Chapter 13: Little Miss Perfect
No, I can't risk falling off my throne
Love is something I don't even know
Straight hair, straight A's
Straight forward, straight girl
Little Miss Perfect, that's me
-Taylor Louderman
“I could never please my parents. Anything I did was never enough.” The woman sighs, her green eyes looking down at the restaurant table. With her light makeup and long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, there was a simplistic beauty to her that I hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was her willingness to expose her vulnerability to me that made her seem so genuine. Choosing her words with great care, she continued.
“We weren’t allowed to have the usual toys kids play with. Being the only girl, I think I had it worse than my brothers. When I was eight years old, I begged my mom for an Easy Bake Oven until she finally brought one home. Do you remember those?”
“Yup, I had one,” I reply as we both slightly giggle as if we both recaptured some long-hidden childhood affection, if only for a brief few seconds. “The heat source was a light bulb,” I recall.
“Yeah, that’s right,” she responds. We both laugh a little harder. Then, her face again takes on a more solemn expression. “Well, I made my mother a cupcake with my Easy Bake. Remember those packets of powder? You put it in a cup, add water, then stick it in the oven.”
“Been there, done that,” I answer.
“Well, I made my mom a cupcake. She took one bite, spit it out in the kitchen sink, and said, ‘Goddammit! I can’t eat this! This is AWFUL!’ I ran to my room and cried the rest of the night.”
“Well, Luanne,” I suggest. “Those Easy Bake Oven cakes really did taste like chalk.” She smiles for a few seconds when I realize my attempt at humor might not have been the most appropriate response. “I’m sorry, Luanne. That must have been horrible,” I offer, changing gears.
I couldn’t deny Luanne’s request to meet for lunch. Since our fight in the dance studio, I have thought about her often. It was clear to me that her perfectionism and obsession with winning at everything was a cover for some deep-seated issues. Her bizarre meltdown after the fight removed any doubt. Yet, after that encounter, she was cordial. She was good about not letting our conflict interfere with our daughters' friendship. She’s had Clarissa in her home several times, as I’ve hosted Madison in mine. Luanne babysat for us and drove Clarissa to dance class on days I worked. Then, there was the incident at the nightclub when she came out of nowhere and saved me from…God knows what. I don’t like to think about it. But Luanne took a risk and put herself out there …for me.
I assumed the nightclub fiasco would be the topic of conversation. I was willing to discuss it with her. After all, I didn’t think I thanked her enough, and after what she did, I felt I owed her an explanation. So far, she hasn’t mentioned it. Luanne seems to have come to this meeting with a different agenda. She came to tell me about…herself.
“I wasn’t allowed to watch TV,” she continued. “Not even Sesame Street. My parents said it would impede my intellectual development. And Disney films? Forget it. Poison for the mind, they said. When other kids were playing outside, I was in the house practicing the piano or the cello. Or reading books. I read “Oliver Twist” at age nine. The following year, I was studying Shakespeare. Eventually, other kids stopped inviting me to play dates.”
“Excellence was paramount when I was growing up. In school, a grade of B was tantamount to failure. I learned I had to be the best at everything I did. Second place was not an option. My parents never praised me. They rarely ever hugged me or said that they loved me. It was always compete, compete, compete. They said that was the only way to success in this world.”
“I skipped a grade. That made things worse. I was already socially underdeveloped; now, my classmates were older than me. At age thirteen, I wore glasses and braces. The other girls in my class were turning into women. I was ugly. I hated how I looked. Then, finally, puberty hit. I became tall, my body filled out, curves appeared, and of course, these showed up,” she explained, pointing to her boobs. The braces came off. I wore contact lenses. Later, I got LASIK surgery. But now, boys noticed me. They talked to me. They flirted. Everything changed. I now had a new world to compete in. I was determined to be the most beautiful girl in every class. No, the whole school. That continued through high school.
“My parents wouldn’t let me date. By my senior year, I was allowed out if my suitor passed their requirements. He must be an accomplished young man from a prominent family. I didn’t mind at the time. After all, I was out to be better than everyone else, and that included having a guy that other girls could only dream about. That was me, Little Miss Perfect. I didn’t see it at the time, but it’s no wonder I had very few girlfriends.”
“I was the high school valedictorian at graduation. I was awarded a scholarship to a well known university. During my sophomore year of college, I entered the Miss Texas pageant and finished third. I was crushed. I convinced myself the winner cheated. It was silly, but I couldn’t accept someone finishing ahead of me. I formally filed a complaint with the pageant directors. It was dismissed, and I only succeeded in making a fool of myself. But I was sure I was right.”
“I majored in political science. I was doing just fine, earning all As. Then one night, everything changed. A guy named Chris, that I worked with at the school newspaper, invited me to an off-campus party at a house he was sharing with a group of other guys. His father was a CEO of a chain of banks and president of the university's board of trustees. My parents would’ve loved him. He was nice and well respected, so I went. There were a lot of people there. I remember mingling, and then suddenly, I felt lightheaded and unsteady. I was drinking a plastic cup of punch Chris had given me. I wondered how much alcohol was in it because I hadn’t drunk much. I felt very sleepy and couldn’t stand. I told Chris. He took me to his bedroom and had me lie on his bed. I blacked out. The next thing I remember, I was on my back, nude. Chris was on top of me. I tried to scream but couldn’t. I kept saying ‘no’ over and over but could barely get the words out. Then, Chris went into me as I kept saying no. I felt like I was underwater. I blacked out again.”
“I woke up alone in the bed the next morning. Chris came into the room and said we both had a great time, but now I must leave. I was shocked. I ran back to my dorm room and cried. I knew I had been drugged. I called my doctor, who advised me to go to a hospital ER. There, I gave them a urine sample which tested positive for Rohypnol, a date rape drug. The police asked me if I wished to press sexual assault charges. I was so confused; I said ‘no.’ I would report it to the university.”
“The university started the investigation process if you could call it that. I was interviewed by a committee and had to answer humiliating questions. I hated Chris. I hated myself. I quit the school newspaper. I didn’t want to be anywhere near Chris.”
“One day, when I was alone in my dorm room, I heard a forceful knock on the door. I opened it.
‘Bitch! Whore!’ a curly-haired brunette named Angela screamed at me. ‘You’re a fucking liar making shit up about my boyfriend, Chris.”
“‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘You mean Chris the rapist?’”
“‘Fuck you, bitch. If you say that again, I’ll fuck you up.,’ she shot back.”
“I told her to leave, but it was no use. She called me a slut, a skank, and a whore. I said Chris was a sorry excuse for a human being and a worthless piece of shit. That’s when she slapped me, and the fight was on.”
“I snapped. A sudden rage overwhelmed me. I didn’t know how to fight then, but it didn’t matter. I ripped into this woman like a force of nature, doing anything I could to hurt her. I punched, slapped, kicked, scratched, and pulled hair. She did the same to me, but I was stronger and got the best of her. We rolled across the floor, thrashing at each other with everything we had. Finally, I got on top of her, pinned her down, and finished her off. I punched her in the face, her belly. She begged me to stop, but I didn’t at first. By the time I was done, her face was swollen, her lip was split, and she ended up with a black eye. I remember her running across the campus, wailing loudly.”
“The following day, I was notified to appear before another investigative committee. I was accused of assault and battery. I explained everything. I told the truth that Angela was the instigator and attacked me first.”
“A week later, I was summoned by the administration. Conclusions were reached in both cases. Charges against Chris were dropped due to ‘insufficient evidence.’ I, on the other hand, committed an unlawful act of violence and was expelled.”
Luanne’s last sentence hit me like a sack of bricks. “Oh…Luanne…I’m so sorry…I had no idea….That’s terrible,” I awkwardly struggle with my words.
“Yeah,…well, when you’re up against the son of the president of the board of trustees, you’ve already lost.” After a pause, she continued. “Just like that. My life was gone like a puff of smoke. Perfect me. Finished. I had nothing. My parents practically disowned me. I moved into an apartment. I waited tables. I worked as an office receptionist. Sometimes I held down two jobs.”
“Did you apply to another school?” I ask.
“I assumed I would eventually, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was in pain. I was angry. Very angry. My life was ruined. I thought about my fight with Angela. I thought about it a thousand times. I remembered how I defeated her, how I dominated her, how I punched her. Do you know something? I have no regrets or remorse for that. For that moment, she was at my mercy. I owned her. I was superior to her. For that time, I was actually in control of something. And you know what? I wanted to experience that again. I wanted to fight. I wanted to hurt another woman trying to hurt me.”
“So I learned how to fight. I was bitter and had a chip on my shoulders. I’d challenge any woman who looked at me the wrong way. I got in a few scraps that were broken up quickly. This was before the catpin website. I had a few arranged fights with women I contacted on the internet. I won them all. I realized when I was fighting, I felt good about myself again. I was good at it. Once again, I wanted to be the best at something. I was determined to be the best catfighter in Texas, and I wanted all the other women to know it.”
Luanne sighs. “Then I met Richard. I was a cocktail waitress, and he was sitting at a table with his law firm colleagues. We flirted. I gave him my phone number. Our relationship took off. We married two years later. Financially, I was in good shape. He was in a top law firm. We had a good income, a big house.”
“Did he know about your past?” I asked.
“Yes, I told him everything. The rape, the fight, me getting expelled. He accepted it. What surprised me the most was his fascination with my fighting. He asked me questions about it over and over again, wanting all the details. He begged me to arrange a fight and let him watch. It took a while, but we traveled all the way to Loredo for me to fight this Mexican girl named Gabriela in front of our husbands. I won. Richard got so turned on…I got no sleep that night, let me tell you.”
“After we got married, I had a few more fights. Opponents weren’t easy to find. Then, I already had kids—first the boys, then Madison. I retired from catfighting undefeated to devote myself to being a full-time wife and mom. My parents warmed up a little bit, enough to see their grandkids, but I was still a failure in their eyes. I was a failure to myself. No college degree, no career. I had nothing to show for my life. Catfighting was the only thing where I excelled, and now that was gone. So, I found where I could now be the best, where I could excel and be perfect. That was…my family.”
“Yes, my family. That was my new vocation, to be the perfect wife, the perfect mom, and raise perfect kids. My husband was increasingly recognized as one of the city’s best attorneys. My children all had the talent to be the best at whatever they did. I would guide them. I would mold them. I would drive them hard to study and get them to the top of their class. I put them in music lessons and personally watched them practice. The boys played sports. And you know what? They succeeded—they're still succeeding. My kids get straight As. They’ve all won numerous awards. My family’s perfection was my perfection.”
“Except,…I still wasn’t satisfied. I was very proud of my family and everything I’ve done for them. But what about me? I wasn’t completely fulfilled. The bitterness of my wasted talent swelled up again. I still had this drive to be the best at something. My desire to fight was reawakened. I found the catpin website. It had been years since my last fight, and I was now in my thirties. Richard and I talked about it. I joined the site, fought a few women, and earned my catpin. I discovered that I still had it. I loved that rush of victory, of breaking another woman’s will, of her admitting my superiority. I ran my catpin record to an undefeated 7-0. Miss Perfect was back. Once again, life was wonderful. And then…and then…then…I met you at the dance school.”
“Again, everything changed. I was a failure. I failed myself, my family, my parents, All the anger and bitterness from my college years came back.”
“Luanne,” I interjected. “Maybe that’s your problem. Fighting and winning all the time isn’t going to cover up the past. And if perfection is your only acceptable outcome, you’re guaranteed to be disappointed. The best we can do is to strive to be better tomorrow than we are today.
“That’s what my therapist tells me,” she says. “Therapist?” She smirks. “I never thought that would be a word applied to me.”
“You know,” Luanne continued, “when I first saw you in the waiting room, I was so unimpressed. And when you showed me your catpin, I wanted to laugh in your face. I thought you had no chance against me. I underestimated you. But, there’s something about you I don’t understand…Is it OK if I as you something?”
“Um…OK.”
“You said you went to Yale, and you were in Phi Beta Kappa.”
“That’s right.”
“So…why did you…why are you…”
“I know what you’re asking,” I interrupted. “Why am I just a nurse?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like that…But I thought people go to Ivy League schools to become senators, judges, Wall Street wizards, and Fortune 500 CEOs. Didn’t you at least want to be a doctor?”
“Yale actually has a large nursing school,” I replied. “I briefly considered applying to medical school. It’s just that it would have been a massive life commitment and there were other things I wanted to do with my life. As I’ve said before, nursing gives me purpose and meaning. I love it.”
“But why Yale? Wouldn’t it have been a lot cheaper to go to a nursing school somewhere else?”
I smile. I know Luanne’s question is out of ignorance rather than an intention to insult, so I answer. “To me, college is much more than preparing for a career. At Yale, I studied literature, theatre, and world history. I loved it all. I still enjoy those things. Yale was definitely worth it. You see, Luanne, I was never about trying to impress anyone.”
“Yes, that’s what I picked up about you. You’re obviously very smart and have talent, but you just do your thing and don’t care what anybody thinks. And you’re doing what makes you happy. I guess I felt…jealous…that maybe you found contentment that I never did. Then I saw you with your daughter, and I could see the bond the two of you had. Then I started to realize something horrible. My daughter Maddie reminded me of myself as a girl that age. And I…was just like my mother. I married a man just like my dad. I was horrified. Was I just as distant from my daughter as my parents were to me? Did Maddie feel as unloved as I did? That’s when I went into therapy…For the sake of my kids.”
Luanne again turns her eyes to the table and resumes her monologue, “But then, I saw you at the nightclub, and I thought maybe she’s not OK. Maybe she’s just as fucked up as I am.”
I feel comfortable explaining the whole mess to Luanne. After all, she poured her heart out to me. I tell her about my loss to Cynthia and all the fallout that followed. She gives me an empathetic ear. We conclude that we are both women who made mistakes trying to cover our wounds, and we’re trying to figure things out, although my hurts are nothing compared to Luanne’s. We pay our checks and hug. I’m glad to have Luanne as a new friend and hope I can help her in her struggles to find inner peace and stability. And maybe she can help me too. She and I plan to work out at the gym tomorrow.
It’s Saturday morning. I drop Clarissa at Luanne’s house, where Richard offers to watch the kids while Luanne and I head off to the gym in my car. Luanne looks great in her pink tank top with black gym shorts, while I’m in my matching blue seamless sports bra with booty biker shorts. Entering the gym, we make our way to the weight machines.
I begin with the butterfly press, working my pectoral muscles while Luanne watches. I’m not sure why she’s looking at me instead of finding her own starting point. I finish as Luanne takes my place and goes to work. I head to the bench press. As I finish, Luanne is standing next to me.
“Kiva,” she says, “you did 20 reps on the butterfly, and I did 25. And I used 50 lb, 10 lb more than you.” I’m not sure why she told me that, but I nod. Luanne takes over the bench press and adjusts the pin to add weight. “How many reps did you do?” She asks.
“Another twenty.”
I watch her vigorously pump the handles. “23, 24….25..there…5 more than you.”
The rest of our weight routine follows the same pattern. I go first and Luanne ups the weight and reps, then proceeds to tell me she outperformed me. It’s getting annoying.
We take our places on two treadmills next to each other. As I listen to music with my air buds, I notice Luanne constantly comparing our readouts. When I speed up, she speeds up. She checks our speed, distances, and caloric output. I stop after forty-five minutes while she continues for a full hour. She cools off, then informs me she beat my time, distance, and average rpm.
“Luanne,” I respond, “What’s the point? Are we having a competition?”
“I’m sorry,” she offers. “I just can’t help myself. Old habits die hard, you know.”
“Let’s get a drink,” I suggest.
We sip energy drinks while sitting on bar stools at the snack bar. We talk about our kids, our neighborhoods, and hairstyles when I hear familiar but unwelcome voices behind me.
“Look, it’s Kiva.”
“Yep, that’s her. She’s the one that got her ass kicked by Cynthia. Then I taught her a lesson myself.”
I turn around to see Tori, the unwise pharmacist who double-crossed me at Billy’s Sports Bar Fight Club, and her smaller sister, Amber, a bratty college cheerleader who ambushed me the night I fought Cynthia. I have a bad history with both of these weasels, and right now, I have no time or patience for them. Now, here they are, dressed in red and black tank tops and gym shorts.
“What’s up, Kiva,” Tori says. “We hear you’re doing the boinky boinky with Frank these days.”
“Yeah,” Amber adds. “What took you so long? Frank is old news to us. He’s so cheugy. He used to be hot, but now he’s stuck chaser older skanks.”
“I’m going to give you idiots the chance to finally make a good decision for once in your lives and leave now,” I warn.
“Or maybe I should say Frank likes weak old skanks,” Amber adds. “You should have seen her at Cynthia’s. Before the fight, she’s in her bare titties, kissing her husband with her nips sticking out, strutting around like she’s some kind of sex queen. After the fight, she’s bawling in the bathroom. I tried to get her into a wrestling match, but she’s too chicken, so I showed her what I can do.”
“That’s not true, jackass,” I shot back.
“I had her pinned and begging for mercy.”
“You’re a liar, you little twat.”
“Hey!” Tori barks. “No one talks to my little sister like that. If you mess with Amber, you mess with me!”
“I’m shaking in my shoes,” I sarcastically shoot back.
Tori pauses for a few seconds. “I think Amber and Kiva need to settle this now.”
“Finally,” Amber responds, “No more excuses from this loser.”
“And what about your friend?” Tori inquires. “Does she fight?”
“This is Luanne,” I inform.
“I asked if she fights,” Tori repeats.
Luanne fishes through her gym bag and flashes her catpin. “Does this answer your question?” she deadpans.
“Perfect!” Tori exclaims. “Amber against Kiva. Me against Loony.”
“Tori,” I say in a solemn voice. “I tried once before to spare you from a painful humiliation. You didn’t listen. I have no expectations that you’re any smarter this time, but I’ll try anyway. I strongly advise you not to fight Luanne.”
“Nice try, Kiva,” she replies. “Your friend has no idea what she’s in for. Billy has been teaching me everything he knows.”
“I don’t doubt that. I’m sure you’ve learned a lot of new floor positions,” I slyly answer.
“So,” Tori confirms. “Amber versus Loser. Tori versus Loony. What rules shall we have? Amber wants catty wrestling.”
“None,” I snap decisively. “No holds barred. Anything goes. Wrestling is an athletic contest. I want a fight. The objective of a fight is to hurt someone. I want to fuck up Amber’s face so badly that her friends won’t recognize her. She won’t be able to eat for weeks. Her meals will be liquid pumped into her stomach through a plastic tube. You are ok with that, aren’t you.”
“Damn, Kiva,” Tori says, looking slightly startled. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
“The two of you have called me weak, a loser, and chicken. So I should be an easy opponent for Amber, don’t you think?”
The sisters look at each other. “Fine, no holds barred.”
“Both fights go on at the same time,” I add. “There will be no interference in each other’s fight. Where can we fight?” I ask. “The combat room won’t be available.”
There’s a Best Western two miles from here that charges an hourly rate,” Tori informs.
“Why am I not surprised you know that?” I respond. “Losers pick up the tab.”
After all parties agree to my proposal, we leave the gym to head to our motel arena. “You have nothing to worry about,” I tell Luanne. “Tori is not in your class.”
The four of us arrive and head to our room. We move as much furniture as possible to maximize our space on the sitting area’s typical nylon carpet, creating a large enough empty central area, and leaving the most oversized objects like a sofa pushed against the walls. We set up our cell phone video recorders in various parts of the room. As the four of us stretch, I’m reminded my gym clothes are already sweaty.
“I say we fight in panties only,” I suggest. The other combatants agree. “Losers' panties go to the winners,” I add. “After the first fight is decided, the naked loser must give the winner a pony ride in a walk of shame to the bedroom where she will wait. The winner may watch the rest of the second fight but may not interfere.”
We each strip, removing our shoes, socks, tops, and shorts. I prefer microfiber or some combination of nylon and spandex panties when I work out, as cotton gets soaked with sweat rather quickly. But even my workout panties are uncomfortably moist. Fortunately, I have a pair of blue dress cotton panties in my gym back, so I switch. Luanne does the same, wearing a black lace bikini brief. I glance across the room and see Tori and Amber naked except for, unsurprisingly, red workout thongs.
We stretch for a few minutes until the four of us, clad only in our panties, prepare to meet in the center of the room. Like Cynthia, Amber, the cheerleader, performs a series of splits, handsprings, and back walkovers. As Luanne and I approach our foes, our bare breasts jiggling, Tori and Amber greet us with mockingly awestruck expressions as they look up and down our nearly naked bodies. I can’t deny that they are the picture of youth and vigor. They know it and begin posing for us in an attempt at intimidation. I’m giving up about 12 years to Amber, and Luanne is around 15 years older than Tori. Their contemptuous body language and looks of disdain are precisely what I expected from these two young self-absorbed bitches.
I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Luanne as we fix our eyes on our Generation Z opponents standing in front of us. We all place our hands on our hips as we size up one another.
There's not much resemblance between Tori and Amber, and I wonder if the two sisters have different fathers. They have different facial features, hair, and body types. Amber seems smaller than I remember from that night at Cynthia’s house. She looks to be about 5’3” and around 110 lbs. Her pixie face is framed by shoulder-length dark brown hair. Her body is petite but tight. Her boobs are small but not unusual for the size of her frame. The legs are muscular. As a varsity cheerleader, she’s obviously athletic. I have a 4-inch and 15-20 lb advantage. She eyes me head to toe and giggles in disrespect, giving me haughty looks as if I’m not worthy of her efforts.
Tori, at age 24, with her girlish face, topped by pulled back light brown hair, and her glowing skin, radiates the strength and vitality of a natural athlete. Physically, she matches up to Luanne at 5’8”, one inch shorter than her opponent but an equal 140 lb. They both have generous D-cup breasts, with Tori’s being rounder and looking a little more firm, like fresh grapefruits in summer. Her facial expressions and mannerisms display the carefree and reckless foolishness of her immaturity. She preens and cups her breasts at Luanne as if to establish she has the better body.
I look to my right at Luanne as she stares down Tori. Gone is the arrogant, obnoxious dance mom I once fought. In contrast to Tori’s clowning, her posture, stance, and fierce look in her eyes say she is all business. There is an unmistakable power, dignity, and femininity in her countenance. Perhaps I hadn’t realized the first time I met her the magnificence of her body. She raises her arms to tighten her ponytail, then placed them back on her hips without taking her steely gaze off her opponent. The look of determination is striking. When I look at her eyes, I see the Celtic Queen Boudica avenging her flogging and the rape of her daughters, ready to dismantle the Roman legions in the countryside of southern Britannia. Luanne was the Amazon Penthesilea, preparing her female warriors to sack Troy. She was Joan of Arc just before leading the French army into Orléans.
But yet, I see more. There is so much to Luanne one could only see by peeking beneath the surface as one peels back the layers of an onion. I feel like I am looking at an exquisite masterpiece of art full of subtle conflicting themes and emotions skillfully placed by a virtuoso artist. Luanne’s face and body are a mass of contradictions. Her eyes share ferocity with sorrow, pools of sadness of unfulfilled potential and lost opportunities. She rolls back her shoulders and deeply inhales, projecting her breasts outward. Her nipples aim at Tori like a pair of turrets in the act of war. As she deflates her lungs, these same breasts, which nurtured three children, slightly dip downward in self-doubt and parental misgivings. The lacy black panties, a symbol of female sexual power, cover her womanhood like a funeral curtain, lamenting a part of her that was taken and forever lost. The powerful legs are lithe killers, as I’ve experienced firsthand. With her eyes still fixed on Tori, she massages her calves with her perfectly pedicured feet as if to relieve the cramping and tightness from years of running from her past. I notice her subtly shifting her weight from one foot to the other as someone unsure of the very foundation on which she has built her life.
I feel a twinge of nervousness for Luanne. She’s changed so much. She’s been through so much. Is she still the same fighter? Has life beaten the fight out of her? What if she loses? To Tori, no less. Tori is younger and likely stronger. Maybe she is right, and Billy has turned her into a dangerous fighter. What will another defeat do to Luanne’s fragile psyche? Right now, I can’t think about it. I have my own fight with Amber.
The matched-up pairs walk to opposite ends of the room and face each other. Tori gives the signal, “One…Two…Three…Fight!”
Amber and I square off with our hands up. I know she fancies herself a wrestler and her stance shows it. She crouches low, eyeing my legs as targets. I’m a better striker than a wrestler. I plan to look for an opening and not give her the chance to tie me up.
My younger, smaller opponent shoots for my right leg, but I sprawl out of the way. We resume our neutral positions, and I expect her to try again, and I plan to counter. She shoots in again faster than I can blink. She seizes my right ankle, but I pull away, stumbling backward. Before I fully realize what is happening, she lifts my leg up, holds it, and drives me back further. I just learned this girl is very quick.
The little twat drives me back further, and I fall into the sofa in a seated position, slumped, with my bare back and head upright. Amber jumps up and straddles my lap as her arms reach for my head. I’m at a disadvantage in a very awkward position up against the upholstery as I try to push her back. She lunges closer to where our upper bodies are pressed together with my face against her petite Generation Z-aged tits.
I can barely react when I feel her arm wrap around the back of my head, forcing my neck to flex downward. Then I realize what she is doing. Amber nearly has me in a front guillotine choke. She’s trying to work her arm under my chin. She digs and wedges, but I clench my chin against the sternum and resist. I know if she completes the hold, my only options are to submit or pass out. I try not to panic. I knew she liked wrestling, but I didn’t realize she was this good. For a second, I consider how humiliating it would be to be put to sleep by this tiny shit who had already humiliated me at Cynthia’s. I’d likely never fight again.
We continue struggling for control of my vital neck structures. As I’m trapped in a seated position, my legs are not of much use. Amber raises herself higher, trying to gain additional leverage. I see my only way out of this precarious position. I wrap my arms around her trunk and push forward as hard as possible. We both tumble off the sofa and onto the floor, holding on to each other. I’m on top, but she still has control of my neck as I hold on to her waist.
Despite my efforts to keep my foe under control, Amber makes a series of maneuvers, and the next thing I know, our positions are reversed. I’m now flat on my belly with Amber situated on my back. I feel my left arm being pulled behind my back, pain shooting up my arm and shoulder as I now realize I’m caught in a chicken wing. I tell myself I’m still bigger and stronger than this wrestling twit; I try to power out of it. Again, Amber wraps an arm around my chin. I’m unsure if she’s trying for another choke or a crossface chicken wing submission. Either way, I know I’m in trouble. I tuck my chin down and try to resist. The pain in my arm is becoming unbearable.
The cheerleader persists. She scissors one of my legs and rolls, taking me along with her. From her back, she holds me face up on top of her; my arm is bent high up my back; I fail to prevent her other arm from wrapping across my chin and gripping her other arm as she locks in the crossface chicken wing. Intense pain now sears up my arm. I try to kick, but she has one of my legs trapped.
“Ready to give up and give me your panties? Cynthia has one of yours, and I want my own,” she taunts. “Give up!”
I try not to panic. I’m disappointed and angry with myself that I let this bratty turd do this to me. I’m already thinking I don’t belong fighting. She’s humiliating me in a one-sided fight. I haven’t even thrown a punch, my best weapon. I need to get better at wrestling. If I survive this fight, I tell myself, I’ll train in submission wrestling.
“Come on…”She adds. “Give up and give me a ponygirl ride….This is easy. Admit I’m the better wrestler.”
Wrestler? If this were a wrestling match, I’d be losing. But it’s not a wrestling match; it’s a no holds barred fight. With my free right arm, I bend my elbow and drive it down into her ribs. Amber squeals and releases the hold, allowing me to roll off of her.
I get to my feet and collect myself as Amber is on her knees, holding her side.
“FUCK!” She screams. “You fucking BITCH!”
She slowly stands, still rubbing her knees. Her teeth are clenched. Her face reveals her rage. “You dirty BITCH.” The furious college student tightens her fists. She has clearly lost her composure as she storms toward me. “FUCK!”
Abandoning her wrestling stance, Amber appears intent on dishing out violence. She cocks back her right fist and attacks. Using my boxing training, I easily deflect her wild right and counter with my right fist in an uppercut to her wide-open chin. It wasn’t my best punch, but it was effective, sending the insufferable punk stumbling several feet backward until she hits the wall, which prevents her from falling. For a few seconds, she looks stunned, then stabilizes her wobbly legs.
Amber’s face changes from confusion to hatred as she puts up her hands and prepares to attack. She rushes at me and seems to be returning to her strategy of aiming for my legs. This time, her movements are clumsy, and I knee her in the forehead. She lurches back into an upright stance. My young opponent seems dazed and is unprotected. I take advantage of the situation and fire a hard right hook, just like Freddie, my boxing trainer, taught me, punching from the shoulder and putting my weight behind it. My fist strikes Amber’s jaw, making a wet socking sound.
The dislikable woman tilts to her right, then falls like a bent tree onto her side. For a few seconds, she is motionless; then, the legs twitch involuntarily. Her head lifts upward from the floor. The eyes are widened but clueless, like a newly hatched baby bird poking its head out of the egg and seeing the world for the first time. The neck stretches as the vacant eyes scan the room before the head drops back to the floor again. Amber will not fight again today.
I take some deep breaths, stretch, and massage my sore arm and shoulder. For the first time since the start of the fight, I turn my attention to Luanne and Tori, who are in a standing position locked in mutual hair pulling with neither having a clear advantage. I walk over to Amber, place my foot on her chest and give the cameras my best “I’m a badass” pose.
Whether I like it or not, nursing is my affliction. It’s not my job; it’s my blood. And I know a concussion is no joke. Amber is awake but still foggy. She can state her name and place but doesn’t seem to know me or why she came here. I instruct her to lie still. Hopefully, she’ll clear up in a few minutes.
I quickly wash my face, grab a bottle of water and watch Luanne and Tori. Luanne has Tori trapped in a body scissors, but the solid young pharmacist powers her way out of it. I’m surprised this has been a close battle and has lasted so long. I expected Luanne to win easily. Has Tori really improved? Has Luanne declined? Or is it a combination of both? The topless women, separated by at least 15 years of age, roll around the floor, struggling and grunting in an entanglement of arms, legs, hands, feet, and tits. The tussle results in Tori pinning Luanne on her back, spreading her legs apart in a double grapevine. Luanne looks tired, and I fear this could be the beginning of the end. Tori had seen Amber knocked out on the floor and now seems to have turned her aggression to a new level. “Come on, Luanne,” I encourage. “You know how to escape this, girl. Fight her off. Be strong, girl, Be…what the FUCK!
Someone or something attacked me from behind, pulling my hair. “AMBER, what the FUCK.”
“We’re finishing our fight,” my knockout victim explained.
“Our fight is OVER!” I scream. “You LOST!”
“The fight is not over until one of us gives up!” She argues. “I never gave up.”
“Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME? Let go of me NOW!”
“Are you submitting?” the stupid shit asks.
I ignore the pain in my scalp as Amber pulls and twists my hair. I maneuver in close to her body and bury my right fist, already sore and swollen from the knockout punch, into her belly. She lets go of my hair, doubles over, and drops to her knees.
“Now, is the fight over?” I demand an answer.
“No,” she answers defiantly.
I’ve had more than enough. I tackle her to the floor and mount her in a schoolgirl pin. I hold my fist up to her face and warn, “Either give up now, or I promise this fist will go through your nose and out the back of your head!”
“Don’t,” Amber sobbed. “I quit.”
I stay on her for a minute with my fist pressed on her nose to drive home the message. “Panties, please,” I order. I dismount to let her strip, keeping my fist cocked, so there is no further chicanery. She peels off her thong under my watchful eye, then flings it onto a lampshade, still trying to be as difficult as possible.
“Now get on all fours, ponygirl,” I demand.
As Amber lifts herself onto her hands and knees, I see Tori nude and flat on her back, with Luanne standing on her, holding her panties overhead in a victory pose.
“What happened?” I ask.
“She made a huge mistake,” Luanne explained. “She shot in on me, and I spun around behind her. She lifted up her head, and I choked her from behind.”
“I see the old Tori finally showed up,” I chuckle before my inner nurse reappears. “Is she…”
“She’s fine,” Luanne assured me. “She tapped, and I gave her a chance to confirm it. She was never completely out.”
I saddle up on Amber’s bare back and watch Luanne do the same to Tori. Luanne smacks her horse on the ass and orders her forward. I instruct Amber to follow her sister. Wild West music plays in my head as Luanne and I hit the Oregon Trail to the bathroom.
We dismount and face our conquests. The two sisters pout like petulant children who were just told they couldn’t have ice cream before dinner. I see the side of Amber’s face is swollen, and I offer to bring her ice.
“Fuck you,” is her response.
“Fine,” I reply. “Well, I guess our business here is over. The two of you will not leave this room until Luanne and I have left the motel. And don’t forget to stop at the desk to pay for the room.”
“Shut the fuck up and get out!” Amber squawks.
Amber and I leave the bedroom, closing the door behind us. We take our gym bags and change into our shorts and extra T-shirts we carry with us. I notice four nail marks on Luanne’s right breast. “She had her moments,” she dismisses, “no big deal.”
“I would have destroyed you if this was wrestling,” Amber shouts from behind the bedroom door.
“Keep telling yourself that, Amber,” I call back. I retrieve her thong as my prize as Luanne and I collect our gym bags and cell phones. Amber still isn’t finished.
“Kiva, Kiva, biggest loser in town
Cynthia beat you up and threw you down
She made you cry, and you felt her spit
She left you lying in the ring like a piece of shit.”
“Good one, Amber. Feel better now?” I ask.
“Kiva, Kiva
You really suck
You can’t fight
And you probably can’t fuck.”
Luanne giggles. “Who knows? Maybe with some practice, she’ll be a successful songwriter someday,” she suggests.
I gather up Tori’s and Amber’s gym clothes and shoes, holding them in my arms with my gym bag strapped around my shoulder, and head out the door. “What are you doing?” Luanne asks.
“Housekeeping,” I answer.
The motel door shuts behind us as we walk into the parking lot. I stop at the trash dumpster. “Luanne, will you assist me, please?”She obliges, lifting up the large metal lid. I throw Tori and Amber’s clothes into the odorous abyss as Luanne lets the lid drop with a resounding clang.
I start the car as we head back to Luanne’s house. “It was an honor fighting beside you,” I tell her.
“We both did pretty well,” she says. “Tori was tough, but I knew all along I’d get her. I had a plan, and she fell into it. It was a matter of time. I just had to wait. My plan worked…perfectly…What about you? I was worried about you. When I looked over, that little pip-squeak had you tied up like a pretzel. I think I was the best fighter in the room today.”
“Luanne,” I suggest, “maybe it’d be more useful to say we’re both glad we won today, but we can both improve for next time.”
“Yeah…” She tilts her head as if in thought. “We can get better.”
That’s my girl, I’m thinking. I notice Luanne in the passenger side tapping her cell phone.
“Richard, hey honey, Kiva and I are done working out. I’m on my way home. And I have a surprise to show you….Um…could you put Madison on?”
“Hi, Maddie, what are you doing, sweetie? Studying geography?… I want you to know that Mommy loves you very much….And I thought for tonight, instead of flute practice, you and I could spend time together. Yes. We’ll make some popcorn. We’ll sit in front of the TV and watch “The Little Mermaid.” Sound good? Me too. I can’t wait…Mommy’s coming home.”
