[sinclairfan]

A terrible blizzard hit Rhode Island on January 7, 1988--lots of snow and very cold.  Lorraine and I put on our winter clothes and dug out Mom's driveway with the snowblower, then shovelled out the walk and driveway.

My Dad was such an ass to leave my Mom and leave this work for her in her old age.  How was an old woman supposed to keep up with New England winters?  And leaving her to sleep with my childhood friend Maria.

Who lost to me in a fight.

I assmed once I best up Maria that he wouldn't find her arousing anymore.  Maybe he didn't - was he just going thru the motions with her?  Because he was afraid to admit he made a mistake shacking up with a woman less than half his age?

When Lorraine and I get inside from the snow, my Mom warms us up with hot chocolate.

With Kahlua in it.  After a while, lots of Kahlua.  Lorraine and I get really buzzed.

We pick up the phone and call my Dad's number.

> Hello?

> Hey Maria, you fucking bitch.  Is my Dad there.

> We didn't know you were still talking to him.  You didn't call for Christmas.

> He didn't call me, either.  And stop using 'we' when you refer to him and you.  You're just a skank he's fucking.  He sees teenage you when he looks at you, Maria.  Not adult you.

> He and I are 'we'.  You gonna make me stop saying that?

> Oh, silly me, I thought I won our catfight.  On Father's Day, remember?  Remember who won, bitch?

> I lost that fight on purpose, Lisa.  He can't stand to see you get hurt.

> Are you fucking serious, Maria??  The fight me with him not around.

> He'll know I beat you up.

> Excuses.  You're a fucking coward.  [Lorraine in background:  Hang up on the bitch.  Don't give her the satisfaction.

I hang up on Maria.

Lorraine and I make out wildly on the couch.  My Mom doesn't exsctly ogle us.

But she doesn't leave the room either.

She's genuinely curious to know what Lorraine and I do with each other.

While we're making out the phone rings.

My Mom answers, and listens for 30 seconds.  She hangs up.

> Lisa, it was your Dad.  He apologizes for Maria not putting your call thru.  He says she was a bitch to fo that.

Lorraine and I resume kissing, and I cum on the couch.  Loudly.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

One Saturday night, Lorraine, my Mom, and I are in the mood for a movie.  We decide to watch 'Less Than Zero' because I had read the Bret Easton Ellis novel it was based on in a class at Miami.  And because it starred Andrew McCarthy, who was the type of guy I was wishing my first sex partner, Tennis Tommy, had been.  Maybe I would have been straight if Tommy was as good in bed as Andrew McCarthy.

About halfway into the movie, Andrew's character has a nude sex scene with his girlfriend.  The two of them are really going at it, and the camera shows a lot.  All of the actress, of course--but even a lot of the actor, which is unheard of in 1980s movies.

My Mom, Lorraine, and I are all uncomfortably blushing.  My Mom breaks the awkward silence.

> I doubt that's how Maria and your Dad fuck.  He's not nearly that energetic in bed.

> [Upset that my Mom 'went there' with my Dad.  I hate MARIA, not my Dad.  I try to steer the conversation elsewhere.]  Ewww, Mom.  And that's not what makes that scene .... awkward.  Right, Lorraine?  [Lorraine nods.]

> Well, girls?  What makes it awkward?  That I watch you two make out?

> [My Mom is irritating me tonight.]  No, Mom.  You only watch me and Lorraine kiss--not actually get intimate.

> Which ..... I'm still curious about.  Maybe another time.  But I still don't get the awkward silence.

> It's, ummmm, .... Mom, remember how Lorraine and I met?  Mom, Lorraine and I were both dating thay boy Tommy.

> Tommy?

> From tennis, Mom!!!  Remember?

> My goodness, that's right!  Lorraine, you came here one day to fight Lisa!  Girls, where does the time go?

> ........

> So, ummm ..... DID you two fight??

> Mom ..... I drove the Wheaton and fought her.

> Lisa, I remember that .... But I thought Maureen ended up fighting Lorraine .... and you fought a different Wheaton girl.

> Well, Lorraine and I fought first .... really hard, too.  Right, Lorraine?

> Oh, totally hun.  [Lorraine strokes my hair and kisses me.]

> But if you two were sleeping with the same guy now .... would uou fight like that.

> .....

> .....

> Oh.  That's why you're awkwardly silent.

> ......

> ....

> Can I watch you two kiss more?

We never finish the movie.  That noght, or ever.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

In bed the next morning, Lorraine and I talked about how our first attempt at heterosexuality (Tennis Tommy) had gone so off the rails.  How we had put ourselves on a collision course with each other.  How The Other Woman in the relationship became our obsession, not the boy we were having sex with.  How we tried to keep the boy with jealousy to each other, rather than bonding to him.

Would we be straight now if our first straight relationship hadn't been so ..... unconventional? 

And yet .... it wasn't our fault, was it?  We were two smart, attractive, extroverted blonde girls.  Why weren't boys competing for us?  There were more of them than there were of us.  Why were Lorraine and I the one's without a Musical Chair?

Why did men still, even now in 1988, fumble at asking me out?  What were they afraid of?  Rejection?  I hardly ever rejected a man.  And even when I did, I did it in the most non-humiliating, face-saving ways imaginable.

I never showed up a man for making a pass at me.

Lorraine and I talk about me going back to school in Ohio soon.  Will we date other people?  Girls?  Boys?

Will we be jealous of each other?  Of our dates?

If one of us dates a girl, will the other one want to fight that girl?  If a fight happens, will it be a vicious catfight?  Will that make us horny?

Why do we both like to fight so much?

Do lesbian girls get into love triangle fights?  We're lesbians ourselves (or, bi-, at least), and don't even have anyone we can ask these questions to.

We're still practically virgins at this, even after all we've been thru yhe past three years.

Wash outs at business.  But virgins, virtually, at sex.  Well, not at sex.  At relationships.

Either that, or, .... maybe .... maybe we just suck at relationships.

And always will.

Maybe we have 35 years of loneliness ahead of us, after which we'll wake up in 35 years and be pathetic sociopathic spinsters.  Like the 'Old Maid' in the card game I used to play with my parents.

Or in my sleepovers with Maria.

What will 2023 Lisa be like?  2023 Lorraine?  2023 Maria?  2023 Maureen?

Will we still catfight a lot?

Because if we do .... I can handle all the other stuff.

I do enjoy a good chickfight.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

My last Saturday before heading back to school in Ohio, Lorraine, my Mom, and I headed into Lechmere to buy some supplies and bedding for me.  Lechmere doesn't exist anymore, but it was a big deal in New England in the 1970s and 1980s.  It was a department store that had washing machines and beds and clothes and shoes--all the essentials of living.  More specialized than Sears and J.C.Penney, but before Home Depot and Lowe's made their way up north.

Lorraine and I must have been letting out some pheromone, because we were getting hit on like crazy by boys the whole trip.  (My Mom even got hit on my one!)

Is this what the secret was all along?  Just go out shopping?

I had missed the whole mall scene in my high school years because of my travel tennis.  So I didn't know how to flirt in a mall--how to show your hair, your ass, your legs.

Lorraine and I started competing to see who could get the most numbers.  The custom was that the girl GIVE her number .... but that wouldn't work for Lorraine and me, because we were living in the same house, and had the same number.  It's 1988--no cell phones.  Remember?

Some boys were confused by the script-flipping and walked away.  Others were intrigued .... relieved, even .... that the ball was now in Lorraine's or my "court" [pun intended] to call or not call.  The pressure was off them.

At night, Lorraine and I discussed what we'd do with all the numbers we'd received.  Would we actually call the boys for a date.

> You mean, will I?  You're going back to schoool.  You can't call.

> Gheezh, I'll be back for spring break.  That's just 6 weeks.  We can talk on the phone fpr a month, thrn I come back and fuck.

> Boys don't wait 6 weeks.

> They would for me.  And what yhe fuck do you know about boys anyways??  [The part comes out harsher than I meant it to.  But, too late .... it's ON now.]

> What the fuck is thst supposrd to mean, Lisa?  I've fucked boys.

> How many?  One?

> I fucked before Tommy.

> Was it as fake as your joke relationship with him?

> That relationship was a joke because a slut inserted herself.

> A slut??? .... Me???

> If the shoe fits .....

> Lorraine ...  you really are a bitch.

> I learned from the best.

> Fuck you.  You were a bitch before I came around.

> And you made me worse.

> Lorraine .... you're three fucking years older than me.  How did I influence you?

> Because you're such a bitch inside. 

> Fuck you.

> Fuck you, Lisa.

We go to bed.  We don't kiss.

Are we breaking up?

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

When I got back to Miami for my spring semester, I tried to forget about Lorraine, and Rhode Island, by obsessing over my beautiful, glamorous classmates in my Finance classes.  They were spending their summer and winter breaks working internships at banks and brokerages and investment firms.  Their looks got them in the door, but it was their glamour, which spoke, "You can trust me with your secrets, and I'll be discreet with them," which was making them advance.

Advancing to the point of the ladder Lorraine and I were already at at P&G, before I torched both of our career thru my impulsivity. 

That what these Miami girls' glamour actually was--the utter absence of impulsivity.  They would never do .... would never imagine doing .... the impulsive shit Lorraine and I did at P&G.  Fighting each other.  Driving 200 miles on a Firday afternoon to fuck esch other.  Dating each other when we have supervisory authority over the other.  Writing accustory letters to management.

I liked these girls' discipline better.  Even Maureen and Maria were trashy compared to them.  Maureen wanting to catfight me in a filthy bathroom.  Maria wanting to fuck my Dad, enen though he was thirty years older than her.

The Miami Gamour was the anti-dote to my white trash Rhode Island upbringing.  My Mom had hoped travel tennis was my path out.  Then Catholic college at Notre Dame, Boston College, or Holy Cross.  And she was right--she just gave up too soon when I didn't make the grade at the Big Three.  Miami and Villanova and Providence and Pepperdine and Creighton and other swam in the same waters as BC--the trained us in the same Glamour cache as their more prestigious brethren.  And these girls had figured it out.

While I was sill in the gutter, literally and figuratively, with Lorraine.  With Maureen.  With Maria.  With my suite mate and her Cleveland family.

With my Dad's ex.

Who went behind the butcher's shop and kneed each other in the groin.  Who enjoyed hurting each other.

No Miami of Ohio girl would do that.

I wanted to be more like them.

I started studying Finance with them.

They knew I had played tennis.

They knew I had washed out at P&G (thpugh not why).

They knew I understood the downtown Cincinnati department store Tea Houses.

They thought I was attractive.

I was in.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

One of the Finance majors started hanging out with me--her name was Fallon.  Such a glamorous name, I thought.

I showed her mine and she showed me hers.

Not our naked bodies--nothing like that.  Fallon was so stiff, I don't think she even got naked in the shower.

We showed each other what we had been doing with our Miami education.

She showed me her Finance homework.  Not much in the way of numbers--just lots of complex mathematics.  Lots of symbols, variables, and formulas.  Pretty impenetrable stuff if you didn't have someone to guide you thru it.  Manageable if you were patient and curious.  And smart.

For the first time since high school, someone was thinking of me as smart.

I was thinking of myself as smart.  Why had I stopped thinking of myself that way?  After I got rejected by Notre Dame and Boston College and Holy Cross?  Fuck them.  I was still smart.

I showed Fallon the Catholic chapel on campus where I liked attending Mass.  The reading was Second Corinthians, Chapter 4.  About being broken but unbowed.

I thought of myself that way.

At the Sign of Peace, Fallon hugged me.  Our hands were on each others' asses.  I liked it.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Fallon sits on my bed in my dorm room and we talk about school and boys.  We rub each others' asses, through each others' skirts and panties, as we talk.  Fallon tells me she likes when I rub her ass, because I do it how boys at Miami do when they're fucking her.  She asks if boys rub my ass when they fuck me.  I tell her no.  She says she's surprised to hear that, because I have a nice ass.  I blush.

Fallon would be surprised by a lot of things about me.  She's so Straight Edge.  I'm not.  Would that turn her off?

I used to hear boys call having sex "getting a piece of ass".  With Fallon, I finally understand why.  Boys must like women whose asses they can hold as they fuck.  I wonder why Tennis Tommy didn't hold my ass as we fucked.

It's because he just did the girl-on-top shit that he learned from Lorraine.  I should have gotten suspicious right then that he and I would have no future.  Or a present, even--that the sex beteeen him and me would always suck.

What a bitch Lorraine is.  She's been ruining my life for three years, already.  1985 to 1988. 

I need to lose her.  But now she's living in my home.

With my Mom.

In my Mom's queen size bed.

I wonder if my Mom has been tempted yet to climb into that bed yet.

At 1 AM.

That would be a typical bitch move for Lorraine to pull.

What a fucking bitch she is.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

An a brisk March day in 1988, Fallon and I got permission to make a "field trip" to the Cincinnati diocesan offices to see how their accounting department worked.  Well, I got permission to make the trip, and Fallon got permission to be my "chaperone", so that I wasn't travelling alone. 

In the car on the way, I jokingly told Fallon to make sure she didn't "harrass" me on the way.  Sexual harrassment didn't become a criminal, or even firable, act until the early 1990s, so it was more of a taboo, almost naughty topic to bring up in polite conversation in 1988.

Fallon giggled like I hoped she would.  But then she also got serious and said harrassment was a common behavior in investment banking, and discouraged a lot of women from pursuing the field.

She asked me if I had been harrassed at P&G.

I brought up the topic of Lorraine.

> My intern advisor harrassed me.  I was pressured into having sex.  More than once.  For a whole summer, really.

> In exchange for a good evaluation?

> Yes.  It sucked. 

> Did you tell anyone?

> Not at the time.  Months later, I wrote a letter to the company.

> Oh, Lisa.  I'm sorry.  What happened?  [Fallon is rubbing my thigh in the car.  I love when she does that.]

> They rescinded my internship for the next summer.  It's why I washed out at P&G.  Forever.

> That's terrible, Lisa.  What an asshole he was.

> Ummm.... it was't a he.  It was a she.  Her name was Lorraine.

> Lisa!!!  Get out!!! A woman pressured you into sex???

> Yes.  It's embarrassing.  Don't tell anyone.

> Lisa.  I won't.  Don't worry.

> [We listen to the radio all the way to Cincinnati.  We're early, so I drive Fallon past the sprawling P&G complex.]

> So many young people.

> I know.  But, Fallon .... most will wash out in less than three years.  That's the 'P&G Way'.

> Lisa .... I'm not saying it's the same as xou're situation.... But .... I have a confession too.  ['Confession', to Catholics, refers to sin.]

> Oh?

> I've have sex with women, too. 

> Do you .... like it.

> I love it.

> [The radio keeps playing.  More awkward silence.]

> When we get get home tonight .... wanna have sex with me?

> Yes.  Yes, Fallon, yes.

Fallon and I spend a distracted day at the Archdiocese Office.  They have us sit at 1950s metak desks rolling pennies and nickels, dimes and quarters.  They show us how budgets are prepared, how variance analysis is written.

Neither of us is paying attention.

We're just thinking about getting back to school and fucking.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

You've probably noticed by now that in describing my history with Lorraine to Fallon, I left out an awful lot of important details.  I depicted myself as an innocent victim and Lorraine as an older predator, when in fact I had initiated all the trouble between us by going after her boyfriend.

And that Lorraine and I had grown up close each other in South Eastern New England.

I had also left out the fact the Lorraine and I had had three fights, and I had scored a draw or won each of them.

And that I had gotten Lorraine fired from P&G.

And that I had driven to Cincinnati and re-initiated the relationship between us, including inviting Lorraine into my childhood bedroom.

Once I knew that Fallon wanted to sleep with me, there was no way I was going to blow my chances with her by filling in the gaps in the Lisa-Lorraine story.  I wanted to know what Fallon was like in bed.

Was she better than Lorraine?
Was she better than Elena?
Was she better than my suite mate from Cleveland?
Was she better than my Dad's ex-girlfriend?

Why was the list of women I had been with so much longer than the list of men?

Was I more attractive to women than to men?

Or, was I right along .... That I was so attractive to men that I intimidated them?

Should I wear a plainer haircut .... or even color it something other than blonde .... to make men ask me out more?

Was it already too late?  Had my formative years sexually already gone by, and now I was a fully-formed lesbian? 

Really, was it that men didn't know how to talk to me?..... Or was it that I didn't know how to talk to THEM?

As Fallon and I kiss and strip each other, I ask her if she really wants "to do this" ..... that I'm not ruining her for me, am I?

> Don't worry, Lisa.  Someday I'll find my Prince, and he'll marry me.

Will that ever happen to me?

Fallon wasn't very good in bed.  Or, she was ok .... if I did all the "work".

I wasn't used to that.

Fallon could tell my interest was waning.

I'm pretty sure she didn't cum.

We didn't talk much after that.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

My bad sex with Fallon made me feel bad about myself.  It was a killer to my self-esteem.  Was I not attractive enough for her?  Not smart enough?  Not successful enough?  Not rich .... or connected, well-bred ..... enough?

OMG, what if it was all of the above.

I felt like a loser.

But, I also had a revelation.  Was the rejection I was feeling the same rejection guys felt when they wouldn't flirt with me?  Had they been burned by too many attractive girls in their past?  Or, worse, gotten them into bed only to have bad sex with them?

Is that why they went for the 7's, not the 9's?

Did I need to show them that they didn't need to worry about that with me?  Or, at least, that I was worth the risk?

Fallon just lay back when we were in bed and waited for me to do everything.  Was that how guys perceived me? 

Did I start needing to do more work in the flirting process?  (It's not a 'process', but you know what I mean.)

I had a spring break coming up.

Should I check in on Tennis Tommy?  See what he's up to?

This was 1988, tho.  There was no way to Google people to find their lastest addresses and phone numbers.  Everything was hard copy phone directories.  I could call MY Mom and ask her to call HIS Mom at the number she was listed at in the phone directory.

How did I have a high school boyfriend and never know his phone number, never mind not remember it 3 years later?

No wonder my love life was so fucked up.

Back to basics, Lisa.  Back to basics.

I wanted to call my Mom.  But I didn't want Lorraine to answer the phone.  She and I must not be on speaking terms, seeing as it's been 8 weeks since she and I bickered and not talked since.

If Lorraine is still waitessing, she must work evenings.

Thursday's are busy at restaurants.  I'll call her then.  Around 9pm.  (Long distance tolls are lower then, too.  It's fucking 1988--the goddamned Stone Age of technology.)

> Hello?  [phew. it's Mom]

> Hey, Mom.  Lorraine's not around, right?

> Ummm, no.  [Why did she hesitate?  Are the two of them fooling around sexually?]

> Can you do me a favor?  Can you look up in the phone book Mrs H****n's phone number?  If they still live in Cumberland?

> Oh?  Let me get up and check.  [Mom at least has a chordless phone.  Maybe it's the Bronze Age of technology.]

> Ok, good. 

> Why do you want to talk to her?  If you don't mind me asking.

> Oh .... I don't know .... wanted to check in on how college is going for Tennis Tommy.

> Tennis Tommy??  You want to talk to Tennis Tommy?  [In the background: 'Lisa wants to talk to Tennis Tommy?']

> MOM?  WAS THAT FUCKING LORRAINE?

> ['Don't give her the number.']

> Mom???  What's happening???  Why is Lorraine bossing you in your own house???

> [Shuffling on the phone.  Lorraine's voice is talking to me now.]  It's not HER house, anymore.  It's OURS, bitch.  We're both on the lease.

> Lorraine!!!!  Put my Mom back on the fucking phone!!!!

> Ha!  [Click!]

Oh my God, oh my God.  Has Lorraine, like, taken over my Mom's life.

Is my Mom ok?

Why did I go 8 weeks without calling?

Did my Mom think I had ditched her?

Does Lorraine think I'm going to sit back and take this?

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Besides Father Time quickly taking away all the security of my childhood, what with me getting older and my parents getting divorced, now the two biggest bitches in my life had actually horned into what was left of my childhood homes.

Maria, my childhood sleepover best friend, was my Dad's live-in girlfriend, alienating his affection for me and keeping me from having any kind of father-daughter relationship with him.  (Not to mention making him reveal to all 3 of us, by his actions, that he had had a crush on Maria my entire childhood; that the entire time he had been "waiting for her to grow up" so that he could have a relationship with her.  Was that why he finally divorced my Mom?  Because Maria was now available?)

And Lorraine, my rival for my only high school boyfriend, was now living with my Mom.  Literally sleeping in her bed.  I didn't know for sure if the two of them were actually doing it--I put odds on that at 50/50.  But I knew for damn sure that my Mom was watching Lorraine masturbate.  And that Lorraine got off on tricking me away from my Mom's home.

I had to get these two bitches out of my parents' lives.  I knew that part of growing up was letting go of your parents.  But I couldn't just let Maria and Lorraine take care of them as they got older.  Or let them make me lose touch with my parents.

And I didn't have a home yet, anyways.  My years at Miami of Ohio were dribbling away--a little over a year from now, I'd be out in the cold, unforgiving world.  Rents were increasing, and I had committed to a career that wouldn't pay much at all.

I was locked out of the cushy world of P&G, with its February 15, May 15, August 15, and November 15 dividends.

Gawd, how sweet those would have been.

Not to mention the long-term stock appreciation.

At least I had blocked Lorraine from all that shit.  And her pathetic lonely single existence in downtown Cincinnati.  With $2 drink specials on Thursday nights.  Trying to pick up non-existant out lesbians in a conservative, Catholic place like Cincinnati.  Where the grand department store tea rooms were dying in plain site.

Cleveland was such a better place to pick up lesbians.  Flirt with them, then catfight their girlfriend in the alley at midnight.  Kneeing each other in the gut and crotch.  Ripping each others' hair out.  Clawing each others' eyeballs.

Calling each other bitches and sluts.

That was the life I wanted.

I should make sure I get my Parish Finance job in Cleveland, not Cincinnati.

A grittier, more authentic lesbian lifestyle.

I masturbate in my dorm room to the thought, .... the fantasy ....., of midnight alley catfights in Cleveland when I graduate in 1989.

Two hot bitches mad at the world and beating the shit out of each other.

THAT's my future.

I can't wait.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

My Cleveland suitemate invited me back home with her for Spring Break'88 .... or, didn't say No when I invited myself [I think she could tell I had no where else to go] ..... but she had warned me the neighborhood was changing.

She was right--there were more unfamiliar commuter-types living in the neighborhood, blocking the street and sidewalks with their Toyota Camry's--but the more depressing changes were in her own house.  Her Mom and Aunts were getting older and noticably slowing down.  The Saturday night dinners, while we went to Vigil Mass in shifts, were less bountiful ..... and didn't taste as good.

And the Mass was said by a hard-to-understand priest on loan from the Phillippines.  America wasn't generating enough priests to support its own flock .... we needed to borrow then from Third World countries.  The priest did chant a hauntingly beautiful version of the Per Ipsum in flawless Latin. 

That restored my mojo.

And my horniness.

I went out after Saturday dinner with my suitemate to the lesbain bars looking to see if Cleveland lesbian alleyfights were as good as I remembered them.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

1988 was definitely turning out to be the crappiest year ever for.

But there was something else going on, too.  Something I couldn't pin down, but which I could perceive going on all around me.

The universe was conspiring against me.  Intentionally torturing me.

I wanted my parents to be married forever.  They were divorced.

I wanted to visit my parents when I came back home.  Instead, they were each living with a bitch I hated.

I wanted to be building P&G stock option wealth.  Instead, I was banned from there for life.

And from NYNEX, too.

I wanted sex with lots of boys.  Instead I got very little .... and very bad .... sex with women.

I wanted to spend weekends and vacations in Cincinnati.  Instead, I was spending them in Cleveland.

And tonight, instead of getting into an alley fight with a lesbian .... I got into a fullblown barfight with a straight woman.

Let me explain....

My Miami of Ohio suitemate and I hit the same rundown, underground, after-hours dives which in 1987 had been lesbian bars.

But the world had changed from 1987 to 1988.  This place we were at in the wee Sunday morning hours still had lesbians.  But not exclusively lesbians.  It had gay men.  Transvestites (a popular 1980s term which is gauche today).  Drag queens.

Pretty much anyone in the late 1980s who checked the "Other" or "Miscellaneous" boxes.

So naturally, my straight cisgender blonde suuburban white ass stood out like a sore thumb.

And finally .... finally .... straight cis- males were hitting on me.  Buying me drinks.

Wanting to fuck my brains out.

Heaven.

One of them was married.  His wife didn't like it.  I pushed her.  She pushed me back.  I was drunk as fuck.  And horny.  (She was attractive--perfect catfight opponent.)

In other words .... it was on.

Oh, the bouncers saw us.  Don't worry.  But rather than throw us into the street.... they angled us towards a bit for a band.

And the whole bar ran over to watch the show.  And they got a show.

Hair all over the pit floor in clumps.
Torn top.
Broken high heeled shoes.
Two women scratching each others' faces off.
For 10 minutes.

I got on top.

The guy I had won took me to the pool table on top.

He lay me on the pool table.

I found out why straight girls like cock.  And guys.

Best Spring Break Sex ever.

And it was just getting started.....

[sinclairfan]

I wake up late Sunday morning, most of my upper body sore and unrested--the Cleveland March low-angled sun is coming thru the window shades, which do not sit flush against the warped, decaying window frame.  The paint is chipping and is presumably laden wirh lead.

I go downstairs for morning coffee, and the smell of Sunday dinner being prepared for those currently at Sunday Mass.  It's the Third Sunday of Lent.  The 5-times-married woman trysting with Jesus at the well.  My favorite Gospel reading.

> That's quite a pair of shiners, Lisa.

> [Really?  Shit--I should have looked.  I must look like hell.]  You should see the other girl.

> [My suitemate validates my version of events.]  It's true.  Lisa even fucked her husband!

> [Shocked disapproval.  WWAAAYY too much information.  And fucking a married man doesn't go over well in this devout household.]  Still have all your teeth Lisa?

> I don't know.  Good point.  Is there a bagel for me?  I cann see if I can chew it.  [I gingerly bite down.  Thank goodness I can.]

> Maybe you should do some indoor activity this week, Lisa.  Something more analytical.  What do you know about Warner-Lambert stock?  Should I sell and buy a CD?

> [I actually know the answer to this.]  Lipitor is about to hit the market.  A cholesterol drug.  See how that sells first.  It could be a blockbuster.

> Wow.  Sexy .... AND tough .... AND smart.

> [My suite mate is glowing in pride.]  See, Mom.  I told you.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

With my body getting sorer by the hour as the springtime Cleveland Sunday afternoon languidly moves along (my left shoulder hurts like crazy--either I tore something during my barfight last night, or I pinched a nerve)--there's women's college basketball on in the background of my suitemate's Cleveland family room.

'Family room'.  Such a Midwest description.  No room in Rhode Island would ever be called a 'family room'.  Not in the 1970s or 1980s.  I mean, we had families and all.  But family were people you tried to get space FROM, not space WITH.  Because that's how trouble started.  Yelling.  Throwing things.  And I grew up as an only child and felt that way.

Only child.

Maria was an only child.  She and I became best friends over that.  And did sleepovers together over that.

How could she stab me in the back and move in with my Dad?  Knowing the bond we had, and how that would hurt me.

Maybe she did it TO hurt me.  If so, that was really cold.

Cold-hearted bitch.

I remember watching a women's college basketball game on TV with Maria and my Dad.  1978 I think, maybe 1979.  Louisiana Tech.  The Lady Techsters.  They had a redhead point guard named Nancy Lieberman.  You could tell she was spunky, feisty.

My Dad asked Maria if she could take Nancy Lieberman in a 'scrap'.  Matia blushed; I wasn't sure why.  I said I'd avoid Nancy in a fight if there was a face-ssving way to do so--she looked mean.

My Dad asked Maria what he thought of what I had said.  Maria said there's no saving face when avoiding a fight with another girl, no matter how tough she is.  If she beats you up, so be it--you need to take your beating.

How prophetic.

In 1987, I beat up Maria in front of my Dad.

And he picked her anyways.

Over me.  His own daughter.

I get up ftom the 1988 family room and go into my suitemate's bedroom.

I masturbate my brains out.

I take a shower.

I get changed and return to the family room.

Almost time for Sunday night dinner--pancakes and sausage.

My suitemate asks me if I'm ok.

"Yes.  Sure."

"Liar."

To be continued....