Chapter 8: Friday Night Lights Out (cont’d)
Part II. The Fight
“Are you ready, ladies?” Josh asks, “Get ready and....FIGHT!”
Cynthia races out of her corner like a wildcat with its tail on fire. I’m not surprised given all the hostility she’s built up at me. She looks like she wants to take my head off. I let her charge across eighty percent of the ring as I wait for her. My boxing training prepared me for this. I time my sidestep perfectly and let her swing wildly, then I counter with a light slap across her face. It didn’t hurt but it frustrated her, adding to her anger. She rushes after me again, but I backpedal and circle, flicking backhanded jabs at her face. I plant my feet and throw combinations, landing one hard slap. I know I can beat her in a slap fight and it’s to my advantage to keep it a stand up fight. Cynthia realizes this too as I rain a flurry of slaps to the head and a few punches to the body. Outside the ring pom poms are shaking and cheerleaders are chanting. I don’t know what they’re saying and I don’t care.
Cynthia moves forward with determination and crouches, looking for an opening. Ignoring my slaps, the cheerleading coach bends her knees and springs her body at me like a heat seeking missile. I’m surprised at the force of the impact as her shoulder strikes my belly and she wraps her arms around my waist. Air is knocked out of me as I fall backward with my opponent landing on top of me. Instinctively, I roll over. We grab onto each other’s arms and battle with our legs as Cynthia rolls off of me. We bowl across the ring in a catball, alternating top and bottom positions, seizing each other’s hair bun, grunting and shrieking, slapping ineffectively. As we reverse directions, I feel the power of Cynthia’s legs as they begin to dominate mine. As our legs entwine, I find it harder to kick hers away. Finally, from the bottom position, her thighs scissor my right leg. I can no longer roll and she has me trapped in an awkward side position. Her leg muscles tighten, engulfing mine, as I’m twisted onto my shoulder.
Cynthia’s face is positioned behind my head and I feel her breath on my ear. One of her hands yanks my hair back while the other grasps my chin, squishing my mouth into a distorted pucker.
“So, you don’t like how I live my life, bitch?” her scratchy voice gnarls in my ear. “By the time I’m done with you, I’ll make you kiss my footprints.”
She lets go of my mouth and I feel the slaps from behind striking me in the head and belly. My left arm is trapped under my side, I cover my head with my free right arm. Cynthia continues her slapping attack until she notices my breasts are exposed. I let out a scream as her hand clamps on my left boob and squeezes. I twist and squirm but can’t free my scissored leg to escape. Finally, I fire back with my elbow, striking her on the collarbone, sending her backward. I pull my upper body up enough to sink my elbow into her thigh, then again, and again. Her leg grip relents. I pull my leg out from between her knees and roll away.
We both warily stand, about eight feet apart, our hands raised for striking. That’s fine with me. Cynthia rushes in and once again, I make a quick lateral dodge, and fire a right handed slap which lands flush on her cheek. Angry and irritated, she chases after me, swinging wildly. I’m now thoroughly convinced I have a strong advantage in a stand up fight. I dominate the woman, landing several combinations to the head, then a hard left punch to the ribs for good measure. Cynthia retreats, her face red, wearing her frustration. I see her crouching again, about to make another lunging charge. This time I’m ready.
She rushes forward and with exquisite timing, I sidestep, wrap one arm around her shoulder and spin her into a corner. With her momentum working against her, Cynthia crashes her back into the corner pad. I quickly move in, running my shoulder into her chest, keeping her trapped in the neutral corner. Yanking her head back by the hair, I hold onto her arms, and thrust my body into hers several times. Using the ropes for leverage, I give her a few more shoulder blows to the chest and belly, keeping our bodies close. I line up my tits against hers and press into her pulling on the ropes for extra pressure. I know this doesn’t have much physical effect but the sensation of my girls mashing her popular girl perky puppies is a psychological lift for me and I’m sure is demoralizing for her as I drive my pec muscles into hers, flattening our tits. At close range, our breathing and grunting sounds become louder and faster.
I back up enough to send heavy artillery, driving a knee into her belly, then another one, eliciting an “oomph” from the former cheerleader. She tries to double over, but I pull her up by her hair, keeping her in the corner. “You’re the nobody, loser,” I growl out.
She grabs onto my arm and works her other hand around my head, grabbing on to my hair. Our hair buns are nearly unraveled as I latch onto her light brown locks. Cynthia manages to spin out of the corner as we maintain our hold on each other’s hair, slapping with our free hand. We waltz around in this bitch clench, slapping with everything we have. This should be to my advantage but her face is at an angle making it difficult for me to land clean shots. We yank each other’s head back and forth, dancing in a circle, kicking at each other’s legs. Finally, disoriented and off balance, we tumble to the mat, neither of us letting go of the hold on the other woman’s mane.
Struggling for control, we roll across the ring in another catball, screaming and cursing as we struggle for a dominant position. Finally, I pry Cynthia’s talons off my hair and roll on top of her, pinning her wrists to the mat. I straddle her chest, straightening myself up, perching onto her upper body in a school girl pin. For a moment, we both pause trying to catch our breath. I don’t want to lose my chance so I slide my butt up, and squeeze her head with my knees. If I move now, I can end this. If I can trap her arms under my shins, she’ll be finished. I might be able to finish her with a …facesit!
Cynthia pushes back with her arms but I know it’s a matter of time that she’ll drain her strength underneath me. I can feel it. Suddenly, the strong muscular legs go vertical and her hips lift off the ground. With a violent bucking sensation, I’m thrown off of her. Off balance, she pushes me out of the way, and rolls to freedom.
I’m on my hands and knees, I rise preparing to attack. As I straighten, I’m nailed by a hard kick to the sternum, sending me reeling into the ropes. Before I can react, I see Cynthia charging with her fist cocked. I have no time to get out of the way or block as the punch forcefully strikes my chest at the same location as the kick. I roll along the ropes, stunned and coughing as I hold my chest. And I know Cynthia is stalking as I flop into the corner.
The former national cheerleader champion closes in and I’m in no condition to get out of her way. I straighten up, still holding my breast bone, when I see Cynthia kick up her leg with the fluency and agility of a Rockette. Like a ballerina on the balance barre, her foot lodges on my neck, just beneath my jaw, pushing my head back over the corner ropes. My throat gurgles as her sole presses on my airway. Desperately, I grab onto her ankle, punching and digging my nails into the skin, until she relents and I feel the pressure subside from my throat.
“Fuck,” she snapped, seizing my breasts with her own claws in retaliation. I try to scream but can only make throaty sounds after her attacks on my chest and airway. She backs out of the corner, leading me by the tits as her nails stay embedded into the flesh. Screaming, I have no choice but to comply as she walks me to the center of the ring until our feet are on her beloved logo. Her talons shift from my boobs to my hair which has now lost all semblance of a bun. Pain sears across my scalp as she pulls, planting her feet and swinging me in a circle. I voluntarily move my feet to lessen the pressure, until Cynthia spins faster and I’m stumbling uncontrollably. She gives one final pull before flinging me helplessly down to the mat, sending me into a twisted heap.
I’m still coughing and choking, struggling for my breath as I’m lying on my side, outside the logo circle. I pull up with one arm, then the other, then up on all fours. I knew immediately it was a mistake. A powerful pair of thighs wrap around my waist, the ankles locking together. I panic and twist. Too late. As I turn, Cynthia cinches in her dreaded body scissors and falls to my side. Our bodies are perpendicular in a T shape. I’m facing her as she convulses her leg muscles squeezing my lower ribs and abdomen. I gasp as my already compromised breathing is even more restricted. I try to pry her ankles apart but my arm strength is no match for her leg power. My hands are free but so are hers. Her boobs and head are far out of reach. She tries to grab my wrists. If she does, it will be over. My hands and arms are all I have.
My breathing sounds like throaty raspy groans like a dying animal. “Give up, bitch,” Cynthia orders. “It’s over, you pompous ass. Tell us the truth. You’re a nobody. Say it. Spare yourself more pain…SAY IT!”
My entire torso has been bruised and battered. I can’t breath. Cynthia’s squeezes come in waves of spasms, again and again. I lie on the mat like a deer being killed by an anaconda. I dig my nails into her thigh. She laughs. “You’re going nowhere, Miss Snotty…Give up!
One of my elbows is between her thighs. If I can reach up high enough. It’s my only chance. A little more.
“Give up, already,” she snaps impatiently. “Fine, I can squeeze you here all night.”
I hear my husband, “Kiva, do you want to submit.” I work my fingers a little higher.
“N..Nnn..No,” I can barely croak out.
I’m almost there, a little more. Yes! I made it. I can barely drill my nails into her red panty covered pussy but it’s enough. “Aaauuuuggh,” she shrieks as she unlocks her legs and draws up her knees. I roll away as quickly as possible, sucking air, my chest aching with each breath. Cynthia takes a moment to soothe her womanhood giving me some time to try to recover.
Slowly, we both rise to our feet. Our skin shines with sweat. Our stringy wet hair is in our faces. Cynthia is still in better shape and she resumes the role of aggressor. I take a defensive position, backing away and keeping my hands up, again utilizing my boxing training. I taunt her, daring her to come after me, then retreat trying to fill air in my lungs. She lunges and I dodge her. She shoots in, I sidestep her, and deliver a slap to the side of the head. She’s frustrated. “Come on loser, fight, this isn’t a dance contest,” she grumbles.
I stick my tongue out at her. Now she’s infuriated.
That’s what I want. Cynthia charges at me, hands up. I feign a retreat. Her hands reach for my hair, but I duck down, punching her in the ribs with one of the hardest right hands I’ve ever thrown. The blow hurt my hand but I know it hurt Cynthia much worse. She doubles over, clutching her ribs, staggering, almost falling as she stumbles into the ropes. Now it’s my turn to go on the attack. I got her back to the ropes and fire a knee to her belly which she mostly blocks with her arms, keeping them low to protect her bruised body. Her head, unguarded, is an easy target so I fire a vicious slap to the face. I undo the last vestige of her light brown hair bun and grab hold of her strands like a greedy only child.
I pull the has been to center of the ring by her locks and begin to spin. “Now you’re going for a ride, bitch.”l I’m standing on the logo with my prey, gleefully twirling her in a circle. Around she goes, until I trip her feet sending down on her precious emblem. She rolls on her belly as I pounce on her back. With her face down, I seize her legs, folding one of them, forcing the calf into the crease of the other knee. I crank her ankle up, crushing the other legs calf as she lies with her tits down, pounding the mat in exasperation.
Her arms reach behind her in futility. I shift upward and seat myself on her folded leg at the ankle, incapacitating both legs. I look down at the red panties with number 18 on her ass with amusement. How absurd. Ridiculous people. I’m about to let her know what I think of the matter. My hands are free. The opportunity is too inviting. I open my hand and slap down hard on her husband’s old venerated number. Again, And again. Smack, Smack. I want to beat the shit out of the stupid 18. She tries to block with her hands but I can control them with my other free hand. After several blows, I decide it’s time for number 18 to go. I pull the silly underwear down, exposing her bare ass. She shrieks with anguish and anger as I resume the spanking on her naked butt. “I’m gonna beat these panties right off of you, sweetie,” as I deliver another series of slaps to vulnerable skin. She cries and squirms in vain as the pallor of her nude cheeks turn to scarlet.
It feels like poetic justice to humiliate her right on her holy school symbol. I get a strange sense of satisfaction beating her ass red in the middle of the circular logo. As much as I’m enjoying this, I need to put her away and end it. I quickly release her legs and bounce onto her back, seizing her hair in the back of her head. I pull back as she helplessly tries to reach around and grab my arms. I push back down, burying her face into the mat. Straight ahead, I see Josh outside the ring in his own absurd red 18 jersey and I take delight in pulling Cynthia’s head up so he can see his wife’s anguished face - just before I plough her nose back down into the canvas.
I force her head side to side, rubbing her face into her precious school symbol. “This is it, honey,” I taunt. “This is your life. This is all you have. Why don’t you kiss it?” I mock as I press down even harder. She garbled something I couldn’t understand but I’m sure it wasn’t polite.
I know this is torture to her. Still, I know this won’t submit her. It’s time to get serious. I snake an arm under her armpit and place my hand behind her head in a quarter nelson. I shift my body to her side, place my other hand into her crotch, now free of the panties, and roll her over onto her back. Quickly, I mount her chest and nail her arms down under my knees. There! A tight schoolgirl pin. I press my thighs against both sides of her head and squeeze. I snicker at her exposed bush and the red panties around her thighs.
She’s almost finished. She looks defeated. The confident expression is gone. The green eyes look tired and desperate. This shouldn’t take long. I twist behind me and deliver two warning shots with my fists to her belly. “Give up!” I demand. She grunts out her defiance.
I squeeze my thighs together distorting her face again. I see Josh looking very worried. The only way she can escape is by hooking me with her killer legs so I stay low out of reach. I nail her belly again and she takes it. Finally, I see a surefire way of finishing this. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this but I want it to be over. With my weight on her chest and her arms secure beneath my knees, my pussy is just below her chin. I seize her hair and yank her nose into my blue panty covered pussy.
“Give up!” I order. No response.
“Give up!” She doesn’t even seem to be struggling. Did she pass out?
I let her head fall back to the mat. In that instant, a pair of pythons quickly wrap around my neck pulling my body backwards and off to the side.
“Holy shit! How the fuck did she do that? No human being has that kind of flexibility. But this woman seems to be made out of rubber. Even the displaced panties didn’t limit her range of motion. However, I learned my lesson. Cynthia’s scissors holds mean death. I voluntarily vacate my mount, pop my head out from between her legs and roll away.
I quickly stand and hover over my opponent. I’m angry and frustrated. I can’t believe I let her use her legs like that. But I know she’s hurt and waiting to be finished. Playing cat and mouse, I watch my prey roll onto her hands and knees and struggle to stand, pulling her red panties up to their proper position. I circle behind her. As soon as she gets onto her feet, I fire a devastating left handed slap to the face. She staggers back and nearly falls. I follow up with a vicious right slap that nearly turned her head around. Cynthia reels across the ring, collapsing near the ropes.
I’m standing on the emblem observing my fallen foe. Her eyes are glassy. To her credit, she gets up on one knee. It’s clear she doesn’t want to quit. Her eyes focus on me. She looks at me with utter contempt. The bitch. I’m beating the hell out of her and she’s still defiant. Then she lips words with her mouth. The meaning is clear. “You’re…A….Nobody.”
Fuck! Really?…I mean really?. Isn’t that just like the popular girls at school. You best them at something and they still don’t give you credit. My dislike of Cynthia just reached new heights. Or maybe more like new lows. Fuck you! Fuck your school!
Standing alone on the logo, I impulsively try to hurt Cynthia mentally in the worst way I know how. I wipe my feet on her hallowed school symbol, simulating the wiping of dirt on a doormat. I watch her eyes widen with shock and I see a flame of anger. On one knee, her face morphs into an expression of bitter hatred as she watches me desecrate her revered idol.
I glare back at her. I return my own look of disdain but I know mine does not match hers in intensity. That’s right, bitch, I hear myself speaking internally. For that moment, she represents every popular girl I couldn’t stand in high school. The cliques. The conceit. The arrogance. And she’s right in front of me, just waiting for me to finish her off. I’m coming for you, bitch. In a moment, it will be over. But before I turn your lights out, let me show you one last time what I think of your school spirit. I mimic a deep breath and a throat clearing motion. I heave my neck and chest forward as if I’m about to spit on her cherished logo, that symbol that means everything important in her life.
Oh my God! I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen. It was supposed to be a pantomime, just a gesture. But it happened. I lurched forward making a hacking sound. From somewhere deep inside my chest, a gob of phlegm travels up to my throat, then spews out from my mouth into the air. The disgusting ball of mucus travels a few feet before falling with a splat on the holy red and white lettering in the center of the ring. I honestly didn’t intend for this - but I did it. And I can’t take it back.
Still on her knee, Cynthia’s face contorts into monstrous mask, as if she just watched me drive a dagger through the heart of her child. She crouches on her haunches, I see her leg muscles twitch. I prepare myself for what’s coming.
“YOU FUCKING CXNT!!!” she screams, as she leaps up from the canvas and charges. Shrieking like a crazed warrior, Cynthia attacks me with her hands up like she’s after my throat. I dig in with my feet, brace myself and wait. My right hand curls into a fist, I eye her left ribs. One well placed shot and it’s over. Her hands are high, my target is vulnerable, my arm is cocked. Here she comes.
My timing is perfect. She comes in. I prepare to throw the punch like my trainers taught me. I position my body just right and swing and….oooouuuuwwwwwll. Fuck! The bitch lowers head at the last moment and my bare fist crashes into the top of her skull. My hand hurts so bad, it’s numb. Cynthia drives forward, wrapping her arms around me, driving me halfway across the ring and into the ropes.
The woman is out of her mind as she presses me into the ropes firing a series of knees to my belly. I block most with my arms, until my arms hurt. She throws a volley of punches to the body and slaps to the face. I cannot block all of them and the ones that land cause pain. I try to cover up, then a heavy knee catches me in the chest. I double over until a second knee plunges flush into my belly. She straightens me up by my hair and I cannot defend a flurry of face slaps. A heavy knee strikes my thigh, then another one. I can barely stand. I am being pummeled all over my body and am now defenseless. Her frenzied assault continues. There is nowhere for me to go but.….down.
I pitch forward while bent in half, falling in front of the ropes. I curl into a fetal position while Cynthia kicks at me. I shift onto my knees and elbows and tuck in my arms and legs in a defensive turtle position, like a survivalist protecting her vital organs from a bear attack. I’m battered, I can’t breathe and I fear I’m finished. For the first time ever, I consider submitting. Finally, Cynthia pauses her brutal attack. Maybe I still have something left. I don’t know. I lift my head from out of my crouch. I learn immediately that was a big mistake.
Muscular thighs encircle my neck, instantly wrapping together and tightening. Cynthia falls to her side, forcing me down with her. She clamps the neck scissors tight, her powerful legs constricting my airway and blood supply. I claw at her thighs but I know it is futile. I also know I have little time. There is no escape from this. It’s happening. Little bubbles of light are in front of my eyes. A gray shade covers my vision. I sense my consciousness slipping. So this is what it’s like to be choked out. I’m slipping away. I have a choice. I can pass out or tap out. It’s over. I…will…tap…
What happened? I’m free. Cynthia let go of me. Did I pass out? Did I tap? I’m on my belly facing the ropes. I see Tom outside the ring looking worried and confused. Where’s Cynthia?
From behind, a hand grabs my hair and pulls up my head. Her voice is in my ear. “I don’t want to choke you out sweetie. You’re coming with me…to learn better manners.”
Hands seize my ankles and lift my legs. I’m being pulled, dragged on my belly. Instinctively, I place my hand across the lower rope, but I can’t grip it. Tom and I meet with our eyes. My hand slips off the rope as I’m dragged farther by the legs. My tits and belly wipe the mat as the distance between my husband and I grows. I look at his face one last time as Cynthia pulls me to her destination of doom. He looks like a sad little boy watching his puppy being hauled off to the dog pound.
I’m lugged across the ring and onto the logo, where the sputum smears onto my upper belly. Cynthia drops my legs and for a brief second, I’m faced down flat. I can barely move a muscle
when I sense my attacker standing over me straddling my body, facing my feet. Just like that, she picks up my ankles up high and locks them under her armpits.
I feel my feet rise higher and higher while tension grips my lower back. Cynthia pulls back toward my head, taking my legs with her as the back pressure transforms to searing pain. I can barely lift my head. My tits are cemented to the mat. She pulls back further and I feel ligaments and tendons stretching around my spine. Is this some kind of Boston Crab? The Boston Crab?…Fuck!…I thought that only worked in pro wrestling. Cynthia can’t be strong enough to pull that off. No way! I’ll get out of this!…Somehow.
The pain and pressure intensifies. My legs and spine are in positions nature never intended. I feel her weight shifting. The agony is unbearable. Now I know what she is doing. Cynthia is arching her back adding extra force. I can’t stand it. I’m helpless. She’s bent back so far, I feel her hair fall on my shoulder blades. I scream. Fuck! Sweat covers my forehead, tears form in my eyes. My spine…MY SPINE!…I’m an ICU nurse. I know all about spinal cord injuries. No, this can’t be happening. I…I…I…
“I GIVE UP! STOP”
“Are you a nobody?” she grills me.
“YES, NOW LET GO!”
“Then say it.”
“I’M A NOBODY....PLEASE...MY SPINE!
“Kiss it,” she demands. “I said KISS IT!….KISS THE LOGO!
Oh fuck, she’s punishing me for what I did to her precious icon. I don’t want to kiss it. This is so degrading. But my back, my spine. I don’t want to be a paraplegic.
“KISS IT!” She repeats.
My cheek is already on the mat. I turn my nose face down. Drool drips from my mouth. I lower my lips, pressing them onto the white letters, tasting the polyvinyl chloride plastic and my own sweaty feet. My lips come together to make a smooching sound.
“She did it,” both of our husbands clamor. “Let her go, Cynthia,” Josh urges.
She releases her hold and my legs fall lifelessly to the mat. I lie face down motionless. My lower back is in one massive spasm. I’m not sure if I feel my legs. Just trying to lift up my head worsens the pain in my back. I drop my face back down onto the grime, spit and sweat of the mat.
Part III. The Aftermath
I see Cynthia’s bare feet frolicking in celebration. I see the legs and sneakers of her cheerleaders pouring into the ring to greet her. They cheer and shake their pom poms and surround her as if she just scored a winning touchdown.
All I know right now is that I’m in pain. Any attempt to move a leg muscle is excruciating. I want to get up. I need to get my nose away from this smelly mat. Using my arms, I manage to push off to the side and roll over onto my back, wincing in the process. The support of the mat provides a little relief.
To my right, Cynthia’s cheerleaders surround her.
Victory Victory
Feels so sweet
Cynthia wins again
She can’t be beat
She’s the roughest
She’s the toughest
She’s the best around
Don’t ever mess with Cynthia
She will put you down
I’m in pain. I want to get up. My legs won’t move and I’m scared. This can’t be a spinal cord injury. This isn’t one of those I tell myself. I can move my toes. That’s encouraging. It’s all just muscle spasm and sprain. I just need a little time. But I don’t want to lie here. This is so humiliating being laid out in the ring, nearly naked like a game fish that’s just been landed. The winners jubilate around me. The cheerleaders look at me with indifference, some with derisive expressions. “Remember when her nipples stood up,” one of them remarked to the other. Amber stares, smirking with derision. I half close my eyes and turn away.
Movement is returning to my legs. I bend my knees. Maybe I can lift up now. I dig my elbows to the mat and prepare to push up but I go nowhere. A weight on my chest forces me to remain affixed to the mat. Cynthia’s foot presses on my sternum, my chest supports most of her weight. My squinty eyes see the form of her statuesque body over me, her arms raised in triumph. Her tightly muscled legs rise from my chest like two pillars supporting her firm red covered ass. The white number 18 positions itself over me like a conqueror’s flag claiming it’s new land. She proudly throws out her chest, her sprightly breasts and spirited nipples bask in the light and free air as mine suffer under the sweat and dirt of the soles of her feet. She flexes and poses while I helplessly lie still.
The room has become eerily quiet as all eyes are on us. My husband makes no attempt to rescue me from this indignity. He and Josh stand outside the ring like they are observing some kind of solemn ritual that’s as old as humanity itself, an ancient rite where the winner displays her dominance over her defeated foe in the presence of witnesses, a process that cements the pecking order. After all the trash talk, the posturing, the threats, it’s been settled for all to see. The better woman is decided. Social order is restored, each woman knows her place relative to the other.
It sickens me that Tom is watching this. He knows the code. Winners are entitled to victory poses over the losers. Husbands who accompany their wives to their fights assume some risk of their own. If their woman wins, they enjoy celebratory benefits in the bedroom. On the other hand, the spouse of the loser watches her pride get dismantled, takes her home and tries to physically and emotionally rehabilitate his broken wife. But right now, I am all…alone.
Cynthia steps off my chest and I take an unrestricted deep breath. I attempt to sit up but I’m quickly pushed right back down by her foot. Her message is clear. I was not given permission to rise. She wipes her feet on my chest, clearly retaliating for what I did to her logo. She makes sure to cover both breasts with her soles before miming scraping off mud from her feet and flinging it down on me. Finally, she dismounts again. Through squinty eyes, I see her gazing down on me. I hear her make a deep guttural sound with her throat. I brace myself as a mixture of mucus and saliva is expelled from her mouth, the loogie landing on my belly button with a wet slapping sound.
“I believe you owe me something,” she says softly. My stomach knots as she points to my blue panties. Panicking, I clutch them with my hands.
“You can make this easy and cooperate,” she whispers. “Or we can do this the hard way.” Our eyes meet for the first time since the fight. I see her stern expression and melt with intimidation. My hands relent, I lift my pelvis. Cynthia pulls and claims her trophy as my blue panties depart from my body for the final time. She holds it up high as if it were the decapitated head of a rival king.
Nude and horizontal, laid out on the logo like a slab of meat on a platter, I dare not move or leave the ring before Cynthia. She positions my arms to the side. I squeeze my thighs together in an ineffective attempt to hide my bush. I fight back the tears but I know I’m emotionally breaking down. My breathing has become rapid. I feel tingling in my hands and feet and around my mouth. I know these are symptoms of acute hyperventilation. I try to slow down my breathing but cannot.
I’m dehydrated. My throat is parched. I’m lightheaded. Celebratory sounds continue. Cheerleaders surround me, both red and blue. Noise is becoming muffled, more distanced. I can’t make out what the voices are saying. I think I hear chanting but I don’t know if it’s real or in my head.
Kiva, Kiva, you’re a fool
Never disrespect our school
You’re not smart, you’re not cool
Red and white will always rule
More cheerleaders, the ones in blue who were taught to cheer for me, enter the ring. All ten seem to be in some formation. Is this one last cheer? A finale? I choose not to watch and loll my head in the opposite direction.
I feel as if I’m about to pass out. My mind wonders through a litany of irrelevant unconnected memories and thoughts. I can’t stop hyperventilating. That’s what stress and anxiety do to you. Voices start again and I still don’t know if they’re from delirium.
Cynthia, Cynthia, she’s the best
Kiva found out and got laid to rest
Kiva, Kiva, what happened to you?
You lost the fight and your panties too
Cynthia’s the better woman, that’s what we conclude
Look how she changed your attitude
Now we see you beaten and nude
And lying there like vulture food
Did I really see Cynthia through the air, backflipping off of a pyramid formation? The cheerleaders give one last yell. Josh has entered the ring and embraces and kisses his wife. Everyone begins to leave. The celebration is over. “The pizza is here,” I hear the cheerleaders say.
Not everyone has left. I look up to see Amber and another cheerleader standing over me peering down. “You got your ass kicked,” she grins with condescension. “Wanna rassle me now? I bet I can pin you. I’ll call my boyfriend so he can watch.”
Is she fucking kidding. “Get the fuck away from me,” I groan, my voice raspy.
I’m unable to react when Amber’s body dives onto mine. She squirms horizontally across my chest. In an instant, she holds my wrist to the mat with one arm while seizing the back of my knee with the other. I scream as pain once again pulses through my lower back. I feel my leg lifted into the air.
“Cross body press with a leg hook. I got her,” the twat declares. “Caitlyn, count.”
I sense another cheerleader drop to her knees behind my head. “GET OFF OF ME,” I scream.
“One...Two...Three...Amber is the winner,” the second brat says.
Amber scrambles to her feet with her arms raised in “victory”. “The cheerleader vs the naked nurse. Damn I wish my boyfriend were here. Too bad Cynthia doesn’t allow pictures.” She presses her sneaker on my chest for a victory pose. I seize her ankle and attempt to twist it.
“THAT’S ENOUGH,” Tom yells as he uses his body to shield me from my harassers. Finally, my knight shows up. “You’re a tough girl, aren’t you?” He scolds Amber, “Going after a woman who’s already down.” The college punks scamper off for pizza as Tom throws my terry cloth robe over me. I cover up as he lifts my head, slowly getting me into a sitting position. He holds me in his arms as I lean my body into him.
I have to roll under the bottom rope to exit the ring as I can’t quite stand. Tom lifts me up and holds me across his chest, one arm around my shoulders, the other supports my hips. Down the hall, we hear the merriment of the pizza party in the kitchen area. My husband carries me back to the dressing room and gently sits me on the bed. He holds my hand and kisses my head. He begins to rub my back. We say nothing. He brings me water. Despite my dehydration, several minutes pass before I drink. I stare straight ahead, stunned and catatonic.
Finally, my breathing slows down to normal. The lightheadedness and tingling subside. I begin to gulp the water. My mind is coming back. My body bears the sweat, scratches and spittle from the battle. The terry cloth robe sticks to my skin. My hair is a wild mess. I don’t want to wash here. I only want to go home. I fight back the sobs.
There’s a tap on the door. Josh is standing in the doorway.
“Cheer up, kiddo,” he tells me. “You fought a good fight. You’ll be back.” He pauses as if to retrieve some story filed away in his mind. “In my junior year, on opening day, I threw three interceptions against the Longhorns. Worst game of my life. But then, the following week against Texas A&M, I threw for over 400 yards and five touchdowns. We went on to win the...”
I tune him out. Last thing I need is to listen to this blather. Funny how he seems to have forgotten that he couldn’t throw anything except interceptions in the NFL. Then he regains my attention.
“Kiva, Tom, Cynthia and I would like for you stay and join us for pizza and beer.”
“No, thanks,” I tell him. The thought repulses me. “I think I’ll get dressed now and we’ll be going.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “We’d love to have you stay.”
“Yes, I’m sure, but thanks.” All I want to do is get out of this house as quickly as possible with my tail between my legs, go home, take a shower, and have a good cry.
From behind Josh, I’m shocked to hear Cynthia chime in. “Yes, Kiva, why don’t you stay? Josh and I would really like that.” I see she’s already showered and back in her red jersey.
“We really should be going,” my husband responds.
I really want to leave but I can’t seem to speak or move, as if my will to go home is being overpowered by...something else.
“Come on, Kiva, let’s go,” Tom says. “I’ll help you get dressed.”
“Wait,” I tell him.
I can’t do it. I can’t get up. It’s not that my legs don’t work. They do. It’s just that I seem to have lost my resolve. I want to leave but Cynthia wants me to stay. I just can’t bring myself to conflict with her again. I feel this weird compulsion to...defer to her. Two women met in the ring to settle their differences. One of them prevailed and it wasn’t me. Now I can’t bring myself to go against what she wants. I know it’s silly. Intellectually, I know she’s just trying to extend an olive branch and be a good hostess. I’m sure she’d be fine with me leaving. But something deep within me says I must do what she wants. She has established her superiority over me and I have this strange urge to comply with her will.
“We’ll stay,” I tell her as I nudge my husband. “It’s okay,” I whisper to him.
“May I wash up,” I ask meekly.
“Of course,” answers Cynthia, “I’ll show you to the restroom. But first, Josh has a gift for you, from both of us.”
“Here, kiddo, this is for you,” the former college star says as he shows me a red football jersey with white lettering. “It’s not an official school jersey but it’s a good replica,” he explains as he holds it out to show me his name and the number 18 emblazoned on the back. “Cynthia and I both signed it.”
“Kiva, why don’t you put it on after you wash up,” Cynthia adds. “I think you’ll be more comfortable than with those clothes you brought with you.”
I take the garment I previously mocked, tuck it under my arm, pick up my gym bag, then carefully and stiffly rise from the chair. “Okay, I’ll wear it,” I dutifully tell her.
“Great,” she smiles. “Come with me.” She takes me by the arm, leading me down the hallway. A wave of pain runs through my lower back with each step, as I lean on the arm of the woman who caused it for support. She shows me the bathroom, the shower, the towels. “Meet us in the kitchen when you’re done,” she orders. “Oh,” she adds, “you’re welcomed to use the Motrin in the medicine cabinet.
My body aches all over, especially my back. The warm shower water provides some relief. Finally, alone and now that a little time has past, the events of the night all come crashing down on me. I was defeated. Humiliated. My underwear taken. Left naked. Spit on. By a woman whose very existence I insulted. On top of it, I was disrespected by her mentees. I knew I would eventually lose a fight. I just didn’t think it would be like...this. The tears in my eyes turn to sobbing. The sobbing turns to bawling. I mourn the end of my undefeated record, my lost dignity. I mourn that another woman can now claim to be my conqueror.
I don’t know how much time has passed. I turn off the water. The crying is over and it’s time to move on. Live in the present and future. Isn’t that what I said to Cynthia? I dry off, brush my wet hair, put on gym shorts and slip on Josh’s jersey which extends to my knees. I take a deep breath and collect myself and prepare to join my husband and face the winner. I have obligations to fulfill.
The bathroom door opens and I find myself face to face with Amber. “Well it’s about time, loser,” she scowls. “What the hell were you doing in there?”
“Get out of my way,” I growl at her. I refuse to give her any ground by walking around her. She steps forward in my direct path, moving slightly to the side, hitting me with a shoulder bump, knocking me into the open door.
“Fucking bitch!” I shout as we lunge at each other, both of us seizing handfuls of hair. We yank and pull each other’s head, shrieking and screaming.
“Hey, hey, girls...GIRLS...That’s ENOUGH,” Cynthia barks as she separates us.
“If you two want to fight, I’ll let you use my ring another time. Amber, you stay away from Kiva. She’s already had enough for the night.” Cynthia takes me by the arm and leads me down the hallway as I turn toward Amber one last time.
“You stupid twat,” I snarl, “You better pray you never see me again.” The tussle causes a flair in my back pain.
“Sorry, Kiva,” Cynthia offers, “As I said, these girls are very competitive and a few of them can take it a little too far. Come on, let’s go back to the kitchen.”
In my bare feet and wet hair, I let her lead me by the arm. My body is covered by a bright red jersey with the number 18 and the name and signatures of my defeater and her husband visible on my back. It occurs to me. The process is over. The transition is complete. I’ve been branded and signed, marked as their property. As we approach the kitchen, I feel like a subjugated tribeswoman forced to adopt the culture and attire of her conquerors.
“The jersey looks great on you, kiddo,” Josh beams. “Here, this seat has been waiting for you,” he says as he pulls out a chair at the dinette table. I take my designated place at the table next to my husband. “Here’s your beer,” he says, “good ol’ locally brewed Texas draft. And we got pizza with all kinds of toppings: pepperoni, sausage, green and red peppers, mushroom, you name it.”
I notice a collection of photo albums on the table. There’s a laptop. I see a small box of flash drives. Across from me sits the happy couple, both wearing the same red jersey as the one that envelops me, proclaiming me as their belonging.
Now I know what’s about to happen. It makes sense. To the victrix belong the spoils. Like a she-wolf subdued by the alpha female, I’m shown my proper place in the pack. I know my responsibility. I know the service they expect of me. What they want from me is…my ears...my undivided attention, an audience that will validate their lives, let them believe that past glories are to be kept alive, that time past is to be relived in the present, that the future has no other purpose that to celebrate days long gone. That’s all they ever wanted from me. And who am I to deny them that?
It’s 9 pm. “Look, Kiva,” Josh begins. “This was me in my first football uniform at age eight. Look at those shoulder pads. Can you believe it?”
“My goodness, Josh” I laugh. “You were cute as a button.”
“And this is me in middle school,” Cynthia joins. “Look how skinny my legs were.”
“Maybe, but it’s obvious you were going to be a hottie,” I assure her.
“And this is me in high school,” Josh returns, “I weighed 170 lbs at this point and....”
11 pm. “And this is me and Josh sophomore year just before the Nebraska game.”
“What a gorgeous couple,” I exclaim. “And you know what? You still are.”....
“This video clip is me scrambling for a full ten seconds just before halftime against LSU. The defensive end was this big 320 pounder who thought he had me. Now watch this move.”
“That’s amazing, Josh,” I say. “I don’t know how you pulled that off. Cynthia, what was going through your mind?”
“Oh my God, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. But I knew my Josh would work his magic.”
1 am. “This is my cheerleading squad at the regional championship. We had only three days to learn this routine....”
“So I see my receiver running down the sideline as time ran out, and I threw.....”
“And this clip is from the Cotton Bowl Classic....”
“It was fourth down and we were out of time outs....”
“I played the entire second half on a sprained ankle....”
“Kiva, would you like another coffee? Black again?”
