[sinclairfan]

Those fall New England days I spent lounging around in bed in Maureen's house, rehabbing from getting beat up by her,..... waiting for her to to come home from her job,..... wondering if we would fight when she came home, ....., I spent a lot of time thinking about my high school bathroom brawl with her, 30 years earlier, in 1985.

A hella lotta time.

A hella hella lotta time.

 When she came into that restroom in 1985, she met my eyes and started staring me down.  But not face to face.

We stared each other down thru the mirror.

That was fucking sexy.  Fucking sexy AF.

Because Maureen .... my rival .... was there in front of my.  Thru a mirror.

And yet .... at the same time .... she was physically right there, next to me.  To my right.

She had me 50% surrounded.

And there was do much more.

Mirrors everywhere in the restroom.  The awareness that once we started fighting.... we'd be both participants in the fight .... and .... spectators.

We'd be watching our own fight.  Real time.

So fucking sexy.

And yet so much more.

Tiles everywhere.  Porcelain.  The floor, hard as concrete.  Whoever was at the bottom in our fight would be feeling it.  Pain.  A lot of pain.

Water.  Everywhere.  Sink water.  Toilet water.  There to punish the loser of our fight.

Losing wasn't an option in this fight.

Did we realize what we had gotten ourselves into?  So much worse than a fight under the football bleachers.  Or in the park after school.

And each knowing that the other knew how to fight.

How to make a fist.  Thumb over the index finger, not under.

How to pull hair.  From the top of the scalp, not the back.  Push her jaw down into her neck, to constrict her breathing.  Even just a little bit.  Every little bit of cardio helped in a fight.

Cardio.  Maureen and I both had it.  We didn't smoke.  We were athletic.  Me, very athletic.  In tennis.

So hot.  The danger of fighting Maureen.  In 1985.  In a rest room fight at school.

It got me so wet.

It still does.  All these years later.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

In the 1990s, when I was working for the Cleveland Archdiocese selling churches and other dis-used religious properties, we had spent a long day negotiating with a small team of developers with included a sexy brunette woman attorney, a bit taller than me, dressed for some reason in a provocative red blazer.  With a sexy black mini-skirt and panty-hose.

She and I took a break to freshen up in the ladies' room.  Well.... she went to freshen up at the sink.  I really really needed to pee. 

When I cleaned myself up from peeing, I went to the sink to wash my hands.  I was surprised she was still there, because I had taken so long to pee.

I washed my hands, and could tell I was being stared at thru the mirror.  I felt like she was going to comment on how long I had taken to pee.  Which I didn't feel like talking about.

So I impulsively said, "Nice skirt."

I got no response, so I looked up into the mirror to meet her eyes.

She was glaring at me.

We continued staring, and I finally shrugged, as in "What? ....  What's your problem?".  I was saying that with my expression and body language, not my words.  I wish now I used the actual words.

She understood me, tho.  The botch went to the restroom door, locked it, and returned to the sink to stare me down.

> Was that sarcasm?

> Ummmm.... no.  I just like your skirt.

> Seemed sarcastic.

> What if it was?  [My pussy starts to soak.  Shit is getting real now.  Are she and I really gonna do this?  Right here?  Right now?]

> If it was ..... you and I might have a problem.   Do we, Miss Lisa?  Do we have a problem?

> Do you WANT to have a problem?  [And .... don't call me Miss Lisa.]

> Answering a question with a question?

> That's what lawyer's do, I hear.

We continue the staredown.

We're playing out a restroom catfight in our heads.

It would be vicious.

We'd get fired.

Not worth it.

She flicks sink water in my face and exits.

I spend the rest of the afternoon in the conglference room in a staredown with her.

She needs to catch a flight to Pittsbugh with her team.

I never see her again.

Shit.  That woulda been a heckuva catfight.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

That afternoon, Maureen comes home from work to find me on her couch, watching the local Rhode Island news, with me fingering myself.  She takes her blouse off and then her bra.  She sits topless of my lap and kisses me.  She takes my fingers out of my pants.

> What has you do worked up Lisa?

> I got to thinking about a memory from my Cleveland days.

> A sex memory?

> Nah.  A catfight memory.

> Oh , goodie.  Tell me about the fight.  [Maureen kisses me hard.]  Who won?

> That's the thing.  It was a bathroom staredown.  We .... hinted at .... swinging .... throwing down .... whatever.  But couldn't.  It was a business meeting.

> Ahhh.  In an office?  Elevator?

> Sexier.  In the ladies' room.

> What's sexy about the ladies' room?

> [I slap Maureen's face.]  Excuse me, Missy.... but didn't you and I fight in a ladies' room???

> True'dat.....BUT.....THAT was high school.  Not many places to catfight in high school.

> OK.  Well.....I left an important part out....well, two.... FIRST.....she locked the door behind us.....

> Holy shit.

> SECOND..... she was a lawyer.

> Double holy shit.  I winder if that was an intimidation tactic of hers.  I mean, regularly.  To, like.... get an upper hand in negotiations.

> [Maureen's and my fingers are in each others' pussies.]  I wonder if it worked.

> Like, if the other woman would back down?

> I would never back down.  It would just make me fight harder.

> I know how you feel.

> Oh?

> Wanna fight?  Right now?

> You read my mind.  Bitch.

> Slut.

Maureen and I stand up in the living room.  We square up.  Her tits are sweaty and erect.  I punch them hard.

She punches my mouth.  I cam taste iron in my mouth.  My lip is cut.

> You're bleeding.  Take a break?

> Not a chance.

We continue punching.  Hard in the face.  I take my top off.

> Punch my tits, Maureen.  Hard.

We hit back and forth, harder and harder.

Maureen gets me down and straddles me.  She pummels my face.

> You win.  I give.

> Good thing that lawyer and you didn't fight.  She woulda hurt you bad.

I woulda loved it.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

One "mini-discovery" I had about all-out fistfighting with Maureen was that if she and I had finished our high school fight in 1985, beyond the face-saving draw that we tacitly agreed to in order to avoid being caught fighting by the teachers and thus risking expulsion, Maureen probably would have won the fight.

That was a hard pill to swallow.  I mean, granted, she had a height and reach advantage on me.

But it was hard for me to admit to myself that I wasn't the hardest girl in the Class of 1985.

Losing a fight to her would have been an even harder pill to swallow in 1985.

And, more importantly....

It would have changed the course of my life.  Because if I had a catffight loss on my record in 1985....then there's not a chance in he'll I would have ever baited a Wheaton College girl (Lorraine) into a fight.

And Lorraine and I wouldn't have started our decades of fights, our careers at Procter & Gamble, our affairs, her stealing my Mom's house out from under me....any of it.

Which caused me to have the strange career path I did.  And with no stability.

Resulting in me being a grocer store manager in my late 40s.

Pushing 50.

Shit, that was a scary thought.

I'd be 50 next year.  In 2016.

No partner.
No family.
No kids.
Decent looks, but fading.
And.....if I was honest with myself....a dwindling ability to win catfights.

I had lost the brawl in Lorraine's yard.

I was losing my fights with Maureen.

I enjoyed getting beat up sexually.  But not psychologically.

Psychologically, I needed to be the one doing the mounting, the stradding.

The face punching and slapping.

Losing too many fights makes you too accepting of the petty indignities of life.

And life throws lots of indignities at women over 50.  It's a harsh world out there.

I needed to start winning fights again.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

When I was growing up in Rhode Island in the 1980s, the place to go to find an impromptu street fight would have been in Providence.  Outside one of the sleazy nightclubs.

But by 2015, Buddy Cianci had thoroughly de-creeped Providence.  (Ironic, since he himself was a creep.)  It was all gentrified now.

So, using reverse logic:  what place in 1985 would it be almost impossible to find a fight?

Newport.

Maybe Maureen and I should head to Newport tonight to find a fight.  Some bitch enjoying New England fall, before the North Atlantic winter cold settles into the coastal paradise?

We drive there, wearing fight clothes--jeans and a leather coat.

Our logic works.  We settle into a bar, and a pair of divorced women, our age, sit next to us.

They're looking for the same thing I am.  Trouble.  And a fight.

The blonde in their group will be the one I fight tonight.

I can already tell.

She and I retire to the rest room.

Then to a stall.

For some girl talk.

> Hey, bitch.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

One advantage of my unconventional career path and love life was that in my 40s, I had avoided the whole embarrassing getting-divorced-changing-my-name-downsizing-my-house stereotype which so many in my age group had gone thru in the 2010s.  Especially after the 2008 housing meltdown happened--Rhode Island get hit really hard by that.

The Newport woman who had followed me into the dive bar rest room--had that been what caused her divorce? 

When she and her ex lost their house--was it a long-standing New England Federal-style house?, or a 1970s raised ranch with a big "picture window", which they took Home Equity Loan after Home Equity Loan out on to support an unsustainable lifestyle?  That was one path that got couples into trouble.

The second was buying a new place, which was too big for the neighborhood it was in.  Too far from the shore to serve as a summer vacation home, too far from 95 to have access to the finance jobs in Providence.  And putting nothing down, so there was no cushion for when the downturn came.

Spending the decade-plus I had enmeshed in the Cleveland real estate market, working for the Catholic Church, and in Cincinnati working for P&G, had ironically thaught me more about Rhode Island than actually being a lifelong Ocean State resident would have.  That RI would always bee prone to downturns--we didn't have the firm foundation Massachusetts did of the dozens of colleges in and around Boston (like Wheaton, where I had first fought Lorraine), the museums and cultural institutions, the tech economy along Route 128, then Route 495.

No, too many Pawtuckets and other relics of New England's factory past.  In some ways, albeit on a much smaller scale, RI had more in common with Youngstown, Ohio, just east of Cleveland, than with Massachusetts and Connecticut.  Even Providence's scamp mayor, Buddy Ciaci, seemed more like Jim Traficant, the perennially corrupt Ohio Congressman, than like a New Englad mayor. 

Now I had a chance to rub a barfight loss into the face of the middle-aged loser bitch that I was now tangled with.  I already knew I was going to win.  Everything about this fight was right up my alley.  The disgusting surroundings.  The gritty setup. 

How sexually turned on I was.  We were going to hurt on the tile floor, the porcelain fixtures, the wood stall.  The kind of place my Dad's biker girlfriend (before Maria moved in with him) like to take me and hurt me.

Where along the line had the synapses in my brain made the connection between getting hurt and sexual arousal.

Wherever it was, it was helping me now in this barfight.

Because no matter what the divorced Rhode Island bitch did to me, whether she:
> dug her nails into my scalp, arms, or face,
> pulled hair out of my head by the roots,
> clawed or punched at my breasts,
> or kicked my ankles and shins with her feet,
All it accomplished was getting me more and more sexually excited.

And a sexually excited Lisa had always been, and was today in 2015, a catfighting, and streetfighting, machine. 

My adrenaline, almost She-Hulk-like superpower was in overdrive. 

And I slammed the divorced bitch's head into the bathroom stall countless times.

And dunked her head into the toilet.  Holding it down as I flushed.

And calmly fixed my clothes and hair in the mirror.

And returned to my friend Maureen at the bar.

And told my opponent's bitch drinking buddy:  "Your friend just got Royal Flushed.  Go clean her up.  Bitch."

Maureen and I walked out to our car.

> Royal Flush.  Haven't heard that phrase for 30 years.

> Well....you did today.

I was already masturbating myself to a climax.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Maureen and I finding the Newport divorced women proved to be a God-send (literally--stick with me here).  That fall, we returned repeatedly to the dive bar in Newport where I had gotten into the bathroom stall catfight. 

We never re-encountered the 2 divorcees we had struck up the grudge with.  But we found women like them.  Some of them were into motorcycle culture, and they tipped Maureen and me off to the annual Biker Rally in Sturgis, South Dakota.  I had vaguely heard about the rallies .... and the biker-chick-fights which happened at them .... during both my Cincinnati and Cleveland years.

But it wasn't until Maureen and I had our 2015 about-to-hit-the-Big-5-0 midlife crisis that we were sufficiently motivated to get off our asses and actually get on I-95 West and make the trip to Sturgis.

I mentioned it was a literal God-send.

It was.  Because the first building Maureen and I found there was Saint Martin's chapel, a small but beautiful Catholic retreat within the city limits of Sturgis.

My Catholic upbringing welled up in my soul as I sat praying in the chapel, praying for my deceased Mom and my aging (with, Maria;  gross) Dad.  The years I had lost.  My decision not to marry and have kids.

My attraction to women.

And to violence.

I wondered to myself....is this the part where I'm supposed to ask for forgiveness?

Or....do Maureen and I go out into Sturgis and try and get into chickfights?

Maureen was praying, too.  She had never been religious, that I could recall, in high school.

Was she thinking the same thoughts I was.

Maureen and I sit in the chapel.  Holding hands.

> I love it here.

> Me, too.

> Here, this chapel?  Or here, Sturgis?

> I dunno.  Which did you mean?

> I dunno.  But.... now that we're here .... I know I wanna get into a biker-chick-fight.

> I know.  Me, too.

To be continued....