[sinclairfan]

My name is Lisa.  I'm 54 now, but in the spring of 1985, I was an 18-year old soon-to-be-high scool graduate in Rhode Island, on my way to a semi-prestigious Catholic university in Ohio.  My divorced parents would have preferred THE prestiguous Catholic university in South Bend, Indiana, or the second-or-third-most-prestigous ones just north of me (Boston College or Holy Cross).  But my Catholic high school grades, and my standardized test scores (very important in 1985--I shoulda been born 35 years later), doomed me to a round of rejection letters from Sound Bend, Chestnut Hill, and Worcester.  So ..... hello Miami of Ohio.  Or, at least, hello next August, once I get graduation and a final boring Rhode Island summer in my rearview mirror.

Although my aspirations to the upper tier of Catholic universities was my parents' dream, not mine, I had to confess that the three rounds of rejection letters was humiliating and humbling.  I had secured what I expected to be influential recommendation letters from teachers, counsellers, and coaches (more on coaches later). With each new "We regret to inform you...", I couldn't help but wonder if an incident from my high school past was coming back to haunt me.

The incident was a catfight.  At school.  The girls at the Catholic high school I attended were stuck up and bitchy.  I learned to develop a thick skin, but one fateful week there, a senior named Maureen and I had a run-in.  It was nothing special--we both made comments about each other, our friends heard, and one day her best friend and my best friend found out a bathroom was going to be empty for 2 or 3 minutes, with no teachers around due to a mandatory staff meeting.  Our friends agreed to "keep watch" on the door, and Maureen and I banged it out for about 150 seconds.  There was no winner--the thought of taking a fight to a gross bathroom floor was too horrifying to apply a takedown or mount which would have been necessary to decide the fight.  But we sufficiently convinced each other of our fighting ability that Maureen and I steered clear of each other for the duration of our high school careers.  Both physically and verbally--we called a ceasefire on our comments about each other.

Although I wanted no part of another battle with Maureen, I couldn't help but wonder if our bathroom catfight had gotten into the grapevine, and if the Admissions Departments at my choice schools were acting accordingly.

In 1985, other than getting pregnant,  a restroom catfight was pretty much the most scandalous, reputation-destroying thing a high school girl could do.

That toxic brew of paranoia and rejection is the only explanation I can offer for the decision I made for how to spend my final pre-college summer.

I decided to have a summer affair.

This was no light decision.  Although I have kissed boys and had had long make-out sessions, this was the mid-1980s, and no opportunity had come up to go all the way to actual intercourse.  But I decided there was no way I was taking my virginity with me to Ohio.

I was going to lose it this summer.

And I knew just the boy.  When my parents still had South Bend Drems for me, they had enrolled me a travel tennis club as an extra-cirricular activity.  Travel sports are par-for-the-course in the 2000s, but were exotic and exclusive in the mid-1980s.  I competed and improved my game over the years at the club, and was realizing that my time there was winding down.  I felt nostalgic for it.

And wanted to get into the pants of an 18 year old teammate there named Tommy.  He was cute and successful and headed away to colege himself.

He was the perfect summer fling boyfriend.  And the perfect man to take my virginity.

So, one spring day, I went up to him and said, "Hey, Tommy.  Wanna hang our this summer?"  By my body language, he knew exactly what I meant.

"I dunno if my jealous girlfriend will be ok with that."

"Oh.  You have a girlfriend.  Do I know her?  What's her name?"

"No one you know--she's in college already.  Her name is Lorraine."

Something came over me.  Jealousy.  Competitiveness.

"Well, Tommy.  Why don't you tell Lorraine .... that I can be jealous, too.  See what she says."

To be continued.....

[catfightlover40]

I love the introduction One small goof though, before the Williams sisters and after John McEnroe with no national star to look up to, tennis was a rich people fad, that said the Russian trainer who trained a lot of stars we know today set up shop in Florida during the Reaganomics, so it may have been exotic to locals, but was a desired destination for foreign stars.

[sinclairfan]

Still being a virgin at 18 wasn't something I had planned--time just sort of got away from me.  Well, thst, plus I blame men.  That's right--all men. 

The men I would have allowed to have me never asked me out, no matter how many hints I dropped to them.  They were afraid to talk to me; or, if they talked to me, they were afraid to ask me out; or, if they asked me out, they were afraid to call back; or, if they called back, they were afraid to make a move.  It was just exhausting.  I'm not saying this out of conceit, but I think most were afraid of my looks, my large chest, my firm butt.  Some were intimidated by one of the three; and some by the "total package".  And the few who got past the intimidation of those then got freaked out by my sexual confidence--I gave off an aura of being very experienced sexually.  I had men actually accuse me of lying about being a virgin.  Who lies about that?

I think my bathroom catfight with Maureen was as much out of sexual frustration as any issue with her.

And, finally, the few men who cleared all THOSE hurdles ...... who still wanted me anyways:  well, they were the playa's.  And I didn't want to give up my virginity to a player.

There would be plenty of time in my 20s to sleep with players.  But not my first time.

No.  That's what Tommy was perfect for. 

And then, before he and I even hold hands, he brings up his mystery girlfriend.

I actually had never considered the possibility that he had a serious (or non-serious) girlfriend.  There was never a girl at any of his tennis matches.  He always seemed kind of alone, borderline shy, borderline introverted.

I just assumed he was mine for the taking.

And now even that plan was hitting a roadblock.  Unlike BC and Holy Cross, he didn't precisely reject me.  He didn't even say he preferred his girlfried Lorraine over me.  He just said he was afraid to be with me because Lorraine was "jealous".

Well, game on, Lorraine.  I can be jealous too.

Let's go.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

Although my fight with Maureen was highly perilous to my academic career (if we had gotten caught, either during our fight or afterwards, we both would have been expelled from school), I never felt as it was occuring that I was in any personal danger.  We had both accidentally stumbled into a confrontation, and our fight was just a mutually-face-saving way to resolve things.  There was nothing personal between us before our fight, and afterwards we gave each other wide berth and had no further issues.

My poking at the Lorraine hornet's nest was another matter altogether.  To start with, her boyfriend had specifically told me that she was jealous.  And to make matters worse, her first introduction to me was going to be him telling her that I, likewise, was just as jealous.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, I thought. 

Oh, make no mistake, I was still going to try and have a sexual encounter with Tommy.  But maybe I better keep it to a "No strings attached" one night stand, behind Lorraine's back, rather than a full summer fling.

No Strings Attached, or NSA--that was a 1980's phrase for having no-pressure sex with someone you weren't in love with, and with who you would pretend the sex had never happened if you ever saw him or her again.  You just mutually agreed to return to being "Just Friends".

I was going to tell Tommy about my change in tactics to a NSA with him the next time he saw me.

Better to not kick this Lorraine sleeping bear.

Except, Tommy had already kicked her, I found out the next time I saw him at tennis.

> Hey, Toomy.

> Hey, Lisa.  I talked to Lorraine. 

> [Oh, shit.]  Oh?  What did she say?

> She wants your phone number.

> Oh.  Why does she want MY phone number.

> She thinks I'm making you up.  To get her jealous.

> Oh.  Well .... she just wants my number to look it up in the phone book?  It's in my mom's name.

> To look it up.  But then to call you, probably.

> To call me?  [My panties were soaking already.]  But ...  I don't even know her.

> Well, here's your chance. 

> I guess.  But what if I want HER number??  [This was before cellphones.  Phone numbers were landlines.]  Isn't SHE the one living on her own??

> Ok.  Let me tell her. 

> Ok.  Tell her this too.  [I lean over onto the bleachers and give Tommy a passionate tongue kiss.]  Tell her I did THAT to you.

> [Blushing.] Ok.  I will.

That night I madturbated for three straight hours in my bed.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

As spring of 1985 progressed, and I was basking in the glow of my slow-burn romance with Tommy from the tennis club ('Tennis Tommy', as my friends and Mom referred to him), our Catholic High School World History class was studying the 1571 Battle of Lepanto where Duke John of Austria defeated the Ottoman Navy.  Duke John was the illegitimate son of Emperor Charles V by a devout Catholic mistress named Barbara Blomberg.  I would get soaked in class thinking of Barbara cheating on the Empress of Austria and stealing Charles from his woman. 

Like I was doing to Tommy's woman, his jealous college bitch Lorraine.  Tommy had started showing me a couple Polaroids (the 1985 version of a selfie, for you youngsters) and yearbook pictures of Lorraine.  She was blonde, like me, with a straight hairstyle down to her shoulders that was about 5 years out of date.  The 1980s was about hairspray and big hair, and Lorraine hadn't quite caught on yet.

Tommy asked me if I thought she was pretty.  Saying 'no' would have been a lie. 

So I told him the truth.  That I wanted to punch her in the mouth, give her two black eyes, and tear her hair out.

"Funny.  That's what she says about you," was his laconic reply.

I spent Study Hall in the school library, leafing through the Encyclopedia Brittanica (the 1985 version of Google), looking for article on famous royal mistresses, like Barbara Blomberg.  Women who fucked other women's men.

Herleva.  A tanner's daughter.  Mother of William the Conqueror.  Made love to Duke Robert of Normandy in 1033 when he was on his horse in the countryside and he saw her bathing in a stream.  He rode up to her, and they made love.

She was 18.

Shit.  I'm 18 right now.  I'm so fucking ready to have sex with Tommy.

Next Tuesday at tennis, I'll have my dad's car.  I'll ask him if he wants a ride home.

He'll know what I mean.  If he has privacy at home, we'll fuck in his bedroom.  If not, we'll park the car in the woods and fuck in the back seat.

And I'll tell him to tell Lorraine that we fucked.

Or I'll tell her myself.

If she doesn't like it, she can Bite Me.

Figuratively.  And literally.

Because I'll bite the bitch right back.

I can't wait.

For the fucking.  And then the fighting.

To be continued....

[southwrestler09]

Your work is always a delight!  really looking forward to this one!

[sinclairfan]

That Monday at tennis, the conversation between Tommy and me was, for the first time, awkward and stilted.  We both knew we were going to be alone for 2 hours at his house until his parents got home.  Long enough to fuck, but not long enough for anything too elaborate in the from a foreplay perspective, and not too much time for after-sex cuddling or spooning, which I ideally would probably require after giving up my virginity.

In a perfect world, we would have postponed our to a less-crowded, less-rushed window.  But the tension between Lorraine and me was excruciating.

I couldn't stand another day going by with her fucking him, but not me.

Not a single damned one.

We got into my car after tennis.  I showed him the spremicide I had in my tennis bag.

He had never heard what spremicide is.

> Wait, what?  So what does Lorraine use?  To not get pregnant?

> She's on the pill, I guess.  Or she is when she wants to do it with me.

> Tommy, what do you mean, [air quotes] you guess?  You don't want to knock her up, do you?

> No.  But she gets pissed if I bring it up.

> Tommy?!?  What.  A.  Bitch.  Having sex is ..... personal .... intimate.  You have a right to have a say.  You have a right to ask her about  .... that topic.

> I guess.  But .... doesn't talking about her .... like .... ruin the mood for you?

> [The right answer here, according to social conventions, was for me to change the topic, and just let Tommy fuck my brains out, and to start our summer fling with a bang.  But ...... we didn't have a lot of time to get me wet and ready.  And talking about what a bitch Lorraine was got me wetter than anything else.]  Tommy, look at me.  Ruin the mood?  Ruin the mood?  Tommy .... nothing gets me more in the mood than doing things that hurt Lorraine.

> [Tommy smirks.]

> Why are you smiling?

> Every night around 11, for the past few weeks, we've been having phone sex.  To get turned on, she asks me to tell her about you.  How you look.  What you wore at tennis.  Stuff like that.

> And?  How does she get you turned on?

> She says she's going to drive to your house and kick the shit out of you.

Tommy and I are in his driveway now.  I turn the car off, and start kissing him, harder than we've ever kissed before.

> That fucking bitch.  I hope she does drive to my house ...  but the only one getting shit kicked out of them will be her.  You agree .... right?, Tommy.

> Yes, Lisa.  You'd kick Lorraine's ass.

> Tommy.  I need you inside of me.  Right.  Now.

We climb out of the car, unlock his door, and strip each other all the way through the house to his bedroom.  His erect cock is somewhat smaller than I had imagined, but it eases my anxiety about doing it for the first time.

> What position do you and Lorraine fuck in?

> The one I like?  Or the one SHE likes?

> Her.  (Shit.  I probably should have asked what he likes.  But I'm obsessed with her right now, not him.)

> Reverse cowgirl.  [I've never heard what that one is.  I sure hope it's what it sounds like, or I'm going to look foolish.  I mount Tommy, facing away from him, and slide my dripping pussy onto his eager cock.  Am I supposed to move up and down?  Or back and forth?  I get insecure that I'm doing it wrong.  Or worse, not as good as Lorraine does it.]

> Whose pussy is better, Tommy.  Mine or hers?

> Yours, Lisa.

> Say it out, Tommy.  Tell me my pussy is better than Lorraine's.  FULL SENTENCES.

> Lisa, your pussy is tighter and wetter than Lorraine's pussy.  [Guys like tight pussies?  They notice that?]

> Who fucks better, Tommy??  Me or Lorraine??  [I feel an orgasm about 3 minutes away, faster than it normally takes for me to cum when I masturbate.]

> Lisa, you fuck better than Lorraine.

> Whose tits are better?  [I realize Tommy can't see my tits right now.]  Whose ass is better?  Mine or Lorraine's?

> Lisa's ass is better than Lorraine's.

> Who would win in a catfight?  Me or Lorraine??  [1 minute away from cumming.]

> [Tommy is cumming inside of me, hotter than I expected temperature-wise.]  Lisa ....  would .... kick .... the .... shit .... out ..... of   .... Lorraine .... in ... a ..... catfight.

> [I allow myself to scream as I cum.  I hope the neighbors didn't hear.]

> Lisa?  Did that hurt.

> [I turn around and face Tommy.]  No, sweetheart.  That was a scream of pleasure.  Does Lorraine ever do that?

> Actually, no.  Not like that.

> Have you ever been with anyone but her?

> No.  Just her.

> Good.

While Tommy is taking a shower, I snoop in his sock drawer.  I find his love letters from Lorraine.  (There was no email in 1985.)

I take one of the letters, one that has her return address, out of the drawer and sneak it in my bag that has the spermicide.

I already know what I'm going to write on it when I mail it to her.

Dear Lorraine,
I just fucked your man.  Reverse cowgirl.  As we were doing it, he said my pussy is tighter than yours, that my ass is better, that I fuck better than you, and that I'd kick your ass in a catfight.  Suck it, bitch.  If you don't like any of that, come at me.  I'll be waiting.  xoxo, Lisa

Tommy helps me get dressed.

> Was it good for you?

> Almost perfect.

> What would have made it perfect.

> If Lorraine had been here, watching.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

I had never been much of a girly-girl, but after I gave up my virginity to Tommy, I felt the stereotypical need to "talk through my feeling" with someone.  Talking about it, and our future, with Tommy himself would have been my first choice.  But I only saw him at tennis, and only once a week during off-season, which we were in.  He and I went to different schools, in different towns.  And talking by phone (this was 1985--there was no texting or even email) was frustrating, because our school our home schedules were out of sync.

Talking to a close friend of mine would have helped.  But I suddenly realized how far I had let my friendships slip.  My high school classmates lived far away, and I rarely spoke to them outside of school.  And my old neighborhood friends had "moved on" with their own lives--activities at their own schools, jobs, dating, parties.

And, many of my friends had shunned me once my parents divorced.  In 1985, divorce still had a stigma attached to it.  Other girls' mom's didn't want their daughters associating with me, and to be hanging out at house.  Or even to have me hanging out at their house.

Was I lonely?  Is this was loneliness felt like?

Was Lorraine lonely?  In her letter, she said she was a JUNIOR in college.  A fucking junior.  What's a junior college coed doing sleeping with a high school boy.

A high school boy with a small dick. 

There.  I said it.  Tommy had a small dick--there was no use pretending otherwise.  And it DID matter.  Size matters.  You don't need a baseball bat in there--but it needs to fill you.

And it's not the motion of the ocean.  Tommy didn't even do anything when I was with him.  We barely wrinkled the sheets on his bed.

Maybe this was all a bad idea.  I was just "blowing off steam" from my disappointment over my college rejections.

Back to Plan A, Lisa.  Have some summer fun with Tommy.

But antagonizing his girlfriend isn't worth it.  Lorraine isn't worth my time or trouble.

I'll just have a discreet affair with him after tennis.  In sexual positions that I like--not that Lorraine likes.

My mom knocks on my bedroom door.

> Lisa?  An attractive woman named Lorraine was here this morning.  She left you this note.

I open it.

Dearest Lisa,
You fucking bitch.  I know where you live now.  Watch your back.  It's on between you and me.  I'm warning you--no rules.
Fuck you,
Lorraine

> Lisa?  Are you ok?  What did that woman want?

> Mom.  I need to explain something to you.

> Something bad?

> Just ..... something I need some advice on.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

For weeks I had been oscillating between deciding to de-escalate things with Lorraine to feeling the need to take the arrogant bitch down a peg.  I decided to talk to my Mom about what was happening as a way of getting off the merry-go-round, regardless of my image in anyone else's eyes.

My first-time sex experience, and the impression it made on me, was another merry-go-round I couldn't handle alone anymore.  On the one hand, it was a pathetic disappointment.  Tommy was a dud in bed, especially for someone supposedly experienced at it.  I was the supposed rookie at it, and I had orchestrated the entire encounter.  Tommy was also significantly less alluring with his clothes off than with his clothes on.  On the other hand, I kept reliving the orgasm I had experienced, acting out every detail of how Lorraine and Tommy "did it"; then taunting her in writing that we had done it behind her back.

Doing it behind her back.  Damn, that was so fucking sexy.  My school bathroom fistfight with Maureen had been behind the school's back.  I was seeing a counseller about my parents' divorce.  I made a note to myself to bring up with her at our next session what it meant that I got so much pleasure, excitement, whatever, from doing things on the down low.

At our Catholic High School, we were studying a section from the Gospels where the child Jesus sneaks away from Joseph and Mary to spend time in the Temple in Jerusalem.  I listened to the nun's discussion of the episode with undivided attention.  How would should resolve the dilemma of the situation?  On the one hand, she couldn't condone disobeying one's parents--that directly violated one of the Ten Commandments.  On the other hand, she couldn't criticize Jesus.  He was the Word made Flesh, God from God, Light from Light.

My own first-boyfriend soap opera was another unresolvable dilemma.  I loved the cheating, the sneaking, the planning, the seduction of another woman's man, the consummation, the fucking.

But, then I loved the confession, the turning myself in, the letter to Lorraine, and reaping her wrath once she found out.

I loved both.  I needed both.

Me talking to my Mom about the hornets' nest I had stirred was inviting her wrath, or maybe  her disappointment in me.

> Mom, two things.  We need to talk.
 First, I'm not a virgin anymore.

> Ok.  This was your choice, right?

> Yes.  Completely my choice.  And my idea.  I initiated, ...., to a fault actually.  That's the other thing we need to talk about.

> Ok.  First, tho.  Do I know the boy?

> You know .... of .... him.  He's from tennis.  Tommy.

> Ooooooo, he's cuuuute.  You have a crush on him?

> I did. 

> Oh.  But not now?  He wasn't ..... a gentleman?

> He's small.

> Lisa!!!!!  [Genuinely scolding me.  I enjoy it--I don't know why.  Come to think of it, this has come up in my counselling.  She told me it's because my parents weren't strict enough with me as a child.]  You didn't tell him that, did you?!?!?!?

> No.  We were too busy talking about something else.

> Oh no.  What.  STD's?  [1985 was the peak of the AIDS panic.] Birth control?

> No.  His bitch girlfriend.

> You slept with a boy who has a girlfriend?  Do I know HER?

> You do now.  It was the blonde who came here.  Looking for me.

> Oh.  You were right Lisa.

> About what?

> We DO need to talk.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

Although I hadn't yet met my college-girl rival Lorraine in person, all my communucations with her had been 100% truthful.  I was jealous of her relationship with Tommy; I intended to sleep with (and, more than once) her boyfriend; and my first encounter with him happened exactly when and how I had had Tommy describe it to her.

I intended to be scrupulously straight and honest with Lorraine.  Including in how much I hated her.

The purity of my honesty with my rival stood in stark contrast with by communication with the three responsible adults in my life:  my mom, my counsellor, and my dad.

To the three of them, ....., well, I was lying through my fucking teeth.  I never mentioned Lorraine to any of the three of them, when Lorraine's trip to my house to confront me left me no choice.  And even then, I escalated my lying. 

I told all three of them that I was the innocent victim of a crazy stalker.  That the much older and mature Lorraine was coming after a younger, innocent rival for no reason.

My lie was one of omission.  I completely left of an important set of facts.

That I had initiated the confrontation with Lorraine.

That I knew Lorraine and Tommy were in a committed relationship when I started inferfering.

That I seduced Tommy.

And that, thru Tommy, I was provoking Lorraine, even knowing how serious she was.

My self-awareness of my ability to carry on a lie wasn't new.  My bathroom catfight with Maureen had been instigating by my lying--some untrue gossip I had spread for weeks about Maureen.  Maureen was just defending her reputation when she challenged me.

I sat at May Crowning at our high school chapel, praying the Rosary, contemplating my ability to lie.

I thought about Mary after Jesus's Crucifixion, Rising, and Ascension.  Hiding in Ephesus to avoid the Romans.

I thought about her trip from Judea to Asia Minor; what it must have been like preserving the safety of herself and her travel party.  Had they been stopped on the rosd and asked to reveal their identity?  What had she said?

Surely not the truth--that she was the Mater Dei, the Mother of God.

I couldn't tell my counsellor the truth.

That I welcomed a confrontation with Lorraine.

That the thought turned me on.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Lorraine's unpredictability started to cause me to worry that the whole facade of my induced/incited rivalry with her would come crashing down around me.  That should would catch me by surprise with my mom present, and then spill the beans about me being the aggressor--seducing Tommy, acting out with him in ways that impersonated Lorraine, then telling him to taunt Lorraine about our continuing affair.

And although we were still young, an affair is what Tommy and I were having, as opposed to dating or hanging out with each other or friends or partying or drinking or watching MTV together or talking on the phone or any other stereotypical 1980s high school activities.  The only times we made plans to get together were when we had mutual alone time and privacy to have sex. 

Boring, bad, small-dick sex.

Followed by me telling Tommy how I thought Lorraine was a bitch.  And that's the part that would get me off.  I'd masturbate myself to orgasm while I told him Lorraine was stalking my house, and then he'd tell me the last time he had seen her, and how she had gone off throwing and breaking stuff, telling him she was "gonna fuckin' kick Lisa's sorry ass".  And how I told him to tell her that he and I had just fucked again, and that the sex was "fucking mindblowing" [even though it was, as usual, amateur and pedestrian].

In Medieval History class, we resd the story of King Philip I of France, king from 1060 to 1108, who had an heir (who became Louis VI, also known as Louis the Fat), and how in 1094, even though he was stll lawfully married to Louis's mother, King Philip had publicly married his mistress, committing bigamy and gettinf excommunicated by Pope Urban II.  And, later, when Prince Louis became deathly pale, he was believed to be a poisoning victim of King Philip's unlawful bride.

I pictured the jealousy which would cause the new woman to act so ruthlessly.

But in the Lorraine-Tommy-Lisa triangle, who was the jealous bitch?  Between Lorraine and me, which one of us was being the asshole?

What if we both were?

Why wasn't Lorraine just leaving her younger, boring, not-great-in-bed boyfriend?

Couldn't she see that I was hanging around, seeing what might happen next, not because of HIM, but because of HER??

What kind of stupid bitch was she??

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

Tommy and I had skipped the whole woo-ing, will-they-or-won't-they phase of a relationship, and skipped straight to the going-thru-the-motions-of-sex.

Going thru the motions of really, really, really bad sex.

Bad because he was small and not very experienced.  Bad because I wasn't experienced at all, and wasn't learning.

And bad because the only thing that aroused me was the idea of provoking Lorraine.  His older girlfriend, who I still had never met, or even talked to yet on the phone.

Sometimes I wished I could just kiss Tommy and make out with him.  And let him kiss and feel different paets of my body.

But we had bypassed that stage.  It just seemed dumb now, to do all that other stuff. 

Instead, we'd both just strip, and I'd mount him and do reverse cowgirl on him.  With him barely inside of me, him masturbating his cock on my hips and butt, me fingering my own clit to orgasm, looking over my shoulder at him and telling him

> Lorraine is . .... sssuuchhh .... a bitch

> I fucking hate Lorraine

> I wish Lorraine was here so I could rip her tits off

> When I get my hands on Lorraine, I'm scratching her bald

All of which would cause me to have shuttering orgasms.

What would it be like to actually talk to her meyself, and tell her all these things?  Would it be as arousing as telling her boyfriend those things?  Even more so?

I asked my cousellor, Autumn.  Autumn was a reformed hippie, with cute auburn hair down to her shoulders.

We talked about my love triangle.  The lying version, where I painted Lorraine as the instigating stalker.

Autumn told me her professional licenses required her to tell me she couldn't condone a physical fight between me and Lorraine.

She then turned off the clock she used to time our 50-minute sessions.

> Now, unofficially.  Sometimes, there's a time for women to fight.  Lisa, this is one of those times.  Do you know how to fight?

> [I described by bathroom fistfight with Maureen.]

> Lisa, I'd encuurage you, when you fight Lorraine [when?  not if?  I feel the moisture in my pussy], don't use a closed fight.  If you break a finger or thumb, the fight is over, not in your favor. 

> What should I do instead?  [can she tell my voice is cracking?]

> Pull hair.  Grab on tight, and don't let go.  If her hair comes out, grab more.  And sit on her shoulders, and go at her face hard.  Do it to her before she can do it to you.

I drive home shaking.
I climb in bed.
I masturbate.
I pick up the phone and dial.
It rings.

> Hello?

> Is this Lorraine?

> Is this Lisa?

> You know it, bitch.

To be continued.....

[NoShirtNoShoesNoMercy]

You're an absolute god at building suspense

[sinclairfan]

Everything about having sex the first time, and then the second..third...fourth...fifth... times, had been a disappointment.  It took more time to find a time and place than the act of intercourse actually lasted.  Being intimate with my chosen boyfriend (which happened to be Tommy, but I was now convinced would have been the case with any boy or man) did nothing to help us understand each other better.

And I was more convinced than ever about how gross boys were.  Their hair is oily and leaves stains.  Their skin is scratchy as sandpaper.  They pee out of their cocks and don't clean it afterwards.  They wear underwear for days.  And they sweat between their balls.

Which would be fine, if their cocks were large enough to be ....  fulfilling.

But Tommy's wasn't.  And I was deducing that most mens' weren't.  Which is why men were so awkward with women.

So I was prepared to be disappointed with the first woman I had ever provoked a confrontation with.

Lorraine.  Tommy's college girl bitch boyfriend.

But I wasn't disappointed.  I was at first pleasantly surprised..... and then elated.

Her voice was .... sexy.  Deep, husky, but in a feminine way.  Firm.  Decisive.

She meant business.

But so did I.

> What college do you go to, bitch?

> You haven't talked to him all about me, slut?

> We don't talk much about you when we're doing it, sweetie?

> Liar.

> cxnt.

> Wheaton College, bitch.

[Wheaton was up the road in Norton, MA.  It was 3 years away from becoming coed, but in 1985 was still female-only and had a vague reputation of being lesbian-leaning, or at least lesbian-friendly at a time not many,  if any, colleges in the United States were.  It was also academically-rigorous.  Lorraine was obviously smart.  But was she also a lesbian?]

Our phone confrontation had just started.

And yet I had already cum into my hand.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

In 1985 in suburban New England, girls would sometimes fight; sometimes, meaning it wasn't completely unheard of.  Almost completely, but not completely.

So the fact that I had fought Maureen, and was considering fighting Lorraine, was not a Black Swan Event.

What WAS a Black Swan Event was that Lorraine and I were speaking about our fight, before it happened, directly to each other, with no witnesses.

If anyone had known THAT was happening, it would have been downright scandalous.  Everyone "just knew", especially girls our age, was that the way you agree to fight (and where and when to fight) was thru each others' friends.  Like the way Maureen and my fight at school at had about.  Maureen told her friend she was alone in the bathroom.  The her friend told my best friend.  Then my best friend told me.  Then the fight happened.  There was a whole process.

That's just the way things worked.

I think there were a couple reasons for the whole charade.  The first was that if either girl, or both, wanted to back out, you could credibly blame miscommunication about the arrangements?  As in:  4:00?  I thought we were fighting at 3.  I was there at 3, where were you?  Or:  Stanley Park?  I thought we were fighting at Shoppers World.  I was there, where was she?

A lot of fight "accidentally" never happened that way.  But if you were talking to the girl directly, how could you blame miscommunication?

The second reason, tho, I was discovering now.

Talking to a girl you hate on the phone is ..... intense.  Major fucking intense.

Have you ever done it?  You can hear the hatred spewing out of each others' voices.  The hissed insults.  The namecalling.  Her voice in your ear, like she's over your shoulder.

Wanting to reach into the phone and scratch her face open.

That's what I could feel from Lorraine on the phone.

And what she could hear from me.

Our hatred for each other.

To be continued....