfight with Jenna, my therapist's catfight with her camp couselling rival, and my simmering rivalry with Cara was of course front and center in my mind and influencing my actions and my body language.

Buttaface-girl put down her free weight, wiped her bench, threw her towel over her shoulder, and strutted over to me.  She spoke first.

Tough girl, huh?  [Her voice was more feminine than I expected.  I noticed this somehow disappointed me.]

Tougher than you.  [Shit.  That's the best I can do?  Step it up, Meghan.]

You think so.

I know so.  I'd love to show you some time.

Where and when, sweetie??

Not my place.  I have two roomates.

And I have a husband.  [I notice the huge rock on her left ring finger.]

Rich bitch, huh?

I advise you to stop calling me a bitch.

You started it. 

So where can we fight?  You seem like you do this a lot.  [I actually never do.  But I'm proud of myself that shd thinks I do.  Better play along.  Think, Meghan, think.  I remember my roomates naming a local place the used to smoke weed in high school, where the cops don't patrol.]

There's a forest preserve down Waukegan Ave.  There's an abandoned jungle gym off the walking trail.  The map shows it at the far Southeast corner.

So, what?.... we fist fight?  cat fight?  [She's seeking a thrill.  As, I now realize, am I.  Her husband must be older, too old to have kids.  Bored housewife.  That's fine--I'm a bit bored myself.  She's looking for me to take the lead.]

Why not a little bit of both.  Tough girl.

I'm free till two.

Then let's get going.  Skip the shower?

You got it. 

We proceed to the locker room.  I grab my keys and realize my hands are shaking.

I pack my bag and leave the locker room first.  I'm afraid if we see each in the fitness center parking lot, we'll start fighting right there.

I drive as quickly as I can, wondering how I'll explain, if I'm pulled over for speeding, why I'm sweating like a pig, and where I'm going in such a hurry on a Monday morning.

I somehow get to the forest preserve.  Again, afraid that our impromptu catfight will erupt prematurely, like Eli's cock the few times we've attempted intercourse, I decide to walk to our fight site before my opponent can arrive.  I see about 5 other cars in the lot, other morning walkers out for a stroll.  Few enough that Butterface and I should have privacy at our corner.

Is this crazy?, I wonder as I walk.  What if she got that rock by challenging another woman, like she did me, killing her, and then taking her jewelry?

Luckily I'm not wearing any.  And have barely any cash in my purse, which I left in the car.

I get at the spot.  Shit, I'm gonna have to pee soon.  Too late now.

I wait.  And wait.  And wait.  Is she gonna show?  Women never actually show for arranged catfights, do they?

Butterface shows.

I stand challenging her.  She can come to me.  This was her idea.  I want her to make the first move.  Plus I don't want to disabuse her of her notion that I do this regularly.

She slowly walks up to me.  We stare, just like at our Monday morning fitness workouts.  She has two inches on me.  Shit, is her body fit.  Is this a mistake?

We get almost nose to nose.  Our breasts touch.  Hers are large and firm.  Her whole body is firm, despite my supposed age advantage.  She speaks first again.

> Catfight or fistfight first, honey?

> Lady's choice.

Her hands bury themselves in my hair.  Guess we're doing the catfight first.  My hands are in her auburn hair quickly, and I do what I would have done to Jenna had we met up alone after practice.  We pull each others' faces down, and I notice Butterface's feet lining my shins up for kicks.  We spin in a circle, first one direction, then another, not letting go of our hair.  We are about equal in strength, and decide to conserve energy.  This is just Round 1--we have a fistfight scheduled after this.

We fall to the ground in a catball.  I get on top first, then her, then me, then her.  The pain in my scalp is intense.

Fucking bitch.

Fucking slut.

I'll fucking destroy you.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

FIRST CATFIGHT; FIRST FISTFIGHT

Now that I've officially lost my catfight virginity (although there's no way I'm going to let my nameless opponent know that), I decide that I've learned my first hairpulling tactical lesson:  beware a hairpulling catfight against a woman with curly, frizzy hair.  My older opponent has handfuls full of my long, straight hair and is able to exert pressure on a wide surface area of my scalp, causing intense pain to it, but even worse, is torquing my neck in an obtuse 135-degree angle, which has a chain reaction effect on my shoulder, collarbone, and even my right elbow.  My attempts to retaliate are coming at short, as my fingers limply pull dispersed curls across Butterface's head. 

I wonder if she's selected this hairstyle specifically for its effectiveness in catball catfights. 

And if she selected me as an opponent because of my hairstyle. 

We continue rolling on the ground, but even though I'm occassionally on top, Butterface is inflicting more pain in me with painful scissorholds clamped onto the pointer parts of my hips.  I remember suffering a near-debilitating type of sports injury called a "hip pointer", and the sensation is similarly unenjoyable.

Butterface is patiently wearing me down

I'd love to have at her in a fistfight.  But not at half-strength.  Which is wear I'll be if this catfight continues on like this.

I take advantage of a temporary mount of Butterface to try and get a break.  I lean my face up to hers, our pores oozing with sweat and oil, and hiss:

> I need to pee, bitch.

> So you give?

> No, sweetie, I just need to pee.

> There's no wear to pee around here, dumbass.

> I'll stand up and go in the grass.

> How classy.

> So?  Truce?

> Truce if you concede the catfight.

> But you didn't even hurt me?

> And you think you hurt me???

> I didn't say that.  I just said I want a break to pee.

> No break unless you give.

You know how when you try and hold it, but then the conversation turns to peeing, you can't hold it anymore?  Well, if you don't know, trust me, that's what happens.

Butterface's and my hips are locked together in a double-scissors, our torso's touching thru thin workout fabric.

I feel my hips get warm.

And in a few seconds, she feels it to.

> Bitch?!?  Are you fucking peeing on me???

> I warned you.

> You're sick!!!!

> I just needed a break, I told you.

> Disgusting!!!  I don't want this on me.

> Then do something about it, hun.  Fistfight me.

> Let me up.

I get up.  We square off, dark spots soaking our shorts.  My scalp is grateful for the respite from the hairpull it was losing.

> We don't stop till a KO.

> Fine by me.

For the first time in my life, I ball my fist in anger.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

ROUND TWO--THE FISTFIGHT

Butterface and I regain our footing, squaring up and breathing heavily, exhausted from our intense catfight.  Our midsections look vaguely ridiculous, stained and coated with dirt and grass from the accident I had on the ground.  I want to begin the fistfight, but also want to buy time to regain my wind.  I'm curious what my enemy's name is.

> My name is Meghan.  What's yours?

> I know your name.

> How?

> I asked at the gym.

> Are you a staker?

> I wanted to make sure you weren't a psycho.  I forgot to ask if can control your bladder.

> I said I needed a break.

> There's no breaks in fights.

> Then tell me your name and let's fight.

> Aubrey.  Now let's fight.  To a KO.

Aubrey and I close and start exchanging left jabs.  I'm reluctant to release a haymaker right hand out of fear that Aubrey is more experienced than me and has harder hands.  Or quicker.  Or both.

We are taking exclusively face shots and head shots, each going for the one-punch knockout.  I remember growing up in Kentucky and being told to opt for combos in a fistfight, but my mind is frozen and can't think of any.  I see Aubrey's dangling hair and just want to snatch it in my hands, but I remember that I barely eked out a contoversial draw in our catfight, and that fight form seems to be her specialty.  I'm faring better, so far, in this standup fightfight, and am less frustrated due to the greater freedom of movement.  As the thwack-thwack of flesh on flesh and bone on bone echoes thru the clearing, I am regaining both my sea legs but also my dignity.

> Like the feeling of that punch, sweetie?

> Oh, you call that a punch, bitch?

> Smart ass.

> White trash.

> Rich bitch.

Aubrey unleashes a righ that finds my jaw.  My knees turn to jelly and I'm on my back.

Aubrey mounts me.  Her knees pin my arms.

> I'm going to pee on you, white trash.

My body can see Aubrey removing her shorts, but I can't resist, as her elbows press on my pinned arms.  I try to kick her with my knees, but her mount on me is too far up my pinned body, almost a full face sit.

My leg motion sets the two of us back and forth in a rocking motion.

I wait for the familiar hot moist sensation of warm pee, dreading thd humiliation.

I wait.

And wait.

Still nothing.

I wait some more.

I hear the unmistakable groaning of sexual arousal in Aubrey.  I can tell she's cumming on my face.  I would be horrified, but was prepared for something worse.

Aubrey's orgasm is loud, long, and deep.  She grinds in round circular motions on my sore jaw and dry mouth.  I want her to finish.  She takes over a minute to do so, but finally does.

I push Aubrey off.

> You sick bitch.

I cock my right fist and, with the two of us on our knees, I throw three right crosses at her jaw.  Aubrey attempts to retaliate, but her movements are too slow.  I connect flush on her left cheek bone.

> Want more, bitch?

> You win, Meghan.

I'm angry at Aubrey.  I want to do more to her.

But I want to get in a shower more.  I run to my car.  I drive home much too quickly.

I climb in the shower.  I get clean.  I climb naked into bed.

I call Eli.

"Can you come home right away?"

I fall asleep.  When I wake up, he and I are side-by-side-69ing.

We finish.

> What happened to your face, babe?  And your back?  You're all scratched up.

> Catfight.  You should see the other girl.

To be continued......