Brandiprowstls vs. The Purple Vixen – Glory at the Shed

Brandiprowstls vs. ThePurpleVixen on FCF


My match hasn’t exactly gone terribly tonight. In fact it’s going pretty good. Me and Debbie (“Dirty Debs”!) have been taking it to each other hot and heavy for over ten minutes now and the crowd has been liking it pretty good. Thankfully, she’s running out of steam now, though. Too many post-match beers and general all-round fast food have taken their toll. I can tell from the generous muffin top that is splurging over her little shorts – part of what I must admit is a sexy all-silver ring outfit. I’ve got her on her knees, over the middle rope, choking her out. The ref is counting me of course but it’s wearing her down a little more but it’s also just a preamble to what I wanna do next. And when I step back to prevent a DQ she takes the opportunity to dangle there and have a breather, just like I expected.

I’m still perfecting the 619. I want to make it a signature move of mine. Give it some fancy personalised name, all themed to my own unique angle, but I don’t have any of that yet. Well, nothing good and original. And I figure first of all I should get the move spot-on right, anyhow. My black patent leather boots hit Debs’ face with a nice leathery smack. By the time I’ve recovered my balance to stand on the apron, she’s sprawled on her back, three feet from the ropes. The way she coughs and splutters as her chest pumps up and down madly in her tight silver top, attempting to replenish her overloaded lungs, tells me she’s just about done for the evening.

Time to put her away. I’m playing around with a Scorpion Cross Lock. Okay, okay. You’re right. I’m thinking of ripping off Paige’s finisher now she doesn’t need it any more. Some tawdry, tragic sex tapes and a hopelessly romanticised movie about her life have just about sealed that deal so I’m sure she won’t mind if I appropriate what was actually a great submission finisher. Of course, Paige herself stole the move from another wrestler. The great Bull Nagano used it in a series of matches against Alundra Blayze years back. But Paige did add something to it to be fair. When Nagano hauled Alundra into the hold she would grin fiendishly whilst Paige looked around and let out a huge moan. Now that was a lovely sexy touch. Lock her into the hold and them moan as if you are just about to orgasm as you go for the winning submission. Brilliant.

So I’m a moaner too. And Debs doesn’t fancy four weeks in traction so she submits nicely, nodding and yelling and tapping her trapped hand on my fishnet covered thigh. I drop her immediately. A tad generous maybe, but I have nothing against the girl and she fought pretty well. Of course, it’s not going to be a help her to her feet, hug and shake hands moment. I’m not feeling that generous. I just leave her to writhe on the mat in pain whilst I milk a bit of acclaim from the crowd before rolling out of the ring under the bottom rope and disappearing swiftly to the back.

I’m in the locker room trying to peel off my right sweaty faux leather one piece when my occasional tag partner and best buddy, Big Charlotte, bursts through the door.

“Hey good job out there tonight, hon. You did the business yet again,” she says, generously and honestly.

“Aw thanks, Charlie. I thought your match was amazing too,” I lie. I didn’t even see Charlie’s match but I can tell you exactly how it went. The girl weighs over 180. In some wrestling matches you’re the windscreen and in others you’re the bug. But in a match against Charlie you’re always the bug. The trick to beating her is to bounce off the screen rather than get splatted by it. Anyhow, the other girl got splatted. So that meant a long series of decapitational clotheslines, huge shuddering slams and ring jolting whips to the corner with big follow up splashes. Finally, Charlie would botch her finisher, like always, and have to rescue the ending by spearing her poor battered opponent to the mat and sprawling all over her in a clumsy pin that the ref would count lightning fast.

Once she sees that I am offering no further voiced comment on her match, Charlie blurts out, “And did you see who was in the crowd tonight?”

I shake my head. “Naw, I try to look at those morons as little as possible. Who was out there?”

“Punky Dow. The Purple Vixen herself!” Her eyes are so wide I think her eyeballs will fall out.

I pull a face. “Why would Punky come here? It’s hardly the The O2 is it?”

“Well she’s mixed up with Gemma Rox, isn’t she? And I read on social media that she was thinking of doing a tour up here so maybe she’s scouting out venues. Or looking for some new exciting talent to go up against.” Charlie actually puffs out her sizeable chest at this point, as if offering herself for consideration.

“Yeah, or maybe she’s just down here slumming to massage her big fat ego!” I say sourly as I contemplate whether to brave the black mould in the shower or go home sweaty.

“Well whatever the reason I was told she’s gone across the the Red Lion with her crew. You wanna come get a close up look at her?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I really do.” I say quietly.

The Red Lion is a pub opposite the Northgate Arena, the humble venue for tonight’s card. It’s a regular haunt for wrestlers and fans at the end of the evening and everything that you can imagine going on between wrestlers and fans and wrestlers and other wrestlers goes on there. When we enter it’s pretty packed and hot and noisy. Scoping around I see our quarry sat in the corner with her crew, all of them looking like they’re way to cool for this particular school, their vibe ensuring that, a bit like the cool kids in the school dining hall, no one can approach them.

Charlie is oblivious to their force field though. I think she’s a bit on the spectrum when it comes to this kind of thing. Or maybe she just went to a different kind of school. Although, actually, I don’t think Charlie ever attended school after age 13. Couldn’t be bothered with it.

So up she goes. Straight in there, cutting right across their conversation and invading several areas of personal space. “Excuse me, Ms. Dow. We were so thrilled to see you in the crowd tonight. I hope you enjoyed the show. We couldn’t trouble you for a quick picture with you, could we? We’re huge fans of yours.”

Fans? FANS!?!? We’re fellow wrestlers, prospective future opponents, potential rivals and nemeses, not fucking fans!

And then Punky Dow stops talking. She’s about to address Charlie’s request when she notices my barometric expression as I lurk behind the big girl. She’s prettier than I thought. Smaller too. She looks almost fragile but having seen her matches I know that is definitely not the case. She looks beautiful and skanky, shy and arrogant, nicely dressed and sleazy, polite and rude all rolled into one.

When she meets my gaze I nearly melt. And yet at the same time, I fucking hate her.

The Purple Vixen

I like coming up to Cheshire. I mean, I like going anywhere. I’m a traveler by nature, a fuckin’ nomad. I think it’s one of the requirements to be a pro wrestler. But Cheshire is genuinely cool! First of all, the name is sweet. I’ve got a Cheshire cat tattoo on my right arm, the heavily sleeved one where 80% of my ink is. He’s wearing an nWo shirt. It’s pretty sweet (maybe even TOO sweet). And I’ve drawn quite a few comparisons to the infamous feline myself, what with my fuckin’ omnipresent grin and the way I have of sort of appearing from the shadows behind someone, often holding something heavy to club them with. And when I head up from Cardiff to Cheshire, I like to hit Chester. The walled city is really goddamn beautiful, and even after a few years in the UK I’m still getting used to the sheer weight of the history here.

I rode all over the US during my career, with at least one match in every state (it was hard getting booked in North Dakota, but well worth it – I went over Woodchipper Sally and then went out for some really fuckin’ killer lefse and chokecherry schnapps), but even the oldest places in the US, like Jamestowne and St. Augustine, are just kiddy playgrounds compared to pretty much everywhere in the UK (except Milton Keynes, which is a punchline I’ve heard so often since moving here that I’ve started using it myself). Feeling all that history is cool, especially in a place as preserved as Chester. It’s so fuckin’ preserved it looks like it could take a Mae Young bump.

I’m feeling pretty damn good. The O2 show went RIDICULOUSLY fucking well, with Reddy and I absolutely tickling the crowd (and I even got a hug from Johny Saint after backstage!). Online, the match ended up getting an equal mix of accolades for our old-school World of Sport comedy-technical match and snarling smarky disdain that Red didn’t put my bad leg in a kneebar and I didn’t choke him with a kendo stick. But at least Maffew liked it. He said he’d try not to use the bits where Reddy was “working stiff” or where I kicked Jim Molineaux senseless. Possibly because I playfully told him that if he DID feature my match in his next episode of Botchamania, I’d show him up close and personal how I never botched my Vicious Punky Spike cradle piledriver, and he laughed nervously and adjusted his glasses and said in that thick Scots burr that he’d dig through the Global Championship Wrestling archives for material. He’s a smart boy.

And after the show, Gemma and I destroyed the hotel room in London (and stayed there a few weeks while I worked with a rehab doc at Graham Stone’s) and then ravished each other in the limo on the ride back to Wales and then ruined the front hall and the breakfast solarium when we got back to Rox Manor. We did that a few times, most recently this morning. But Wifey ended up having to head off to Hong Kong for some deal or another, so I eventually dragged my sticky naked body out of the wreckage of the breakfast table and took an hour long shower (I’m very much an environmentalist at heart, but I came up rinsing off my bloody forehead in bus station sinks and taking whore’s baths with lemon wipes stolen from crab shacks, so I like long showers. Fuck the future and its need for fresh water) and then got kitted up and got Killingsworth to bring around the Jeep (it’s a fuckin’ sweet ’93 Jeep Wrangler Sahara – the Jurassic Park one. Spared no fuckin’ expense!) while I made a few calls.

A reporter for the Wrestling Observer asked me once if it was strange; building up my career as a DIY gritty punk wrestling in VFWs and eating ketchup soup and building my entire gimmick off that reputation, and now living in a giant Welsh manor with my rich as hell wife, owning venues in Portland and Florida and running a promotion and marketing agency of my own. It was an excellent and compelling point, and could easily have provoked a discussion about class and inequality and privilege, but I didn’t have time for that shit so I snatched him by the lapels and headbutted the bridge of his nose flat.

Anyway, I called a few of my friends who I’d seen at the O2 and hadn’t gotten a chance to go running about with, and made some plans to head out. We’d make for a fun crew; me (of course, the mostest fun and also as hard as it gets) Viper and Krobar from ICW (two fine Scots who were generally mad – and Viper’s super fun to cuddle), Jenny Crow who’s over from the states (I think my longest-running rival aside from Calli Quinn, and way more likely to make out with me when tipsy), and Tom O’Bedlam (a fine lad from North Finchley who was slightly insane but had a beautiful twisting plancha that made up for it). Should be a lovely outing. We talked about who was running a show that night, and found out there was one in Chester, at the Northgate Arena, where I’m almost entirely sure I once made Gemma take me to go on a waterslide. I told the yobs I’d meet them there, and gunned it for Cheshire.

I was actually pretty interested in the show once I read up on it online (the road work that never fucking ends on the A49 gives me plenty of time to catch up on r/SquaredCircle and the indy forums). Turned out Brandi Wilson was gonna be working. I’d seen her performance against Erica DeVille. I’d say DeVille is my old nemesis, but Erica is fuckin’ EVERYONE’S nemesis. She’s a lifelong vicious heel like Blassie or the Sheik, and the only time she’s considered a face turn is when she’s gripping someone’s chin to bring ’em around for an eye gouge. Brandi was a face I’d seen on the scene for a few years, but since she was mostly based in the UK, I’d never really run into her. Even though I’ve been working shows here since I moved in with Gemma, I’ve mostly stuck to ICW and RevPro, the smark-friendly places, whereas Brandi works a much more old-school circuit. She’s good, though. Gritty determination for fuckin’ days. If she hadn’t left herself open for one too many DeVille cheap shots (and ESPECIALLY if she hadn’t gone for that god-damn moonsault! I’m STILL trying to convince Gems to stop trying fucking moonsaults. They only end in pain. Like Game of Thrones), she’d have probably taken Erica’s strap. I’d looked up some of her performances after that big show in San Diego, and I was impressed. She was a clean, strong, athletic worker who loved pleasing the crowd.

Well, I’m in the crowd tonight. And I’m just in the right mood to be fuckin’ pleased.

And sure enough, I am. This isn’t a huge show – this is a lovely old school card set up for a good-sized crowd (looks like near a thousand to my practiced eye). No huge video displays, but a nice lighting rig, decent enough entrance speakers, and the mat looks taut and the ropes are tight. It’s a mixed crew; up and comers, old hands who are comfortable where they are, part-timers, and then there’s Brandi. Brandi’s miles ahead of everyone else here. She’s fucking CRISP. I wave Krobar’s trap shut and shrug Jenny’s heavy tits off my shoulder from where she’s draped off me so I can lean forward, forearms on my knees, watching the brunette work. Smooth, quick. And so fast for her size; she looks a little taller than me, and maybe a little broader in the shoulders, but she moves like Lisa Starr. I grin as I watch her hit that 619 – quick as a wink, and I like setting it up with a choke on the ropes instead of relying on a drop toe hold or a dropkick to the back. That combination of methodical wear-down and lightning speed. Mmm.

My studded tongue glazes my lips without me even being aware of it, and Jenny nudges me in the ribs. “You’re drooling, darlin’,” she grins.

My knee feels better. I feel stronger. And I wanna wrestle someone who’s NOT gonna be gentle.

I level a finger at Brandi, purring just one word.


The rest is pretty easy. We make sure to go backstage, shake hands with everyone at gorilla, thank the promoter in person, take a few pictures, and then make a big deal about heading to the Red Lion. We make sure everyone knows that’s where we’re headed.

I set us up at a corner table, and make it a point to say hi to anyone who comes by but to keep up an intense and disquieting conversation full of violent stories and insider slang (pretty easy with this group) that keeps most of the marks and the other carnies at bay before you arrive.

Hi, Brandi.

No matter where I am, I always sit where I can see the door. And I know who I’m waiting for. You’re with that big galoot who was three matches up the card from you, who wrestles like Sal E. Graziano but with bigger tits. Charlotte? I’m sick of hearing that name on the wrestling forums, but I do like her spark. She barges right over, which I also dig (I’m a natural barger myself), and shoulders Krobar and Jenny out of the way, seemingly not out of malice but just from sheer mass, to lean on the little pub table.

“Excuse me, Ms. Dow.  We were so thrilled to see you in the crowd tonight.  I hope you enjoyed the show.  We couldn’t trouble you for a quick picture with you, could we?  We’re huge fans of yours.”

I was just in the middle of telling a story about the time I wrapped a chair around Santana Garrett’s head and slung her into a ringpost so hard that she can’t remember the word “pirouette” anymore, but I trail it off under the weight of Charlie’s arrival.

My hazel eyes flick past her to you. Oh, that face on you, Brandi. You don’t like me.

You really don’t like me.

Fucking SWEET.

I flick my eyes back to the big girl and give her my Cheshire cat grin.

“I just loved the fuckin’ show, Big Charlotte. Should I call ya Big? Or just Charlotte? Nah. Charlie! Ya look like a Charlie.” I give her a wink that seems to make her beam. And make you scowl more. “Hell of a card all the way up and down, an’ you guys worked your asses off out there.” And I grin. “But it’s Missus Dow. If Gems hears I’m lettin’ people call me Miss, she’ll hit me with a Hellbound when I get home.” Gemma’s gutwrench backbreaker is a respected and feared move, especially in the UK where she made it famous. I playfully waggle my left hand, where my wedding ring is tattooed onto my finger.

“She don’t mind if I chat up cute girls, though. We’ve got whatcha might call an open marriage.” That draws some knowing chuckles from the table – and I slide my heavy Doc Marten up on the vacant chair left at the table across from me and shove it out.

“So with that in mind, as long as yer okay with me shamelessly tryin’ to seduce ya, why dontcha grab a seat. You an’ yer cute friend here.” I give you my grin now – and my sparkling, mischievous, and knowing hazel eyes. Oh, that anger on your lovely face. I want that. I haven’t had that in too long, at least from someone I haven’t been fighting for fucking years. A hot fresh new anger.

And I want more.

“How ’bout you, Brandi?” I purr. “Ya want a picture with me an’ Charlie?”


When I was over in the States and trying to break into the scene over there, before I got the lucky break in the big battle royal, I did anything I could to get myself known.  Hell, I even tried wrestling my way in, naively thinking that technical skill and working a good match would be enough, a bit like imagining that just because you have a great voice that you’re gonna be a pop star. 

Then I got more worldly wise, so I thought, and tried building relationships.  I started with what I considered to be influential male wrestlers, because I’m probably seventy five per cent straight and like how male wrestlers’ bodies feel and … well, I prefer their bits too.  These guys, though, would just get themselves back to my place, fuck me and then bail in the morning, leaving me with nothing gained.  So then I moved on to some promoters.  These guys got to my place, then fell asleep before they managed to fuck me, bailed in the morning all embarrassed and left me with nothing gained.  And then there were the girl wrestlers.  Some women can really do it for me, especially other gal grapplers, so maybe this was the way to go to achieve some ‘It’s not what you know but who you know’.  We fucked.  And they didn’t bail.  Oh no, they stayed, like a limpet clings to a rock and we got so ridiculously involved and so intricately emotionally entangled that it ended in a great big fight, so bad that I bailed, taking yet another ‘nothing gained’ with me.

So when I got the title shot against Erica, it was just so totally amazing.  Overnight I thought I had made it, at a time when I was just about to give up and return to the UK.  It was an incredible stroke of luck.  An empty slot they were desperate to have filled and me just in the right place at the right time.  Of course, no one ever dreamt that I would win the fucking thing, but an over-the-top-rope battle royal is one big lottery, really.  Wrestlers gang up on other wrestlers as old rivalries rear their ugly heads and all the main contenders find themselves dumped on their well-upholstered asses.  But I didn’t know anyone so no one hated me and I quietly kept out of the way until it was just me and her, one on one.  And then, of course, anyone with a bit of ring craft and experience can bundle someone else over the top rope.  And that’s what I did.

I lost the title match of course, but only narrowly.  I could have won it but Brandi the crowd-pleasing show off blew it for me at the vital time.  But even then, I thought I had still made it … but how wrong I was.  The promoters turned their backs.  I didn’t get a title rematch like I hoped.  Heck, I didn’t even get a match.  I was back in the UK in a matter of weeks.

Standing here now, in front of Dow and her crew brings it home to me just how close I was.  I was in touching … no, tasting distance of the big time.  It could have been, no, should have been me hanging out with the cool kids, lording it over the other minion grapplers who scrape around the business trying to make something of themselves, always paying their dues. 

Punky is doing it right now.  Amusing herself and her cronies at the expense of poor old Charlie.  To keep with the school analogy, it’s like when the cool kids allow one of the unpopular bods to join them for some amusement.  They feign niceness whilst the gang delights in the in jokes and the growing discomfort of their new ‘friend’ as it slowly dawns on the poor sap exactly what is going on.  Then they have a choice.  Keep going, taking the growing and ever more obvious derision on the chin or kicking against it.  Of course if that happens, the cool kids turn nasty.  Show their true selves.  Normally it doesn’t end well for for the uncool dude.

Charlie can’t see it of course.  She’s way too nice, or stupid, depending upon your viewpoint.  And even if she could, she probably wouldn’t mind.  No one laughs at Charlie more than Charlie herself.  But I don’t like it, I can tell you.  Deep down, Charlie’s a good soul.  She doesn’t need crap like this.

And then Punky turns her sights on me.  Trying to make me, the knowing member of the pair, complicit in her mockery by way of my obvious disdain for a fan photo.  She asks me if I want a photo too!  She sees I’m angry and delights in it.  Maybe she sees how jealous I am too.  Of what she has about her.  Charisma, arrogance, cutting humour, unpredictability, individualism, a cruelty that attracts when it should repulse.  Let’s face it, these are all the big-time wrestler qualities that I needed when I was trying to make it in the States.  Punters and promoters alike all fall for it, just like my best friend is falling for it now.

I hold Mrs. Megan “Punky” Dow’s hypnotic eyes for a moment when she asks me the question, long enough to create some doubt amongst the group as to which way I might go here.  Then my face cracks a trace of a knowing smile as I give a slight shake of my head.

“No thanks, not for me,” I say quietly,  never breaking eye contact.  “I’m not big of fan snapshots.  Unless they’re with my fans,” I add glibly.  Charlie is just about to plonk her big butt on the chair that Dow has pushed out for her with her DM.  I quickly shove it back under the table with my stiletto heeled ankle boot, maybe a bit too forcefully.  “I’m sorry hon,” I say to Charlie.  “But I think we had better go.  I can see Jake and the others over the other side of the bar.  They’re saving us some seats.  Best we don’t keep them waiting.  And I don’t think we should take up any more of MRS. Dow’s time.”

Charlie gives me a look that says, What the fuck is the matter with you?  I’m getting all chummie with Punky Dow here!  Whilst my innocent gaze back to her yells, Like hell you are!  You’re just setting yourself up to have the piss taken out of you all night!  Charlie lets out a little blow before giving the group a ‘What ya gonna do?’ smile and shrug.  She knows I wouldn’t call her off like that unless I had good reason, even though she can’t as yet work out what it is.  I’m in for a hard time and a lot of explaining later.

I turn my gaze back to Punky.  “We just wanted to come and say a respectful hello to a great fellow wrestler, one of the best in the business.”  I give a little nod as way of goodbye and turn away.  Charlie is already stomping off in her big size nines, confused and fuming. 

I set off after her.  But then the bizarre mix of emotions welling up inside makes me do something stupid.  Really stupid.  As if my body has been taken over my another being, I turn and go back to Dow and her crew and blurt out, “I’d really like to wrestle you one day soon.  And I’d love it if I beat you!”  The rest of the group dissolve into snickers and chortles.  The other girl in the group nearly chokes on her drink.  But I just keep looking at Punky, not quite believing what I’ve just said and somewhat embarrassed to find some tears welling up in my eyes.  She says nothing to me.  And I can’t read her face, the strange event that has just occurred  has triggered a well practised mask of indifference, thinking time in bizarre circumstances.

The amusement of the others gets to me now and I turn on my high heels and reel away, shocked at my uncharacteristic loss of control, ashamed of the total fool I have just made of myself. 

When I catch up with Charlie she’s ready for a row.  Until she sees my face as I silently mouth “Fuck!  Fuck!  What a stupid fuck!” to myself, clenching my fists so tightly my scarlet painted nails dig into the palms of my hands.

“What’s the matter?” She asks, genuinely concerned.

“Nothing,” I sigh.  “Except I’ve just made myself look like a totally sad cunt.”

“Ahhh, the usual then.”  She says with a sympathetic smile.  “Shall I get you a beer?  Or something stronger?”

“Beer will do.  A big one though.” I flop onto the hard chair offered to me by the others and hang my head.  “I’m a total fucking idiot!” I say to no one in particular.  “Really nice work there, Brandi, hon.  That’s really going to get you a match with the great one.  I think you can scrub ‘excellent negotiation skills’ from the ‘Personal Strengths’ section of your CV.

The others are looking at me, open mouthed and confused.

“WHAT!?” I growl at them, sending them all back to their pints and their own conversations.


I’m sitting there for a long few moments after you walk away.

Jenny and Krobar are still laughing over the way you just put yourself out there, openly and shamelessly, without guile or forethought. Viper’s gotten over her brief giggles, and Tom is busy with his Shirley Temple with a dozen lime slices in it. We were carefully socially engineering a bit of fun with you – and while I think you were angry that I was insulting your friend, I genuinely do think she seems great. She reminds me of the stories I heard about Terry Gordy – and then you just sheared through all that and told me you want me to wrestle me. You want to beat me.

I was so surprised to have it brought out so plainly that I just found myself watching you. Just meeting your eyes as I tried to figure out what your game was. My face carefully pokered – hiding everything. It’s a protective instinct I’ve had to learn. I’ve been around fucking Rowan Chance and Callista Quinn and evil god-damn bloodsucking promoters for so fucking long that I’ve almost forgotten what an honest challenge looked like. So I just kept watching as you walked away. Eventually, I finish my whisky (and it’s smoky, peaty perfection vaguely annoys me like all whiskies have in the UK. I miss the brutal asphalt bite of Jack Daniels) and reach up to slap the back of Krobar’s head. I’d hit Jenny but then she’d wanna hit back and then I’d drive my forearm into her ample tits and then we’d be doing a No Holds Barred Falls Count Anywhere in the pub, and no one’s booked us. So I slap Krobar instead, since all he does is say “OI, C’MON!” and sourly rub the back of his head.

“You two hyenas shut your fucking traps,” I growl, eyes darting between him and Jenny. “There’s no call to make fun of her. You two should know as fucking well as anyone in the biz – ya never get anything ya don’t fuckin’ ask for …” I trail off, thoughtfully watching you across the pub. Your head down in your beer. Snarling at your friends. Reminds me of another mad bitch who berated herself all the time for messing up and snapped like a pit bull at people who asked what was wrong. Except that daffy bitch had purple hair and a silly ring name that Brenda Rua made up as a rib. I reach a decision, suddenly – and I shove out from the table so abruptly that everyone’s drinks jump in their glasses as my chair legs RONK across the floor.

“Back in a few. Keep the conversation flowin’, fuckers. Tom, tell everyone about those squirrels you’ve been collectin’.” Heads that were coming up to protest or question my sudden departure slowly swivel towards Tom O’Bedlam, eyes all alight with a morbid curiosity and faces grimly certain they SHOULD know better than to wonder but helpless to stop themselves as Tom grins and reaches into his shoulder slung newsboy bag, slowly pulling out a taxidermied squirrel that’s lovingly made up to be wearing a fringed jacket, cowboy hat and novelty sunglasses. Tom’s always good for a distraction. One reason I invite him so many places, especially when I might need to sneak away.

I stomp out of the pub and ’round the back to where my Jeep is parked, and root around inside it. I’m a carnie at heart. This is carnie biz and I was raised in the old fucking traditions: I always show respect in the locker room, I shake hands with everyone I meet at a show, I never miss a booking, and I always have merch to sell. Even when I’m just buying a ticket to a wrestling show, I’ve got some merch. Even though most of it these days is sold through or ProWrestlingTees, and packed and boxed by the warehouse kids in Chicago, I keep some with me. Real old habits don’t just die hard, they never fucking die. They’re zombie habits.

So I dig around the rear of the Jeep, and find some of the good stuff. I grab one of my 8x10s – this one’s a beauty, it’s me hitting Emily Layne with a Master Exploder during a Countdown tag match at an FTW Fury taping. The photographer – I think it was Tez Mercer – had grabbed this perfect moment where I’ve just arched back to throw Em over my head, and she’s just barely begun her brutal impact into the buckles, and my back is curved completely into this lovely bridge, and my boots have left the mat, and it looks like we’re both floating in this perfect moment of violence. I snatch one of the purple Sharpies I keep a gross of in a big shoebox in the Jeep and bite the cap off, signing the glossy photo with a big flourish and writing “To Charlie – a bulldozer of a woman with a haymaker I don’t wanna fuck with!” across the top left corner. I think for a second and then grab one of my button bags. I normally sell these for 8 bucks at the table, 10 online. They’re just a random handful of a few of my different buttons – “Punky: The Human Trigger Warning”, “Punky: The Moving Violation”, “Punky’s Gonna Second Degree Murder You”, “The New Human Suplex Machine”, and “Always Bet On Purple”. I love the buttons. They’re fun, quick to design, easy to make, and they remind me of the punk shows I went to as a kid where buttons from the local art collective were all the merch a band would have.

I’d get her a shirt, but I don’t have any of the really big ones in my Jeep. And I don’t think one of my beanies would fit her. So buttons and a signed 8×10. Good. I slam the Jeep shut and move back to the pub, not even pausing to think about what I’m doing. I try to pause as little as possible. Gives you less time to worry about shit. I shoulder my way inside and immediately move to where Charlie is patting your shoulder in a commiserating way at the table – I lean down, slinging my arm around Charlie’s broad shoulders, slapping the photo and button bag down in front of her like a surprise Christmas morning.

My phone comes out like a magic trick from the pocket of my slightly oversized chrome-studded leather jacket (a classic from the Ramones line of couture), all gleaming and futuristic, unlocked by me grinning at it as I tap the camera open. I wrap my left arm tighter around the powerhouse woman, phone in my right hand out in front of us and up above for a better angle, snuggling my head against Charlie’s big comfy shoulder and purring “Smile!” in her ear before giving my $40 selfie face (for the plain ten bucks or asking nicely, you get a little Mona Lisa smile from me sitting at the merch table by you. For 20, you get me standing with you. 30 gets an arm around you. 40 gets the arm and a silly face. 50 and up and they’ll start being REALLY interestin’ selfies), sticking my studded tongue out and opening my mouth wide, wrinkling my nose and waggling my eyebrows. I think she manages a grin before I tap the shutter, making that little digital camera noise we’ve all come to accept as the TrueTone LED flash goes off, immortalizing the moment.

I stay draped on the big galoot, who seems delightfully baffled, torn between looking at her new toys, looking at the selfie on my screen, or looking at me draped on her. “Gimme yer digits an’ I promise not ta call ya unless it’s REALLY important or I’m dangerously bored,” I grin, and get her stammered number (and UK numbers are still fucking weird), tapping it in and texting her the selfie. Then I pop upright. I can see you glaring, trying to decide between being outraged that I’ve come over to you while you were mortified or even MORE outraged that I’m giving your friend things, and before you can decide I spread my arms wide to all the gathered wrestlers at your table fresh from the arena.

“Next round’s on ME, gang!” I spread my arms wide and point the index fingers at both hands back at myself, getting the general roar of thirsty Brits going, only to cut it off by throwing both palms out and saying loudly ” – IF!” and I hold up one finger to indicate more’s coming …

Getting a crowd to pay attention to you is easy. It’s all in the psychology, whether you’re wanting them to watch the way you line up a kick to someone’s jaw or whether you’re trying to get them on your side so you can steal one of their reluctant friends away. It’s all in confidence, projection, and lots of animated gesture.

“IF …” that one lifted finger swirls around, and points down at you. “… ya let me kidnap Brandi for a few!” My hands come up, fingers splayed wide, revival preacher style. “FREE DRINKS! JUST LEMME BORROW YER FRIEND AN’ BRING HER RIGHT BACK!”

I take a step back, doing a little game show gesture at you as if to say Come On Down, grinning brightly with my eyes gleaming since I’m PRETTY sure I’ve just checkmated you into being forced to have a quiet conversation with me. Your friends roar, practically chivvying you out of your chair and away from your pint in their thirst – except for Charlotte who’s still staring between her signed 8×10 and the texted selfie of her and I she just received – and as soon as (probably mostly unwillingly) you’re on your stiletto heels, I stride grandly over the barman and slap a platinum card into his hand. “WHATEVER THESE YOBS WANT!” I say loudly, and throw up double rock hands with a grin – and I’m pretty sure it’s that sarcastic bitch Jenny Crow who starts a “PUN-KY!” chant that the crowd picks up because if there’s one thing wrestling fans will do at a moment’s fucking notice, it’s chant. I wave it off with a snorted laugh and move to the door, tilting my head at you to follow as I shoulder through it, hands going into my pockets.

When the door swings shut behind us, it does that wonderful trick of turning a dimly lit and boozy and loud pub full of laughs and clinks and curses into muffled dreamy silence, and the sound of the Chester street is there instead, just distant cars and the murmur of a quiet city at night. I give you a long look. I’m wearing my oversized jacket, a Gemma Rox “Hellbound and Down” tee, and black Levis, with battered black Doc Martens. Purple hair loose around my shoulders, no particular make-up. I mostly save my cosmetics for the ring. Warpaint. You seem tensed, like a livewire. You probably think I just distracted your friends and bribed your big buddy so I could get you out here alone and pound the shit out of you. Instead I start along the pavement, towards Northgate Street, stopping to tilt my head to invite you along. After a long and sensible moment’s hesitation, you follow along, withdrawn and folded in, heels clicking the concrete.

“I started when I was sixteen,” I say. Just outta the blue. Well, the gray. England doesn’t get a lotta blue this time of year. “Ran away from home, found a couch in a group home in Portland, scraped together a buncha odd jobs an’ shit to pay for wrestling school.” I snort. “Sellin’ weed before they just went ahead an’ made it legal, runnin’ balers I was too young to use, jizz-moppin’ the windows at tug parlors just so I could pay for the fuckin’ privilege of getting stretched out and slammed down over an’ over.”

Out of my other pocket comes my vape rig, a fairly expensive Japanese model, and I draw deep, taking in a big hungry breath of huckleberry-flavored CBD oil, the button glowing a soothing blue as the vaporizer purrs, and I fill my lungs and then let it out in a dragon plume of rolling steam at the night sky, drifting over a streetlight by the Pied Bull.

My head cranes towards you, gesturing with the rig. Purple hair tumbling around my cheeks, eyebrows up. Little grin of remembrance on my face. “Howzabout you?”

I’m willing to bet you didn’t expect me to booze your friends up and abduct you into the night just to reminisce – but in just under two decades in the biz, I’ve never met any wrestler who didn’t like to remember the old days.

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I watch you working the crowd like the pro you are.  I’m glowering at you, over my pint glass, which keeps coming up to my mouth frequently, the beer going down rapidly as I watch you take control of the room.  But I gotta be fair to ya.  What you do for Charlie is kind and she really appreciates it, although the glossy 8 x 10 you give her sparks a painful memory for me.  Even from this distance can see that big Italian bitch Emily Layne flying through the air en route to the turnbuckles as a result of what looks like a superb suplex.  The dramatic pic brings to mind a flashback to Barcelona.  Me and her.  The European title on the line.  And the end of my relationship with the woman who helped me get started in the business. 

And two minutes later, I can’t believe I’m walking down Northgate Street telling you all about it.  Why the hell am I spilling my guts to you?  Well, maybe because you’re letting me.  Or maybe it’s because you’re one of the few people in the whole world who actually gets what I’m talking about.

I’m in my wet look yoga pants and a little white silk shirt.  To tell the truth, I was hoping to pull tonight.  Now I’m a little shivery after a hard sweaty match and then being in that warm bar, packed with people and I have left my jacket in the pub, thinking this would be a quick spat outside rather than a long leisurely stroll around town. So you link my arm with yours, press your warm side up against mine.  I don’t pull away.  Your heavy duty jacket smells kinda nice.

“Yep, hard as it might be to believe, a while back, not that long ago really, I held the European Women’s Title belt.  Or at least one version of it.  There were a few at the time,” I continue to say to you, more than a little ruefully.  “It was a tin pot title really but it provided paid trips around Europe and got you some exposure.  And it didn’t hurt for your billings back home if you held an exotic sounding title belt.  Well that gravy train all came to an end for me in Barcelona when I met Ms. Layne in a title match.  I didn’t want to go there to be honest.  Make this one come to me I said.  No neutral venue stuff.  But Lisa over ruled me.  Said it would be lotsa fun.  A Total blast.  An easy title defence against a lump of Italian lard followed by a Catalonian party like no other.  A great trip for the Birkenhead gals.  Well she got that one wrong.  Way, way wrong.

At the time I was doing a heel/manager routine with Lisa.  She would wear the most revealing and provocative outfits Primark could supply and strut around the ring, revving up the crowd, distracting the ref and, of course, interfering at crucial points in the match.  And she was bloody good at it.  It suited her personality and she had always been my mentor so it made sense for her to be my manager at ringside, especially as her own career inside the ropes was winding down.

Problem was me and Lisa would argue like crazy.  Even during a match we would indulge in a full and frank exchange of views at the drop of a hat.  And that night in Barcelona she must have been pre menstrual or something.  So picture this.  I’m all in bad girl black leather and tattered fishnets whilst Emily is in good old honest endeavour white Lycra and shiny flesh coloured hose.  It’s classic stuff.  And I’ve got the big Italian down on the mat, writhing about, hurting.  A nasty ab stretch, made more effective by some assistance from my gal at ringside, followed by a big ring shuddering Russian Leg sweep had seen to that.

So what do I do?  Do I go down on her and pin her for the 1- 2 -3?  Nope.  You know damn well I don’t.  I go up top for that Moonsault, don’t I?  I can’t help myself.  I’m so great at them in training with the big blue crash mat in the ring, all there nice and squishy for me to splash down on.  Funny how it always seems to go wrong for me in an actual match.  But on this particular night, I don’t even get to attempt it.  I go up top and Lisa starts yelling at me like she’s Captain Sensible all of a sudden.  Like she never showboated in a match.  So I get mad and say some stuff I don’t  mean about her career and her lack of ability.  And in retaliation she reaches up and tugs the top rope I’m precariously balancing on.  I lose my footing and down I go, crotching myself on that nasty metal bit that runs from the corner post to the turnbuckle and you know how much that hurts.

And now things go from bad to worse.  Emily is right in there, all relentless and eager.  I’m sat on top, looking out into the crowd so she clambers up behind me and with a bit of persuasion she gets me stood up.  Her right arm is under my armpit and across my chest, her left hand is tugging on the leg hole of my leather one piece suit, tugging it right up to show everyone my lucky red thong.  Only it wasn’t so lucky ‘cos the big Italian managed to pull off a huge belly to back suplex from the top rope.  I can still hear the roar from the crowd now.  They’d just seen the decisive move of the night.  The one that effectively ends a wrestling match as a contest.  Bitch could have pinned me right there but she wanted to make a point so she hauled me mid ring and slapped a Boston crab on me.  It wasn’t pretty.  Lots of screaming and tapping from me and then the belt changed hands.  And by then my best friend and mentor had stormed out of the arena, leaving me to my fate.  We haven’t spoken to each other since.”

I pause, look at you.  You’re still listening intently and you don’t say anything so I assume it’s okay to continue.  As we turn the corner you lean in a little closer.  I can smell your hair.

“Sorry.  I don’t think I have explained who Lisa was, have I?  Her ring name was Lisa Fury back then but I think she uses the name Lisa King now and does some pretty seedy session wrestler stuff I’ve heard.  I got to know her because she was actually my big sister’s best friend at school.  And one day my sister came home and said her mate from school was making her wrestling debut and did I want to go with her to watch.  I was seventeen then and I thought this was amazing.  How could this girl be so daring?  So we went to see Lisa wrestle and it absolutely blew me away.  My sister  was a little freaked out by seeing her friend in the ring battling it out with a bigger older woman but I was soooo turned on by it.  At the end of the night I just sat there staring at the empty ring whilst my sister was telling me to hurry or we would miss the bus home.  ‘I want to do that,’ I said to her.  She laughed at what she thought was a joke.  Then she saw my face.  ‘No,’ I said to her. ‘I really really want to do that.’

Of course, my mum wouldn’t hear of it.  We lived just with her.  Our dad cleared off when we were small.  Mum wasn’t over-protective exactly.  But she looked out for us and when I said I wanted to train as a wrestler she saw all the pitfalls in that proposal in a nanosecond.  But by then, I had already met Lisa who had taken me to see wrestling promoter, Brian Dixon.  I had a plan and Mum was getting in the way.  So we had a massive argument.  But eventually we struck a deal.  If I got the grades and secured my place at university, she would stump up the money for me to take a gap year and train.  Then I could decide what I wanted to do with my future.  In the meantime I could train at weekends. 

Brian Dixon’s All Star Wrestling was classic old school Britpro based in Liverpool, although it was just having to move its sorry ass into line with the times when I started training there.  But during my first summer vacation working for them, I got my first gig and that was ultra-traditional.  All Star did shows at the Pleasure Beach in Blackpool.  It was basically a huge fairground although it likes to try to call itself a theme park nowadays.  All Star were based in the Horse Shoe Show Bar and drummed up trade with the oldest routine in the book.  They put three wrestlers out on the front steps and Brian Dixon would stand there with the microphone inviting people to come and fight one of them.  The big eye opener for the crowds was the sight of a female wrestler called Viv Martel.  She had been the pin-up girl of British wrestling in her younger days and still fancied herself in a tight swimsuit and fishnets, although she was in her forties then.  She did look pretty fucking mean, though, and there were never any serious takers when Brian asked for volunteers.  Maybe a few perverts who fancied being beaten up by a big curvy girl, but Brian always passed them over with a little jokey laugh, insisting on ‘Ladies Only’.  Attitudes were different then, of course.  Nowadays, every drunken hen party that hit the Pleasure Beach of a weekend afternoon would have at least one girl ready and willing to take her on.

Thing was, my role in all this was the plant in the crowd.  So after a while, I would chime up, “I’ll fight her.  Let me fight her!”  Brian would deliberately ignore me and then crowd around me would get all worked up, shouting out to Brian, pointing me out to him.  Brian would refuse, saying I was too puny, too young, or whatever.  I’d come back with, “I’ll fight the dirty slag!  I’ll kick her fat arse! Let me at her!”  Viv would get involved now and we’d nearly be going at it on the steps.  Eventually, Brian would agree and Lisa would rush out to usher me inside to get me ready for my match whilst Brian would beckon the crowd to come in and witness the slaughter.  They were funnelled down the narrow entrance corridor to the bar (a total fucking health and safety nightmare, but no one gave a shit in those days!)  When they got to the doors, they were confronted by three of Brian’s biggest fighters who informed the punters that they needed to hand over a fiver each to gain entrance to the show.  Most of those saps paid up without a word.

We would work that routine three times a day, every Saturday and Sunday throughout the summer and it always amazed me how many people fell for it.  Brian gave them two shitty matches festuring some over the hill male grapplers and then it was the ‘Main Event’, me and Viv.  Basically we worked three scenarios per day, a different one for each match.  You can guess what they were.  First, appealingly to the sadists in the audience, there was my total annihilation as Viv beat the crap out me unmercifully, finishing the match with facesit pin, which was quite outrageous in those days.  Second, for the glass always half empty cynics watching, it was Viv who dominated, but then I made a comeback, looking like I might actually win it, until Viv took me out with a low blow or eye gouge or mist spray in the face or with brass knucks hidden in her cleavage … any one of those oldies but goodies!  And of course, finishing the match with a facesit pin.  Lastly, for the hopeless romantics, we had me defying all the odds and getting a last gasp win, in spite of the battering I took.  But I just got to make a quick roll-up pin.  I wasn’t allowed to facesit Viv.  She said it was beneath the dignity of a wrestler of her status!  Ha!  She should have been so lucky! Arrogant fat cow!

By the time I’d done that six times of a week end I was so bruised and sore I could hardly move.  Still, it stood me in good stead.  By the time I was given my first proper match I was ring conditioned and hard as nails.  Just like we all have to be …”

I trail off, noticing that we have actually completed a circuit and are back at the front of the pub.  You’ve not said a word for quite some time and I’m anxious and unsure about what you think of me.  So now I revert to type: when uncertain, put your guard up and go on the attack.  The tone of my voice hardens as I pull away from you and spin to face you.  I plant my hands on my hips, my legs slightly astride, head tilted a little to one side.  “Okay, does that answer your question?”  I pause.  Look away quickly and then look back.  “And what about my match?”


Wrestlers love to talk. Even the ones that are notorious for being quiet and grouchy stone-faces like Taz, even the ones that seem like they’re silently planning your eventual seemingly accidental death all the time like Calli Quinn – they ALL love to talk if you get them in the right situation, the right state of mind. Create the opportunity of a quiet space that seems relatively safe, and a wrestler will start talking.

About themselves.

Look, that’s not a knock on us. I mean, I’m egotistical as fuck. Everyone who becomes a professional wrestler does so with an ego in tow – some of them let it get out of control, some of them do a better job at burying it, but ALL of us have a huge massive ego, and all for one simple reason. Each of us willingly goes through years of pain, decades of discomfort. We pay money we don’t have to learn how to get hurt in an entertaining way, and then we do it for hot dogs and beer until we get good enough at being hurt to scratch a living out of it. We drive ourselves through bruised sweaty nights in shitty motels and greasy diner food and rashes you get from ring rats, through dislocated shoulders that never set right and knee injuries that make our orthopedists cry and through weird and twisted relationships that no normal human would ever consider healthy and through a relentless grind of travel that keeps us from ever setting roots. We do this by choice.

And we do all that mad shit because we sincerely believe people WANT to pay their hard-earned money to watch us roll around in weird outfits with other egotistical loonies.

And despite my rightfully-earned reputation as an unpredictable psychopath who has smashed people all over the world over the head with all kinds of blunt objects, I’m actually a pretty good listener. You have to be, if you wanna learn. And I can tell right off that bat that you need a good listener. I ask you about where you started, and it comes pouring out in a flood. And I just drink it in. Because fuck me if it’s not an interesting god-damn story. It’s a cold night, and I kidnapped you before you could get a coat, so I step in all natural, wrapping my arm through yours and tugging you against me, my big leather jacket creaking softly, richly gleaming with oil (I take loving care of my old punk shit). Time was that two cute girls walking through this part of the country arm-in-arm would’ve had half a brick chucked at them – and frankly, odds are better than zero, but I’ve never let that stop me before. Besides, you smell nice. You’ve still got some spice from the ring on you. I love that scent, and locker room showers usually can’t wash all of it away. Sweat and baby oil, talcum powder and worn canvas, with a hint of cheap cleanser and liniment. Mmmm. So I wrap my left arm through your right as we pad along, keeping a decent strolling pace down Northgate, and I take in your story.

And it’s a damn fine one.

I’m with you for every step of the way, like Sebastian reading the Neverending Story. I can SEE the frustration twisting your face when you yell back at Lisa, arguing about the moonsault (I’d have been arguing with you too, of course. God damn moonsaults!). I can see the shock and pain twisting your pretty features as you get fucking cunt-railed on the turnbuckle brace. I wince empathetically, instinctively turning my right hip and lifting my leg, squeezing my thighs together protectively. Fuckin’ HELL, that hurts just thinking about. And it’s one of the many excellent reasons I’ve mostly stopped going to the top rope. It’s just a rough neighborhood up there, and I’m getting too old to pretend I’m gonna be the fuckin’ Macho Man. I can envision the expression on Em’s face all too well – I’ve been on the receiving end of her little-girl-on-Christmas delight at seeing a chance to hurt an opponent plenty of times. Layne’s a hell of a sweet girl when you go out drinking sweet red wine with her, a great kisser, and a fucking killer pizzaiola, but she also once drugged my water bottle in a boxing match I agreed to do against her (One of those private sponsor deals, like so many bad decisions are. If only I didn’t like making money so much) so she could pound the shit outta me while I was in a horse tranquilizer stupor.

I know where you’re at with your story about Lisa Fury, too, nodding as we walk along. I’ve lost a lot of good friends to the road, one way or another. Argument or betrayal, disappearance or disdain. Sometimes the people we think are gonna be with us forever just fade. I brush my head against your shoulder for just a moment, and give your arm a squeeze. Kinda intimate for someone I’ve never met who introduced herself to me by saying she wants to beat me in a fight, but whatever. I’m a natural cuddler.

Shut the fuck up! I AM TOO. ASK GEMMA!

Even more, I love your story about your start in your teen years – except for DDP and a few co-opted athletes, every wrestler I admire started young – and your time with Brian Dixon, listening raptly to the tale with my hazel eyes sparkling as I take slow drags off my vaporizer, puffing out locomotive plumes of steam and blowing six foot rings as we walk, the CBD warming me clear through to my toes. It’s such a classic wrestling rookie story – the sleazy promoter, the established old crank exploiting you, the hardway humiliation – but it has such wonderful British touches. The old-time carnie patter. The setup on Pleasure Beach (I forced Gemma to take me to Blackpool, because Regal’s from there. She complained the whole way, especially when I put her in a Regal Stretch on the beach). I love it. And imagining a curvy older grappler who in my mind looks kinda like a British Erica DeVille sitting on your face 2-3 times a day is kinda hot, too. I grin and nod along, laughing softly at the humor you slide in. You’re a good storyteller. That’s a common trait among good wrestlers, too – but I kinda wonder if anyone’s ever told you how good you are.

We finish looping the block as I’m lost in the story, ending up back in front of the Red Lion, and as soon as you notice where we are it seems to break the spell. We’d been drifting along in the cold night, arm in arm, almost nestled together, lost in the moment, and now we’re back where we were. You pull away, drawing your frustration and stubborn anger around you like a cloak. You twist to face me, hands on your hips, your stance becoming aggressive just like that, and I let out a little sigh of huckleberry vapor, puffing it from my nose in twin curling streams. I simply stand there for a moment, letting the city talk around us. Not answering right away. Nestled into my oversized jacket, the chrome studs glittering as I tilt my head, looking into your eyes.

After a short eternity, I nod, just once.

“Yep. That was pretty much what I fuckin’ wanted t’know.” I drawl. I step a little closer. The Red Lion’s sign swings gently above us as I push right up against you, the round steel toes of my Docs butting up against your boots, my back arched to allllllmost brush my chest against your own, coming kissing-close to you.

“I know for a god-damn fact how lucky I got, Brandi.” My voice a warm throaty rumble, hands drifting back to my pockets. “If it hadn’t been for friends like Calli and Katie MacCoy, for lucky breaks like working early on with Bren Rua and Gemma, I’d have been right where I was when I started; way out west in the States, doing fuckin’ VFW shows and getting seethin’ bitter about every girl who spends two weeks in a Tokyo hotel and comes back with a sloppy Dragon Sleeper in her arsenal, calling herself Japanese-trained.” I lift my chin a little, nose to nose with you, my eyes just nailed to yours.

“An’ you coulda had everything I’ve got. You had the training. You’re tough. You’re really fuckin’ smart. And you’re god-damn brilliant in the ring.” I chuckle. “Way more brilliant than ya think you are, I bet. You’re a country mile ahead of everyone else on that show ya just worked. You could be on TV next week if ya had the break – but I’m willin’ to bet that you’ve been so fuckin’ beat down by bad luck and hard choices that you don’t think that. I think YOU believe you’ve got somethin’ to prove to me. You’ve gotta prove that you’re just as good as I am, that I just got lucky.”

My left hand leaves my pocket, coming up. For once there’s no brass knuckles on it, no roll of quarters wrapped in my tattooed fingers. My inked hand opens, smoothing over your cheek as you tense up, caressing you softly. Intimately. Your anger is still there. Your frustration. Your mistrust.

But you also lean into it a little. Leaning into an unforeseen gentle touch.

“Anywhere. Anytime. Tell me when an’ I’ll set it up. My booking agency will get the hall, we’ll advertise it from Dover to fuckin’ Glasgow, and we’ll pack whatever joint we’re in. They’ll be hanging from the god-damn rafters. Just to see us, Brandi. You an’ me.”

I rock forward on my toes, swiftly and smoothly, and plant a teasing warm silken kiss on your lips, my eyes drifting shut for a moment, fingers curling on your cheek, my lips gently parted to let you taste the scotch on my breath and the warmth of me, drinking in the sweetness of you. My body presses to yours, warm in the cold night, jacket creaking softly with the gentle music of leather. The scent swirls around us; huckleberry and whisky, the Japanese peach shampoo I like, the clove oil on my jacket, your perfume and sweat, beer and bruises.

The kiss breaks, gentle as it began. My fingers curl softly on your cheek, fingertips gliding like silk. I grin softly at the surprised, angry, dreamy expression on your face.

“And because I can see exactly how fuckin’ good you are, I’m gonna make it my business to absolutely fucking WRECK you. Because that’s what I do. I find the best wrestlers in the world, and I rip through them like a fucking chainsaw.”

I purr, warm and throaty, and add a second kiss, like a signature, tasting your lips gently before I pad past you, shouldering right back into the pub to a general drunken roar. I throw my arms wide, basking in the cheers like they’re a sold-out arena. I demand another round for the yobs on my card, and head back to my table. Jenny and Viper press me for details (while Tom is showing Krobar how he made a squirrel Iron Man), but all they get is my Cheshire cat grin as I tilt back my Laphroaig, neat. Eventually you come back into the pub. You head back to your friends, and I can’t make out anything you say over there.

I drag my studded tongue softly over my lips, tasting perfect scotch and you.

Oh yes, Brandi. I learned exactly what I wanted to learn.


Jeez, that came out all wrong.  Well not all wrong; it was exactly what I wanted to say but I didn’t want it to sound so fucking rude and abrupt.  And why am I standing here now in such an aggressive stance?  We’re surely not gonna fight  right now after all that intimate chat.   What the fuck is wrong with you, Brandi?  I sometimes think I’m the one on the spectrum, not Charlie.  But it’s just wrestling and the fucking women who do it.  They turn my heart into fire and my brain into porridge.

I’m not sure how you will react.  You’re still not saying anything.  The tension and the silence makes me feel slightly sick.  I start to give a little shiver and I try to hide it. 

At last you nod.  Then speak.  And whoa!  You’re right up in my grill now.  I’m kinda listening to what you say;  you’ve pretty much got me nailed as to where I’m coming from.  How I feel about my wrestling career, about the seeming randomness of the business in terms of who makes it and who doesn’t and, not least, my feelings about you.   I can see you really get it so I’m not paying attention to the detail. But it’s the gravitas in your voice that gets my attention.  The depth of feeling.  These aren’t just words trotted out by the charlatan I thought you were up until five minutes ago.  You just tapped into something in me.  And now I tapped into you. 

Suddenly, hand comes up out of that oh so sexy and yet oh so mean Iooking jacket.  I’m braced for a blow.  I can’t stop you getting the first one in now, I’m too late to react.  But you should bet on me getting the second one in for some instant retaliation!

Huh?  You’re stroking my cheek?  What the fuck is this? 

Mmm … nice, that’s what this is.  I incline my head into your hand.  It’s unexpectedly gentle.  And so welcome.  If my poor old gran could see this moment she’d say, “Brandi love.  You need a boyfriend.  Or a girlfriend of course.  Whatever.  But you have needs, girl.  Needs that are not being met!  That’s why you are so nowty with everyone all the time!”  (‘Nowty’ = a dialect word in Northern English vernacular meaning grouchy!)

And just as if I am indeed with a lover, your soft touch is accompanied by soft words and those soft words take the form of a promise.  A promise that makes my heart almost leap out of my chest and soar away into the air.  You tell me we can fight, “Any time, anywhere.”  That’s it.  You’ve agreed.  Unconditionally.  Shit!  I didn’t think it would be so easy.  I’m gonna take my life in my hands and face you in the ring!  If there was an England team for not being careful what you wish for I’d be on it right now!  In fact, I’d be the fucking captain!

But there’s more.  As if to prove that you really mean business, you seal your promise with a kiss.  And it’s nice.  I’m not gonna lie.  Tender.  A tiny bit urgent as you press into me.  I’m just starting to get into it and kiss you back when you softly ease back.  More sweet words drift from your lips. 

But hey! Wait! Wait on!  Was that you’re gonna “wreck” me? That word really does not collocate with everything else that is going on.  It’s a terrible threat amidst all the softness.  But yes.  It’s true.  One of us will have to wreck the other, far from our soft and tender little dance together.  I try to hide the shocked realisation. I am sure it shows in my eyes but if it does your face doesn’t shift out of the teasing grin and your voice retains its gentle caress.  I could attempt a retort.  Something like ‘Yeah, well you’re the one that’s gonna get wrecked bitch!’  Mmm, something really witty like that.  But fortunately I don’t.  I just linger in that delicious moment of menace.  Swiftly the image pops into my mind.  The closing phase of a long sweaty battle.  Bright hot ring lights.  A cacophony of noise all around.  One wrestler breaking the other.  Making her opponent submit to her will.  She can’t fight back any more.  Smeared to the mat, taking her weight, leg hooked disgustingly, now just three seconds from bitter defeat.  And yes, wrecked.  In that moment it feels like her whole life is wrecked.  All is lost.  It’s so exquisite to do that to an opponent.  And so fucking the absolute pits when it happens to you.  We are both getting turned on by that prospect now.  The ultimate prize involving the ultimate risk.

Of course, there has to be another sweet kiss before brush past me, deliberately close, intimidating and yet flirtatious.  And then you are gone.  And I wonder if you are as wet as I am.

I just stand there for a while.  I put my fingers to my cheek where your hand was, then touch my lips.  I feel like I have just been seduced.  And I’m not sure whether I should be angry about that or flattered.  I give a little shiver as the afterglow fades.  Time to head back inside.  Face the others.

They all sit there, open mouthed, expectant.  I think they anticipated me coming back having been beaten up or something – so my slightly sparkly eyes and prominently erect nipples under my white silk shirt throw them somewhat.

Of course, Charlie is the first one to cut to the chase.  “So what happened then?” She asks, still cradling her Punky memorabilia like a kid on Christmas Day. 

“We talked,” is my dead pan reply.

“About what?” asks Jake who is my friend, second-rate pro wrestler by night and accountant by day.  His eyes are on my nipples though.  Not really good form for a guy with a long term girlfriend, a mortgage and a kid on the way.  I delay my response until his gaze moves a little higher.  “Sorry,” he says, followed by a little embarrassed cough.

“That’s okay.  I forgive you.  I can’t punch you out right now anyhow.  I’m going to need you to do something for me.  I want you to get your office head on.”  Puzzlement on every face.  So I go on.  “I want you to be ‘my people’.  And I need you to talk to Dow’s people.”  Dramatic pause for effect.  “About our forthcoming match!”

It takes a moment for the information to sink in.  And then the whole group burst out into laughter, clapping, congratulating.  Anyone would think I’d beaten the Purple Vixen already.  I sit there quietly, a little satisfied smile on my face.

“How did you manage to persuade her?” Charlie asks, a big beaming smile on her face.

“I didn’t need to.  She offered it to me.  Any time.  Any place.”  That prompts her to hug me.

“I’m so pleased for you.” She says.  “So where will it be? The O2?  Manchester Arena?  Old Trafford?”

I pull a face.  Shake my head.  “I was thinking like that at first.  But I’m not going down that road.  This is about me and her, not the venue, and definitely not the payday.”

“What?  Are you off your fucking nut?” Charlie blurts out.  “You wanted the big time!  You’re always banging on about not getting a break.  Now you have one!  This is as big as it gets!  You have to go for a big arena!”  I know what she means, of course.  But she wasn’t out there with Punky Dow.  She didn’t see what happened.  And I’m not going to explain to  her so she’ll just have to trust me on this one.  And she can tell from my face that I’m not for budging.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Charlie sighs, looking around at the others, seeking some support, her face full of exasperation.

“Are you sure about this?” Jake asks, gently, his financial adviser head now securely in place.

“Absolutely fucking positive,” I reply.  “I don’t want everyone thinking we’re just a pair wrestle-whores trying to make as much as we can out of this match.  This is a showdown between me and her, without the circus coming to town.  And that’s how we market it.  I don’t want all the razzmatazz taking anything away from the wrestling contest between me and her.”

No one is looking terribly convinced but I guess that’s what intimacy is all about.  It’s just between two people.  Everyone else is excluded.  “Punky will get it, trust me,” I say, as I find myself pressing two fingers from my right hand gently to my lips.  “So this is what I need you to say to her people.  You need to get a pen and paper from somewhere to write these down because I want this to be done exact.  No deviations from my instructions, got it?”

“Got it,” says Jake digging the necessary materials out of his kit bag.  What a fucking intellectual!  I mean, who the hell keeps a notepad with their wrestling gear?  I say nothing though and wait until he is ready to write.

“Okay, We’re gonna take this match to Langside Avenue.”

“The Shed?  Jesus!”  Charlie says, face all screwed up.  Of course, her last appearance on a Fierce Females’ card there might be partly to do with this.  Typical of her, she missed a big leg drop from the second rope which left her sat on the mat on her big fat butt and vulnerable to an Enziguri kick that did for her.  The bitch Spanish Pressed her for the pin too which was quite an achievement given Charlie’s size.  That pissed Charlie off no end.  I pity the other girl in the rematch. 

“That’s right, the Shed,” a reply, smiling sweetly at Charlie, who knows I’m remembering but deliberately not mentioning her last debacle there.  “The match will headline the next Fierce Females card. Now this next bit is key.  Only people who have bought tickets from there before can buy tickets for this one.  They must collect them on the night and produce photo ID.  Only true female wrestling fans are gonna get in, see.  Then we give Fierce Females four weeks to sell access to the tape of the match before it goes viral for everyone to watch for free!”

“Okay I accept everyone who matters will still see the match but the ticket prices have to go up, right?” Says Mr. Mercenary Accoutant, his little monetary brain already calculating the possible total take for the event.

“Uh-uh.  No way.  We stick to the regular pricing structure.  No genuine fan gets priced out.”

“But you’ll make next to nothing out of the night.”  Jake is incredulous in the face of a big earning opportunity being missed.

“I understand that.  I’m crazy but I’m not stupid.  But like I said, Punky will get it.  In fact, I think she’s begging for it to be this way.” 

At least I hope she is, I think to myself.  If not, then what happened outside the pub just now meant absolutely nothing and she’s an even bigger manipulative, egotistical fraud than I used to think she was.

I nod to signify that’s everything and make a phone sign with my hand to Jake.  “Make the call first thing to tomorrow morning.  No cheap negotiation games, playing it cool or playing it hard to get.  We’re hot to trot and up front about it.  Whats on offer needs no hard sell anyway.  Just an honest, simple, hard fought, nasty, down and dirty pro wrestling match.  There’s nothing purer.  She will understand that …” My voice trails off as, for the first time, I risk a glance cross the pub as you sit there, arms spread wide, looking round with a big grin on your face, still basking in the fickle adulation of buying another round of drinks. The others survey the scene too and then look at me, their faces the very embodiment of scepticism.

“Make the call, Jake!  Make that fucking call, or I’ll batter you!”


The night at the Red Lion lasted as long as anyone there could have hoped and longer than anyone’s liver could have wanted. The wrestlers present dried out two taps and finished off the Gilbey’s, and I personally accounted for the pubman’s sole bottle of Laphroaig before we all staggered out into the night in our different directions.

I didn’t talk to you again that night. I didn’t need to. We had all the words we needed already down, jotted in Jake’s notepad and in texts I sent out in my tingly Scotch warmth to get things ready. Get the wheels moving. By the time Tom O’Bedlam and Viper were rolling Krobar and Jenny into the back of my Jeep, things had already begun moving. Tom drove us back to Rox Manor. He didn’t drink. One reason I liked hanging out with the mad lad. He spoke fluent Latin, carried taxidermied squirrels in his bag, did a beautiful corkscrew moonsault and never drank a drop.

Way back in the day when we first got started, a challenge like the one that now burned between you and I would have gone down one of two ways: either one of us would have talked a promoter we had some connection with into booking us, probably at a travel loss for one or both of us and an appearance fee that was just enough to buy a hot dog and a beer from the concession stand, and we’d have fought in front of 175 people out of whom we could hope maybe 40 had heard of us and 5 liked us; or we would have found some video producer who would have let us fight in very posh digs, paid for our travel, and gotten us a proper dinner and great lighting, as long as he could tape it and we agreed that the match would end only with a smother knockout and a spanking for the loser.

Which, y’know, I’m not saying is IMPOSSIBLE – but now we’ve got better options. WAY fucking better, if I say so myself.

I run a marketing and representation agency now. Pandemonium Promotions. I spun it off from Gemma’s RoxStar Marketing, but that’s a fucking global company. I keep mine a little more focused. We primarily specialize in providing the sorts of things indy wrestlers need. We provide merch design, social media guidance, and contract review. We negotiate deals, normalize appearance fees, and persuade young grapplers not to take that offer to wrestle in a thong at a motel off the interstate unless they REALLY want to. We set the kids up with photographers for headshots and 8x10s to sign, videographers for highlight reels, and I have two in-house musicians who’ll do theme songs. I run the sorta agency I wish had fucking existed when I needed one, so young wrestlers won’t have to make the mistakes you and I and most of our friends made.

Also Pandemonium promotes punk shows in Portland and runs a drag king fashion show in Charleston, but it’s MOSTLY wrestling.

So that night at the pub I just hit up Yuki, one of my local agents, and told her that her caseload now consisted of this one match, and that she was to contact you to get it set up any way you wanted. She responded with a cloud emoji, and octopus emoji, and a calculator emoji, and I’m pretty sure she does that just to make me feel old, but I was like 85% sure that meant she’d take care of it.

Somehow we made it home, and my giant bed never felt so good. And as I slept, I dreamt about the taste of your lips, and the challenge flaring in your eyes.

Eventually I crawl out of bed and over the still gin-sotted form of my blonde rival and pal Jenny Crow, scaling her ample tits like the god-damn Smoky Mountains, and I stagger down to the sun room and tell Killingsworth to bring me my hangover breakfast. He’s too well-bred and well-trained to sneer in disgust. See, I’ve picked up a LOT of posh habits since marrying Gems, but there’s some punk shit that’s ground in way too deep to ever wash out. And one of those is my hangover breakfast.

I had to special-order most of the stuff in the recipe since it wasn’t to be found in the UK, and keep it in the deep freeze where it wouldn’t terrify the staff. It was the magical alchemical meal that had gotten me up on my feet and out of my fuckin’ boozy torments since I was too young to be legally drinking, let alone to be working a show hung over.

Tang. It started with Tang. The real shit, the kind astronauts drink. And a Steel Reserve beer, and I mix them together into a neon orange alcoholic slurry. Then there’s an entire can of Spam, sliced thick, each slice fried hard on both sides, piled up and covered in grade B maple syrup, served with a bowl of Lucky Charms drowned in a mix of DayQuil and ginger beer. It was a recipe that took YEARS to perfect, but if you survived my hangover breakfast, you’d feel better no matter how fucking much you’d had to drink the night before. Maybe just by comparison.

While I plowed through my breakfast and let the magic go to work, I checked my messages. You’d worked fast. Yuki had already been in touch, and you’d put her in contact with your boy. I grinned as I read through the terms you laid out. So many beautiful touches to it – SO many. Fuck, this match is gonna have the smarks salivating like Pavlov’s pugs. Keeping people from buying tickets UNLESS THEY WERE ALREADY TICKETHOLDERS AT THE VENUE? Fucking GENIUS. I text notes on what you’ve come up with to Wifey, because that mad bitch is always looking for new ways to fuck with people and make money doing it, and this god-damn reeks of both.

I sign off on almost all of it, and tell Yuki to have our law firm (Dewey, Cheatum and Otunga) make sure to draw up the contracts for the media releases and the ticket sales airtight as fucking possible. I want this shit ironclad. I also have our booking team get in touch with Fierce Females and let them know that Pandemonium Productions is paying for the night. Every wrestler’s appearance fee, travel, house costs, catering, the fucking lot. Then I mail our media team and arrange for an HD camera crew to be on hand that night in Glasgow.

My only additions to your fucking genius set of guidelines for the show are that Fierce Females allows for a bunch of merch tables outside the Shed – I’ll arrange the licenses with the city. People are gonna be outside, wishing they were inside. And I want them to buy shit while they’re all talking about what the fuck is going on inside. I want them listening to the sounds of battle – another note to our production team to make sure we check the speakers at the Shed and set up high quality ring mics. We can wire them to play the sounds of the matches outside … and a video screen. FUCK yes. We’ll save the HD downloads of the match for 4 weeks after like you said, but shaky cellphone footage of that screen outside the Shed will drive our download sales an extra 30%, EASY. That’ll fleece the fucking marks. I make a note to Yuki about how I want those merch profits disbursed with a sly grin as I finish my last bite of drug-glazed marshmallows and oat cereal, feeling worlds better already. Killingsworth clears the tray away with a grateful shudder, and brings out a more proper breakfast for when my houseguests eventually slouch down, finding me still at the breakfast table, drinking strong tea and running two laptops and a tablet and a phone as I get shit set up.

You wanted this small, and it’s gonna be small. It’s gonna be intimate, brutal, kick-ass, nasty, and wicked.

And everyone in this part of the world is gonna wish they were in on it.

Oh, and it’s gonna happen so fucking soon. In fact … I’m gonna need a fucking montage.

* * *

“RRRRAH!” I drive a palm thrust into a battered, worn heavy bag with an X-eyed smiley face spray-painted onto the hammered leather, setting the big Everlast to sway as my stiffened tattooed arm remains driven out straight as a spear, fingers curled back against my taped palm and the heel of my hand driven like a blade. I stay in that stance a moment, a freeze frame of precise viciousness.

“NNNRRRRHHHH …” I growl low and throaty, my sneakers dug into the worn canvas of the basement ring of Rox Manor. My legs are locked tight, knees bent and quads brutally tensed, the shining black Donjoy brace on my knee glittering as I secure Jenny in a full nelson and hoist her over. Imagine the moment freezing right then, just as I get that busty bitch, three inches taller and 30 pounds heavier, up off her trainers and over in a Dragon Suplex, fucking defying my braced knee to say shit about it.

“PFUUUH!” I groan, taking a stiff kick right to my bare abs. Wearing a sports bra and Adidas track pants, I’m sparring with two little brats from the Knights’ school, working with fucking Sweet Saraya screaming blue hell at me from ringside. I figure that’ll help me work a partisan crowd in Glasgow. The little blonde tries another kick, and this time I catch her foot and tag her with a straight right jab to the jaw before I twist her ankle to spin her off to the side and let her fall to the mat. Then I snap a back elbow into the charging brunette’s pretty jaw just before she can reach me. Then I snatch the brunette kid around her slim waist and yank her against me, hauling her up and off her shiny new boots to Belly-to-Belly Suplex her down onto her friend.

“HEARRRRRRRTS ON FIIIIIIIIIIRE!” I yowl into the karaoke mic at the Wow Bar in Cardiff for a horde of cheerfully delighted local gays (I hope no more than half of them are enjoying this purely ironically), wearing a sleeveless gi and a sunrise-printed headband in front of a montage from The Karate Kid. There’s lots of ways to train, and I believe they’re ALL fucking important.

The show’s coming up, Brandi. And I’m gonna be ready.


“Merchandise stands?  Fucking merch stalls?  Jake, I said I didn’t want the circus coming to town on this one and I meant it!”  I’m stood in my black work out gear, all courtesy of Gymshark, about to go into my second PiYo session of the day.

Jake just loves being around sweaty women but even he is losing patience with standing there talking to me.  “It’s a compromise, okay?  To seal a deal you have to give and take.  They accept all our proposals which is great.  But that gives them the right to put something back to us. So then we accept their idea and everyone feels like a winner in the negotiation and it’s all sweet.  Like I said, compromise.  It’s something you don’t understand.  You get the bit about having to make sacrifices in life but you missed school the day they said you have to make compromises too!”

I regard him with a frown.  What’s he mean, I don’t understand compromise?  I’m compromising right now by not punching the shit out of him!  Of course I get compromise!  Pause.  Breath.  Hey, I knew those Mindfulness classes weren’t a total waste of time. 

“It’s a damn clever business idea, to be fair,” I say at last so Jake can stop flinching.  “If you have the resources to set it up, which she obviously does.  But she’ll need a ton of security to pull that one off outside The Shed.  Does she know what Glasgow is like on a Saturday night?  But she’s good.  She’ll have considered that.  Okay, we’ll give her the merchandise thing.”  Jake looks pleased.  “Wish I’d fucking thought of it myself!” I say to him with a wink as I disappear through the gym door.

Once inside, I find Kate waiting for me.  She’s a fitness trainer whose real passion is to take part in Triathlons and Iron Woman competitions which she does all over the world.  To look at her with her short blonde hair, lean flat chested body and cheeky boy’s face you might have her down as a full on Lesbian but in actual fact she has a big burly rugby playing husband and is mother to four boys.  Kate attended one of my shows and then come up afterwards and suggested I might be in need of her services.  “What you trying to say?” I responded defensively.  She grinned and said that whilst she could see I was a big strong girl who was fairly fit and obviously tough, she thought I needed to be more fluid, more flexible, and bouncier.  She said if I developed those things I would be a much better wrestler.  I didn’t buy it to be honest so when she suggested I add some PiYo workouts to my training regime I pretty much laughed in her face.  What did this woman know about pro wrestling?  Next to nothing actually.  Fortunately though, I agreed to try a session and after it left me unable to move the next day I thought that maybe there was something in what Kate had said after all.  Add to that the fact that she’s a really innovative instructor able to adapt a programme to suit the needs of an individual and their particular sport and it became a no-brainer for me.  More fluid, more flexible and bouncier as she promised plus she changed my body shape from mean bruiser to lean ring athlete.

Kate’s PiYo for Pro Wrestlers consists of interspersing standard PiYo routines with short bursts of ultra intense anaerobic exercise plus some special tweaks.  So we are now doing a set of Downward Dog splits for core strength and flexibility after which we burst into three minutes of furious sideway lunges and star jumps.  Kate then tweaks this with two blue mats at either side of the gym.  When we reach the mat, I do a break fall and bounce back to my feet as quickly as I can to resume the anaerobics.  At the end of the three minutes I do a final break fall and Kate gives me a whole ten seconds to recover.  Funnily enough that’s the same amount of time that the ref would give me if I was down on the mat, but of course my opponent would never afford me that luxury in an actual match.

“Remember, recovery is the most important phase.” says Kate.  She does everything with me except the break falls but she is hardly breathing hard.  “Make the most of every second.  You’ve got millions of cells crying out for oxygen.  You need to feed each one so make sure you get the most bang for your buck out of every breath.  Slow down.  Breath deep.  Fill those lungs up all the way!”  I try my hardest to replenish all my millions of little cells but but plenty of them have to go short because on ten Kate ‘helps’ me up by means of a final tweak to the routine, especially for a pro gal like me.  She grabs my right arm with one hand and my hair with the other.  “Right, Up!” She growls.

“Aw c’mon,” I moan.  “Just a measly five more seconds, please.”

“Ya think Punky will give you five more seconds?  Maybe if you ask her nicely, huh?”  She hauls me up.

“You’re worse than my mother!” I scowl at her.

And then we go again.  Upward Dog this time.  I feel like I’m practising for being put in a camel clutch but I’m sure that’s not the point of this.  We hold the position for what seems like an eternity.

“Is this hurting now?”  Kate enquires.

“Somewhat,” I grimace back.

“Good.  So let’s talk about pain.  As you are so fond of telling me, Brandi, I know nothing about pro wrestling, but I do know all about pain.  And I know that you feel pain a lot more when you are out of shape, exhausted or scared.  So we can counter some of that by working on strength and conditioning and mental attitude.  But in a match you are still going to feel pain.  Now normally pain is a good thing.  It adrenalises us and it’s nature’s way of telling us that that something bad is happening to our bodies and we need to stop it.  But what if we can’t stop it?  Or we don’t want to stop it?”

“Dunno.  You got me.  No fucking clue.” I gasp.

“What we do is switch it off.” 

I give her my pain-fuelled are you fucking nuts? face. 

“No you can.  You really can.  When I’m competing in an event the swim is my weakest phase and I fall back down the field.  Then the bike is pretty neutral for me so I stay where I am.  But Third phase is always where I pull right back so it’s when I hit the run that I gotta go for it.  Only thing is, that transition from bike to run is really hard but I can’t afford to ease myself into it.  So during that first five minutes when it’s hurts like hell ‘til my body adjusts, I imagine a big switch in my head and I imagine myself flicking it and the pain goes away.  Just click the switch and the pain stops.  Try it.”

“ARGGHHHH!  Fucking switch ain’t working.  Must be broken!”  I growl.

Kate laughs.  “You have to work it.  We’ll get you there before Punky gets her hands on you.”

“Well you better, because pain is very definitely her thing!” I manage to gasp out before I flop down onto my front, exhausted.

The session finishes with an almost meditational stretch and cool down.  I feel great now.  All those endorphins surging through my body.  And Kate wants me to connect with this feeling just before the match so whilst we are cooling down she plays what is to be my entrance music:  ‘Giant’ Calvin Harris, “Rag ‘n’ Bone Man”.  This what I’m gonna hear when I make my way to the ring:

‘I am a giant
Standup on my shoulders, tell me what you see
I am a giant
We’ll be breaking boulders underneath our feet
I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am a giant …

… I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am a giant’

I’m sat in my seedy little changing room at the Shed.  There’s about an hour to go before my big match and my new anthem is playing gently in the background.  I’m in some kind of store room and there are cases of various types of booze, soft drinks and bar snacks stacked along all the walls.  Not exactly the big time locker room that a match against the great Megan “Punky” Dow should merit, but I wanted it this way so I’m not complaining.  Better than some were given I’m sure.  Charlie, who has her return bout against Spanish Press Girl tonight, had to get changed in the pub next door, The Butterfly and The Pig.  Nope, I didn’t ask the obvious question to make a cheap joke.  Charlie is deadly serious about this match and has had her sense of humour disconnected especially for the occasion.  Of course, I’m sure Punky will have found herself somewhere more comfortable.  I even heard rumours about a trailer truck pulling in – after all I’m not sure our venue has facilities that are up to the expectations of a wrestler with rock star type status.

You see, The Shed likes to call itself ‘The Entertainment Hub of the Southside’ of Glasgow but is actually a run down nightclub in a rougher part of the city.  It’s just off a main road, close to a major junction so all the Merchandise Stalls had to go in the park across the road.  Then, what with the booze and refreshment stands, not to mention the giant screen relaying the action to the ticketless crowds outside, it seems like the carnival has come to town for the people of the Shawlands district of the city.

Inside my little store room though, it is nice and peaceful, soothing almost.  But I can hear the noise of the raucous crowd reacting to the undercard as it plays through.  The audience is small but they feel privileged to be part of this special event and are really giving it their all accordingly.  And it’s only when I actually tune in to what they are chanting that I realise that Charlie must be in the ring right now.  I gotta go to see this so I slip out and into the main room, stand quietly at the back, in the shadows, trying not to be noticed. 

From the state of the two wrestlers, They have been going at it for a while and from the chants of the crowd, my best mate has been dominating.  Charlie has donned a gold metallic one piece especially for this match.  It’s at least two sizes too small and she’s pouring out all over.  It’s beautiful.  I love it when a big girl flaunts it.  Uh oh.  Whip to the ropes by Charlie.  The other girl comes off them in two, maybe even three minds.  She’s thinking, flying cross body, dropkick to the chest, or just duck!  Big mistake.  Matches ebb and flow and right now she should be thinking Duck!  Charlie connects with a superb flying clothesline that turns the bitch a full somersault and leaves her face down on the mat.  That girl’s hurt, done maybe.  Charlie certainly thinks so as she peels her off the mat, scoops her up and spins her to put her in tombstone piledriver position.  Positively beaming now, the big girl in gold rotates her captive victim to show her off to each side of the room before letting out a loud “YAAHHHH!” and driving her headfirst into the well worn mat!  Shit!  She actually bounces out of Charlie’s grasp before collapsing onto her back, her legs twitching madly as her poor scrambled brain sends out its confused signals.  Charlie is swarming all over her, grinning like a crazy woman.  Of course it has to be a Spanish Press.  Every other onlooker is concerned about the girl’s neck but Charlie wants some payback so she grabs the black leather boots, folds her over and goes down on her, smearing her into the mat.  As the ref counts, my girl is mouthing off at her victim.  Not that she can hear her I’m sure, but Charlie is enjoying her self.  On three Charlie flings her rival’s legs unceremoniously away from her and sits back on her heels, beaming a huge smile.  She looks so happy.  She’s just hospitalised some poor cow and she’s over the moon.  Pro wrestling is such a tough business!

I slip away quietly, back to my store cupboard.  As I’m going through the door, the club manager, in his cheap shiny suit, catches me.  “One more match, then you’re on, hon!” He says, face serious, after shave full blast.

“Is she here yet?”  I ask a little uneasy that all this is gonna go pear shaped right at the last minute.  “I’ve not seen her.  And even if I didn’t get a look at her, I’m sure I would have heard her!”

“Oh she’ll be here, don’t worry!  Good luck tonight, Brandi.” 

And off he goes.  Fucking bull shitter!  Like he knows the inner workings of the mind of Punky.  Nothing more for me to do though but slip back into my little cupboard, put my theme tune on, and get myself in the zone.

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The night in Glasgow is just pure fucking madness.

I mean, that’s a safe bet on almost any given night in Glasgow, but it’s particularly a god-damn carnival of chaos right now. Even on a normal night, The Shed is always a boil of revelers lookin’ for a wee swally – but right now it’s stuffed, every ticket Fighting Females could get away with selling under your stringent guidelines sold and filled. I’ve arranged for a big screen – I’m legally required to point out that it’s officially called the GemmaTron™, because that’s the only way she’d let me buy it and the truck and crew that go with it – to be mounted in Queen’s Park just outside Langside Avenue. The city made some noise about that when we first pitched the idea, citing all sorts of fees and taxes, but they quickly shut up when we showed them the profit margins for letting the city manage and tax concessions that night. Instead of complaining,  they helped expedite everything, their eyes adrift with floating dollar signs. Or euro signs. Whatever.

The whole park was a swarm of activity – not only had the merch stands that I’d arranged for shown up, as well as the city-backed concessionaires, but a bunch of people who wanted in on the crowd had come along. Street performers and artists, festival hawkers, some of the crowd from Cissie’s and Taste Buchanan and Southside Street Food had migrated over here, following the food vendors; even the mad lads from ICW had set up their own little tent, ostensibly since one of their girls was on the Fighting Females card but really because I’d turned the thing into a god-damn circus.

I know exactly what you want, Brandi. You want it quiet, intimate, and rough as hell, in a venue that’s as small and fierce and proudly uncaring of what the fuck anyone thinks as you could ever want. You wanna fight me in a place without a sea of thousands watching, without pyros and famous announcers, without a camera mount for tracking shots. And that’s fine. I haven’t changed a fucking thing about the setup Fierce Females has inside The Shed except adding better mics and giving their one camera jockey a much nicer HD rig to hoist on his heavy shoulder, along with one of my camera girls for more coverage. I’m gonna give you EXACTLY what you want. I’m gonna face you, woman to woman, with nothing between us but air and opportunity, and that air’s gonna be thick with sweat and booze and stale cigarette smoke, and the canvas under our feet is gonna be worn and stained, and the lighting’s gonna be shit – too bright in some spots, too dim in others. The ropes are gonna sag when we hit them, the buckles are gonna bite into our asses and shoulders because the pads are worn to shit, and it’s gonna be generally old school as FUCK.

I’m gonna give that to you. Inside the venue, it’s just gonna be you and me. No circus. Just blood, sweat and beers.

But out here?

This is MY god-damn circus.

I showed up hours early. Queen’s Park was already starting to fill, with crowds gathering and buying up shirts and merch. I have a whole fucking WAREHOUSE of merch. Designing my own shit has been one of my favorite things about being a wrestler. Coming up with cool names for moves and designing T-shirts are my fucking jam. I’ve got my vintage zombie shirt, with me as a zombie rising up from the grave under the dripping legend “PUNK IS FUCKING DEAD”. There’s my Human Trigger Warning shirt, with me drawn in a 1980s comic book style, diving through a spotlight in front of a brick wall riddled with bullet holes and WANTED posters featuring caricatures of famous loudmouth wrestlers, with null signs over my extended middle fingers and mouth. My Call Me Molotov shirt, where I’m drawn as a curvy silhouette holding a bottle in each hand with my hair a purple flame, and the legend “FULL OF BOOZE AND READY TO EXPLODE”. My beloved Bloody shirt, featuring a black and white image of me with the only splashes of color being my hair radiant in purple and the mask of blood on my face colored in bright red as I dive off the balcony of the Hammerstein Ballroom, over the legend ONE FUCKING CRAZY BITCH. So many fucking shirts: Enter the Dojo, Hardcore Harlequin, Monster Queen, Child of the Raven … but I made sure you were represented.

Frankly, darlin’, you had a SHOCKING lack of merch. So I had my Pandemonium Productions team whip some up for you, and more importantly I had Yuki work with your mate Jake and get some suggestions from Big Charlie for a few expansions to your merchandise line. We focused on keeping it simple and brutal and focus on things like your fearlessness and relentlessness. There’s the graffiti-art style profile of you with BRANDI WILSON HAS A POSSE stencilled under it (some memes never get old, according to Jake), a swiftly rendered drawing of you with a crown and a black fur cloak drawn onto you over the icy legend THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH, and a beautiful tri-color softline sketch of you from the waist up, clenching a fist and looking fierce over the legend NEVER SURRENDER. Plus a bunch of others.

There’s 8x10s, there’s posters, there’s fuckin’ headbands and gloves and hoodies, there’s novelty glasses and commemorative programs and there’s kettle corn and whiskey and Irn Bru and corn dogs and FUCKING HELL, I LOVE THIS KINDA SHIT.

I know you didn’t want the circus to come to town, Brandi. And again, I promise that once we’re inside that ring it’s gonna be nothin’ but you and me and some of the luckiest god-damn fans in the whole fucking United Kingdom. But part of the reason I became a wrestler was because of the fucking SPECTACLE of it. I grew up watching beautiful spangled robes and bursting fireworks and shattering tables and air guitars that made pro wrestling into the grandiose over-the-top glory that it is, and I just can’t pass up the chance to bring that out. So we’ll get our chance to intimately beat the shit out of each other in the Shed, but out here it’s fucking Christmas for wrestling geeks.

And I’m bringing the fucking joy like a sexy god-damn Santa.

I rode in to Queen’s Park on the hood of the bright purple Pandemonium Productions truck, standing atop it wearing my most over-the-top fucking punk coat – the one that hangs to my calves, adorned with four-inch steel spikes and chains and chrome skull studs and 76 assorted buttons. I have on a big pair of round sunglasses with spiked frames and skull lenses, a beaten up old Fierce Females shirt (gotta promote the promotion, after all) and leather shorts not really suited for the weather or anything decent, with tattered fishnets and leather boots WAY too tall and fancy for me to wear in the ring – adorned with silver buckles and two-inch-thick waffled soles, they’re the kinda boots I wear when I want eyes on me. And I get ’em. A crowd gathers so close around the truck that a couple of the production monkeys have to jump out to join the park security crew and warn people back so no one gets run over.

And me? I’ve got a fuckin’ megaphone. Never a good idea for ANYONE to let me near one of these things, but this is my fucking circus. That makes me the ringmistress.


I fucking ROAR into the mic. The megaphone’s a custom job; I had it airbrushed by the son of the same guy who used to do them for Jimmy Hart, and the huge bell of it is painted like a shouting mouth with a pierced tongue and black glossy lips. The sound booms over the crowd and gathers them in, drawing ’em up around me with the inevitability you can really only guarantee by being as fucking loud and shiny as I am. I grin around at the crowd, standing high above them, towering boots planted on the raked and vented bonnet of the purple 18-wheeler with its custom-made hood ornament that’s an angel like the Rolls-Royce Phantom only it’s modeled off of a naked Gemma. I’ve heard of good taste, but as far as I’m fucking concerned it’s a thing that happens to boring people.

I bring the ‘phone up, resuming my one-sided conversation.

HAPPENIN’, YA BAWBAGS?” I belt out through a huge grin to a massive roar of support. I don’t even try on a Scottish accent, but my normal Oregon drawl suits the Glaswegian patter just fine. I picked up quite a bit of it when I wrestled for a month or two up here for Insane Championship Wrestling (and spent way too much time drinking with Grado).

SO IT SEEMS TO ME IF YA SORRY BASTARDS ARE FUCKIN’ AROUND OUT HERE, IT MEANS YA AIN’T GOT TICKETS TO FUCKIN’ BE IN THERE!” I jut my finger at the plain brown building just across the road, and I’m greeted by a mixture of laughter, general roaring, and some cheery booos from those who really really wish they were fucking in the Shed tonight. And not just for the usual wee swally and some thrashin’ elbows-out Glaswegian dancing – they want to be part of what we’re gonna create in there tonight. I give them my megawatt grin, and make a big sweeping gesture with my left hand as I boom into my custom megaphone held in my right fist.


My lads open up the truck and start to unpack the frightfully expensive screen and its handtrucks full of cabling, and I thank my lucky stars once again that I decided to get punched in the face and kicked in the twat for a living instead of getting a real job. The crowd roars as security moves them back to make a space. I resume my spiel, still standing on top of the truck like a big loud hood ornament (not to be confused with my truck’s actual big LEWD hood ornament).


The crowd is fervent at this point. I’m animated as fuck, stomping across the bonnet of the truck, leaning down to roar at them, gesturing like a fucking madwoman. They’re boiling over, fucking frothing. I grin like a wolf and I snap a jutting finger back at the Shed once more, and my voice gets a snarl to it that adds a chainsaw edge to the carnival barker bombast.


I LEAP off the god-damn hood, dropping a good six feet down to the park soil, boots digging in deep. I whip my purple hair back and SNATCH off my skull-print sunglasses, glaring hotly out at the gathered Scots with my mad hazel eyes. “SHE HAS SEWN THE FUCKING WIND, AND NOW SHE’S GONNA REAP A *MOTHERFUCKING HURRICANE*!

Glaswegians like nothing more than a bit of shouting, especially from a madwoman who’s gie’in it laldy. They roar – despite some of them yelling over the cheers that your happy northern ass is gonna beat me senseless, and I give ’em all the big grin and throw up a jog-on V with my left hand, earning a bunch of them back in return along with laughter and roaring and toasted beers, a riot of noise that only cranks up higher as I lewdly drag my studded tongue up between my split fingers (pandering makes money, baby). I stalk up to the biggest lad wearing one of your lovely new T-shirts that I can see, bump right the fuck into him and yank his beer out of his hand, which counts as cause for justifiable homicide in Scotland. Chugging the whole thing as the crowd roars (and wishing I’d picked a non-smoker with less backwash, but what the fuck, that’s showbiz), I smash the can on my forehead and chuck it aside to a roar before I yell through my megaphone at my production lads, the boom of it driving the big boy back covering his ears.


I pause, and grin like a Cheshire cat.


I chuck the megaphone up through the window of the truck and throw my fists up.

That was all a few hours ago.

Since then I’ve been here.

I didn’t bring a trailer. I’ve never had one. I came up changing in makeshift locker rooms in VFW halls and National Guard armories, in pantries and bus stations. So I don’t need a lot of space. I never have.

I’m just in the fucking bathroom. I was in the stall for about 40 minutes changing, shouting the occasional friendly “FUCK OFF!” to anyone who rattled the loosely bolted door. Off came the giant leather coat, the shirt, the leather booty shorts (I’ve NEVER been able to wrestle in leather and I have no idea how cunts like Rowan Chance pull it off) and off come the cute undies. The heavy boots were unbuckled after about 15 minutes grunting work sat on the toilet (there’s a sentence that’ll bring the fans in for sure) and the fishnets were peeled off. Naked as a fucking jaybird, I considered just wrestling like this – but I didn’t want the Shed to fucking get wrecked in a sex-fueled riot, because Gems and I have tickets for the Bowie tribute next month. So instead I dug into my battered army duffel I’ve been hauling around for like 12 years and got my gear.

On come the boyshorts in spandex, smooth as a second skin, clinging to me like a lover. On comes the SPLX sports bra, snugging my pierced tits and providing a little impact resistance to the inevitable chops and forearms that’ll hammer my girls to my ribs tonight. I pull out the battle shirt I’ve selected tonight – for once it’s NOT one of my merch shirts. You wanted this old school, so I’m going fucking old school. This is my old fuckin’ Black Flag shirt. The sleeves are torn off, the lower half scissored away. It’s still lightly crusted with vintage sweat and stippled with some old blood, and the collar is deeply ripped from some mad bitch whipping me around by it. It hangs on me like a soldier’s war-torn fatigues in a Vietnam movie. I fuckin’ love it. I buckle on my fightin’ skirt – this one is one of Gem’s, a tarty little tartan number in red and black, flirtily flaring around my boyshorts. I secure the skirt tight with a heavy black leather belt studded with chrome. Then I drop back down on the toilet and tug on my black Lycra knee socks, tightly compressing my calves to keep ’em strong and help stop me from getting sore, and then with a growl I buckle on my custom skull-adorned Donjon knee brace over my right knee, the one with a corpse’s tendon stitched into it courtesy of Rowan Chance. At least I’ve learned a few tricks from Ciampa in using the thing as a weapon. It’s a god-damn target, though. And I’ll be ready for that. I gotta be.

Then I strap on my Doc Martens, my fuckin’ battle boots, blood red and steel-toed, with fresh purple laces. Always get fresh laces. A broken bootlace in a match can fuck up your life in ways that you can’t imagine.

Then I stomp out of the stall, scattering the girls gathered around the mirror like a covey of heavily perfumed quail with a growl before I slam my cosmetics down on the sink and start to put on my warpaint.

I almost never wear make-up outside of a fight or a fuck. For me it’s almost like a ritual, something thats gets me ready to battle. I hear cell cams going off as the girls in here get pictures of one of tonight’s performers putting her face on in the girl’s jakes.

Black lip shellac, by Shiseido. Japanese cosmetics are the only ones that don’t smear off in the fucking ring with all the sweat and fists and hot lights.

Saraya Jade eyeliner in thick black, to give me a little zombie chic and cut the glare from the lights.

A little DJ Victory cream highlighter, ‘cuz fuck it, sometimes you just wanna look hot AND kick ass.

My iconic purple hair is brushed out like I’m fuckin’ Marcia Brady, unheeding of the hubbub around me aside from snarling at anyone who draws too close in a quest for a selfie. I secure my trademark punkytails with my two steel skull clasps – a bit scuffed from being chucked up into the stands back in Paris, but lovingly recovered by a friend of mine.

Finally I see Punky looking back at me in the mirror instead of Meg Dow, and a grin plays across my face before finding somewhere safer to play. I snatch my phone from my duffel and thumb a quick text to Remy, my heavily tattooed Cajun lad up running lights and sound tonight. Not that Fierce Females’ usual production staff consisting of whatever bored kids they can get from Glasgow Technical College wouldn’t be up to the task, but I want a good hand on the wheel for this shit, and Remy, with his full sleeves of New Orleans carnival tattoos and towering Liberty Spikes, has run shows for Pandemonium since we opened.

I chuckle low and warm as I tap the text out, heedless of the hubbub around me of women both eager to use the fucking bathroom and also trying to get pictures of me. See, it’s a funny situation. We’re scheduled last, naturally – and I know we’re up next. If I go out first, I bet you’re gonna think I’m a glory hog. If I go out second, you’re gonna think I’m a diva.

So fuck it. Ball’s in your court.

*Go find Brandi and tell her to decide who comes out first.*

I grin and drop down into a Lotus position right there on the fucking bathroom floor, my bag behind me, phone in my lap, my head craned back and my eyes closed as I serenely block the fucking sink and obstruct the whole ladies’ restroom of the Shed, the noise of the babble of curious and frustrated girls around me fading to nothing more than wind and rain as I center my fucking head.

I find my quiet space.

Because that’s where I can get REALLY brutal.

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‘I am, I am, I am a giant …

I’m hoisting that bitch up into a Northern Lights Bomb, a move much loved by the legendary Akira Hokuto, and then I drive her sorry fucking head right into the thinly matted ring boards.  She bounces off them and flops down like a rag doll tossed from a stroller and I fling myself onto her, hooking her leg and  trussing her limp and bleating body up really tight as the ref tolls out the one … two … three …

I’ve just visualised the whole match.  Sat in my little cupboard and enacted the whole thing out in my head.  Just like Kate told me to.  Think it.  Believe it.  And it will happen.

And so now I’m sat there, in the ring, basking in the pure, almost sexual elation of winning a big fucking match and …

“Wow, you should see the crowds out there over in the park!  Fucking AAAAMAAAZZZINNGG!”

Jake has burst through the door.  He hasn’t even knocked.  Or at least I was so wrapped up enacting the match in my head that I didn’t hear him!  I’m looking at him all startled and uncomfortable.  He probably thinks he’s just walked in on me masturbating or something.

“You okay?  Yeah?  Well I gotta hand it to you.  You and Punky between you have created a thing of genius here tonight.  Absolute fucking genius.  All those crowds outside all worked up with nowhere to go and having to watch the match on the big screen whilst the chosen select few get to come in here and actually witness the big showdown in person.  It’s so brilliantly contradictory, the few and the many, the chosen and the scorned, the delighted and the disappointed, the …”

“Okay … okay, I get it!  Big crowd out there then, huh?”

“Huge and they are buying the shit from the merchandise stalls like there’s no tomorrow.  Almost like they are making up for not being able to watch the match by buying a piece of it from a stall.  And Meg has had some stuff made up for you and put it on sale.  It’s going really well.”

“Oh!  So it’s Meg now is it?  And she has she?  Well she never asked me.  And I don’t want her charity.”

“Brandi, she’s just trying to help build your career.  This match, the stuff.  She sees the potential in you girl.  She just wants to bring it out.  And look.  I brought one of the t-shirts for you.  It’s an XXL.  I thought you could put it over your gear and wear it to the ring.  It’ll help with sales.  Pretty cool eh?  Whadya think?”  He holds up a black cotton tee with a beautifully drawn image of me geared up like fucking Sansa Stark with ‘Queen In The North’ emblazoned under it.  It’s pretty impressive and I really like it actually but I’m not going to show it.  But I take it from him anyhow.  Accompanied of course by a little disapproving snort.

“I don’t need her as my mentor!  And she won’t be feeling so philanthropic when I beat her sorry skanky ass!”  I’m sounding like I’m twelve again, which irritates Jake like hell and he is just about to erupt into one of his school prefect lectures when the door bursts open again!

“Hey you know what?  I just tried going for a piss!  I was absolutely bursting but I couldn’t get in the little girls’ room because some girl was totally blocking it off!” 

It’s Charlie.  I put my hands to my head in frustration.  I’m trying to get my mind in the right place for the biggest challenge of my wrestling career and they want to hold a party in the stockroom! 

“So, I pushed my way in and was just going to put this bitch straight on a few things, when you’ll never guess what!  It was Meg.  She was getting changed in the girls’ bog!  How cool is that!  How fucking hardcore!”

“Oh.” Is all I can say.  I don’t where to fucking start with this one!  I’m trying to slam the door in the face of my own admiration for such an act of hardcore basics, whilst feeling hurt that my best mate has the same feelings but she isn’t trying to deny them one bit.  And here’s another one calling you Meg!  You can’t be Meg right now.  You’re  Punky!  Fucking arrogant, full of herself, needs damn well putting in her place Punky!  How am I meant to go out and beat the shit out of you if everyone is calling you Meg!  Nice, funny and kind little Meg. Everyone’s friend!  Fuck!  Haven’t they seen what you do to people in the ring!  I can’t go in there, one on one with you, calling you Meg!

And then the damn door opens yet again!  And I don’t even know who this guy is!  He’s covered in tattoos and has a cocky air about him.  Smells like one of your crew to me.

“Who the fuck are you?”  I growl at him.  The others are a little taken a back.  That was hostile even for me.  “And WHO said you could come in?  Although I don’t know why not.  Because it seems like the whole world wants to be in here.  They seem oblivious to the fact that we are in a night club!  Not to mention the whole full blown carnival going on just across the street!  No this stockroom is just so much more exciting!” 

The guy senses this may be a bad time.  But after a pause to allow some of the steam to disperse, he persists.  “I’m Remy.  I’m running lights and sound tonight.  I need to know who’s entering first.  Meg says she’s happy for you to make the choice.”

“Oh, ‘Meg’ did, did she…..”

“Brandi, she’s just trying to avoid coming across as the big prima donna super star that’s all!”  Jake jumps in just before I go off on one.  And I know he’s right.  But that hurts even more.

“Okay.  Tell her I don’t give a fuck!  But somebody has to go first so that’ll be me.  Get it fucking over and done with!  Then we get down to business!  You tell her that!”  He waits.  He needs something more but is wary of asking.  “Jake will sort you out with my entrance music.  And I just want a single spot on me when I walk to the ring.”

“Got it,” says Remy with a tight little smile as he slips out of the door, probably glad there’s nothing there too complex that he might mess up for me, Mrs. Grumpy! 

After he’s gone there’s an awkward silence.  “Okay then, looks like it’s time.  Better get out there.  Sounds like the Glaswegian natives are getting restless,” says Jake.  “Good luck tonight!  Kick her ass!”  I nod to him.

“Yeah good luck, hon,” says Charlie giving me a big lung crushing hug.  “By the way, you look gorgeous,” she says over her shoulder.  “If you got into the ring with ME looking like that, I think I’d cum in my tights the second we locked up!”  She adds with a naughty grin.

I flash her a grin back.  I needed that for my morale.  And even better, it confirmed I’d achieved exactly the look I was hoping for:  sexy intimidation.  Female wrestling is a very intense sport.  The combat begins way before the first contact between the competitors.  It starts as soon as they lay eyes upon each other.  In the regular everyday world women use outfits and make up to send out very strong signals and the pro wrestling ring is no different.  And I figure if I can unsettle you just a little bit by being aggressively sexual in my appearance, it might just give me an edge.  I mean sure, I’m not going to turn you into a blushing, incoherent, shy teenager with a an unbearable crush, but if I can knock you off your game just a bit by putting a tiny wet spot in your panties, then that might be enough.  I know you are drawn to me.  We wouldn’t be here now if that wasn’t so.  And then there was that kiss outside the pub.  Now that put a damp spot in both our sets of panties! I’m just looking to conjure up that momentary loss of concentration, maybe a slight hesitation before delivering the coup de grace, that’s all I need.  So I’m going to make you aware of me, create some sexual tension between us and if that distracts you enough to give me just the hint of an opening in the match, then you bet ya I’m gonna take it!

With that in mind, I have styled my makeup to look intimidating.  And of course, I started with the eyes.  The windows to the soul and all that shit.  But whatever, they definitely give off a message. So I go in with the eye shadow on my hazel eyes, a neutral beige colour first, then some brown, then hit it with some black.  Nothing is more intimidating that black.  Just a little bit of black though, in the creases to accentuate them, create a little bit of mystique.  Then after a bit of liner, I apply some fake lashes and really pencil in that brow with a nice high arch to look really aggressive.  Next an bold red lip gloss with sharp lines.  Vermillion is the colour on the case but Charlie describes it as “dick sucking red”.  My sharp, dark features and thin face make me look naturally aggressive.  So to finish it all off, I plaster my sharp cheek bones with some strong, high, 80s style blush, a bright fuchsia pink.  Finally I check myself out.  My face screams “Don’t fuck with me!” And I need that tonight.  My hope is that you will be drawn to it like a moth to a flame.  Because I reckon you can’t help fucking with things you’re  being told not to.

And then there’s my gear.  My suit is especially imported from Japan via Cultulu.  It’s a ‘Realise’ swimsuit in black with a classic leg cut so it snugly fits over my butt.  It’s got a front zipper so I can decide how much cleavage I show, ranging from zero if I do the zipper right  up the full length to the high and small collar, to loads if I slash it down almost to my navel. I’m leaning very much towards the former rather than the latter right now.  The suit is made of a material called enamel, which is a kind of gleaming rubber.  It’s good for wrestling in because it fits like a second skin but it’s a bit stretchy and very very shiny like vinyl.  And because it has a high neck it means I’m able to get a neoprene chest protector under it for all those inevitable chops and knees and kicks to the chest. I team my Realise swimsuit with some Highspots gold knee-high wrestling boots together with some black patent leather knee pads and wrist bands.

The only other thing that was then left to do was to oh-so carefully create a casually disheveled look by ripping some strategic placed holes in my expensive ‘Berkshire’ fishnet hose, including a ladder running right up the inside of left thigh all the way up to my crotch, guiding you towards your very own piece of heaven!

I hold up my phone and review my outfit one last time.  It’s a total contrast to your style, which is good for the crowd and hopeful good my game plan.  Opposites attract hopefully and if you are even slightly distracted by me sexually in the ring it might just give me that all-important edge at the critical time. 

“Well, here’s hoping!” I say to myself as I slip on my oversized, Queen in The North tee like I was told to.  It fits like a mini dress covering my butt and finishing half way down my fishnet thighs. It doesn’t look half bad to be honest but I don’t have space in my head that kind of fair mindedness.  Punky is a bitch right now.  And she’s going down!

I push out into the hall way.  A scruffy looking member of the club staff is there waiting for me.  I nod to him to signal I am ready and then I’m in the club itself, walking to the ring.  My theme music is right at least.  And that single spot picks me up as I move through the boozy (with a hint of joint) smelling room.  I can’t see the crowd too well but I can hear them shouting to each other above the blaring music.  I don’t let on to them.  I keep a stony expression fixed on the rickety run down ring in the centre.  Normally I might indulge in a bit of crack with the crowd.  But not tonight.  Tonight it is as if they don’t even exist.  I reach the ring and roll in under the bottom rope with that accomplished smoothness of a ring veteran. 

I come up smoothly to my feet and go to a corner, the one facing the door you will come through.  And then I plonk myself down on my butt, back against the middle buckle, arms on the middle ropes, face disdainful, almost disinterested, but eyes alert.  A classic Raven pose.  I know you will love this, my fishnet covered legs half drawn up, gleaming black crotch visible under my big tee shirt as it rides up.  It’s the pose you might well have struck if you had just entered.  But I got here first.  I rake my fingers through my loose, shoulder length black hair, mouth falling half open as I gasp silently to let out some of the tension.  Then I settle back into position, eyes trained on the door.  Waiting patiently.

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I knew you were gonna come out first.

I don’t mean to brag or anything, but after a decade and change of gettin’ tossed around and hair dragged and armbarred and cunt punted for beer money and the adulation of weirdos, I’ve gotten a high tolerance for pain, a higher tolerance for booze, an unfortunate taste for roadtrip food, and what amounts to a free doctoral course in applied psychology.

See, I know exactly where your head is at, Brandi. I know because I think about this shit ALL THE FUCKING TIME. I think about how things could’ve gone just a LITTLE different here or there – if I never met and subsequently assaulted Gemma, or if Katie MacCoy had fired me for the many perfectly good reasons I gave her to do so, or Calli got tired of me even a year earlier than she eventually did, or if Bren Rua never gave a silly rookie a chance and a funny nickname.

A SLIGHT deviation in the fuckin’ yellowed wood, and I’d still be on the VFW circuit. I don’t fool myself about how I got here, Brandi – I’m a damn good wrestler, and stubborn, and vicious, and I have a talent for marketing myself, but that description can apply to a dozen girls younger an’ cuter than me on the indies right now. What set me apart? Work ethic helped. Tolerance for pain helped. Willingness to spit poison into the eyes of girls I quite like personally. A certain freeness of spirit usually demonstrated in the form of public nudity. A talent for spotting opportunity helped a LOT.

But mostly it was luck.

And that’s the one thing that’s been missing from your own story. You’ve got the talent, gods fucking know. You’ve got speed, grace, power, persistence. You’re a student of the game with a natural self-possession. You’ve got the connections, even. You’ve just been missing that blind stupid doo-dah fucking luck that makes the difference. Well, until you met me. Come hell or come fuckin’ high water, darlin’, you’re getting noticed tonight. This match is going in the storybooks.

And I know you know that.

Which is why I knew you’d come out first.

First means a lot of things; the fans have it ingrained that the bigger deal comes out second, which sets the tone for the match. That’s why it always gets commented on if there’s a championship match and the champ comes out first (Vince does that shit all the time, and it makes me so fucking mad, but getting mad about what fucking Vince does wrong in wrestling is like getting mad about hurricanes for being windy. It’s in their nature, and despite what we might want they notoriously do it more successfully than anyone, no matter how destructive it is. Anyway, I’d better get out of these parentheses before I have to start fuckin’ paying rent). The one who comes out first means the fans are waiting for whoever comes out second, and you know that.

But you ALSO know that the one who comes out first sets the tone – and gets possession of the ring. I’ll have to come in and be watching you. I’ll have to be ready for you as soon as my fucking music hits, whereas you get the comfort of a nice empty ring to enter any way you want. You knew that, too. And here I am in the fucking bathroom, sitting in a lotus, with a crowd of noisy bints gathered around me and the air smelling like cheap cleanser and gently used beer and the sort of perfume girls favor on the Southside, the kind that hits like a gold-digging bitch’s punch to the nose. And there’s weed. My nostrils twitch a little. Decent quality, too. I dunno where the Scots get their weed, but it’s sticky. I grin to myself a little in my Zen state. At least no matter how this match goes I’ll have a way to relax after.

… maybe we both will.

Shake that off. Push it down.

I sit there until I feel the triple tap on my shoulder from fingers thick as sausages and hear the gasps and shrieks. That’ll be Monstro, my security guy.

Monstro is one of my older friends in the business. I met him and became friends with he and his wife on my first tour in Jersey, and they were two of the first people I hired for FTW (Monstro and the Blue Fairy – a gimmick that never should have worked that to this day remains one of FTW’s top merch sellers). These days he’s gladly retired from the ring, getting into DDP Yoga, and still a monstrous fat bastard. He has long white Viking braids, a snowy beard that hangs to his prodigious belly, and hands like frying pans. He runs security for my club in Portland now, but I flew him out for this gig because I knew there was a SLIGHT chance the carnival outside would get a bit crazed with the desire to be part of the action inside the Shed, and just like Bran Stark I wanted a big heavy bastard to hold the door against the horde (These Game of Thrones references will seem SO timely when people read our memoirs of this match a decade from now). I glance back at him and he gives me a nod, then scoops up my heavy duffel – with my street clothes, spare outfits, some workout gear, cosmetics, spare gloves, lucky towel (I always know where THAT is), bandages and Tiger Balm and assorted illegal drugs in it with one massive hand and stomps back out, clearing a path for me just through sheer bulk. People make way for the White Whale.

I uncurl, rising up like an angry Buddha from under the fig tree, and stomp down the hall after him. The crowd sees Punky in full fucking effect now – the hall is full of ticketholders who heard that half the main event was in the fucking shitter. As we walk, I’m wrapping my fists and wrists in long tight twists of red fight tape. Not full boxing wraps – just enough to keep the joints tight and make my grip strong. Gemma used to do this for me before she finally demanded I learn how to do it myself (which led to an argument which led to a naked brawl through Rox Manor that ended with me being punched through the study door and her showing me how to do the wrapping myself when I woke up). The trick is to make it tight enough to give you some reinforcement but not to cut off any fucking circulation. Numb fingers will fuck your day right up. I bite the tape off, flexing my fingers, and then yank my fight gloves from where they were tucked in my belt.

Way back in the day I used to just wear cheap light leatherette winter gloves that I’d scissor the fingers off of, just a punk thing. My wife made me realize that I could actually wear something USEFUL, and got me on lightweight MMA gloves. I throw a lot of hands in the fucking ring, and what a lot of people don’t realize seeing a bad bitch punching someone in the jaw is that the girl delivering the punch generally gets her knuckles fucked up way worse than the girl getting punched gets her jaw jacked. That’s why boxing gloves were invented. These gloves have padding around the knuckles and a stretchy palm that still lets me use my hands to grapple or get into a classic fuckin’ Greco-Roman knuckle lock. The black leather is stitched at the back with the purple Scorpio symbol that I use as a kinda signature – I’m a Scorpio, it looks like a barbed M, it works.

I glove up, and SMACK my fists together with a crack of leather. Bouncing on the round toes of my Docs, my punkytails dancing on my shoulders, tartan skirt flaring around my hips, I feel that steady fucking drumbeat of my heart pick up. It’s go time. Motherfucking go time.

I’ve heard your music for a few minutes now. It’s a good damn choice. Calvin Harris almost has a gospel sound to his track, and the crowd is clapping along, singing with the chorus because there’s NOTHING Glaswegians like more than fucking singing along. They also have that UK trait of being able to pick up on a song they don’t know in just a couple of bars (it’s almost creepy how fast a football chant can start and get picked up with made-up lyrics about something that just fucking happened on the pitch).

Of course Remy told me what song you’d picked. We had to know to license it. I am ALWAYS willing to pay in full to use this shit. The music of the entrance is at least a quarter of the magic of the match – and if you lose it, it makes the replays fucking terrible. Like when Vince didn’t get the rights to play Metallica on the replays of the ECW reunion show. God-damn crime. So I shelled the fuck out. And knowing the upbeat, determined music you’d chosen would set the tone and get the crowd up on their feet, I figured I might as well keep ’em there.

I’ve used a LOT of theme songs over the fucking years – I never got one perfect one like Sandman or Colt Cabana did. My tastes tend to run towards old-school punk (as one would expect), along with metal and the occasional weird one. I’ve used Rob Zombie a lot (so often that he and I have become friends, actually, which is fucking awesome) – most famously “Living Dead Girl” which was a key part of my Japanese gimmick and “Sick Bubblegum” which was my FTW track. The fans will be wanting one of those.

But those are big arena songs. I’ve used them for big fucking entrances with tons of special effects – my name written in fire, a skull mask that shot colored clouds of smoke, a pile of bodybags, exploding coffins – and I wanna go fucking old school. YOU want old school. So the song I have Remy queue up is one from a band that doesn’t even exist any more, one I used when I was a mouthy kid getting my ass kicked in Washington, a song from a band led by a feisty foul-mouthed 5 foot nothing bad-ass called pintSIZE.

I make my way through the halls, and the fans who watched me leave the bathroom scramble for their seats as they get cut off from following me to the entryway by the club staff. The lights go down, plunging the club into darkness as Remy cranks everything low, and I wait by the doors, shadowboxing and then getting a big grin when I hear the music hit.

The guitars hit for the immortal hundred-selling classic, “My Fist/Your Face”.

(It’s at if you wanna sing along)

It’s ALMOST the same … I just had the audio nerds tweak the chorus a bit.

Listen up, bitch!
I’m gettin’ tired of the shit you’re talkin’!
And now the day has finally come!
Can you hear Mister Whoop-Ass knockin’?
Why don’t you OPEN THE DOOR?

Because you’re just LIVIN’ ON BORROWED TIME!
You’re gonna meet a FRIEND of mine!

Let me introduce you two –
My fist!
(Her fist!)
(Your face!)

My fist!
(Her fist!)
(Your face!)
I think they’ll get along just fine!

The song fucking BLARES, and the guitar is a god-damn shredder.

I wait in the dark, letting it run for the chorus before I show my face, because I know they’ll be waiting – and I want them to learn the lyrics, since there’s a call-and-response and I want these Scot fucks to respond to my fucking call.

Finally I fucking BOOT the door open as Remy chops the song ahead past the next lines to get to the chorus faster, and come strutting the fuck out. Remy goes nuts with the stage gels and the strobes, creating a chaos of light as I give the crowd my biggest grin, hands on my hips, and then when pintSIZE gets to the good part again I snap my right fist up, clenched tight, and point at it with my other gloved hand. The crowd picks right up on the bit as I hoped they would.


And they all roar back “HER FIST!

My left hand snaps out, jutting a single glossy black squared nail at you like the judgement of a mad queen.


The crowd booms “YOUR FACE!” and they all turn and point at you in the ring, wagging fingers in beat with the music. Even the ones who support you. NO ONE can resist a good call-and-response. Especially not wrestling fans. And ESPECIALLY not in fucking Scotland. I skip a few steps forward, twirling around with my skirt flaring and punkytails whipping, and then throwing my fist high again, clenched tight, my left hand pointing up at it.


The crowd all throw up their own fists, and point their fingers at me now. “HER FIST!

I’m real close to the ring now. It’s not a long aisle. So I go big, lowering my left arm like a boom to jut my finger at you as my right fist chambers back right by my jaw, bunched tight, inked bicep taut.


And as the crowd turns their fingers to you to follow mine, roaring “YOUR FACE!” I THROW my right fist forward in a massive shadowboxing haymaker, and follow the momentum of the big swinging punch to roll straight into the ring under the bottom rope! I tumble right through, ending up on my hands and knees near the middle of the ring, and snap my head up, my eyes on you.

The music cuts as the crowd ROARS, just seeing us in the ring together – and I can hear the roar outside from all the way in here as they see the moment on the GemmaTron™. You’re hung in the corner, just like Raven – you evil fucking bitch, well played – and I’m crouched on all fours in the center of the ring, staring at you with my knees splayed and my fists on the mat, purple punkytails hanging over my shoulders.

Gods, you look fucking gorgeous. I drink you in with big hungry eyes – and I know for a fact that I look tasty enough to raise all SORTS of wicked thoughts posed like this. I bet you’ll be wondering how I look from behind. I bet you’ll be imagining me on my knees in front of you. I bet you’ll be wishing my sports bra didn’t contain my cleavage so well as my breasts round out below me, my ragged half-tee hanging open.

You look so fucking shiny and wicked. I can see the artful rips in that stocking, and I think of following that laddered tatter with my studded tongue. My eyes are on yours, and I can feel the electric heat from here. I remember the taste of your lips, 
Brandi. And no matter what happens in this ring tonight, I’m gonna taste it again. My tongue glazes my black shining lips, the piercing gleaming in the ring lights.

There’s no music now, nothing here but us in this rickety ring. Crouched down and at ease like lionesses on the hunt. Eyes locked together.

Nothing between us but air and opportunity.

And soon there’ll be nothing between us at all.

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When you’re a pro wrestler, especially a female pro wrestler, you have to get used to taking abuse from fans.  It just goes with the territory.  It’s nothing personal.  It’s not directed at the “real” you.  They’re shouting their oh-so witty, laced with a delicate irony worthy of Oscar Wilde, comments at the image you are projecting.  To them you’re just a persona, well, a god damn freak actually, if we’re being totally honest, and these guys feel that because they have bought their ticket they can turn up and shout whatever the fuck they like at you with total impunity.  And they’re pretty much right about that too.  Sure I’ve clocked the odd mouthy fan in my time but that doesn’t go down too well with promoters – or the local constabulary if the fan in question gets all babyish about the fat lip you’ve given them.  So it’s best just to treat all that crap as just part of the show.  Invite it all onto yourself, embrace it  and wallow in their moronic misogyny.

Achieving that particular state of Zen took a while, of course.  When I first started out in the business I literally used to go home and cry because someone in the crowd had called me a “dirty slag” or an “ugly bitch.”  I didn’t mind that kind of stuff from my opponent; that was all just heat of the moment stuff, but it hurt me that some ‘normal’ person would shout that at me from the safety of their seat and not have the guts to say it to my face in the ring.  But then as time went by, I just got easier with it and even picked up some equally mindless and predictable put downs that actually appealed to the mouthy morons in the arena and, amazingly, got them on your side:

“Show us your tits, bitch!”
“Yeah I’ll get my tits out when you get your dick out!  But wait until I fetch my magnifying glass because I think I’m gonna need it, big boy!”

You know the kind of thing.  Nowadays all that stuff is just proverbial water off the proverbial duck’s back.

That is, until tonight, right here and now.  Because what you have just done is taken audience wrestler abuse to a whole new level.  Using some shitty little punk song, you have harnessed all the crowd’s idiotic nastiness and put it into the palm of your hand for you to control.  And then, like some evil sorceress, you have opened your hand and unleashed that sadistic spell right at me.  Two phrases, the key impact lines in the call response chorus, get manipulated.  “My fist” becomes “Her fist” for the crowd response, whilst “ Your face” stays the same. And that tiny little change of pronoun (Yep, I’m sure they all spotted that one: “Hey, neat switcheroo of the old possessive pronouns by Punky there!” “Yes, the seamless transition from first person to third person; so simple yet so impactful.  The girl’s a lyrical genius.”) turns the whole arena against me as they unwittingly direct the full force of the words of this cruel little song onto me.  You are going to punch my face, kick my ass all over the place.  You’ve got the whole fucking room turned on me chanting it!  Wow!  Have I just been handed a lesson in entrance music.  I thought I had been oh so fucking clever with my anthem like, current, inspirational song choice (little do I know how much it cost you to allow me that choice) and my moody Raven routine to wrong foot you.  But this is just full-on, all-out fucking nuclear war before you have even reached the ring!

So I am actually glad I’m sat down in my Raven pose right now because if I was stood up everyone could see my legs shaking, I’m so fucking intimidated.  As it is, I’m hoping no notices how tightly my fingers are clinging to the middle ropes when I rest my hands on them as the music and the roar of the crowd builds to a crescendo of … well, let’s call a spade a spade here, violent hate!  I try to keep my face frozen in the impassive expression I’ve been showing since I stepped out here but I can’t stop my eyes from fluttering shut at that point, in an involuntary, and hopefully imperceptible flinch in the face of mob mentality aggression.

And then the music stops.  I open my eyes.  And there you are.  You’ve slid under the bottom rope and you are right in front of me.  On all fours in the middle of the ring.  You’re hyper from conducting the mindless masses during your entrance routine.  Your eyes are wild, sparkly like you’ve just taken something.  And of course you have in a way, because this is your drug, being  right here in the ring.  You’re breathing a little hard and your mouth hangs open slightly to ease the passage of air, making you look like you are grinning at me.  It’s that like face all the predators have on those wild life documentaries as they are on the trail of the wounded antelope.  They look as if they are smiling, but they’re not, they’re just panting with the anticipation of a kill.  Not that my own breathing isn’t slightly laboured too, as my heart pounds against my ribs, even though I’m desperately holding onto the impassive Raven pose as I stare back at you.

Now I’ve done the odd pre match face off and stare down in my time.  Most of them were a load of shit.  I could barely keep a straight face as I glared at my opponent.  But this.  Well this really is something else.  The intensity is taking the pit of my stomach all the way down into my boots and it’s a good thing that I’m doing the strong silent bit right now, because my mouth is so dry I couldn’t speak anyway.  The crowd are still revved from their audience participation, although the “her fist/your face” rhythm has disintegrated into random screams and shouts that have some relevance to acts of violence.  But for you and me, the horde of energised morons around us doesn’t exist.  They might as well be outside in the park with all the other multitudinous unwashed as we just look each other, me lost in your gaze, you lost in mine.

This is perfect. Exactly as I wanted it.  And you know it.  Just you and me; just us two.  And you look so primal and dangerous and aggressive … and absolutely fucking gorgeous!  The wild purple pigtails hanging down, your eyes devouring me from beneath lowered perfectly shadowed eyelids, the gold studded tongue licking the black glossed lips in anticipation of who knows what is going through that wicked mind of yours.  You resemble a big cat ready to pounce, languid on all fours, poised to attack quickly.  Of course that makes me the prey as I sit there in front of you, legs apart, gleaming black covered crotch displayed for you.  But I’m not the vulnerable kind of prey.  I’m more like the target the sensible hunter doesn’t pursue because the stakes are too high and survival is the first priority for any wild animal.  Except, of course, the crazy ones. 

And for any predator seeking an easy safe kill, taking me on would be crazy.  My apparent unconcerned ease, my brazen display of sexuality and my sparkly dark brown eyes say to you I know what you’re thinking.  You reckon you can take me.  But dare you risk it?  You know I’m dangerous too.  You might win big here.  But you might lose it all in an instant.  Now ain’t that a delicious dilemma for ya?  So, what ya gonna do, gorgeous girl?  I dare ya to make a move, honey.

But oh my, that fire in your eyes tells me, sooner or later, that move is coming.

And now I’m wet.  The adrenaline, the fear as you intimidated me, but most of all your primitive loveliness have made me fucking wet.  The little black thong I’m wearing under my rubber suit and fishnets is sodden and it’s all your fault!  I’m so turned on by you and yet so fucking mad at ya right now.  My eyes flash all this swirling confused emotion at you whilst yours flash back pure wicked delight, which makes me even madder.

My mind is flooded with thoughts of kicking your sweet little ass so badly in this match

Then I drag you, all owned and hurt and broken to somewhere private

I slowly, deliberately rip off every last piece of your sweat sodden, bloodied gear and toss it away

Finally, I take my favourite double ended dildo, the big black double dong, get it all nice and lubed up, position you on all fours just like you are now, get a grip of those purple locks of yours  and …

“So, are you two girls going to be doing any wrestling at all, or are you just going to gaze longingly at each other all night?”

WHAT THE FUCK??  That broad, harsh Wigan accent and that condescending tone, I know that voice.  Talk about a mood killer!  What the hell is she doing here?

I finally have to tear my eyes from yours.  But like I said, the spell is broken now.  I look up to see that the ‘Special Guest Referee’ has arrived.  Not that I knew we were getting one, but it all fits.  She must have slipped into the ring quietly whilst we were ‘communicating’.  I flash you a slightly accusatory glance, “Is this your doing?”  A mere flicker of your eye lashes in response tells me that’s a no.

I look back at the hard faced, dark haired, middle aged bitch dressed in the striped referee’s shirt and tight leather leggings which just about contain her bulky thighs and her expanding ass. 

“Pippa fucking L’Vinn!  Why?  How?”  I raise an already aggressively pencilled eyebrow at her as I use the ropes to smartly haul myself to my feet.  The Raven pose is ruined too.

“Fierce Females booked me.  They didn’t think any of their usual officials were up to this one so they asked me if I’d guest.  I said yes because someone obviously needs to get a grip of you two in heat bitches.”  Pippa smiles.  I prefer her usual bitch face scowl.  It’s warmer.

To be fair though, Pippa isn’t such a terrible choice to officiate this match.  Sure her actual ring career was pretty brief but she’s been around the business for a heck of a long time and she’s a superb technical wrestler with some great submission holds.  I guess she just decided that hauling her ass all over the country and then getting it kicked to a greater or lesser degree night after night wasn’t for her.  So she went into the fetish market and made a living from wrestling that way.  Hey, I’m not knocking her for that.  Who am I to preach morality!  But it just gets on my tits when people see her as this great matriarch of UK women’s wrestling when she is nothing of the kind.  And the notion that she brings through new young talent is total bullshit!  Pippa and her cronies keep new talent down.  I lost count of how many young aspiring wrestlers agreed to fight for free at one of her ‘shows’ and then just vanished off the scene.  That might just have had something to do with the fact that their ‘opportunity to get some experience’ turned out to be an all out ass kicking from Pippa, or a long time friend of Pippa’s, Shelby Beach, or more recently my former mentor, Lisa King.  It actually hurt me a lot that Lisa went and got herself involved with Pippa.  I guess that’s the real reason I dislike the bitch so much.  That and her exploiting wrestlers and punters alike.

The way it worked would be that a show was booked for the Saturday at Pippa’s venue, The Wrestling Factory.  Then throughout that weekend, Pippa, Shelby and Lisa would book private mixed matches with guys paying £250 quid an hour.  The focal point would be the show to lure the punters in and these three would have a lame match with a rookie working for free and then wrestle about eight guys each in the private little side rooms there and make themselves a easy couple of grand.  Meanwhile, the ‘young up and coming talent’ would have to pose for selfies with the creepy middle aged perverts in the audience before going home to nurse their bumps and bruises and feel like shit about themselves.  Now all that to me seems wrong.  And even if it isn’t, even if you say these girls had to pay their dues and they knew what they were getting into, it certainly ain’t matriarchal!

I haul my ‘Queen in the North’ tee shirt over my head and look across at you, anxious but trying to appear unconcerned.  I’m wearing this shit for you bitch, so you’d better check me out!  You’ve eased back up all fours and slipped into your corner, there’s some interaction going on with some fans, but you flash me a quick glance out of the corner of your eye.  Yeah that’s it.  You were paying attention alright.  You wanted to see the full outfit.  You’re as wet as I am.

I screw the tee shirt up and make to drop it in my corner outside the ring.  Again you flash me a glance.  I look away but give a little nod of assent, a nod that signals my I got the message. Now I take the shirt, mount the middle rope, lean out over the top one and after a bit of teasing, toss it to an eager fan in the crowd.  As I drop down off the ropes I look across at you as you watch from your corner.  Again just the tiniest flicker of an eyelash signals your satisfaction that I’m starting to get it.  You toss one away for free and the thirty people who wanted it as well buy one of their own.  Sure, theirs doesn’t smell of me, it hasn’t got the grime of the ring  where I’ve just sat down on it, but it’s the next best thing. 

Pippa is waiting for me so she can do her obligatory inspection.  If nothing else, the veteran will be scrupulously fair in how she runs this match.  As I stand in front of her, she looks me up and down in my gleaming black skin tight outfit, especially the two way zip at the front that I’ve strategically arranged to display a nice window of cleavage.

“You wrestlin’ or strippin’ tonight, Brandi?” She asks.

I could retort something about how I ask myself the same question all the time about the material that comes out of her company but my mind is elsewhere.  I’m trying to make sense of that little moment we just had.  First conclusion: however this match turns out, you and me will be hitting the nearest hotel room afterwards and the night porter will be banging on our room door at 4 AM because we will still be going at it.  Only thing is, we both want to be on top, if you know what I mean.  And that’s what this fight is really all about.  It’s what it’s always been about ever since that kiss outside the pub.  We’re settling who goes on top.  Shit!  Not good!  Fucking nasty in fact!  Two bottoms can generally work something out, but two tops?  Fuck!  We both wanna hit that bedroom so badly.  But someone is gonna have to get broken before we do.

I feel Pippa’s eyes, her irritation rising as I keep her waiting.  I pull a face and grudgingly offer her my hands.  She checks my red polished nails and gives my black patent leather wrist bands a quick squeeze.  Then she runs her hands down the front of my suit and then I raise each knee so she can feel my pads.  A little flick of her hands let’s me know she wants me to turn and she runs her hands over my suit at the back. 

“Got to hand it to you, love,” She says.  “You’ve been doing some work in the gym since I last saw you.  You couldn’t have got away with this outfit last time I saw you in the ring.”

“More than I can say for you,” I say over my shoulder as I flick up my right boot for her to run her hand over.  She must have put on twenty pounds recently.

“Actually, I wouldn’t want to get away with this outfit,” she growls, as she checks my other boot.  “It makes you look a right slag.”

“That was the general idea,” I smirk as I turn back around to face her, but looking beyond her to check that I’ve still got your attention as you wait in the opposite corner.

Pippa notices my interest in you.  It’s not hard to spot .  Plus she knows this is no ordinary match.  This match got signed for a reason and even she’s starting to work out what it is.

“Don’t expect any favours from me tonight, Brandi.”  She stares at me coldly to see how I react to that one.

“Pippa, when was the last time you did anyone a favour, let alone me?”  I give her a cold hard stare back.

She pauses to consider her answer for just a beat.  “Can’t remember,” she replies, totally deadpan, and then turns away.  Even at this moment  I can’t help but smile at her joke as she pads across the ring, her sagging butt wobbling in the tight leather pants.  Then I smile even more because I’m not even sure it was a joke!

I watch as she goes to check you out.  You bet I do!  You don’t take your eyes off your opponent at this point in the proceedings.  Not unless you want pearl harbouring good style. And it’s Punky Dow in that opposite corner for fuck’s sake!  But actually this could be interesting in its own right.  Classic Old School Britpro grouch meets New School/Old School neo punk. 

As Our ‘Special Guest Referee’ runs methodically through her checking routine, the crowd are beginning to bubble as it nears the boil.  Some are still wailing a tuneless “Her fist … your face” but others on the prospect of the imminent action. 

“C’mon, you can kick her ass Brandi!” 

“Waste her Megan!  Teach her a lesson for messing with you!”

For such a small crowd they are making a load of noise and it’s really getting to me, making that ever tightening knot in my stomach become unbearable.  And after the roller coaster of emotions I’ve just been through over the last few minutes, my nerves are feeling pretty shot.  And all the mindfulness and focusing and positive thinking I’ve been doing over the last few weeks just can’t hack it for me in this cauldron that we have both created.

I start to shake out my arms and legs, blow out my cheeks, bouncing gently on my toes to try to disperse some of this adrenaline and nervous energy.  But none of this helps.  And my skin is actually prickling with the noise and the tension and the anticipation.  Meanwhile old fat ass over there is still checking you out. 

Doesn’t she know how much I need to fight?  Doesn’t she understand how I feel right now?

That bitch across there, who happens to be the biggest, most famous opponent of my entire career has come on to me and been so kind to me and yet she just tried to use the crowd to destroy me mentally and then she posed in front of me so sexily that I melted in my panties but I know she’s going to be beating the shit out of me in a few moments and I so badly want to defeat her in this match and yet I want to fuck her brains out as well and there’s this old cow of a ref on my case who’s bringing up all kinds of memories from my past that I really don’t need in my head right now and I feel so clammy in this stupid tight enamel suit and this place is so hot and noisy that my head is about to fucking explode!!!

And then I’m outside myself.  And someone is yelling.  And shit.  It’s me.

“Just check her, Pippa!  Just get the job done! No actually, I really don’t care! I’m not fucking bothered!  Not even if she has a fucking chain in her sports bra and a set of fucking brass knuckles in her shorts!  JUST RINNNGGG THATTT FUCKINNGGGG BELLLL!!!”

The crucible has reached melting point.

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That moment of perfect tension is something that could have lasted forever and I’d have been agonizingly delighted with it.

You have this perfect drape in the corner, legs sprawled in a way that’s simultaneously daring, brazen, deliciously vulnerable and arrogantly taunting. That suit you’re poured into glistens, and I can’t stop roving you with my wide, hungry eyes.

You’ve painted your face into this wicked queenly powerful perfection, emphasizing the beauty you already possess and adding flair. You look strong, too. It’s been just a matter of weeks since I watched you in Cheshire, and you look even more tightly defined than you did then. You’ve been putting in TIME, girl. I see devotion in those abs under the organic glisten of that enamel suit. I see furious dedication in the tightness of your biceps with your arms draped on the ropes in that maddeningly sexy Raven pose. That works on so many levels – it’s so primal and arrogant and coolly dismissive, but it also means you’ve put in your homework. You KNOW what the Raven pose means to me. That thought WARMS me. I can feel my pussy tingling under the little Lycra shorts, hips swaying a tiny bit. There’s a perfume of alpha alley cat arousal in the air – we’re both drawn to each other. I knew that the second we kissed, outside the Red Lion. When our tongues danced and our lips crushed and we tasted each other and both leaned in for more, both instinctively moved to control the kiss before I broke it off. I can see the muscles shifting under your fishnets, and have lingering visions both of those legs wrapping around my head, trapping me in the fragrant humid heat of your crotch and leaving me buried nose-deep there, and of wrapping them around the ringpost in the hanging figure four I call the Holiday in Cambodia and hearing your musical screams ring out over the Shed.

And BOTH dancing sugar plum visions have me fucking dripping. My hips slightly rock like a cat’s tail lashing, skirt fluttering, and the crowd is inflamed by the two of us just staring at each other. This crowd is fucking on FIRE. Everything we do is going to come off as gold. Tonight is the night to try out anything – EVERYTHING. We can be as brutal as we want, as technical as we want, as lewd as we want. No matter what we serve them, they’re going to eat it with a fucking spoon.

And we just keep staring, eyes locked. Crouched and draped. Tensed and ready. Hungry predator and proud queen. Madwoman and heroine.

The tireless shameless self-promoter who lives in the back of my head and never really takes a night off is INSISTENT that I make sure my ringside photographer Takashi get as many shots of this as possible since this moment has “glossy poster” written all over it. We can call it “The Breathless Moment of Tension” and get a painter to add paintbrush swirls to a filtered version of the photo. Fucking iconic.

But there’s much more insistent voices in my head, sharing space; they are torn between dragging you by the boots right to mid-ring and ripping your suit open and eating you like fucking tartare until you’re just a spasming mess of orgasmic bliss, or piledriving you into the concrete at ringside and watching you become a spasming mess of neurological trauma.

Eventually the voices of Lust and Wrath shake hands and agree to do it ALL tonight, and get a buy-in from Gluttony while they’re at it since I wanna eat you until you’re running down my chin like a ripe peach. Pride insists that the Wrath be REALLY violent and that everyone cheer extra loud for us, and Envy wants me to steal that excruciatingly sexy glossy Japanese suit after I peel it from you with my fucking teeth. Greed is rubbing her hands together in glee hearing the cheers from the crowd across the fucking road outside as a muted ocean wave – the ticketless punters are cheering just watching us crouch here eyefucking each other, and I can just imagine the merch sales – and the only one that’s off duty tonight is Sloth, who glumly insisted that back at home we have a nice giant overstuffed couch, marionberry ice cream and three seasons of “Chopped” to watch, but that tubby bitch got choked out by Pride this morning so I could do my dawn workout.

So like I said, I’d be happy to just be right here for an interminably long time, waiting for the perfect moment, imagining your nipples stiffening, pushing against that shiny vinyl-lookin’ suit. I can see the valley of interest you’ve revealed with your lil’ zipper there, and it’s obvious that I’m fuckin’ interested. The heat between us is god-damn palpable. It could stay like this forever.


I draw back up to my knees, instinctively withdrawing, my black lip curling in a sneer. I like curves (I’ve been in bed with Bren Rua, which is like going down the Pacific Coast Highway with no brakes) but god-damn, this isn’t curves – this is a fucking event horizon. I snort in irritation and get to my boots in a lithe little hop. My fists curl and I fire a few jabs at the air, shadowboxing, clearing a little bit of the erotic heat from my head with the help of that giant wobbly ass from the tart in the ref stripes.

I never met the ref before the match – I was assured it was just going to be one of Fierce Females’ staff of wobbly local lads, ideally an older grizzled one who’d know to get the fuck out of our way. So this is news to me. You certainly seem surprised to see Titzilla, and your glance at me is both accusatory and curious. I roll my shoulder and give you a little blink and an arch of my expressive heavy Slavic eyebrows. I dunno nothin’ either, sugarbuns.

This bitch gets right up in your face, and immediately your attention is off me. I don’t like that. I’m a fucking professional wrestler, god damn it; I ALWAYS want the attention to be on me. This is MY time. EVERY TIME IS MY TIME. I hang back in the corner, elbows draped on the top rope, smirking and jawing with some of the noisier Glaswegians up front, commenting on their parentage (uncertain) and the likely condition of their genitals (disreputable and ill-used) and whether or not I’ll pound their skull into the concrete (definitely). But I keep cutting my thickly lined hazel eyes at you and the busty older woman. You look distinctly unhappy to see her there – and you have that fleeting far-away look in your eyes of someone watching a memory unreel like a film in her head. So this big palooka is someone from your past then. I give her a fresh eye as she finishes whatever’s she doing with you, giving you a parting shot.

“Can’t remember,” she says, all straight-faced. That makes my eyes narrow a bit. I don’t like the idea of a referee with a past with my opponent that much – but at least you two don’t seem overfond of each other.

She draws closer, and I run my critical gaze over her – okay, this bitch is a wrestler, that makes sense. Or at least a fighter, but from the low center of gravity and the way she instinctively walks with the slight bounce of the ring, I’d say wrestler. She’s too pear-shaped for a boxer, even an out-of-shape one, but wrestlers can be fat bastards and still be deadly as hell, and Lady Glutewobble here looks like she knows how to lay someone low. She also looks like she could fucking demolish a buffet. Mmm. That reminds me. I’m gonna eat the biggest fucking pizza tonight, ideally with your busted-up, sweat-soaked, naked and bound body in bed with me.

The bitch bullies right up to me and I stand up straight, hands on my hips, not giving up a fucking inch even when she bumps me with her mammoth tits, just smirking up at her with my eyes gleaming madly.

“You don’t impress me, girl,” she says flatly in a nasally Northern accent.

“‘course not,” I sneer back. “I’m not a fuckin’ rack of ribs.” I offer her my gloved hands by slapping the backs of them firmly into those big tits in my face, and she grunts and JERKS my wrists forward, checking under my glove and even tugging at my tape, running hands up my sides and over my shirt as I roll my eyes, lolling my head to the crowd. “Bitch isn’t even buying me dinner first,” I complain loudly. Some rakish wit in the front row replies “LIKE SHE’D LEAVE ANY FOR YA!” to general laughter. Just to be clear, I’m not GENERALLY a fan of body shaming, in general, but I’m very much a fan of backhanding cunts. And also this crowd wants us to fucking rake each other over the coals, and if the ref wants to be part of the story, she’s gonna have to deal with it.

To her credit, she doesn’t react, just methodically checking me over MUCH more thoroughly than usual. I’m glad I didn’t pack for a full hardcore match with a chain in my sports bra and brass knuckles in my shorts like I often do, or she’d have been all kinds of pissed off. But she’s checking EVERYWHERE. She goes over my boots thoroughly, even checking the lacing, and I’m getting fucking impatient now. Twirling one finger in the air as if I can magically force a clock to move faster and make this big battleship of a woman get the fuck on with it.

Although then I get very SLIGHTLY alarmed, because instead of just running her hands up my stockings and making sure I don’t have a golden spike or a bag of sumo salt in there, she’s SLOWLY running her hands up my leg, the crowd wolf-whistling as her big ass bobs behind her, and I look down and slightly tense my fists, realizing I might end up having to fucking deck this cunt before the bell even rings as she gets her hands closer to the top of my sock, and –

“Just check her, Pippa!  Just get the job done ! No actually, I really don’t care! I’m not fucking bothered!  Not even if she has a fucking chain in her sports bra and a set of fucking brass Knuckles in her shorts!  JUST RINNNGGG THATTT FUCKINNGGGG BELLLL!!!”

Pippa (oh, shit, the one from the fetish videos? She was younger then, but Gems LOVES those sometimes, watching old vids of big brutal busty British chicks just DESTROYING skinny dudes and undersized skinny girls. What was her name? Something like a witch in a fantasy novel, with an apostrophe. Le’quinn? I dunno) turns and glares at you, her big hands leaving off my leg JUST below my left knee, and I puff out a breath.


The older lady moves to call for the bell – and as tempting as it would be to rush over and fucking Pearl Harbor you, we’re doing this properly. PROPERLY, god damn it! At least to start. As the match continues, there will no doubt be all sorts of gouging, choking, rope work, twatting and teasing that would make the founders of the NWA clutch their ties and fall over dead of aneurysms, but for now we are gonna start this off proper. And the crowd doesn’t expect that. As soon as the ref turns her broad back, they’re tensed for me to lunge right into you, maybe hit a Superkick or one of my famous high speed running Yakuza Kicks or just a madwoman tackle back into the corner. They’re all SURE that violence is about to explode, that I’ll lunge and you’ll dodge or charge right back into me or there’ll be some immediate struggle – but instead I shake my hands out, straighten my skirt and stockings, adjust my knee brace, do a last deep centering breath – and step out to mid-ring as the bell sounds.


And Meg “Punky” Dow, the Monster Queen, the Hardcore Harlequin, the Purple People Eater, the Chaos Engine – moves to mid-ring with quick, smooth steps on my shiny red Doc Martens, and I plant myself dead-center, my eyes on you, and only you.

… and I offer my right hand.

The crowd fucking LOSES IT.


When Pippa spat her dummy out and called for the bell after I had shouted at her, I expected us to be immediately locked in a catball of punching, chopping, knee-lifting, kicking fury, like some cartoon comic fight, with both of us lost in a cloud of whirling dust, with fists and feet and angry shouts and squeals of pain, and lots of exclamation marks and stars spilling out from all sides. 

But it wasn’t like that.

Instead, I’m staring at the hand you offered me.  I’ve just torn my bemused eyes from yours.  The crowd is going fucking nuts, but above the general roar of approval for your honourable gesture  I can hear lone voices yelling “Don’t do it!  Don’t trust her Brandi!”  But they’re wrong to be cynical assholes about it.  I trust you in this implicitly.  I have no doubt this is you flagging up mutual respect loud and proud.  It’s right out of the pro wrestler’s bible.  In pro wrestling you seem to spend all your time going around shaking every fucker’s hand.  Some are false, some are sincere.  Here we have definitely got the latter because this is you formally welcoming me to the big time.  This is me being told, you’re one of us.  We’re kindred spirits. 

And that’s why I have to avert my eyes from yours as they seek out some kind of response from me. You see, as much as I just fucking adore what is happening here, me doing the respect thing with the “great” Punky, I can’t allow it.  I can’t let you dictate the pace and tone of the match from start to finish.  If I let you run the show and just tag along for the ride, I’ll lose … and lose huge!  So I have to do something really shitty.  Something that is going to lose me the Shed crowd and probably cast me as the heel in this little drama.  Well, so be it.  I don’t mind being the heel.  In lots of ways it’s easier to play than the face.  The crowd secretly loves the heel because she can say and do the things that they would want to in real life … to their boss, the guy in the car in front who just cut them up, their fucking annoying neighbour.  I’ve played plenty of heels in my time and it’s real easy to get heat from the crowd  It’s just … well … it’s just I didn’t want this match to operate on that level.  But I guess a desperately ambitious girl wrestler’s gotta do what a desperately ambitious girl wrestler’s gotta do.

So I take your hand, my grip not too loose like a fish, not too firm like a Wall Street banker.  A convincing wrestler’s handshake.  And I let eyes flicker up to yours for a moment to seemingly acknowledge the hand offered with honour, in the warrior spirit.  But way before we get to that mutually understood time when we both let go, I lower my gaze.  And my hand suddenly grips on to yours desperately tight.  And I swivel my hips.  And pivot.  And pull you thru and past me, real hard.  My other hand coming up in between your shoulder blades, a violent shove to help you on your way.  To the corner I have just emerged from.  To the waiting turnbuckles.

I hear a gasp of bewilderment from the watching crowd.  Followed by a groan of disappointment, peppered with the odd boo but also the occasional crass cheer.  I’ve just destroyed the perfect spot.  The big set piece opening where two mighty warriors meet and show respect before beating the shit out of each other.  And part of me feels like shit for just doing that.  But the other part of me, the wound up, aggression charged, bitch from hell with PMS part of me, loves the solid smacking sound your back makes as it hits the thinly padded turnbuckles and delights in the reverberating shudder of the ring from the impact.

And alright, now we’re going!  Now we’re fucking fighting!

I take two quick steps whilst you are still in the corner.  I plant my left boot, brace against my left leg for a split second and flip over.  I turn a half somersault, my shoulders planting on the mat in front of your feet … just after my left boot has come up, over and through so that the grubby heel of the gleaming gold boot smacks you in the face: a not so elegant (because gymnast/acrobat I ain’t!) but hopefully effective Ajisegiri kick!

I’m up quickly.  Fuck, I’m so pumped now I practically levitate back onto my feet!  You’re still upright.  Of course you are.  It would take more than that to knock you down.  So I’m unleashing a volley of forearms to your head and chest.  Pent up emotion and tension exploding out of me as I grunt loudly with each frantic strike, none of which individually have any real power but cumulatively have the effect of a whirlwind of force and feeling! “UHNNN!  UHHNN!  UHHHNN!  UUUHHNNNNN!”  I’m letting you know how badly I want to pound you into defeat .  As if you needed reminding.

When I’ve finished venting on you,  (I lost count of how many blows I flung at you but I’m sure they became less effective the more frantic I became) I slap both hands onto your head and wind the fingers of each around a gleaming purple Punky pig tail. I grip on tight, no doubt unzipping some of the hair follicles at the scalp, as I roughly jerk you out of the corner and drag you to the  centre of the ring, our boots clomping awkwardly on the thinly padded ring boards as we blunder on our way.  Once there, I release the hair and quickly fling your left arm around my neck, then wrap my own left arm across yours.  My right hand drifts under your skirt, fingers urgently gripping the black Lycra boy shorts at the hip and I use that grip to tug you in close to me, ready for the snap suplex I have in mind for you. 

But OH MY GOD!  This is the first time I have been up close and personal with you in the ring, in the full heat of battle and it feels electric.  I get a little waft of perfumed cosmetics but your scent right now is mainly feral fighter.  Your clothes have the the smell of the ring about them too, maybe not even washed from your last match .  And your tensed up body is so taut, so firm, so fucking hard!  Not gym hard but combat hard.  Lean and solid.  Damaged and recovered stronger.  Christ, there isn’t an ounce of fat on you!  You feel gorgeous.  My head is swirling.  Oh I so want to break this body down piece by piece, hurt it until each little bit has yielded and gone soft and only the tits are left proud and pert.

Mmmmmm … in my dreams maybe.  But I’m gonna give it a damn good go!  It’s time for you to fly now, my tough hard fighter girl.  Everything on me tightens up.  I plant my gleaming black boots.  I’m just about to blow out some air, ready for the big heave, up and over, when …

“You fucking cheater, Brandi!  I didn’t have you down as a fucking cheater but you are!!!” 

Who the fuck is that yelling at me?  I slacken off the tension in my arms and legs and look across to see a curly haired little blondie who has managed to get herself to the apron without security grabbing her.  Her face is flushed and outraged as she bangs her hands down on the apron.  Her words hurt me.  They genuinely do.  And my wounds sting all the more when I notice she is actually wearing a Queen in the North tee shirt.  Suddenly feeling a desperate need to justify my last few moves I shriek back at her:

“What did you say to me?  You moron! You think she wouldn’t have done the same to me on another day?  You think she wouldn’t have blindsided me if it suited her?  Who are you anyway?  Some kind of Girl Scout?  What do you know?  You know nothing about about this match!  You have no idea what is going on here!” 

And as Security are now easing her back to a safe distance, I’m just recalling that line from Othello or Hamlet or whatever boring crap it was we did at school, you know the one, ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”  (‘Methinks’?  Who the hell said Shakespeare was a great writer?  Jeez!). I could also go on to draw the attention of my now ex fan to the fact that our lovely ref, Pippa, seems quite okay with all of this as she has backed off to a safe corner of the ring to let the action flow, when I remember that this is Punky Dow I’ve got a grip of here!  And I haven’t done anything with her for a few seconds now which is an eternity when facing such deadly opposition.  This troubling reality reminds me of another well known phrase or saying … Shakespeare didn’t write this one, methinks … not sure who did … maybe it was Walt Disney … but it’s the one about having hold of a tiger by its tail … and I don’t really know what the fuck that actually means … but a bit like the situation I’m in right now, I’m damn sure it ain’t good!


You can tell a lot from looking into someone’s eyes.

You can see where there’s that scuttling flutter of fear, down deep and trying to hide. You can see the heat of genuine anger, like a greasefire in a closed oven. You can see the darkness of pain that someone’s biting back – they might have an iron jaw and a stiff upper lip, but the eyes tell the tale in the shimmer of unfallen tears and the subtle widening of the pupils. You can see desire, you can see determination, you can see the little flicker over your shoulder as they’re waiting for some fucker to whop you upside the head with something from behind.

But really – you can learn even more when someone won’t give you their eyes at all.

So you dip your eyes away from me – and my glossy black grin tightens a little bit at the corners, narrowing my eyes ever so slightly, but I don’t move a fucking inch. I’m right there, offering my hand in my fingerless glove and fight tape. Planted firmly as a fucking oak. You’ve got thoughts in your head, my girl, and they’re not nice ones, but this is a wrestling ring and not a fucking cathedral. Nice thoughts aren’t part of the fucking parcel.  I put myself here, offering the ol’ Code of Honor, and here I’m gonna fucking stay. Come what fucking may.

To be fair, you’re GOOD. I almost buy back into it when you DO meet my eyes, when you give me that convincing handshake – but when you look away again I feel my muscles tightening. Here it comes –

– and to your credit, you DON’T go for the cunt punt, which would ABSOLUTELY have been my go-to. Instead you yank my arm out and carousel-whip me all the way to the corner! “FUCK!” I snarl out, YANKED off balance, and it’s only almost two decades of fucking ring experience that gets me twisted around in time. People wonder why wrestlers turn to hit the ropes and buckles with their back – try crashing tits-first into a steel buckle sometime, ya fuckin’ marks, and it’s a lesson in the value of turning the fuck around you won’t soon forget. I still CRASH in hard, hitting the steel brutally and it turns out that Fierce Females didn’t invest a TON of their operating budget into actual turnbuckle pads – these feel more like just leather covers over the fucking metal braces. “UNNNNH!” I groan, my back arching hard as I stagger forward a step, sagging back and clutching at the ropes. I grit my teeth and snarl, yanking myself back out –

– only to pull myself right into a fucking Koppu Kick, as you lithely roll right into me and whip that powerful leg in those sexy fucking fishnets up and over, CLOCKING me right in the god-damn forehead with its lacy webwork of scars from getting busted open so many fucking times. Another couple of shots like that and we’ll be getting color good and early for this roaring band of Scots. And the fans are ROILING. Despite the fact that Glasgow is a smart wrestling city, that everyone here knows how the game works, they’re still FURIOUS, buying into the narrative that YOU’RE creating.

I reel back from the kick, my eyes crossing briefly before I shake my head, purple punkytails dancing as I get my vision straight, but inside I can’t help but exult more than a bit. You TOOK this opening. Not the one I gave you – your own. And you’re in for more, right off the fucking blocks. I don’t even get a chance to get my fists all the way up as I clear my skull before you’re right against me, FLURRYING blows down onto me! Pounding your forearm into my head, and when I get my guard up, you slam an arm across my tits, and I’m jolting back in the corner with each hammering shot. I manage to stop you from busting my nose or shutting an eye but you’re a fucking whirlwind, your fury coming out in a series of grunts of raw rage and effort, and matched with a harmony of my own groans as the crowd roars ladder up the decibel scale. You finally leave off, panting, and I sag back in the corner a bit, dazed, one arm across my tits and shaking my ringing head as the Shed kicks up a riot at seeing the Purple Vixen getting six kinds of hell whalloped out of her by the Queen in the North as you take control of the fucking match!

And you’re not done, taking my punkytails – they’re not only a fucking classic aesthetic, they make it so I always know where my opponent’s hands are going when they reach for my hair. That can be really fucking helpful sometimes, but right now I’m fresh off a surprise pummeling so I’m not quite ready to jab you in the throat – and drag me out of the corner, bent forward and stumbling a bit, one hand on your wrist and one swaying at the side as I try to paw at you, my skirt fluttering around my hips. We make an exquisitely sexy image, the fucking beating heart of female combat – power and vulnerability, curves and muscle, ferocity and determination – but I don’t have time to appreciate it since I’m the one being dragged.

“NNnhhh, fffuck,” I growl achingly under my breath, my pounded tits heaving for breath as you toss my arm behind your neck and wrap my head up, bending me low, my ass jutting back photogenically – and even moreso as you slinkily slide your hand under my tartan skirt, getting a fistful of my boyshorts, making me draw in a sharp, soft breath as my hips shiver. This close to you, feeling the heat, the tension of your lithe muscle – gods, you’re so fucking FIRM, you feel like silken steel – and the closeness of your curves. I can smell the scent of you, the sweet tang of your cosmetics and the spice of a taut body in motion, the nose-flaring scent of your bodyheated enamel suit, and that pheromonal flare of arousal. And as I get womanhandled expertly into place, and you tug my shorts, I can feel how incredibly wet you’ve gotten me – feel it INTENSELY. I bite my black lip a bit, tasting the candlewax warmth of the ebon Japanese lip shellac as I try to keep myself tensed up, trying to find a moment to fight free but readying myself for the very real likelihood of getting snapped the fuck over into the mat.

But then you stop – your steel-spring muscles relax a bit and I hear someone shouting, up close. Someone right at the fucking apron. Security is probably just about to toss her bodily back over the railing, but she’s certainly got your attention.

And that’s not good, Brandi. Because I’m one jealous, needy cunt. And I want ALL your attention.

Your hand slips a bit, your grip slacking as you argue with the girl. I can hear your voice booming through your ribcage with my head tucked up against your ribs, your left arm wrapping my neck. Your right hand slacks just a bit, easing the tension that’s lifting my hips and putting me on my toes – and a moment is all I need. My left arm slings up and off your arm, folding and chambering, and DRIVES down in a short, brutal elbow aimed just under your ear, breaking your grip with a groan – but I don’t let you get far. Your instinctively drop my shorts to clutch your head with your right hand – and drop my arms low and wrap them around your trim waist, nestling in close, my fight gloves briefly caressing the curve of your ass so lovingly defined in that glistening enamel suit, squared black nails glossy against that warm exquisitely rounded material before I SNATCH my left wrist in my right fist, my lithe inked biceps cabling as I DIG my grip in, my head still tucked under your left arm! I plant my Docs, jutting my hips back and I YANK you into me to drill your belly into my steely shoulder before I dip my knees low, my thighs defining as I HOIST you up and over!

So, the Northern Lights Suplex is normally a precise arc to the mat followed by a crisp bridge, a visual bit of perfection that was one of the defining forms of joshi wrestling for a long time. It’s a move that’s almost more art than grappling, a bit of physical grace that give the audience a moment to take a breath and appreciate how fucking talented the performers they’re watching really are.

I don’t do that, though. I fucking WHIP you up and over, arching my back just to make sure you get chucked even harder, YANKING at the bottom of your suit to haul you higher and throw you farther, letting you CRASH to the mat behind me with a RELEASE Northern Lights Suplex! I ROAR with the effort, feeling the big brace securing my knee against the strain, and I rise up and throw my arms out wide with my head arched back to dragoncry at the fucking ring lights as the crowd pops like champagne.

“Solid opening, sugartits …” I pant, snarling after you as I twist on the ball of my foot and stomp over to where you’re arched on the mat, having taken the ring-rattling impact of the release suplex. I wanna drink in how fucking good you look, but my head is ringing and my tits are aching and you made it CLEAR that we’re not on the Code of Honor – so we’re going the other fucking direction. I lunge forward with a feral growl, chambering my big right boot up in the air. “… BUT YOU GOTTA ONLY HAVE EYES FOR *ME*, cunt!”

And I DRIVE a flurry of stomps down into your ribs and your tits, satisfaction in every panting breath as I clench my fists, pumping my right leg up and down and planting my left boot as I just stomp a fucking POLKA onto your sexy glistening form, watching as you jolt and shudder. Growling with deep hungry breaths, my skin starting to warm and glow with the desire of the fight and the hunger for action, I stalk down to your shiny gold boots. Highspots. I recognize the little logo on the heel. Love those fuckers. I yank your long legs up in those laddered fishnets, spreading your silky thighs, and the crowd ROARS as I grin down at you for just a single manic moment.

So deliciously vulnerable.

It’d be CRUEL to take advantage of it.

But then … you DID refuse to shake my hand.

So I DROP to my knees like a bomb falling from a bay door, and DRIVE my forehead down into your lush taut body! Not ALL the way down in the vulnerable vee of your suit – not yet. I drill my thick punk skull down LOW, under your belly button, pushing your legs out wide. This move is great – it KNOCKS the fucking breath out of you, steals the strength from your legs, and –

– lets me nuzzle the warmth of your mound for just a moment, breathing you in and purrrring in my throat as I smell the heat of your arousal, making my own creamy thighs clasp and squeeze as I sit on my knees between your thighs.

“OI!” Pippa barks, asserting a LITTLE authority – but not moving in yet. Maybe she likes watching you get a little dirty punishment. I don’t even bother looking at her, lifting my head, my punkytails brushing the tops of your thighs as I grin up the curvature of your body at your moaning beautiful face.

“LOWER FUCKIN’ ABDOMEN!” I snarl back at her, drawing laughter and whoops and approving roars and boos and catcalls from the audience. They’re a MOB, an animal hunger all around us. I let you see the heat in my eyes. To know that I have your scent now. And I bet we’re so close that you have mine. I reach up, hand gliding over your body, between your breasts, and cradle your chin in my hand, my other hand coming over as I get a fistful of dark hair. “C’mere, bitch …” I purr, planting my boot and dragging us up together, nice and close. I yank you close, my face up against yours, hot cheek on your own with a creamy touch of cosmetics and the fire of our sweat and skin. “I’m gonna fuck you up in front’a them, and then take you back to my hotel and fuck you up AGAIN,” I growl, and then take your wrist and SLAP my hand to your sexy ass, aiming to FIRE you at the ropes to rebound you towards me, planting my boots and bent forward, wriggling my fingers, lips parted hungrily as I glare –

– ready to snatch you up when you come back at me, intending to get my arms wrapped around you to LAUNCH you over me with an Overhead Release Belly to Belly Suplex! I’m gonna send you on more flights than SpaceX!

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Shit, shit and FUCKING SHIT!  Now I’ve started something. I’ve just got what I wished for and not been careful what it was.  I’ve just rattled your cage and not noticed the door was open.  I’ve just lit the blue touch paper and forgotten to stand back.  I’ve just let loose the dogs of war (That one was Shakespeare – meknows!). I’ve just let the genie out of the bottle (now that has to be Walt Disney!)  I’ve just fucking gone and fucking done it! (All mine).

Your reaction is very sudden.  Very simple.  And, of course, very violent.  Whilst I am momentarily distracted, trying unconvincingly to justify my lack of wrestler’s honour, you just deftly remove your arm from mine and whack me in the side of the head with your elbow!  And fuck you hit hard!  How can someone so porcelain pretty hit so fucking hard?  I don’t get more than a moment to ponder that conundrum before you wrap your arms around my waist.  Your hands are ALL OVER my ass.  And gawd, that’s nice.  So nice I can’t really tell whether the little moan I emit is from the pain from my head or sensuousness of your touch.  But then you snatch your grip up real tight and then like me a few moments ago, everything about you stiffens up.  And I know something bad is about to happen.

You make such a gorgeous guttural noise, though, as you heave me up and over.  My stomach churns both with the sudden momentum and also the way my insides are compacted by your arms hauling me aloft.  Your body arches superbly to gain extra power whilst your hand gives a last farewell tug on the leg hole of my shiny suit hauling it up over my butt check to wedgie it into my ass and tearing a another big hole in my fishnet hose for good measure.

Fuck this is a lovely suplex I think to myself as my gold boots come up and over as I flip a furious three quarter somersault. It’s just a fucking shame you’re doing it on me! 


The thing about the Northern Lights is that it’s normally a set-up for a bridging pin.  It’s a move of beauty, even when you’re on the receiving end.  Your opponent has to control it though so that they can use your body as a kind of shock absorber before they plant their feet and complete the bridge.  Now don’t get me wrong, we’re not exactly talking delicate placement here, you still get dumped on your shoulders and neck pretty hard but it’s not like some of the other big big suplexes out there, it’s precise and measured. 

But this suplex ain’t like that.  This is just furious, ferocious and fucking brutal.  I’m flung over you, high and far.  I still hit on my neck and shoulders rather than my lower back, which is a plus, I think, but the impact resonates throughout my entire torso and the air explodes from my mouth as my lungs start to feel like a deflating hot air balloon.  I bounce off the ring boards and my body tries to skid along the mat but friction makes it come to an abrupt halt (Newton’s Second Law and all that crap applies to airborne wrestlers just like anything else in the world  I guess).

“AWWWWWFFAACCKKK!!”  I groan loudly up into the ring lights.

And then as I lie there, my chest heaving in my shiny black suit with my tits trying to force their way through the little peep hole I have created, I’m thinking to myself, I really should try to move right now because if I was you I would …

“UGGHH!  UUNNGG!  UUHHHHH!”  Too late.  You’re all over me.  I jerk violently as a big heavy red DM repeatedly and frenziedly stomps at my tits, my belly, my ribs.  I suppose I deserve this I tell myself.  I broke the code and so I get the full fury of a massively pissed off Punky!  In fact in a weirdly perverse way I’m kinda enjoying you working me over for not shaking your hand.  I think all pro wrestlers have at least a tiny masochistic streak.

Then the storm abates just as suddenly as it descended on me.  But the calm that follows is less than reassuring.  My legs are in the air, spread wide.  And you have my gold boots in your hands.  Now I’m not gonna lie, in a different setting I would happily open my legs for you but why do I get the feeling that this isn’t going to end sweetly for me? 


You drop down with frightening force, your forehead connecting with the smooth shiny black gentle curve of my lower belly, like you’re deliberately targeting my womb, my ovaries, all my girlie bits.  I cry out, guttural, like I have been violated, as I sit up involuntarily, mouth gaping, eyes wide in shock.  Your head is still down, your face lingering over my crotch as you blatantly draw in my scent.  My left hand reaches out and touches your head, ever so gently, ever so briefly, in an act of fucking love for you, you nasty gorgeous bitch!  And then I flop back down with a soft moan.

I hear you declare that your move struck my ‘lower abdomen’ and look across at Pippa who has decided to move her fat ass at last.  She meets my gaze and mouths “Lower abdomen?” to me just in case I was thinking of appealing to her – which I wasn’t. She could at least try to hide the fucking smile on her face.  It’s not as if she hasn’t dished out and taken loads of these herself.  She must know the fucking damage it can do!

I turn my attention back to you just as you ease up and out my crotch, your eyes rolling back in your head for a moment, with lust, or fury, or probably both. You stay on your knees between my legs, sat back on your heels, looking so fucking turned on by what you have just done to me.  Jesus.  Did I just flaunt my camel toe up at you?  I think I just did.  I couldn’t help it.  Christ I’m such a fucking wrestle-slut!  And your hand feels delicious as it runs up my body before it cups my chin.  Again, in another setting I’d plead with you to kiss me now, but instead your other hand snakes into my hair and with a voice thick with arousal you order me to “C’mere bitch!” as I’m roughly jerked to you.

We brush cheeks, smell hair, feel each other’s heat, as you whisper what you intend doing to me.  It’s a very intimate moment, considering a couple of hundred people are losing their shit all around us.  I can’t say I’m not scared by what you say, I can’t say I’m not turned on by it either, and part of me wants to beg you to do it and another wants to spit fuck you! into those gorgeous, crazy eyes.

Then before I know it, we are both back on our feet.  You hungrily grab my ass again as you shoot me to the ropes.  Fuck, I’m beginning to think this is turning into sexual harassment!  ‘Course it ain’t harassment if they’re cute, right?  And, in a psychotic, wild, menacing, deadly sort of way, you are definitely a right fucking cutie!

My gold boots pound the ring boards as I run madly to the ropes, whilst pondering the fact that there are basically two states of mind you can have when your opponent slingshots you into them.  The first is a hurt real bad, exhausted, confused mind set which basically means you come off the ropes blindly and are toast for her next move whatever that may be.  Then there is the alert, still got it together, just go with the flow and see what develops approach, which gives you the opportunity to counter when you come hurtling back at her.  I decide, as I turn my take the cords on my back that I’m gonna try to seem like the first but actually be the second. 

The ropes have a bit more give in them than I would like ideally so that the turnbuckles creak and clank worryingly as I sink back onto them and it seems like a fucking eternity before I  eventually get flung back at you.  To create my cunning facade of the dazed victim I give a little whimper as I begin my journey back to you.  It’s actually the same little whimper I give when I’m having sex with a guy (or a girl with a great dildo) just as they insert their cock into me.  They love that vulnerability thing when it comes spilling out from your lips.  Obviously other thing they love is you yelling out their name towards the end of proceedings but I’m hoping I won’t be doing that for you in this match because that will mean I’m just about to give you my desperate submission.

There is, of course, another factor to ponder about a whip to the ropes move.  Your opponent.  Again, two types.  First one, the girl who steps in to meet you.  They are probably planning a big clothesline, drop kick, boot or knee to the mid section, a shoulder check, that kinda thing.  Second one is the girl with her boots firmly planted, poised and waiting for you to come onto her.  In that case it’s probably a suplex, or a backbreaker or a back body drop kind of move that’s coming your way.  Now you are very definitely set and waiting.  You are so fucking set in fact, you probably intend sending me into the second tier of the crowd!  Well sorry there, babe, as much as I adore you, I just can’t let you do that to me!

Suddenly the switched off wrestler on the rebound gets switched on.  My trainer, Kate, told me you would give me no rest and now I’m grateful for those sessions where she pushed me until I  cried because tears equal mental stamina to go with physical stamina. I steady and focus myself.  Three short, quick steps follow before I go way up airborne in front of you.  I pivot on my left leg and launch myself high, my right leg going behind your head onto your neck, my left coming up to lock under your chin.  Then, as my upward momentum runs out, I just let myself fall away to the side, hoping to bring you with me in a flying head scissors take down! 

Now sure, we all know a flying head scissors is definitely a lot more froth than beer.  It’s a fancy crowd pleaser move that doesn’t do a lot of damage, mainly because in order to execute it, your opponent has to cooperate with you.  But there is an incentive: you have your legs locked around her neck, your full body weight moving in a different direction to her so if she doesn’t  go with you, you’ll probably break her fucking neck.  You know this only too well.  So you flip as I twist in mid air and we both hit the canvas!

Okay, great, that’s got me out of a trip across the ring to land hard on my head but now I  need to bounce up back to my feet real fucking fast.  Like I said, the move is froth not beer and you’re gonna be up mucho rapido too.  I manage to get to you whilst you are still in a mad scramble to get up off the mat.  I launch both gold boots at the back of your head in a low dropkick designed to ring your bell and keep you off balance and down on the mat for a little longer. 

Scooting up onto my feet again, my left hand in your hair bringing you up with me, I slide in behind you and wrap my left fishnet covered leg around your silken left leg, before ducking under your right arm and hooking my left arm around it.  Then I pull you firmly back into me, all nice and close and tight, my tits pressed into to your ribs, my crotch nestling deliciously against those firm curvy ass cheeks peeking out from under your skirt … as I lock you into an abdominal stretch!  I let out a soft low moan as I immediately begin twisting the lats on the left side of your body whilst distorting your near perfect washboard abs in ways they are just not fucking supposed to go!

I gasp as I struggle to control you and maintain the delicate leverage of the hold.  “Still gonna fuck me up, eh hon?  Or are we not so sure now?” I hiss as I haul back on that trapped arm and wedge my fishnet clad leg against your silky smooth thigh.  And of course, I gotta free hand.  It would be such a shame to let it go to waste …

My right hand drifts ever so gently to brush your right tit as it thrusts out against the battle worn cotton tee shirt, it’s sweet little nipple diamond hard.  It then slithers down over your taut, twisted, chiseled belly until it reaches the belt around your waist.  The fingers edge over the black leather … under the waist band of your tiny little floozy skirt … and stop just above the waist band of those skin tight Lycra boy shorts … and then the digits dig in, hard, penetrating flesh, searching for your womanly vitals as I latch a nasty fucking claw hold on ya!

The crowd subsided a little with the surprise of the reversal I managed to pull off.  But now they are picking up the tempo again, aroused by the slower, more intimate action.  Some urging you to break free, some imploring me to break you in two!  The ab stretch is such a fucking sexy hold to watch!

Pippa moves around front, leaning in to inspect what I’ve doing with my right hand.  “LOWER FUCKIN’ ABDOMEN!” I growl at her and she backs off. 

“Yes, that’s right isn’t it, sweetie?” I purr down at you.  “It’s  on the lower abdomen, ain’t it?  So how does that feel for you?  Ya wanna tell Pippa that you submit?  Or are ya gonna cry first?” I hiss cruelly. 

I look across to Pippa and she ducks her head down to get up close and personal with you, like a good ref should at this point: “Whaddaya say, Love?  Ya wanna submit, huh, huh?  Just say the words and I’ll stop this.  Whaddaya say, Megan?  WHAT DO YOU SAY?”


Wrestling can be methodical, if you want it to be.

Wrestling can be approached like a job of work for a carpenter, a matter of measurement and alignment and precisely applied force.

You can work each hold into another in a slow, careful chain. Don’t let up until the hold is secure. Pin every joint into place like you’re trussing up a fucking goose. Transition directly from one hold into another, don’t waste any energy on strikes unless they’re restrained forearms you can drive in with no risk to yourself, don’t give them any fucking room to breathe. You can pick a leg or an arm and work it until it’s just dangling like sausage links. You can turn a headlock into a 40 minute game of chess. I know wrestlers like that. I’ve trained with them. I’ve wrestled ’em, even. Hi, Calli.

Honestly? I’m not real fucking great at methodical.

But over the years I HAVE gotten a lot better at being precise. I don’t throw myself at my opponent quite as suicidally quite as often. I’ve left the somersault planchas and the shooting star elbowdrops on the fucking back burner (well … mostly). I hit hard, I hit fast, and I hit exactly where I intend to cause the most damage. But even with that kinda evil intent and assassin’s fuckin’ aim, I still have FLARE.

So when the chance comes to slap your ass and shoot you to the ropes for a big overhead belly-to-belly suplex, I calculate the odds in like a quarter second. And they’re good. You just took a few hard hits and had me all wrapped around you and purring in your ear, and I figure chances are better than even that I’ll be able to keep you off balance long enough to get you on the comeback with all that sweet momentum and launch you into the fuckin’ lights. Odds are not too shabby at all – it’s early days, but you can catch someone off-guard even when they’re fresh as a daisy. You even let out that sexy little soft sound of helplessness as you get shot to the cables, a sweet moan that makes my thighs shiver a little, glossy black lips parted for breath as my purple punkytails drape over my shoulders, arms out, tensed and ready for you.

… and that smug sense of calculated optimism lasts RIGHT up until you crisply turn and take the cables on your back and hips and come rushing back at me. That’s not the face of slack panting helplessness – that’s the face of wicked intentions. You come up smoothly, showing that speed I was admiring from the crowd back in Cheshire, and your legs WHIP up and over, wrapping my head as I rock back, instinctively trying to pull out of the way. Your warm thighs in those laddered, tattered fishnets SNAKE around my neck, and I let out a hot “Hnnnnh-!” of surprised protest as you ROLL your weight forward.

Well, yeah, but that stupid flying scissors crap only works if YOU do a fuckin’ flip!

Obviously, hypothetical dumbshit smark. My two counterpoints would be that one, yes I’m doing a fucking flip, but that’s because I’ve got a bunch of stone of muscle and curve wrapped around my fucking neck, and I’d rather take a hard bounce on my ass on the canvas than disconnect my god-damn C4 and C5 vertebrae. And two, IT’S A FUCKING WRESTLING SHOW, OF COURSE WE’RE GONNA TRY TO MAKE IT LOOK GOOD. If this was some Jean Claude Van Damme bloodsport, we’d just be throwing fists at each other’s head and having a groin stomp fandango – there’d be none of this other business. But it’s this other business that makes THIS business fucking fun.

Anyway, that’s how my hypothetical argument went in my head, but in the meantime I got bounced onto my ass on the ring, arching my back and growling in irritation, slamming a gloved fist to the mat. “Fuck!” I snarl, panting to get my breath back – breath that I probably should have saved rather than cursing, but for me cursing and breathing are essentially constantly simultaneous. The move whops some of the wind from me, but your legs unwind quick and I’ve got plenty of ass to bounce on. I immediately slam the mat with both fists and jolt myself into sitting upright – but I feel the boards shaking under me, tensing instinctively as I feel that shadow gliding closer and your gold boots SLAM into the back of my skull!

THAT hits like a fucking bullet. My punkytails bullwhip back and my eyes go all Total Recall surface-of-Mars scene for a moment as my body is bulleted forward by the momentum of the running kick! “UNNNNNNNGGGNHHHH!” I groan, spit misting from my lips as I’m tumbled forward, sprawled out on my tits. I barely get a moment to cradle the back of my hammered head before you’re dragging me up on rubber legs, pulling me into you and lithely wrapping around me, your leg snaking over mine with a purr of fishnets, trapping my arm behind you as I’m BRUTALLY bent off to my left, locked into an Abdominal Stretch!

“NNNMNNRRRRRHHHHH!” I growl, snarling as you cinch the hold in while I’m still unsteady on my boots. I’m bent back and left perfectly wrapped up, my right arm trapped up in the air, my Scorpio fight glove clutching at nothing, left arm tucked up against my bent side. My leg is bound, bent low, leaving me wavering on my right leg with the knee brace gleaming on it, balanced on the round toe of my Doc Marten. My tartan microskirt rucks up my thighs and my Black Flag shirt clings to the curves of my breasts, bunched up by the agonizing twist of my taut, chiseled abs, my navel ring glittering as you wrench me. I shake my head, hissing as I bite the pain back.

The ab stretch fucking sucks – its brutal torquing force is applied right to your fucking core. But I think I can hold out and wriggle free pretty quick. After all, I’m a bendy bitch, years of yoga leaving me flexible as fuckin’ tattooed Gumby. And the reversal for an ab stretch is really just a do-si-do, a matter of unlocking my arm and pivoting around your vined leg to get behind you and return the favor by putting YOU in the fucking hold. I just have to get the position – “NNNRRHHHH …” I snarl again, my neck tensing as you wrench the hold back, eyes hot as I try to focus up for the swift dance of the reversal – and then your hand starts to wander.

My thickly lined eyes get comically big and then SQUEEZE shut as you tease your hand over my firm tit, lushly outlined under my SPLX sports bra and the battle-tatter of my Black Flag half-tee. The pierced nipple is achingly stiff, the barbells pushed right against your fingers through worn cotton and warm Lycra. “Ahhh-ahhh fffffuck off …” I hiss at you, baring my teeth, and then your hand slides lower, taking your time with it, making me forget the mechanics of reversing the ab stretch for a moment as you toy your hand over me, your warm crotch grinding into the plush curve of my ass (one of the few places where I carry any real bounce). My hips rock with the press of you, in a slow lewd dance despite the pain. And I draw in a snarling breath as your hand dips low, under my heavy chrome-studded belt.

“Don’t ya fuckin’ D-AUUUUUUUUHHHH!” I cry out, tendons standing out on my neck and my arms cording as my body JOLTS with tension, your claw DIGGING deep into my fuckin’ womanly essence, putting brutal pressure down into my damn womb. The pain is deep and intense and humiliating, making me fucking WRITHE in your grip. You taunt me wickedly, your voice a Northern drawling smirk in my ear, and I shake my head, pigtails dancing, instinctively waving off the ref before she even gets in my face. I’m a fucking painted kabuki mask of torment, underlaid with a waver of erotic heat, throbbing in pain as the crowd roars, my heated cunt pulsing and clenching in my boyshorts at the fucking mental image of this sexy bitch doing something so intimately brutal to me.

Lower fuckin’ abdomen my creamy ass. “AUUUUUuuUhhhhh …” I moan again, my head arching back, bucking against your grip. My skirt flutters around your wrist, my right boot scraping and kicking at the mat, my right hand wavering in the air. I’m the fucking picture of sensual, brutal torment, sweat starting to gloss my pale tattooed skin under the hot Shed lights as I suffer in the brutal hold.

But I’m not gonna fucking give. FUCK no. And did you ask if I was gonna fucking cry? BITCH, SICK NICK MONDO COULDN’T MAKE ME CRY WHEN HE BACKDROPPED ME ONTO EXPLODING BARBED WIRE!

Panting, I dig down and furiously shake my head, scattering the waver from my eyes, biting down against the groans of pain, gritting my teeth in a snarl. I take a hissing breath to try to shut down the aching crush of your fingers digging into such intimate vulnerable places as I’m stretched out and opened. I focus on something else. Something OTHER than the silky crush of your fingers. Other than the twist of my abdominals into a fucking Dali painting. The abdominal stretch is a punishing hold, visually gorgeous and mostly quite secure – but it’s only got two lock points, and only one of them really worth a damn. So I just gotta make like a safecracker and unlock it.

My left hand is hanging under me after reaching out futilely for the ropes and pawing at the air. I shake it out to wake it up, and run my hand over your leg. Caressing your thigh through the fishnet with a purr of black leather. My tattooed fingers splayed, glossy black nails gently plucking the net strings. I find your left knee, wrapped outside my vined left leg. Clutching it for a moment as another hot “Auuuuhh …” is torn from my belly. But I shake my head, punkytails swaying, and fucking bear down, growling with effort – and slide my fingers UNDER your knee, wriggling them between your leg and mine.

One important thing I spent a lot of time learning in Japan was nerve bundles. Pressure points, if you wanna get all ninja-y about it. But they’re an important fucking map to have in your head when you’re in the ring, and they’re the reason I’ve got a dog-eared copy of Grey’s Anatomy on my shelf next to Foley’s biographies and Tim Hornbaker’s Death of the Territories.

For example, right here behind your left knee, about three inches in and two inches up, the saphenous nerve descends from the femoral branch, and the junction of those thick nerve cables is real close to the surface before the saphenous dives down around the patella. So when I push HERE with steely tattooed fingers, my black gleaming hawk talons sinking in deep –

– there’s a beautiful breathless moment and then a ragged choked alley-cat yowl as fire and ice flash down your leg, and spasms hit you. Those are big nerves. Big important sensitive nerves, and they HATE being crushed. Almost as much as my FUCKING BABY-BAKE OVEN does, you FUCKING BITCH.

Your grip slacks for a moment, and I GRIP behind your knee and YANK your leg off of mine, peeling the vine free. Both legs dip, letting me shift my right arm under your left, bending my elbow to wrap my arm around your shoulder, and I lean into you and then SNARL, thrusting up off both shaky legs, my aching abs etching like steel and my shoulders tensing as I fucking YANK you up and over the pivot of my hip, my curvy butt acting like a fulcrom to hip-toss your shiny ass to the mat!

I stagger back, panting, clutching at my aching – well, let’s just say “lower abdomen” – with one hand and kneading my gloved palm across my sweaty, aching abs with the other, bent over with my tits bouncing fetchingly in my sports bra as I take big hungry breaths and soak in the roar of the crowd. THAT caught you off-guard. Pippa wisely gets back with a smirk as you slap the mat – but you’re not gonna be kept down. You’re ALL fired up, rolling off the mat despite the arch in your aching back, fury on your face as you come up determined to put me right back in your control.

You come in hot, firing one of the stiffer shots of the match so far, coming at me as I’m still staggered and bent over and HAMMERING a forearm across my jaw! Spit mists from my black lips – “PFUHHHH!” – and my punkytails whip to the side artfully. I’m staggered, still bent over, drunk-stumbling. You snatch one of my temptingly fluttering purple punkytails, intending to line me up for something – and I SNAP upright in a sudden fiery burst, your forearm shot knocking the cobwebs loose, adrenaline helping soak up the remaining pain as I rip purple strands from your grip, and as I rise my steely heavily tattooed right arm chambers and FIRES straight up, like a fucking Street Fighter uppercut, twisting my hips into the blow and HAMMERING the heel of my palm under the shelf of your jaw with a Shotei Palm Strike that makes an echoing SMACK, ringing over the roaring rumbling arena!

THAT rings your fucking bell. Your eyes go glassy and you sway back on your golden boots, and I SNATCH my arms around you, still surging with adrenaline, the ache in my abs forgotten as I grind my body against yours, our tits mashing like long-lost lovers and my aching mound pushed right against the swell of yours in that little cameltoe-flaunting suit, my inked arms trapping yours at your sides, locking my fists tight and grinding them into the center of your spine, my back arched to lift you to your toes.

I can breathe the scent of you, nostrils flaring. I hiss hotly. “No tears in this dojo,” I growl, and lean forward to shamelessly DRAG my studded tongue up your neck to your cheek, tasting you for the first time, the heat of it flaring in my belly, making my pussy purr as my hips rock against yours, soothing the ache in my fuckin’ uterus with a crush against your warm trapped body, my stiff barbelled nipples digging into your shiny enamel suit and fencing your own stiff tips.

“Mmmmmrrrrr,” it’s a feral sound of pure satisfaction as your taste tingles on my tongue,, a tigress purr in your ear as we crush together in sweet heat – and it rises to a throaty, pained ROAR as I dip my knees low and ARCH my back, my shoulders flexing and my aching, strained abs tensing as I WHIP you up and over me with a Belly to Belly Suplex, letting you CRASH to the mat behind me with a SLAM of the boards.

Growling, I force myself to roll over, clutching at my aching abs and kneading them but grinning at you, panting hungrily for breath. “HOW THE FUCK DOES THAT FEEL?” I roar, and slither in before you can respond, taking a fistful of that thick silky dark hair, YANKING you up to your shapely ass, making sure you’re facing the bulk of the crowd with a little drag of your hips along the worn, weathered canvas. The ring boards creak under us as I plant my knees on the mat, my warm body pushed against your back. My arms slither down, gloves caressing your sides as my hands snake up under your arms and around over your shoulders, slowly LACING my fingers behind your neck – and with a growl I STRAIGHTEN up, my braced right knee grinding heavily into the small of your back as I hoist those arms of yours up into a seated Full Nelson!

It’s a simple hold – but just like a great chef can show the most technique with the simplest recipe, so a wrestler REALLY gets a chance to shine trying to lay a fucking hurt on her opponent with nothing more than her arms laced under yours. My hands weave tightly together, inked fingers locking, my gloves creaking as I slowly POUR pressure onto the back of your neck. My biceps round lithely, forcing your arms higher, and I rest my weight on my left knee, my right boot tucked under me, ass on my heel as I DRILL that knee slowly into your back.

That’s what really makes this hold sweet. That takes this from a simple Full Nelson to the infamous Sugar Hold, the move Stu Hart used to make his kids cry in the Hart Dungeon.

Pippa draws closer again – she’s learning to keep her distance when the two of us are upright – and I smirk, tilting my head to invite her right in.

“Ask her,” I pant. I lean in closer, my tits pillowing your tensed aching shoulders, breathing the ring-dust and sweat and fading shampoo of your hair as I snarl in your ear. “She’s gonna ask ya to give up, ya mouthy cunt. Maybe ya oughtta do it now, save yerself more of a fuckin’ BEATING.” I growl, heated and poisonous.

Pippa leans down, a smug look on her face as her tits threaten to spill from her striped shirt, waving a hand to get your attention as you’re folded over in the hold, forced to look down at your own cameltoe as I lean my weight on you, your spine bent into an agonized S-curve as I flex my arms to force those wavering arms of yours back up nice and fucking high.

“WHAT DO YOU SAY, BRANDI? YOU WANNA END THIS? SAY THE WORD!” she booms. I gotta say, she’s a smug oily bitch, but she’s a fucking good ref for this house, loud enough to get over the crowd’s drunken roaring and authoritative when it’s safe to be, and otherwise staying the fuck out of our way.

But right now my mind is all on you, wrapped in my embrace.


Well my, my, Oh fucking my!  Will you look at me!?  Here I am, centre ring, in this perfect little club setting, sticking it to Megan “Punky” Dow who’s trapped in MY ab stretch. And I’m getting some great heat from the small but totally full-on crowd.  And what’s  more, I got a belly claw latched on her too.  But best of all, I’m fucking taunting the bitch!  I even just asked her if she was gonna cry!  And she’s all angry and hurting and taut and hard; it’s as if I’m twisting myself around a massive coiled metal spring, every inch of her being is resisting me.  Fuck!  It just doesn’t get any better than this!

Of course, Doesn’t get any better than this by its very nature is a fleeting state of affairs.  Nothing this good lasts for long.  For now, though, your hand caressing it’s way down my fishnet covered thigh feels real nice.  But just what exactly are ya up to bitch?  You’re turned on as much as me, is that it?  Or is it a plea for mercy, maybe?  What? … no no NOOOO!  Not that!  Not that fucking tricky nerve stuff!  I hate the fucking tricky nerve stuff! 


I’m now totally focused on the instant dose of sciatica that you have given me, so meanwhile, as usual with you, stuff happens real quick.  You slip my leg.  You slip my arm.  Out comes your nicely rounded hip, the little skirt riding up, the black shorts straining against the full tattooed ass cheek.  And you’re out my hold and I’m bouncing my butt off the ring boards as you flip me!

Fuck! Fuck! Fucking slippery bitch!  The crowd pop a little, there is a ripple of appreciative applause, the odd derisive laugh as you make me look stupid when you dump me onto my ass!  I sit up, my left hand pawing at my smooth, shiny lower back.  I’m fuming and bounce back to my feet full of piss and vinegar and keen to restore my dominance in the match.

Now, what was the sole piece of advice that Charlie gave me about this match?  Oh yes, that’s the one:  “Whatever you do, never ever go toe to toe, blow for blow with Punky.  Start trading strikes with her and she’ll knock yer block off!”  So what do I do, big fat vessel of emotion and temper that I am?  I totally ignore that sage advice and rock you with a big forearm to the jaw which actually feels pretty damn good.  I grab hold of your hair with my left hand as I line you up for another one.  Trouble is, if someone like you gets hit, they tend to hit right back and I don’t even see the palm strike coming until it jolts my head back, leaving me seeing stars and wondering if I’m bleeding from my face.  Like Charlie said, you’ve ‘knocked my block off’.

Before I can even sort out whether I’m bleeding or not, you pull me to you and … Mmmmmm!  Sweet Jesus!  Wow!  Oh wow!  So this is what you feel like in a full body to body embrace.  All gorgeously firm and tough, the heat of battle oozing out of you.  My quim quivers at the feel and smell of you.  And I just want to melt when you run your tongue along my neck and cheek, the little bauble stud in your tongue all teasing and hard.  You purr in my ear and I’m just about to tell you how lovely you are when your body tenses and you let out a roar!

“WWHHHOOOAAAA!”  Hold on, darling!  Didn’t you sense that I was about to MELT for you?  Didn’t you just feel that in me?

Obviously not. 

Or maybe you did and you are just a big tease! 

Either way, you take me over in a big belly to belly suplex and I bounce off the mat massively for the second time in this match!  A big pop from the crowd.  Nearly as loud as the sound of the air gushing from my lungs as I take the impact full across my back.  Practising break falls in training is all well and good but they don’t take into account the element of surprise or the extra force your opponent adds to gravity’s effect on your own weight.  So the only way you can prepare for a big suplex in a match is to … well, take a big suplex in a match.  I’ve taken loads.  And they still knock the fucking shit out of me!

After a few huge laboured breaths I sit up and immediately feel you slither in behind me like an eager lover who has just been given the old “c’mon, take me now” from their partner.  You slide your arms under my pits, lock you hands out behind my head, put that knee into my spine to cinch in a perfect seated full nelson.  It’s old school, it’s basic, it’s fucking debilitating!

And all of a sudden I’m back in Brian Dixon’s training gym in Birkenhead in the first days of my time in pro wrestling.  Ms Lisa Fury is cackling with glee, her mouth in overdrive, that shrill scouser voice full of acid, taunting me as she has me trapped in just such a hold and I’m squirming with rage and frustration because she’s controlling me, forcing me to get a big close up of my own sweaty cleavage and I can’t figure out a way to escape. 

“AAWWWWW what’s up, lovely girl?  Not happy looking those ugly, little crab apple tits of yours?” She would crow.  “Hey, you! Don’t give me that!  You love having your face in any pair of tits, even if they are your own!”  Incidentally this stung even more back then because I was only a young girl and considered myself exclusively cock-focused at that time.  In fact it was actually a subsequent up close and personal encounter with Lisa on a drunken night out that opened my eyes to … er … life’s other possibilities.

Brian would let me struggle for a bit and then he would tell me that the first thing to do is to try get to my feet.  This seems like a sensible plan right now too as, although there is no way I’m gonna submit in a wear down hold like a full nelson, I’m really uneasy that you just might slip those well defined silky thighs of yours around me from behind and turn the hold into a scissors/full nelson combo, which I might not be so confident of holding out in.  The challenge is of course, getting to my feet.  Kate, my personal trainer, makes me practise getting up from the floor without using my hands loads, not for situations like this, she knows fuck all about wrestling, but because it makes my core and legs stronger.  But handily enough, in situations like this, that practice doesn’t exactly go amiss.  My legs are spread out in front of me so I draw them up close to me, trying to get my gold boots under me if I can.  And then I start to push up and back on you.  Actually, I’m not gonna lie, part of me is reluctant and doesn’t even want to break out of this hold.  It’s kinda nice having you controlling me like this. I could get to like it a lot. 

But I need to banish that idea from my head.  Such thoughts are gonna get me worked over I know.  Instead, I push! Push! PUSH! PPUUUSSHHHH!  My thighs burn as I drive up into you, my bare back pressed hard into your pert tits.  Levering back against the hold like this isn’t exactly great for my trapezius muscles but they just have to take one for the team right now.  Main thing is I’m on my way up and once I get my legs right under me it’s pretty hard for you to stop me and you still have the full nelson on me anyhow so it’s not the end of the world as far as you are concerned.  So I need to complete my escape pretty quickly now before you decide to transition this standing position into something else, like a full nelson suplex or some such fancy pants move – I can pretty much bet you have one of those fuckers in your armoury!

Okay, here goes, a full nelson escape without wrenching your shoulders out of their sockets, a la Harry fucking Houdini.  I lean forward bending us both over and then I move my hips to the left and drag my right leg around, through and behind you.  Now we are both hunched over but I’m kinda alongside you now with my arms and dangling down behind your legs.  It’s simple Brian would say.  Now you can easily lift her up.  Yeah right!  But I do manage to hook my hands around the back of your knees and with a huge groan of effort, scoop you off your feet into a pretty effective sidewalk slam position.  You still have your arms and around mine but the grip is pretty fucking useless now as I grimace with the strain of holding you and you hang on for dear life.  I turn one hundred and eighty degrees to gain a bit of momentum … Then I drop us to the mat with a loud THOOOOOMM!  I make sure you get some of my weight as you hit the mat on your back – plus an elbow into your midsection for good measure.

I’m on my feet quickly because you are going to be the one who is boiling mad now.  I eye the ropes to my right, intending to run onto them and then spring back at you but before I set off I give your chest a couple of payback stomps with my clompy gold boot.  “That’s for my tits bitch!” I shriek down into your twisted up face.  Then onto the ropes, clanking off them as they fling me back at ya, running hard, a two footed leap into a Running Senton, right onto that chest again, letting you know that you’re not the only one with a big firm ass in this ring.  I butt bounce off you, drawing a loud grunt from deep down in your throat, before again scooting to my feet in rapid fashion.

I don’t look back at you, but hopefully you’re in some kind of distress right now, because I’m heading to the corner to climb to the middle ropes.  I leap up onto it with a gold boot on each rope in the corner, my hands grip the top ropes.  I take one, two, three rapid bounces, my big shiny black clad ass jutting out.  Then I leap off … backwards … spreading my arms and legs … and just like you moments before, I go for something simple, something effective, something old school. A Reverse Springboard Frog Splash from the middle rope!

You let out a big projected grunt as I land on you.  Which from my perspective feels pretty fucking good.  I’m actually pleased I didn’t get your upturned knees in my gut so actually this is massively fucking good.  We jerk together, shudder together and then settle. I immediately smear myself over you, snuggling onto your tits, which is distractingly delicious.  I’ve  decided I’m gonna go for a pin.  And why the fuck not!?  I won’t get it of course, but it’s not about that at this stage.  It’s about wear down, draining some of your physical and mental stamina .  You’ll need to kick out and use up vital energy doing so.  You’ll also know that I’ve got you in a position where I can go for a match ending manoeuvre, however unsuccessful it turns out to be.  I’m in complete control, at least for a couple of seconds. 

My left hand reaches down and hooks your leg up and back, putting the big DM on the end of it high in the air above us, the red leather glistening under the harsh ring lights.  Them my other hand comes around to cup your butt cheek, easing your ass off the mat a little and putting just a tad more of your body weight onto your shoulders.  I lean back on you, making you take my weight, my damp dark hair trailing down into your face.  It’s a lovely image of dominance and control.  Camera flashes go off from all sides of the nightclub.  This is certainly one image from our match that is going to be all over social media very soon.

Of course the world of Instagram and Facebook pics is completely false.  We paint a picture of our great lives for others to look at which is a total myth.  Look at me having a fab time with friends, look at me with my perfect kids, look at me pinning Punky in the middle of the ring. It’s all bollocks!  You’ll see!

Pippa, like the great ref she is revealing herself to be much to my fucking amazement, dives to the mat in a flash, checks those shoulders are planted and slaps her hand down hard! 


But before she can get her hand down for a second time, you emit a huge, angry, guttural roar!  Your free leg kicks violently, you fling one arm out and your body bucks and twists.  Fuck!  I have NEVER felt anything like that before!  I’m hurled off you and roll up to my knees, turning quickly to see you frozen in your kick out pose, one arm still in the air, your whole body rigid, like a prima Donna saying, “Don’t you dare fucking touch me!  Get the fuck off!  NOW!”  Oh wow! You weren’t having that were you?  You REALLY … WERE NOT … fucking having that!  No one dominates you that easy!

I continue to regard your hard, toned form, every muscle pulsing with aggression, your pretty face set in an ugly, angry scowl, whilst my mouth is set in a wry smile, my dark eyes full of admiration and lust. 

You are something, lady!  You really are fucking something!  And I’m so glad I’m in the ring with you right now!  But just what the hell am I going to have to do to put you away?!?!


I think it’s being in Britain that does this shit to me.

Since marrying Gems, I’ve just been here too fuckin’ long.

Time was I wouldn’t have even bothered trying on a Full Nelson, let alone such a simple seated one. I’d have kicked the back of your skull in or gone after your nerves some more or just gnawed your forehead. But working so much in the UK has gotten me into mat wrestling and chain holds in a way that never would have been tolerated in the CZW mutant crowds I worked in front of when I first got my name out there. This wouldn’t even fly in Japan, unless I had like five years of in-ring backstory on why my Full Nelson is so devastating. I’m just playing it too damn old school. I know you’re not gonna give up to a Full Nelson. The whole CROWD knows that. I’m not Chris Masters and that gimmick fucking sucked anyway. But I can’t help it.

It’s just so much fucking FUN.

I LOVE the way UK crowds react to mat holds – and I love how UK-trained workers react to them. They know the escapes, they take their time executing them … it makes wrestling more like chess. After years of table crashes and forehead-splitting chairshots and brutal torquing suplexes, it’s just NICE to grapple again. My whole match with Red Enforcer back in the O2 Arena was like this – so the crowd wants to see some more of this beautiful human chess.

In this particular case, sexy sweaty chess that lets me grind my tits deliciously into the muscles of your back. I could FEEL how hot you got when I had my arms locked around you. If I’d crushed a kiss on your lips and given you a few lewd grinds, I bet I could have pushed you over the edge right there. I know how close you are because I can feel the thrill of slippery heat flaring low in my belly, even past the ache of that dirty claw hold you worked on me in the ab stretch. I can feel my toes curling, feel the electric tingle of my stiff pierced nipples tenting the Lycra of my SPLX sports bra, pushing at the ragged unwashed Black Flag tee, that worn and sweaty and blood-dappled and tattered battle gear. I can feel the pressure of the titanium barbells pierced through them, crackling wicked lightning through me as my breasts push to your back. I can taste you on the warm Shed air.

Maybe all that is why I just let you work your way to your feet, instead of releasing the Nelson and just cold-cocking you in the back of the head. Because it’s tradition, because it’s what the crowd wants, and because I’m all hot and bothered wrapped around you like that. Or maybe you rung my fucking bell with that dropkick and I’m maybe slightly concussed, but either way it ends up working out well for you as you slowly get your base, lean into me, hook my legs and I get dragged up off my Docs and slowly hauled up into a Sidewalk Slam.

“UNNNNFFFFFFFFF!” I grunt as your elbow drives into my tight, aching abs, my back crashing to the mat after my boots kicked at the air. I REALLY should have just let the hold go – but you felt so fucking NICE. Of course, you feel significantly LESS nice as you drive those shiny gold boots into my tits. “UNNH! GUUHH!” I groan, my teeth gritted and shining black lips skinned back into a snarl as all those nice tingles in my barbelled tits get smashed into my flinders when my girls get mashed into my ribs, jolting me on the mat. That was for YOUR tits? Fuck YOUR tits! What about MY god-damn tits?! I’ll give you something to avenge, bitch. I’m gonna wreck your tits so completely you’ll become a mascot for gauze bras! I’m gonna crush your tits down to tots! I’m gonna SQUEEZE … and KNEAD … and LICK …

… I might’ve lost the thread here.

Fortunately it all comes back to me as your gorgeous ass sails over my head after a clank against the ropes and DROPS down onto my chest in a senton, bucking me on the mat under your weight as I groan a hot “HUUUUNNFF!” and roll side to side a bit, cradling my arms across my chest, kicking my boots on the mat. Getting your tits hammered is a real 1-2 punch (to the tits); it’s painful, because there’s a bunch of nerves in there wired up to the fun bits, and it’s debilitating, because you get your lungs compressed at the same time. So I need a moment to get my wind back despite my legendary stamina – but you appear to be all out of stock on moments to breathe just now, and instead continue your fire sale on punishment for my fucking funbags, bouncing up on the second rope and giving me just a glance at the distracting jiggling shimmy of that curvy, tanned ass in the high-riding black enamel before you kick your legs out behind you and drop down with a Vader Bomb, CRASHING across my body before I can fold my legs up to greet you with my knees.

That was my fault. I could’ve done it, but I hesitated for just a second, thinking of the brace on my knee, of the repaired ACL and the dead guy’s tendon sewn into me. I’ve been back in the ring a few times since then and I’ve trained fucking HARD, but there’s still just that moment of hesitation before I let near a hundred and a half pounds drop across my knees. And that second means you land on my body instead.

“GUUUUHHHHHHhhHhhhnnhhh …” I groan, my legs KICKING up and then flopping down to the mat, the round steely toes of my red Docs wobbling outwards as my head shakes on the canvas, my cheeks breathlessly pink. Trying to get wind back into me, to clear the sparkles from my vision. Trying to get my head back in the fucking game. You’re gonna go after me more now, try to set up something big, so you’re likely gonna try to peel me off the mat rather than go for something aerial again, although you might feel confident enou-

– why the fuck are you PINNING me?

You drop down one me and hook my leg, and for a moment I’m so blankly surprised that I’m just scrunched up in confusion, the pressure of your curves against mine, the incredible lithe TONE of your muscle – god damn, I don’t know what Russian assassin training program you hit since I saw you in Cheshire, but it’s turned your body into silken fucking steel, and you were ALREADY fucking toned when I was getting hot and bothered watching you work. You hoist my leg up high, my tarty tartan microskirt rucking around my hips, and my shiny blood-red Doc waggles up above us, the harsh Shed ring lights throwing sharply relieved shadows onto us. And then your hand palms my ass, and against my best wishes and better judgement I bite my lip and shift a little bit.

You feel GOOD. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, whether we’ve just got some bizarre fucking alchemy that started as soon as we laid eyes on each other, or if it’s just genetics or witchcraft or fucking kismet, but you flip my fucking switches.

Now, let’s not get it twisted – this ain’t Romeo and Juliet. Or, like, Rosaline and Juliet. I’m not planning to run off with you, not least of all because Gemma would eviscerate me with a meathook; we have a completely open marriage that can and has involved orgies, but we’re not allowed to run off with anyone else.

I came here to wrestle you, on your terms, in your match, and to show you what it’s like to be on a big stage (a big stage disguised as a small one – there’s only a bar’s worth of drunken Glaswegians in here with us, but we’ve got a whole fuckin’ drunk carnival outside watching and whoever’s following the social media streams pouring forth from here); and I came here to kick your shapely ass, take your name, and put you on your fuckin’ back.

But I’m fuckin’ HOT for you, god damn it, and your callused strong hand cradling my ass with the tips of your nails sunk into the creamy curve just a little bit and the feel of your other hand high behind my thigh, the press of your breasts against mine, the scent of your sweaty tangle of dark ponytail brushing my face – it’s all a big overheated tangle of sensations that I just wanna ride like a drug.

And then that chubby bitch slaps the mat with a big crisp World of Sport “ONEEEEEE-aaaaaah!” and breaks the spell.


I BUCK everything up into one wild mustang kick, snapping my leg up high and shooting my arm to get my shoulder up, twisting over on my hip, fucking TOSSING you off me. For a moment I’m just electrified, the realization that I was almost fucking pinned in an assertment of sheer dominance because you’re up in my head. And also you just dropped your ass on me like a fucking bowling ball and splashed me like I was in the front row at a Sea Parks show (before the fire, of course), so y’know, it was a pretty good opportunity, but the fact that you almost took me outta the game ELECTRIFIED me.

My face is twisted up into a mix of breathless pain and surprised fury and forcibly suppressed erotic heat. Trying to corral all those emotions and get back into a Robbie Brookside mindset to grapple you back to the mat would take a phenomenal act of willpower.

So fuck it.

I roll my hips to get my legs under me, drawing in a deep savage breath and growling, my darkly lined hazel eyes lighting up with manic heat. Why restrain it when I can let it ALL out?

You come in, ready to get me under control, and I burst forward like a fucking rocket, low and fast, drilling my shoulder into your abs. My gloved hands slap down low, hooking behind your knees, and I fucking HOIST you up with sheer momentum, running us to the nearest corner and DIVING forward with both boots leaving the mat, TACKLING you full-force into the corner buckles hard enough to shake the ring!

ALLLLL ABOOOOOOOAAAAAARRRRRRRRD! comes the yell from the wags in the crowd who are familiar with my signature double leg-hook rushing corner tackle. The CRAZY TRAIN! A move for psychos and madwomen who enjoy the taste of bat heads and their own blood! I actually don’t like bat heads that much. Too gristly. But I DO like how it feels to cradle your legs in those fishnets and drive you full speed into the barely padded turnbuckles, and to feel that gush of air rush out of you with a groan, to feel you shudder under the bone rattling drill of my shoulder into your ribs and your ass into the buckles!

I stagger back off the impact, panting, my eyes all alight with glee, and let you rebound off the corner, clutching at your back only for me to whip back in, getting a good head of steam.

I mentioned earlier how I gave up most of the crazy high-risk stuff I did when I was a kid. Most – but not all. There’s one move I’m NEVER gonna stop doing, even when I’m as old as fuckin’ Terry Funk.

I LUNGE into you, right arm slamming home right across your tits, getting a good strong grip on your left shoulder as I lash my left arm out to wrap around the top rope and KICK off the mat, driving us both over the top rope with a CACTUS CLOTHESLINE, toppling the two of us to the outside! Thanks to fucking years of practice, *I* land on my ass on the apron almost neatly, my left hand hooked on the top rope like a kid on the monkey bars – but YOU take the hard road, smacking your upper body against the ring apron and then toppling to the thinly matted club floor.

The Shed doesn’t have the big luxurious ringside areas a lot of people see on TV. It has about three feet of space between the battered old ring and the chintzy guardrails, bowed out with the weight of drunk Scots pushed up against them. The air is thick with beer and sweat and there’s catcalls, whistles, howls, demands that we do terrible and sexual and violent and bizarre things to each other, and offers of booze and fuckery.

I fucking LOVE it out here.

You’re groaning on your hands and knees, having just gotten rocked with two hard shots, and I’m fucking SOARING on adrenaline. I don’t let up, even for a second, sliding my ass off the apron and getting a fistful of dark ponytail and a grip on the back of your shiny black suit, WEDGING it up into that ass you were assaulting me with as I haul you up to your shiny boots and make like I’m gonna toss you under the bottom rope as Pippa encourages us to get back in the ring (probably so she doesn’t have to remember how to count) … only to instead twist my hips and SLING you backwards, SLAMMING your lower back and wedgied arse into the guardrail hard enough to knock a half-dozen Glaswegians over!

Your groan rings out over the crowd and your back arches, and I slither right in, cradling your chin, pulling your face to mine. Tasting your breath, my manic eyes burning into yours.

“Ya wished for me, baby doll, here I fuckin’ am. RIGHT WHERE YA FUCKIN’ WANTED ME!”

And I DRAG my studded tongue up and over your neck and cheek, licking you a second time in this match, your tasting tingling addictively. Your sweat, your cosmetics, your pheromones, the dust of the ring, your lust, your fighting fury. And I taste no fear at all. Fear has an acrid tang to it, a hint of ammonia like monkey piss. You taste sweet and hot and spicy and salty. Full of umami. You also look like you’re caught up between agony and ecstasy.

“Let’s let ’em see what they want,” I purr – and SHOVE your face back to arch you painfully over the railing again, only to square up in front of you, bouncing on my toes, my fists coming up and that movement alone drawing a roar from the crowd as I UNLOAD with a flurry of punches, my padded fight gloves letting me go HARD, drilling a series of hooks into you, aiming for your belly, your ribs – and especially saving two big hooks for your tits so yours can ache like mine before I DRIVE a low underhook just under your navel, twisting my fist in and grinning wickedly as I press my body up against yours, savoring the heat of you.

And then Pippa starts fucking COUNTING.

My eyes widen in fury, and I turn towards her.

I was QUITE clear in my contract for this match – I agreed to fight under clean pro rules, but I have a clause that Joey Styles and Gemma both helped me write up, guaranteeing me leeway in the event of the match going outside the ring because fighting out in the concrete jungle is part of the reason people fucking pay to see me.

And this big bitch is COUNTING already? We need at LEAST five more minutes out here before she should even THINK of counting!


She throws up one finger – and I thrust both fists out and give her two, which draws a cheerfully loud drunk reaction. Then I remember I’m in the UK, and make it FOUR, and that draws a bigger pop as I flip her the double inverted Vs!


She’s right at the ropes, her eyes hot and angry.


The crowd Oooooohs, and I smirk, drawing closer.

“Count another fuckin’ number before I tell ya to, BITCH, an’ I’ll punt your flabby cunt up around your ears and TIE A KNOT OVER YOUR HEAD.”

She’s leaning through the ropes now, fists clenched.


And I’m right there at her, in her face, up on my toes, squared up again. Crowd’s about to see a whole new match unfold. Is this smart? No, this ain’t smart. But I can’t help it. I fuckin’ EXPLODED, and once I explode there’s no putting me back in the bombshell. I’m running HOT. The crowd is super into the confrontation, but a bunch of ’em right behind me are making a whole lot of noise.


The back of my neck’s tingling, and I suddenly remember that I was busily punching the custard out of you, and I whip ’round, intending to square up and drill a right cross right into your jabberjaw to keep you nice and dazed against the railing.

My heart beats fast and furious – and I’m REALLY thinking now wasn’t the best time for an intellectual debate with Pippa – but I’m running so god-damn HOT.


There’s a roller coaster in the Alton Towers theme park called ‘Th13teen’.  I fucking hate it.  It puts you in total darkness, drops you two levels and then shoots you backwards.  It isn’t the dark or the drop that makes me hate it.  It’s the going backwards.  I’m not good going backwards.  I can’t even sit on a train and travel what I call the wrong way.  The relevance of this information of course is that I am currently shooting backwards across the ring towards the corner with your shoulder in my gut, your legs pumping like pistons as you hold me aloft in your arms. And I feel just like I did on that fucking ride: sick in my stomach, full of dread and fucking scared!  The violent crazy way in which you scooped me up by my legs and set off like a lunatic really surprised and shocked me.  This move is meant to hurt.  This move is meant to shake me up good style!  It would be nice to hear the air brakes kicking in right about now but somehow I don’t think that is going to happen.  This runaway freight train is going all the way to the buffers at the end of the line.


The impact isn’t as bad as I feared.  It’s worse.  The middle turnbuckle in the small of my back and the top buckle the back of my neck do a huge number on me whilst your momentum just keeps on driving your shoulder in my shiny smooth belly until I bellow like a pregnant cow and the air gushes from my lungs. 

I’m in a right fucking state as the recoil from the impact makes me take a couple of feeble steps out of the corner, my hand pawing at the small of my back which feels like it’s ruined.  My face is full of dismay, made worse by the sight of you stood there like a crazy thing with mad sparking eyes.  You don’t look angry exactly, not quite insane either, more like … more … well … more like ultra fucking turned on!  You’re panting and it ain’t just with exertion.  You bloody loved smashing the shit of me with that crazy fucking move! 

And my eyes widen in alarm when almost immediately you come charging at me again.  A clothesline to my tits.  That what it looks like.  Bad enough but bearable although I do cry out with pain.  What I don’t expect is what comes next.  I’ve never been clotheslined over the top rope before.  So little wonder I don’t know how to fall.  A brief passing connection between my shoulder and the ring apron is the prelude to me hitting the thin filthy matting that surrounds the Shed’s ring.  Oh god!  Oh my fucking god!  Did she just clothesline me straight over the fucking top rope?  I struggle up from face down on my chest onto all fours, my mouth gaping, eyes staring wildly as I try to make sense of what just happened to me.

Straight away you are on me.  Some girls don’t like taking it outside the ring and prefer to wait for their opponent to struggle back in before continuing the assault.  Why do I suspect that isn’t the case with you?  Maybe it’s from the way you are panting so eagerly as you hoist me up by a handful of my hair whilst the other latches onto the leg hole, hoisting it so high on my hip everyone can see the waistband of my fishnet hose and nearly ripping the fucking thing off me.  The Shed crowd are going absolutely fucking nuts now as we are literally just feet away from them and I get even more up close and personal with them when you hurl me into the guard rail, which luckily had three fat fucks leaning on it or it would have gone over.  As it is, I clank into it, further wrecking my back, and sending the guys staggering back, spilling their drinks and cursing me.  Thanks a bunch fellas!  That’s just great!  My loopy opponent hurls me into you and I’M a “Fucking clumsy slut!”

Again you’re right on me in an instant, grabbing my chin in your musty smelling leather gloved hand, your eyes wild with violent lust.  I’m not sure whether you’re about to fuck me or beat the shit out of me but either of those would be so fucking hot right now!  And you’re mouthing off at me, your voice thick with desire.  Yes … yesssss I did WISH for you!  And Yesssss I WANTED it like this!  I can hear a collective gasp from the wide eyed fans around us as you lick my neck and cheek so intensely.  There’s a huge audience watching this one way or another, the little camera guy squatting next to us is seeing to that, and yet … It’s so fucking intimate.  I give a little shiver …

And then you unload on me!  You are so fucking hard!  Scarily hard!  Scarily violent!  Scarily lacking in any regard for your opponent’s welfare or your own!  There’s no way I should be outside the ring with you like this!  And yet as those rock hard fists go to work and you go to fucking town on me, I feel such a fucking rush!  This is just soooooo fucking deliciously fucking dangerous!  The ribs shots take my breath, what little I’ve got.  Then the little grunts from you as you uppercut my boobs, telling me you really mean it with these two.  You want to do some serious hurt to my tits so fucking badly.  My mouth lets out two breathless, silent screams as I hang there, frozen in agony!  The bruising will be spectacular in the morning.  Then the last one, the one with everything you have behind it, goes low into my abs, aimed at my womb, my uterus and my ovaries, as if you want to break me as a woman!  And you keep your gloved fist pressed and buried against my shiny black suit as you look into my eyes, as if it is a rapier and that was the coup de grace!

You lean in on me, thrilled with what you have done, gasping with delight, as I sag against you, choking back a little sob, my battered tits pressed against yours, my face buried in your neck, as I surrender under the furious onslaught. My battered sweaty body bleats against you as my legs fold under me, only my arms clinging weakly to you, keep me on my feet.  I’m fully expecting you to finish me now.  To haul me back to the ring and toss me in under the bottom rope, before executing one of your spectacular finishers that puts me away.  I don’t think I could stop you right now if you tried that.  I don’t think I would want to.  You have just been so fucking magnificent!

But you don’t drag me back to the ring to finish me.  Instead you turn and stomp angrily back to the ring on your own.  Looks like our little sortie outside the ring has tipped Pippa over into parking attendant mode again.  Not really surprising, her style of wrestling features hardly any outside the ring stuff so I’m sure this makes her feel really fucking uncomfortable.  You’re grandstanding in front of the crowd and they love it as you put Pippa straight on a few things.  I’m just glad of the breather as I sag back against the guard rail, my chest heaving, my legs spread, camel toed crotch thrust out.

“Hey Brandi!  She really fucked ya over just then, eh?”  I turn to see the red haired, red faced guy, leaning the rail next to me who has just slurred his profound observation at me in broad Glaswegian.  You can always trust the fans to show some empathy right? I meet his gormless grin with an icy stare.

“Ya think?  Well it ain’t the first time I’ve had a good fucking over!  And I’ve been fucked over by better than her I can tell you!”  Now the second part of that might not strictly be true. I don’t rightly know that I have been fucked over by better than you.  But the hard bitten retort back to the stupid, drunken, fat faced moron doesn’t work unless I say I have, so it is what it is.  He looks at me and goes quiet and instantly pale.  The idea that I’ve had lots of fucking overs like the one he has just witnessed and some that were even worse really troubles him, especially as he’s never had a fucking over over in his life.  He’s also probably wishing he’d never opened his mouth in case I decide to give him his first one right now!  It is an option I suppose, but I really don’t have the energy to spare right now, so instead I eye the can of shitty Tennent’s lager that he’s holding.  He notes my interest, flinches a little, and offers only the tiniest resistance as I say, “Mind if I borrow this?” and snatch it out of his chubby fingers.  I leave him open mouthed as I push off the rail and pad towards you across the grubby matting.

You are clearly looking for me as you turn away from your full and frank exchange of views with Pippa.  Well guess what, love.  I’m right behind you, can at the ready, of course.  It makes a loud sickly BOCCKK! as it connects with your head, followed by a violently hissing spurt.  Now you know I  said a while back that a move like a flying head scissors was more froth than beer.  Well in Glasgow it turns out that the actual beer is more fucking froth than beer!  White spray goes everywhere, covering us both in a fine mist of beer but it looks spectacular and the crowd OOOOOHHHH! extra loud at the unintentional visual effect! 

Some of the crowd justifiably boo my cheap foreign object shot.  They jeer me too, which is just fine.  Im back playing the heel again, getting myself back into the match any way I can.  So I’m a “dirty cow!” And a “cheating slag!”  Like I said before, all part of wrestling life’s rich tapestry.

You also curse me as you clutch your head with one hand and turn away from me.  But it would seem that hitting you with a can which is actually more froth than beer is also metaphorically more froth than beer, as almost right away you spin back at me, determined to continue your assault.  Still, the can has served it’s purpose; it’s knocked you out of your stride so I let it slip from my hand to the floor.

My next move isn’t planned.  It’s instinctive. Part of many spots I’ve worked in many situations.  And it all just comes together when you spin back at me and blunder right into it.  As you stagger onto me, I stoop down low and hook my arms around the backs of your thighs, almost behind your knees.  Then I scoop you up and whirl around a quarter turn to get some height and momentum … before dropping you down pussy-first onto my extended fishnet covered knee for an inverted atomic drop!

Another deafening, and with this move, extremely heartfelt OOOOOHHHHHHHH! from the Shed faithful.

Now some wrestlers like to bounce their victims off their knees at the end of this move so they can writhe around clutching at themselves on the mat.  And to be fair, that does look pretty hot.  Me though, I like to wrap my arms around their waists keep them astride my thigh so I can smirk into their agonised faces and maybe taunt them a little.  “How does your cunt feel, cunt?”  Or “No rumpy pumpy for you tonight, love!”  All that cute kinda stuff.

Now my quads are pretty damn big and my rectus femoris muscle (the sticky up one that runs down the middle) is particularly well defined.  And your nether lips are nestled right on it because your hips bucked forwards on impact and your back arched.  And you’re fucking wet!  I can feel it through your soaked shorts as they dampen my fishnets and the moistness reaches my skin.  I’ve got my hands cupping your full hips, keeping you on there, your tiny skirt sitting more like a belt around your waist.  You’re nicely set.  Time to look into those hazel eyes and gloat!

But this isn’t right.  This is not the face I was expecting at all.  No screwed up features, no tightly shut eyes, no teeth bared in an agonised grimace.  Instead, those black lips are rounded in a big sexy ‘O’.  And the eyes are wide and staring but as they catch my gaze they flicker half lidded.  You cheeks are red, flushed, rather than a shocked pale.  Did you … did …d id you just fucking get off on that move? 

You did.  You fucking did! 

And if I need any confirmation of this, I only have to look at your chest as you arch back, thrusting out your tits against the well worn sweat sodden tee, the nipples agonisingly stiff.

It’s a proven scientific fact that grappling produces the happy hormone serotonin but you are taking this to a whole new level.  And I’m not going to try to tease out the psycho-sexual implications of an inverted atomic drop taking you to the brink, but honey, you got issues!  And worryingly, l must have some too because I’m as hot as hell!  We’re crossing some kind of line here.  I shouldn’t  go there.  I REALLY shouldn’t!  SHOULDN’T!!  But I can’t help it.

I clasp your hips a little tighter and I rock you a tiny bit, back and forth, along my fucking ripped rectus femoris. 

A little gasp comes from the black ‘O’ and I do it again, a little harder.  Then I  do it again.  Again.  Again. 

You give a little soft moan and oh-so-slowly slump forward onto me as I start to grind you and you surrender yourself to it. 

Your legs just go limp, allowing you to dangle astride my now soaking wet thigh. 

Your head settles on my shoulder. 

You nuzzle into my neck and I push my face into your hair. 

“You’re so fucking wet!” I gasp hotly into your ear. The black ‘O’ makes a little noise of agreement, half sigh, half whimper. 

You open your legs a little, minutely adjusting your position.  “Right on the clit now huh?”  I whisper.  You give a tiny nod, the black ‘O’ emits that noise again. 

My hands drift down and around to cup your ass cheeks in the tiny boy shorts as I up the intensity a little more.  Another whimper from you.  Longer, louder this time. 
And then your hips start to work.  Frighteningly quick.  Frighteningly ferocious. Tiny, tiny back and forth thrusts, so precise, right on the fucking spot!  You’ve reached that point of no return where the hips take on a will of their own, as if they are controlled by your pussy rather than your brain.

I just keep my hands on your perfect ass to hold you in place, but I’m not working you now.  You’re working yourself.  I’ve set you running and off you’ve fucking gone!

Suddenly you stop abruptly.  You go rigid for a second.  More frantic tiny jerks.  Your breath now coming in frantic urgent pants.  Another agonisingly abrupt halt.  Then you are thrusting so hard I think you’ll break my fucking leg.  Until every muscle in your body locks up and you shudder.

Then … “AUUUUUUUUUUuUuuuuuuhhhh!”  A rich and throaty rounded moan comes right out of your lower belly as your orgasm hits. 

I cling to you.  And your legs come up and wrap around my waist!  For a moment I panic, thinking you are going for a body scissors.  But no need to worry.  You’re just squeezing out the last delicious delightful oozings before you subside in my arms.

I fling you off me suddenly like I would if you had just tapped in my submission hold.  You lie on the arena floor on your side, hands over your face, panting, your flanks bleating in and out as you try to regain your composure.

There’s a strange atmosphere in the place now which has gone so quiet.  No one was expecting any of that.  Then a ripple of spontaneous applause breaks out, together with a few cheers.  The jeers and cat calls kick in after that as the misogynists go to work. 

And you know what?  Not all misogynists are men.  Some of the worst ones are other women!  Just like the one screaming over the guard rail at me right now.  This isn’t fan/wrestler banter.  And it isn’t even targeted at me as the heel.  It’s aimed at both of us.  A vile diatribe because we dared to get horny in public.  You wouldn’t believe what she is calling us and I think this is a bit much so I get up and walk over to her. 

But before I get to punch her in the mouth, a big hand comes on her shoulder and pulls her back.  “Go away, go away right now!” It’s Charlie.  She’s wearing her mean girl leather biker jacket and she looks mad as hell.  Not a figure to be messed with.  The woman quickly does as she is told.

“Just what the fuck is going on?” She yells at me.  “What the hell was that, exactly?”  Like I said, she’s boiling mad.  Actually to be more precise, boiling mad jealous.  I don’t know whether she is jealous of me, you or both of us but it’s definitely green eyed monster angst that is fuelling this outburst. I don’t know where the hell this has come from but watching you cream in your drawers just now has really touched a nerve.  “And what the fuck is that there?”  She says with extra venom, looking at my disgustingly wet left thigh.

“Charlie, I don’t know how the fuck all that happened,” I blurt out.  “I’ve wanted to hate her ever since I laid eyes on her but it’s not worked out that simple and we were both getting hotter and hotter as the match went on and then it all went out of control and over the cliff and …”

“Oh shut up!  Just shut the fuck up!  Just shut the fuck up and pin her!” Charlie says face full of simmering anger.  I look at her questioningly, I give a little puzzled shrug.  Charlie is getting exasperated.  “Just drag her to the ring and pin her right there!  That’s Punky Dow on the floor.  Out of it. You just fucked her brains out!  So now pin her ass!  Or don’t you even want to beat her now?”

I nod dumbly, still shell shocked, a well of swirling confused emotions that this little tete a tete hasn’t exactly helped with.  But yes, that’s what I need to do now.  She’s right.  I turn and stagger back to you.  I grasp a purple Punky pig tail in one hand and cup your chin with my other one.  “C’mon, up you come Megan, hon.  Let’s get you back in that ring,” I say quietly as I look into your dreamy after glow eyes.

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I come around all full of fire and fury, the little fine fuzz on the back of my neck all prickly with alarm. Those alarms are important; they come from a place that’s buried deep under all the cerebral tissue and delicate foot-bones of the modern homo sapiens. They’re a throwback, the creepy feeling you get right before you walk into a bad situation, the feel that there’s eyes on you with no kind thoughts behind them. You learn to listen to your lizard-brain when you’re in the ring (or, like, OUTSIDE it in this case) and in a fight – when the moment is fuckin’ night, your reactions have to be primal, instantaneous, with no forethought. You have to strike like a fucking snake before you have time to consciously consider your actions. It’s a matter of survival of the fittest, baby!

And as I turn around and get BASHED IN THE FUCKING SKULL WITH A FULL BEER CAN, it’s a helpful reminder that the jungle is FULL of fucking alpha lionesses and we ALL strike hard and fast. There’s a lot more Wild Kingdom still to come while we find out who evolution favors.

“PFUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHH-CK!” I groan, REELING back off the shot as the can splits, the liquid inside adding skull-rocking weight to the shot but thankfully the aluminum gives instead of splitting my scarred forehead open, spraying us both with foam that tastes like fuckin’ Tennent’s – that is, like the taste of the scum on your tongue when you wake up with a hangover. God damn. I LIKE cheap beer and I still wouldn’t hit anyone with that god-damn swill. The scent of malt and fillers perfumes the air as we both get splattered. Of course, I’ve taken a LOT of headshots in my career – coming up as a tattooed psycho punk in the heyday of CZW and being blooded in Puerto Rico means that I took enough cracks to the skull that Gemma still makes me get a full neuro workup every year – and I’m notoriously hard-headed. So I don’t go down from the full force a bullet of Scottish lager against my dome. In fact, all it does is ring my bell a bit and fucking piss me off. I stagger around in a short, twisting circle, grinding the heel of palm against my forehead instinctively to try to slow the bleeding if there is any (I’ve gotten busted open enough times that it happens pretty easy some nights) – but when I glance at the black leather palm of my fight glove and don’t see any dripping red kroovy, I twist all the way through, ready to deliver some righteous fucking justice. PUNCHY justice.

It’s a pretty bad-ass spot all the way around, from flipping off the ref to getting skulled with a can of lager to coming right around off that shot ready for more. If I was watching this shit, I’d pop for it.

And circumstances being different, I’d think this next bit was SO FUCKING COOL. You know … if it wasn’t MY pussy getting Monster Mashed.

I come around, fists clenched up, a dizzy but determined growl on my face, beer running down me and black lips skinned back from teeth as I get ready to unleash hell – only for you to scoop me up behind the thighs. It’s such a warm, wicked feeling – the way your fingers slide so neatly into place along the sweaty glaze of my pale tattooed thighs. You HOIST me, using my momentum from the punchy stagger off the shot you hit me with, expertly digging those hands into the supple tone of my steely but silky legs. Spreading them. My body falls into you with your lift, hands instinctively clutching at your shoulders. I move, trying to get a fistful of silky hair, trying to get my fist chambered as I’m WHIPPED through the air a quarter turn for extra height, feeling the incredible spring-steel of your muscles in play. There’s that sweet dizzying sensation that comes with being lifted, that feeling of giddy reeling and a flutter of honeyed fear, and then you just fucking DROP down, SPIKING me with cruel expertise as my legs are snapped out wide by the momentum, and you PLANT my fucking cunt on your knee.

I JOLT, and a flickering reel of flashbacks run through my head.

Naughty things. Memories of blossoming sexuality … and of being downright … ROUGH with myself. I can’t fucking help it. I like it rough. I always have. And that’s come back to bite me in the ass (or knee me in the cunt) in the ring more than once. I mean, in some ways it’s kind of an edge. Being kneed in the pussy isn’t JUST debilitating and soul-crushingly humiliating and forcing my belly to pulse in sickening heat – it’s also fucking hot, so I got that goin’ for me. And you drive me down me like a god-damn cuntbusting ARTIST, PLANTING me on your knee. My long inked legs sway en pointe, wavering on the rounded toes of my Doc Martens. My arms dangle on your shoulders, and my back arches HARD, electricity climbing my spine. My nipples were already perked up to full attention just from the close heat of the match, the barbells pushed against the fabric. Now they’re full-on speared, jutting out shamelessly. Everything about me is shameless right now.

I’m planted on you, my head craned forward. Eyes so big they can see every detail of you, every glisten of sweat on your skin, every silken thread of your hair. My pupils are fucking dilated, Halloween-cat big. This is … unexpected. I dunno if it’s the weird chemistry that’s been bubbling and searing between us, or if it’s just the right nerves being triggered at the right time, but this hit me … HARD. I’m PULSING with sweet agony, erotic ache curling my toes. My abs are drawn up tight, my cheeks flushed, my skin satin with a rush of warm sweat.

And when you look at me, when you meet my eyes, there’s one moment where it could all easily break. A smirk, a sneer, a slap, a taunt, pulling me into a cradled front guillotine; anything like that would have broken the spell. Anything that most wrestlers would do right now – mockin’ me and getting back to kickin’ my ass – would have ended this strange flare of heat.

But instead, as our eyes lock, you gather me up. Your hands cradle my hips. Your thigh is so perfectly fucking sculpted, the slab of toned muscle so sharply defined. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, and you rock me on it. Slowly.

I gasp, hands tightening gently on your shoulders. The crowd fades, the mad roar of the Shed nothing but background now, brushed away so all that exists in the world is the flex of your muscle, the beat of your heart, the scent of your skin. My eyes go dreamy as you rock me.

Anything could have broken the spell, but only this exact moment could have trapped me in it.

I sink into you, resistance gone, my legs wilting to dangle on your knee. With a little breath my head sinks to your shoulder, and I nuzzle in. Breathing you. Tasting you. I can feel your lips in my sweat-glossy purple hair, breathing the scent of Manic Panic and Garnier Fructis. My breasts press to yours, my arms sliding down your back, fingers curling along your bare skin.

For just this moment, everything else fades. You murmur to me and I murmur back. You ask me what I want and I tell you. You guide me and I ride you. We dance like this, primal and ancient and heated, goddesses of war finding a moment of love, while the Shed falls to curious, gasping quiet – just as lost in us as we are in each other.

You cradle my ass as I splay my legs wider without even being aware of it. My hips trigger from the constant maddening pleasure as I get pushed over the edge, firing like a machine gun, racking over and over along that sculpted muscle. Glossy black squared short nails digging into your muscled smooth back, lips silken against your skin, my breath molten.

And the world



I don’t even realize how loud I just cried out until I hear the echo. And THAT breaks us out of it. You suddenly push me off you and I’m not Athena entwined with Aphrodite – I’m Meg on the floor of a club in Glasgow with my boyshorts absolutely sopping and a few hundred Scots having just watched me gush like I was a hot-blooded young lez getting fingerbanged in the backseat of your Honda back in high school. Or whatever cheapass cars you guys drove over here. Renaults?

My mind’s not right just yet.

I feel like I just did a massive fucking dose of hallucinogens AND got fucked senseless. My thighs are shaking as I lay on the thin mats, panting. If you come after me right now, I’m fucking done for. I’m just laying here panting with one glove on my sweaty feverish face, my hips jolting with soft aftershocks, feeling fucked and endorphined and sweet as warm butter. If you rolled me in and pinned me right NOW, it’d work.

But you don’t.

Fate keeps interceding, wanting more and more out of us. More than once we’ve each been in a position to take a win – and each time there’s been something. Laying here on the Shed’s concrete floor, pussy twitching and thighs slick, I have what alcoholics call “a moment of clarity”.

And in that moment I realize a crucial truth – we’re not on the edge of victory here. Naw.

We’re not NEARLY done yet.

I grin a little, drunk and dreamy, pushing loose sweaty purple strands of hair off my forehead. I still feel like my tendons have all been loosened by a degree, like someone turned all my screws one twist back, limbs hanging like a marionette. But my belly is flexing with deep hungry breaths as you have it out with some thick-headed neo-con slag (and gods do I love you for that) before you share some hissed words with a big bulky broad in a leather jacket. Oh, that’s Charlie! She sounds fuckin’ pissed. She sounds PROPERLY angry about something.

Not me, though.

I’m feeling fucking FLYING right now. Absolute endorphin rush. Is the humiliation of being being brought to orgasm in front of a packed crowd and the thousands watching at home pretty intense?

Well, here’s the thing about that.

See, I do a side project with my wife Gemma called the ECWL. It’s … different. The action is still brutal – I broke her rib in our first fight there. But we also fight totally naked except for pads and boots, and forced orgasms are a key part of the scoring system. So while it’s definitely a head-spinner, it’s not the spirit-draining defeat that might be experienced by a woman who HASN’T repeatedly left the ring with cum glistening on her fingers. So what you did to me was intensely personal, and had a lingering effect (not least of which is I’ll be frantically playing with myself to the memory for just fucking WEEKS), but it hasn’t finished me.

I’m too much of fuckin’ tart for a one-and-done.

So when you haul me up after your tete-a-tete with Charlie, you’re gentle. You figure that after the willpower-sapping orgasm and the incredible humiliation, I’m ripe for the pin. But instead …

… instead …

… my hands find your hips as you guide me up. I crane my head up towards you, bent low in front of you, my legs rubbery and my ass jutted back, my skirt rucked around my hips, boyshorts sopping. Black Flag battle tee painted onto me. My nipples still so stiff you can almost see the manufacturing dates engraved on my barbell piercings. My hazel eyes dreamy, but wickedly sparkling.

“C’mon, up you come Megan, hon.  Let’s get you back in that ring,” you say, your voice so sweet but determined. Confused.

Oh, Brandi baby. I’m gonna make it so much clearer.

“Nnnnot yet,” I pant, my voice all whiskey hot from crying out my pleasure. And my leather fight gloves creak as I GRIP your hips, clutching that shiny suit, rucking it up a little.

“Nnnnot just YET,” I grin – and I DIG my boots into the thin cheap mat, my Docs’ AirWalk soles driving me forward as I DRILL my shoulder into a belly still sore from taking my Crazy Train tackle in the ring, and DRIVE you backwards. I don’t pick you up and carry you like last time. I just DRIVE, throwing myself into you like a madwoman, using my low angle and sheer determination – and the fact that you’re as surprised as fuck by the fact that I’m moving at all after that shockingly intense orgasm – to CRASH you back, and SLAM your aching back into the guardrail again, diving into it with you, and this time the links between the cheap segments of railing don’t hold, and the crowd is pushed back by sheer momentum, cries of “OI!” and “FUCK!” ringing out as beers spill and laughter and roars flare as I drive us RIGHT THROUGH THE GOD-DAMN GUARD RAIL and into the crowd, where we slip on beer and popcorn and stumbling fans and CRASH into the Shed’s chairs together, clattering the folding seating into a big crescent as the crowd circles around us, hyenas around bloody lionesses. I mentioned we were lionesses earlier. It’s still a thing.

Your ROAR of surprised pain brings my heartbeat racing back up to speed. Fresh adrenaline gets bussed in from Parts Unknown. THAT fucking HURT. The top of my head banged into the cheap steel, your ribs dug into my shoulder, and about six chairs smacked into my hips and arms and leg as we went crashing through like Jim Morrison to the other side. And I’m grinning. I’m grinning like a fucking MADWOMAN.

Because for wrestlers like you and me, sex and violence are one big tangled ball of yarn, Brandi, darlin’. And we’re gonna get wrapped up in it like a pair of kittens.

You’re up on your feet before me – my legs are still rubber, despite the rushing adrenaline, and you stagger over, in clear pain, your back and ribs giving you all sorts of hell as you come over cursing in that colorful Northern patois and drill a big shiny gold boot into my ribs. “HUNNNNHHHAAHHH-HAHAHAHA FUUUUCK!” I groan, rising to a cackle of mad laughter as I roll onto my back, half sprawled on a bunch of chairs and programs and the occasional jacket or bag.

“What the fuck is WRONG with you!?” you sound genuinely confused, authentically pissed off but definitely confused. But you won’t be for long. Because the high I’m on is a drug that I KNOW how to dose you with. You come around to my boots and bend down, make a grab for my punkytails to drag me up – and that means I know where your hands are going. It’s part of the reason I wear the fucking things (the rest is just branding). So I reach up and grab them, catching your wrists, my abs flexing as I do a crunch up and grin at you. “NOTHIN’, for once,” I giggle, my eyes alight with heat. “I just fuckin’ love this,” I growl in intense fiery delight, and I THRUST my right leg up, drilling my boot deep into your taut belly, seeing the way your cheeks puff and the air gushes from those lush red fuck-me lips as I ROLL back, yanking your arms by the wrists, ram-rodding my leg straight and PUSHING my boot up into those abs, and I kick my leg hard as I roll my hips up and PULL with both arms so that I LAUNCH you over me.

In wrestling there’s a VERY popular spot like this, ESPECIALLY popular in the UK where it’s mostly done out of the corner as acrobatically as possible. The Monkey Flip. This isn’t quite a monkey flip. For one thing I don’t do the little hop up onto you, we’re not in the corner, and I’m only using one leg.

This ain’t a monkey flip. This is WAY older shit. This is one of the 67 official throws of Kodokan Judo, the tomoe nage. Personally, I think it looks COOLER than a monkey flip because it’s bad-ass. Because judo is bad-ass. You’d probably agree about how fucking cool it looks if you weren’t being flipped over me to land HARD on your back. There’s no matting on the concrete out here in the seats, and that gorgeous ass of yours SLAPS down hard. I roll over on my hip, panting, grinning, wild-eyed as a nymph in the spring woods. I slide over, shoving chairs aside, the extra security staff I hired on working overtime to force the buzzy Glaswegians back and give us room to brawl. I dunno what Pippa’s doing back in the ring, but it ain’t on my mind right now.

You are. Only you.

You’re flopped to your back, breathless and gasping with agony. The pain must be pretty brutal – you just got fucking slapped with the entire foundation of the Shed at the speed of that harsh bitch Gravity. Your tits are wobbling beautifully in that shiny top. Your abs flexing hard for breaths that ache. You’re spread out, your arms splayed to try to reduce the pressure, one leg drawn up and the other spread wide, your tattered fishnets painted in glistening sweat. I drag my studded tongue over my black lips, watching you with big hungry eyes. You took me by surprise back there, riding your taut muscled thigh – the moment that hit us came out of nowhere, as purely intimate as lovers in the rain.

But this … I take my time with.

I slide up close to you, cradling the back of your head in one hand. It’s slick with sweat, the loose raven fall of it. I’m kneeling right above your head, looking at you upside down. From this position you can SMELL the heat of my cunt, so fresh from my orgasm, swollen from grinding your thigh. In another kind of popular wrestling match we’d be in a motel somewhere and I’d slide forward and settle my ass on your face and my pussy over your lips and grind you to sleep (but for that kind of action you have to pay for a subscription to my Punky By Night service, available at!). But I don’t. I just lift your head, and see your nostrils flare.

I drag you up, pulling your body to mine. My right leg slides forward, the taut smooth muscle of my creamy thigh sliding against the bare skin of your back, lifting your shoulders, draping your upper body across my leg. “C’mere, darlin’ …” I drawl, my voice low and insinuating. The crowd is roaring again, frantic. But you’re aching, dazed – and unsure. You’re resisting, but my scent is hitting you. And arousal is FLARED in you. I can smell it, pheromonal perfume. My boot slowly plants on the floor, your upper back arched over my knee. The heavy black Donjon brace with its custom skull scrollwork feeling so cool compared to the heat of our bodies. The slight rasp of my Lycra knee socks against your lower back. The round heavy toe of my Doc nuzzling that curvy ass as I sit you up.

“What the fu-” you start, and I curl my fingers in your hair, TUGGING you back. “Shhhh,” I purr, left hand coming up, finger to my lips. And my right arm snakes down, all those tattoos that sleeve me fingers to shoulder flexing and shifting and shining, the feel of that inked skin like rough silk. My arm slides down, wrapping around your neck. Not rough at all – smooth and silky. A serpent gliding into place. And you start to struggle –

– and my left hand slides over your shoulder, and glides over your breast.

You draw in a hot, sharp breath. “Shhhhh,” I say again, soft and sweet. “I gotcha, darlin’ … I gotcha now.” And my hand glides down. My left hand spreads, the fingers tattooed with little runes and geometric shapes. My black nails glittering against the glossy shine of your enamel suit. Sliding over your breasts, teasing your the firm curves supported by that carefully engineered zippered peephole. And down, over your aching, taut belly. Caressing the muscle through that warm shining enamel suit. My right arm slowly flexes, python wrapping its prey, my right fist pushed up under you as my bicep swells to hold you in place under my arm. Draped over my knee. Arched up, presented.

And I grin, my breath warm and eager – and slide my hand lower.

“Nnnh-” you make a soft sound. I think it might have been the first syllable of protest, but it fades into air hissing through your teeth. I’ve got clever fingers, after all – and they slide lower. Over the sweet rise of your mound, so perfectly outlined, each fold traced in that clinging suit. Shining shimmering and fucking splendid. And my fingers caress you, wicked intentions painting every graceful movement. Your big strong thigh flexes, and shifts, the fishnet going taut across your golden skin, trying to cover up, to protect yourself, preserve some modesty … but it’s as if you know it’s too late. There’s a low, throaty groan against the sweat spice of my underarm, the groan of a woman who’s realizing it’s too late – and your leg flops out wide, golden boots resting on their heels – and your hips lift. Just a little. Silent offering. The crowd gathered around us in heat now, cheering as we’re about to do it again, to break more taboos, to give them more of the forbidden. Monstro and his crew are holding them back, and for all I care they’re at the monkey house shrieking. Here in the circle of toppled chairs and spilled popcorn, there’s just you and me. My inked right arm tautly wrapped around your neck. Your back arched over my knee, pushing your breasts up. Your legs splayed as my left hand explores your most intimate secrets.

“Mmmmmh. That’s my girl,” I purr, and my fingertips find you. Find the berry of your clit. Find the heat of your folds, tracing you through your suit, teasing you, relentlessly seeking out every nerve that can fire pulses of pleasure and triggering them, over and over, a safecracker spinning the tumblers. Your body arches so beautifully hard, and I hear with intense clarity the little click of the zipper of your suit straining, your breasts threatening to push free. Your taut belly is flexing, SO wickedly hard, rising and falling in that sleek shiny suit, your abs pumping to the rhythms of urgent, heedless arousal. The same that overcame me as I rode your knee. My fingers work you, chasing it, matching your pace.

Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh JESUS …” you gasp, soft and wickedly fast, your cheeks flushing. Your heat is picking up, flaring. Sweat glosses you as your body moves hotly, in time with my fingers and your own quivering need. You don’t hear the crowd anymore either. You’re not aware of the eyes on my fingers on your pussy. You’re just aware of the fingers. Driven by what the pussy wants. You paw at my bicep with your right hand, and the way your fingers curl so hotly into my skin could mean either that you’re desperately pleading for me to stop … or desperately imploring that I keep going.

I think it’s both.

Your left hand slides back, pawing over my hip, under my skirt, clutching at my sodden little boyshorts, tugging them. I bite my black lip as the soaked Lycra digs into my curvy ass a little, baring more creamy curve tattooed with curling entwined snakes. As serpentine as the arm wrapped around your neck. It’s almost like you wish you could peel me off you by the back of my shorts – but you’re helpless.

You’re mine right now.

My fingers keep working, my arm tightening just enough to keep the blood sluggish to your brain, to make everything a little more drunkenly dreamy. Your nipples are tenting the enamel of your suit, your breasts heaving, abs flexing hungrily. Your body ARCHES, up on the very tippiest toes of your boots, your muscular legs splayed, your crotch THRUSTING up at the lights above us in lewd pagan offering to my relentless fingers.

“C’mon …” I purr, panting myself, flared with heat. This was not how either of us imagined this war – but this is where we are. And we are gonna fucking embrace it. Especially the part where I force you to a quivering screaming orgasm in front of the whole Shed and with the cameraman zoomed right the fuck in on us, to get our scales back in fucking balance.

And you cry out. No little nodding whimpers or nuzzles here. You SNARL at me.

“Ohhhmyygawwd!  You bitch, Megan!  You fucking bitch!”

I grin, wicked and hot. “God-damn right, baby doll.”

And my fingers move faster, finding your spot, and WORKING it. The way you crave to be worked, but never quite ask for. Giving you what you secretly wanted. Slutting you.

And you fade to grunts, anguished and animalistic. Those hips BUCK, your whole arched body SHUDDERING in my grip, like electricity is shooting through you. And each twisting arching spasm of raw bucking heat is matched by a groaning, choked roar of protest.


My fingers are a silken blur, black nails against black enamel, panting.


I push my knee harder into your back, arching you further, ignoring the pulse of pain in my braced limb as I push on my planted boot and wrap my sweaty arm tighter around your neck and face. You cry out once more, your hips firing like a fucking shotgun.


And it HITS you, hard and hot, and your resistance makes it crest HARDER. Your hips SPASM, your legs skidding on the slick concrete, and your body ARCHES like you’re fucking possessed and then FLOPS, your cunt drooling down your thighs. And because you tossed me right off your fucking knee with no cuddles, you get the same – I unlock my arm and just ROLL you off to the side. You curl up on your hip, panting and moaning. Your voice hitching. Sobbing.

And I realize that not everyone has been fucked in public while wrestling before.

“Bitch, fucking bitch, Oh God, Megan Dow, you made me cum for you, you fucking bitch!

I lean down, and get a fistful of your hair. Yanking your head up to face me. “NOW WE’RE FUCKING EVEN,” I snarl, and lean down to cap off our special time by crushing a kiss to your lips, stealing the moaning taste of you, breaking it roughly and panting, saliva shining on my chin, yours and mine. I grin –

– and hear fucking Pippa get on the house mic. God damn it, Remy. I TOLD you not to let just anyone use those damn things.


OOOOOoooooooh … the sound rises like a chorus of ghosts, as the crowd comes out of their sexual stupor from watching the frenzy of two wrestling women in absolute heat, and instead realizes that Somebody Just Fucked Up. On shaky thighs, panting, I rise to my boots, leaving you on the floor –

– and pick up one of the steel chairs around us, SNAPPING it shut with a meaningful CLANG and holding it like the fucking deadly weapon it is when it’s in my hands.

And I head towards the ring to sort that greasy cunt out. Leaving my current rival and unexpected lover on the floor in her own heated delicious shame.

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“OHHHMMYYGAAWDDD!  OOMMYYYYFFUCCKKINNGGAWWWDDD!”  What have you done?  What have you just done, you fucking lunatic!?!?  You’ve just put us right through the fucking guard rail, that’s what you’ve done!  Now what the fuck did you so that for?  It’s bad enough having to fight two feet away from these fucking animals, never mind brawling at their feet.  And the stuff I’m lying in right now!  YUUUUCCCCKKKKKK!!  Spilt beer, pop corn, discarded gum, those weird little metal gas canisters.  And even worse stuff.  Surely you know this Megan, love, surely you know some of these scumbags are too lazy to move their asses and go to the toilet for fear of losing their good spot on the fence and  so they … well, yes … of course you do.  You just don’t fucking give one right now.  Well I do.  I fucking give one!  And I’m going to kick the shit out of you for putting me in amongst this literal and metaphorical fucking filth!

I plant my hands down in some dubious wetness and push up to my feet.  Oh, and by the way, did I mention how much crashing through that metal fence fucking hurt?  No I don’t think so.  Well it did, you fucking crazy bitch!  I run to you as you make it up onto all fours.  That little trip through the fence must have hurt you too.  It just makes no sense.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING! YOU FUCKING LUNATIC?!?!  DON’T YOU GIVE A SHIT ABOUT OUR SAFETY?  ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL US BOTH, YOU STUPID FUCKING COW!”  I shriek over you before the instep of my right boot smashes into your ribs with all the force and timing of a soccer gal smashing home a sweet spot volley.  It lifts you off the floor and flips you onto your back.  I’m keen to see the agonised expression on your face, payback for your lunacy and stupidity, but instead … but instead, you’re laughing?

“What’s the FUCK is wrong with you?”  I say looking down at those crazy, glazed eyes.  I’m confused and maybe a little scared too.  I’ve decided I’m getting us the hell out of this situation, dragging us back to the ring where there’s some sanity and sense.  Well … relatively!  I’m reaching down for those pigtails to get you back to your feet.

You just grin back at me but it’s like you’re not really in there.  “NOTHIN’ for once,” you say back at me, in a wild little girl giggle.  “I just fucking love this.”  You’re suddenly sat up, your face close to mine, your hands gripping my wrists.  I feel like I’m in some horror film where the toy doll has suddenly come to life, started fucking talking and gone on a murder spree.  A big boot jolts into my belly as you roll back, extending one long strong leg, my boots come up and over, high and proud in a huge flip and I crash down onto the harsh unprotected floor!  The air explodes from me and, maybe because my core beat up real bad, maybe because I’m exhausted, maybe because I’m just so ducking confused right now, the back of my head hits the concrete with a nasty little bocckkkk!


This feels weird I think I might be concussed I’m still conscious I think there are people milling round looking at me something is scattering them now no not something someone it’s Punky she’s swarming all over me she smells of sex raw primal sex and she’s pulling me up what’s she gonna do what she got in mind knee in my back arm around my neck my body arched Dragon Fucking Sleeper

Oh Jesus

Dragon fucking sleeper what the fuck is she doing shit shit shittttttt I know what the bitch is doing no no noooooo not fair not fair when I made her cum it just happened I didn’t plan it we just slipped into that lovely moment this is just spiteful this is payback tit for tat (or is it tit for tit) I cum you cum I’m being sexually assaulted by a crazy woman get offa me keep those fingers to yourself bitch

Oh Jesus

Get that knee over and across cover yourself protect yourself I don’t want to cum right in front of these fucking morons she is trying to make me out to be a dirty slut just like her I’m not though I’m a good girl I don’t sex fight in motel rooms or wrestle naked in just pads and boots I’m a good girl oohhhhh those fingers I can’t stop them don’t want to stop them any more why bother fuck the knee let it slide down like you weren’t really trying all along ohhh those fingers I hope you boys in the crowd are watching this is how it’s done girls get your men over here taking notes oohhhhhh those fucking fingers

Oh Jesus

Mmmmmm I love Meg controlling me like this all arched across her leg and vulnerable she could snap my neck right now instead she’s just teasing teasing teasing with those goddamn fingers Ha ha good girl who am I kidding that bitch Dow is showing me for what I really am now whore slut filthy skank good let them all see it no pretence any more arch my back a little more thrust those hips present my crotch barely covered by that tight shiny suit make it easier for her to find the clit not that she needs any help make sure you’re taking careful note boys

Oh Jesus

I want to be in that filthy motel room dirty stained mattress thrown on the floor for us to fight on Punky clambering onto my exhausted body in a reverse straddle snake covered ass smothering my face my hands pawing at her milk white thighs weakly as we give the perv subscribers the big snuff-out orgasm finish

Oh Jesus

I want to be in that ring naked just black knee high leather boots and matching pads lightly oiled body glistening in sweat Punky’s wife even sweatier locked in my ab stretch four fingers buried in her Punky yelling at me in protest as Gemma gushes all over them extra points for me I laugh

Oh Jesus

I’m close now so close not as if I was coming at this from a standing start to tell the truth this match is so hot fighting with her has got me so so fucking turned on I’ve never actually cum in a match before fuck I’m cumming now though the whole club is watching a camera operator is on his knees in front of us she’s slutting me in front of the whole world she ratchets up the hold arching my neck my back fucking nasty bitch those fingers are nearly tearing a whole in the crotch of my suit my belly tightens unbearably I cum. I cummmmm oh god I cummmmmm I hate her for this no I fucking love her for this no I fucking hate her hate her hate her I used to be such a good girl

“Ooohmmmyyggawwddd!  You bitch Megan!  You fucking bitch!” 

This just spurs her on makes her wilder crueler I want her to be cruel I want her to hurt me


Hurt me


Fucking hurt me


You drop me like a piece of filth onto the cold hard floor and I’m back in the room.  Head clearing, every nerve in my body tingling with arousal, tears in my eyes, full of lust and shame and humiliation and desire and anger.  I become aware that I’m soaking wet between and down my legs and my shiny ultra sexy rubber suit is fucking wrecked, the bottom wedgied up my butt cheeks and into my camel toe and the collar unzipped so the nipples of both boobs peek out from behind the zipper.  It is safe to say I am in some disarray as I sob a protest at you.

“Bitch!  Fucking bitch! Oh God, Megan Dow!  You made me cum you fucking bitch!” 

Why did I just say that?  That was so pathetic.  Not to mention fucking obvious.  I’m just so fucking ashamed. 

“Now we’re fucking even!”  You growl at me.  I’m about to explain that I had never intended what happened but I guess this isn’t really the time or the place for an emotionally charged heart to heart.

And then you kiss me.  One of those nasty but nice, hair gripped tight, mouth grinding down hard, spit swapping tongue wrestling type kisses that I so love because it makes me feel like such a fucking bad bitch.

And then, just as I’m about to melt for you, yet again, you drop me.  I’m not surprised though.  Pippa’s voice sounds particularly grating over the microphone and I can see that would really piss you off!  She calling us whores and lesbians.  Even worse though, she mentioned your contract.  I don’t know you that well, although we’ve recently become far better acquainted, but I kinda suspect no one messes with Megan’s toughly negotiated deal.  I watch you stomping your way back to ringside exuding an air of I’ll fucking sort this one out!

I need to get myself together.  Fortunately the crowd have moved on to the next part of the spectacle and  turned their attention to your antics.  You have a metal chair which can never be a good thing for some poor fucker or other.  At present the poor soul seems to be Pippa.  But then another head pops over the parapet.  Charlie!  What the fuck is she getting involved for?

I start to push past the watching crowd to get to ringside, tucking in and tugging down bits of my suit as best as I can as I go.  As I get near you I catch Charlie’s words:

“Pippa’s right!  You need to get this back inside the ring and do some wrestling.  We came here to see a wrestling match not a fucking porn show!”

I’m sure normally a big star like you would have been far more phlegmatic and magnanimous in the face of such comments.  Or at least you’d have told Charlie to go fuck herself and left it at that.  But her adding her two pennies right now, after all that happened so far … well, you just don’t know who to kill with that chair first. 

“Fucking cheap slag!”  Yells Charlie as a final emphatic point. 

That does it of course.  No one calls you cheap!  You move towards Charlie and start to raise the chair in two hands. 

Now Charlie is way out of order.  She shouldn’t be interfering here.  She shouldn’t be acting like a jealous little bitch.  Or even a jealous big bitch.  She probably deserves the concussion you’re about to give her.  But she’s my best mate.  And if anyone is going to make her shut the fuck right up, it’s gonna be me!  I surge through the gap we created in the metal fence.  Your eyes are on Charlie.  Your chair is on Charlie.  So when my boot comes up at said chair in a big Yakuza kick you rush straight onto it.  Boot to chair, chair to face, chair to floor, you to floor!

And then I’m yelling at Charlie.  “Just what the fuck has got into you?  Keep out of this!  Keep … your … big … fucking … nose … the fuck … OUT!”  I’m giving her the pointy finger and everything.

“I will.  I WILL!  Just as soon as you stop fucking her and start fighting her!”  Charlie is giving me the finger back now.

I want to explode with rage at her!  “You understand nothing about what’s going on here!  How dare you tell me how to feel and how to act!?!?”

“Just fight her, Brandi!” yells Charlie.

I give a snort of exasperation and look down at you on the floor, dazed, but still with an insane grin on your face.  “You want me to fight her?” I scream back.  “Well okay then!”  I stoop down to wind my hand into those Punky pigtails yet again, my other hand cups your chin, almost tenderly, because I don’t really wanna do this to you but I’m being goaded into it to prove I’m not in love with you or something.

I tuck your head under my left arm and move backwards, getting you in position for what I have in mind, for what has just popped into my head amidst the anger and confusion and panic. 

I get you by the metal ring steps, lining your head up with them

I glare over at Charlie. 

She scowls back

My right hand grabs your sopping wet Lycra shorts. 

I let out a primal snarl.  “AARRRHHHHH!”

And fall back, jerking up hard on your shorts to lift your boots from the floor, to add your weight to mine, and I let gravity do the rest!

The hollow metallic clank produces a loud, shocked HHOOLLLYYYYYYSSSHHIIIITTTTTTT! From the crowd.

I let you go, allowing you to roll onto your back on the thin grubby matting.  I’ve cut you!  You’re bleeding!  I’ve opened you the fuck up!  I didn’t want this.  Well yes I did.  But not like this!  I’ve got to see this fucking thing through now though.

“See!  See!  Is that enough of a fucking fight for you?  Well is it?  Are you happy now?  Are we fighting enough for you now, bitch?”  But as I scream those words back at Charlie and even try to fashion a triumphant grin, I feel slightly sick in the pit of my stomach because I’ve just taken this amazing and crazy and wild and sexy and nasty match to a whole new fucking level.  And I’m really really not sure I wanna go there …

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I know it doesn’t seem like it, since I just fingerfucked you senseless in a chokehold on a filthy club floor, but I’m actually a hopeless fuckin’ romantic.

I just don’t make a big THING of it. But under the ink and the chrome and the scars and the snarl and the colorful vocabulary there beats a heart that loves purring cuddles on rainy days and cooking breakfast together with both our hips moving to the same music on the radio (or like Bluetooth speaker for the phone because who the fuck even owns a radio now) and fucking LOVES kissing.

So if I had my fucking druthers (and I normally have a fucking DEATHGRIP on my druthers), I’d forget all the screaming Glaswegians, let Monstro and his crew bash them all, and just fuckin’ kiss you for a bit before we got back to kicking each other’s ass. You’re a good kisser. I dunno if you even know how good you are, which makes you even better. But then that wobbly fucking cow Pippa has to open her big honking mouth and start screeching, so I have to cut off making out faster than I’d like, and THAT puts me in a fucking ill mood, and it gets even ILLER – and not even in the cool fucking Beastie Boys way – when she goes after my fucking contract. NO ONE fucks with my fucking contract. Gemma and I got a bunch of overpaid lawyers AND help from a bunch of wrestling nerds to help ironclad that thing, and I’m not gonna have some fetish vid cow (I’m especially haughty about that because these days I do fetish *streaming*. Much more highbrow!) try to call my shit out on MY fucking show.

I’m already making plans to split her skull with the chair with an overarm belter and have Monstro go get a striped shirt on to replace her. And that’s not a nefarious scheme to tip the scales my way or anything – he’s one of my oldest friends, but he’s also powerbombed me through a BUNCH of tables, so I don’t doubt he’d call the match fairly, and Pippa won’t be able to count pins or run her big mouth with her skull fractured. But before I can bring those plans to fruition, ANOTHER big sodding (WAY too much time spent with Gems) rhino interjects herself, and I don’t mean the aspiring Michigan congressman. Charlie. She seemed so sweet when we first met. So fucking starstruck. But she doesn’t look starstruck now. She looks like a fire and brimstone preacher with big tits, righteous fury on her face. And when she shouts at me, hoooo, well FUCK.

I just see red.

I’ll take a lot of shit from a lot of fans. I’ve had to, over the years. Coming up as a fuckin’ tattooed lesbian who wanted to be a cross between Raven and RVD, I ran into every kind of hate you can imagine, ESPECIALLY when I worked heel touring the South with Reddy training me. I found out early on that you can’t fight everyone who hates you (at least not if you want your paycheck – it’s not the ’80s anymore so most bookers don’t want you wading into the crowd to take swings at the punters), so I had to get good at laughing them off, snarking them off, or ignoring them. And I mostly have. But eye to eye with this woman I shared a drink with who’s now all fucking huffy and puffy because I made her girlfriend’s hips spasm with rocketing contrails of unstoppable pleasure WHILE in a perfectly awesome wrestling match? Well, I’ve got limits to what I’ll put up with, and this big bitch has just found one. I pivot on my Docs and get the chair up, and I see her eyes widen for a moment as I bring the clatter around, getting ready to home-run swing right into her big fucking skull and cleave it down to her fucking ale-soaked frontal lobes so all her Puritan fucking concerns can go running down her face when –


I never even SEE it coming. I never guessed you’d be up that quick after going through what you did, never even crossed my damn mind. You DRIVE your boot into the chair, SLAMMING it into my face and driving me to the floor with sheer momentum, where the back of my fucking skull kisses the concrete and my brain gets a brief slam dance inside my god-damn head that’ll make my CTE study more colorful this year. I get laid the fuck out in a sprawl, my head ringing like those big Gothic church bells that you find all across fucking Europe that are so god-damn distracting while you’re trying to go down on someone around vespers – but there’s an inescapably manic grin on my face.

You fucking got up from being forced to a trembling, gushing orgasm, your fishnets sodden with your own steaming juices. Got up from a nice tight Dragon Sleeper on the floor – and fucking kicked my own chair into my face. The ring lights spin above me and my chest hitches with aching laughter, because I think it’s god-damn happening again. I have a bad habit of falling in love with women determined enough and crazy enough to really fucking hurt me. A look back through the catalogue of the women I’m emotionally closest to almost exactly matches the list of women who’ve really brutalized me at one point or another. I like to think that says something about how I embrace strength and am enamoured with empowerment, but it PROBABLY says something more about how genuinely twisted I am. Still, fuck it – I married Gemma Rox, and she broke my ankle, put me out of action for two weeks with a backbreaker across a bartop, and gave me her double underhook facebuster off a ring apron through a flaming table (Fuck, look at me, I’m getting misty-eyed again thinking about how much I love her).  So whatever, no time for psychoanalysis, just time for me to lay here admiring how fucking hot you look in that disheveled shiny suit and a fine gloss of sweat and orgasm as you argue with Charlie, sounding like you’re both underwater past the ringing in my ears.

Okay, Meg. Just gotta get up. Get that knee under me, force myself up, then a swift uppercut to your sopping goodies will set ya up for a DDT on the concrete. Just gotta make my legs move. But then you help me up. Aww, that’s sweet. You even cradle my chin and I look at you with eyes that are slightly glossed from the headshot and dilated with desire, and then you cinch my head under your arm, right against your hip nice and tight, my ass jutted back with the snake tattoo swaying alluringly for the camera as my skirt rides up, my back arched a bit as one arm loosely finds your hip and one sways under me drunkenly. And still taunting Charlie, you YANK my sopping shorts into me, digging into my cunt and showing off WAY more of my ass to the crowd as my legs snap up in the air, boots flailing, and fucking SPIKE me into the stairs with an Implant DDT that rings like a fucking funeral bell.


EVERYONE fucking winces at that. But I don’t get to see it, or hear the sweet rising chorus because you fucking turn out my lights, you mad cunt. It’s not until I watch (and re-watch, and re-watch, and re-watch again with my hands in Gemma’s short dark hair, firmly grinding her face down into my steaming cunt and hissing at her to lick faster for this part) that I see how I JOLT when I hit the stairs, my ass jiggling from the shot before my legs flop bonelessly, and I tumble from being spiked into the stairs to lay on the concrete, inked arms sprawled above my head, my legs splayed and quivering softly, full-on fucking spread-eagled with my nipples so stiff you can see ’em through the sports bra and tanktop, blood running down my dazed face with my eyes half-lidded and my lips parted in dreamy heat. I’m not easy to knock out, but I don’t remember ANYTHING from the moment you lifted me up, my boots whipped into the air with the stairs looming below and rushing up towards me – right up until my eyes fluttered open and found the ring lights directly overhead. I got the weirdest disorientation – moments ago I’d been looking up at the lights from a totally different angle, and now the god damn earth had moved. And my head hurt, that really distinctive feel of a concussive impact, that fuzzy burning ache that makes it feel like a velvet-wrapped steel fist is grinding big knuckles into your skull. And there’s that sticky feeling, the pulse of blood on my face. Gods, I’ve felt that a lot. Way more than someone sane ever should. In fact, I think that’s what really brought me ’round. The taste of my own blood, that familiar tang of sweet salt and warm copper, familiar as a kiss. I know in the video I was completely out of it when you dragged me up and eventually rolled my deadweight into the ring. I was spread out like warm butter on the canvas with Pippa smirking down at me while you shared a few choice parting words with Charlie and slid into the ring.

You even hesitated just a moment before you went for the cover, so when I came to it was just as you were settling onto me, your breasts against mine, the tautness of your belly tight against my side, one arm curled almost protectively around the top of my aching, pulsing head as the other hooked my inside leg, deep and high, my red Doc wavering in the air above us and my wedgied ass showing off a good third of the snake on it to the Shed crowd. Pippa, to her credit, doesn’t do anything other than a textbook count. She drops low and close, checks my shoulders minutely, and delivers a firm crisp “ONE-AHHHHH!” that would do credit to World of Sport.

“TWO-AHHHH!” The time between them is just right. Not too fast at all, not milking the drama. Just the correct count.

And as her hand is starting to come down for three something jolts me.

I have a theory about this.

I think wrestlers, full-time full-on crazy wrestlers who live in and for the ring, end up etching certain reflexes so deep in the brain they’re almost autonomic. They’re controlled by the medulla, just like breathing and the beating of the heart. You turn to take the buckles and ropes on your back, you shake your head in a submission hold so the ref knows you don’t give, and when someone’s hand has slapped the mat twice you FUCKING KICK OUT. I think if I somehow live long enough to risk dying of old age (anything’s THEORETICALLY possible), the doctors are gonna have a hard fucking time pronouncing me. If I flatline, as soon as they start to count off for the defibrillator to shock my heart back to life, they’ll only get to 2 and then I’ll kick my wizened twisted old legs up and shoot my shoulder off the hospital mattress.

So I kick my legs just enough to break your grip, and shoot my shoulder off the mat, a glazed look still in my eyes past the blood that’s running down my face from the rough split in my forehead where the steel stairs bit into me.

You look down at me, a frankly amazed look on your face. I get that a lot when I do stupid shit. It’s not that you’re astonished at how fucking awesome I am, I think – you’re just flabbergasted than anyone so fucking stubbornly stupid can still be alive after this long. The amazement doesn’t last long, however. It fades, and the anger picks up. You say something, but I can’t quite make it out over the happy howls of the Shed crowd (US, UK, Japan, Mexico or fuckin’ Antarctica – everyone LOVES an unlikely kickout) and over the ringing in my head, but whatever you’re snarling it doesn’t seem QUITE as lovey-dovey as we were when I was grinding your knee or when you were praying so fervently with my fingers working you into a hip-thrusting frenzy. And god-damn you’ve got hips; I just GOTTA get you on Punky By Night and get those stream subscriptions soarin’!

… fuck, I’m a little out of it still.

You get me up to my boots, a lot less gently than you were outside. I don’t think kicking out of such an insane spot sat well with you. I don’t think you’ve done as many garbage matches as I have; from what I’ve seen, most of your career has been here in the UK, where hardcore ECW shit and street fights and deathmatches never really took off. Maybe because that kinda shit is just an average night out at the pub in some towns here, and they don’t need to see it on the telly.

That kinda shit can be TRAUMATIZING when it’s new to you. I remember I almost had a fucking panic attack the first time I split someone open; remember it with perfect fucking clarity. It was a girl named Betty Brusca at a little nothing show at VFW in Bend, Oregon. I was working for a fuckin’ hot dog; literally signed with a handshake for a place on the card and a concession meal. I was hung up in the corner, she was coming running for a spear at my ribs, and I yanked myself out of the way and barely managed to dropkick her knee out from under her. Her momentum and imbalance shot her forward, head right between the top two buckles to CRACK her forehead on the ringpost. Fuck, I was terrified that I’d actually killed her when she dropped back. I’d NEVER seen that much blood. And while I was hovering nearby in a sweaty panic as the ref checked on her, she calmly got to her knees, shoved him out of the way, punched me ferociously in the twat, and pinned me with a brutal pumphandle driver with blood running down her face.

Yeah, it was hot.

But I was young back then. You’re not a rookie by any stretch, but I also don’t think you bust everyone you fight open. And someone looking as dead as I did and then kicking out – well, that shit can piss someone off. It’s like things aren’t working the way they should. And I feel that anger when you DRILL your boot low into my belly, puffing my cheeks and folding me up with my arms ragdolled. You toss my arm behind your neck, secure my head, get a firm grip – not just on my shorts, but on the thick leather of my belt – and HAUL me up –

– and fucking STAY there.

The crowd fucking roars.

Louder, and louder, and LOUDER as you hold me up, those muscles beautifully defined, etched and sharp and powerful in that shiny suit, your dark tail slick and sweaty, your glutes perfectly clenched, big black boots planted. I watch the video later (and again, and AGAIN, mmm) and appreciate it from an angle I couldn’t see. From MY perspective, it was all the curve of your breast mashed against my cheek, the spicy pheromonal sweat of your heated, taut body and the warm clinging candlewax scent of that shiny enameled suit. The grip of your fingers at my hip, pulling my shorts into me, digging into aching, warm, slick cunt. The wavering of my boots overhead, swaying in the lights like sea anemones. The slow steady heat of your controlled breathing, tidal in my ear.

But on the outside watching it on video, it was sheer sensual power. You had HOISTED me up. We’re damn close to the same size, but you lifted me like I was fucking Kairi Hojo and HELD me, my legs swaying in the air, my head locked against your body and my whole form perfectly balanced to keep me up in the air. Your muscles were so perfectly fucking DEFINED, your boots rooted in the mat, and you looked so god-damn POWERFUL. The crowd was eating it up with TWO spoons until it ran down their chin as you kept me up in what might have been the longest delayed vertical suplex I’ve ever been in (maybe the time Brian Cage lifted me up and did squats with me was longer, but that hardly counts since he’s half ogre).

Finally you drop back and SLAM me into the fucking canvas with all that momentum. The blood that had pooled into my aching head – fucking MASKING me in crimson – suddenly shoots through my body to my tingling toes, and the slambang of blood pressure rolling in a big sinal wave snaps me up like I’m waking from a bad dream, pawing at my back before I flop backwards, arms dropping deadweight to mat over my head, palms to the lights with fingers twitching, little jolts of aftershock hitting me as my legs splay!

This time the cover is AUTHORITATIVE. You SLIDE onto me, and there’s no tender cradling. Your forearm is in my CHEEK, just like Lord Regal would have insisted, grinding my face into the mat, blood smearing your warm skin. You hook your arm under BOTH my legs, just above the knees, snapping me almost in half as you roll your weight into the cover and DEMAND the fucking count. And the crowd buys it. They buy it so hard that it goes platinum – which makes it all the more shocking when Pippa gets to that crisp “TWO-AHHHHH!” …

… and I KICK both legs free and flop my hips to the side, shoving my shoulder off the mat JUST enough to break the count. The look on your face, just inches above me, is fucking priceless.

For a moment we’re both just sprawled there, and then you get to your feet. I can TELL you want to argue with Pippa about the count – but just a glance between you two makes it clear that won’t get you anywhere. And you let that anger take you. You bend down, snarling at me.


I hear it so often I oughtta make a T-shirt.

I grin up at you from the mat, drunken and dazed, my teeth shining white as a Cheshire cat behind the mask of blood.

“… nnnnnaaaah.” I pant back at you in a long drunkard’s drawl.

The RAGE. You reach down for me, to haul me up to my knees. Thing is … you reach where everyone reaches. You reach for my punky battletails, the urge to use ’em like handles just too much to resist. Dragging me off the mat, onto my knees, the heat and intimacy and strangeness of our natural chemistry forgotten for a moment in pure prideful fury. You’re gonna sort me out.

But I know where your hands are. Gripping my head. Not defending yourself. From my knees, thighs splayed, my ass resting on the mat between my boots. You’ve got my head cranked back, your fist clenched tight. And I’m still grinning, tasting my own blood. My studded tongue swiping my black lips, tasting that thick hot red red kroovy. And the taste of my own blood –

– fuck, it REALLY gets my adrenaline going. My right fist FIRES up in a drunk uppercut, swift and hot, DRILLING low into your belly. Real low. Pounding into the softness just under your abs, hammering your feminine vitals. You double over, releasing my hair to lace hands over your aching womb, and I reach up and snatch YOUR dark hair, digging my hands into it, my black nails sliding into that midnight mane, and DRAG myself to my boots on unsteady legs, rising off my knees like a fucking zombie. And grinning like a god-damn bloody madwoman the whole way up.

“IT AIN’T NAPTIME, SUGARTITS,” I snarl at you, and I clench your hair viciously tight, tattooed knuckles going bone white as I crank your head back and YANK you forward as I SNAP my own head forward – and DRIVE my aching, bloody skull RIGHT into yours. There’s a CRACK and a mist of blood between us, and I stagger off to the right on rubber legs as you sag down almost to a knee. I reel like Jackie Chan in Legend of Drunken Master all the way back to the ropes – and when I hit them, I simply drop back, letting them take my weight, letting the steel cables snap me out and SLING me back at you –

– and as you’re still bent over I CONTINUE using injured bits of my body to attack you in ways that will make Gemma wince and curse through gritted teeth and will make my staff of physicians rub their hands together in cartoonish greed. With my head all bashed up and face blood-masked, I come in a dizzy adrenal rush off the ropes and SHOOT my right leg up, turning my hip into it, DRIVING my heavily braced right knee into the side of your head as you’re bent over! There’s a THWACK and I let out a fucking wolf roar as I DRILL you, the titanium Donjon kneebrace acting like a lethal weapon as you fucking DROP. Your head wavers and topples to the mat like a drooping daisy, knees folding bonelessly under you, leaving you facedown and shuddering with your ass sexily up in the air as I stagger off the Running Knee Trembler (the forearm grind pin made me think of Regal and well, here we are with fresh neurological trauma), hobbling a little bit since reconstructed and braced knees should not be used as offensive weapons at that speed. But it’s worth it to see you like that. Tasting the blood on my lips, I grin – and stagger to the ropes, my manic hazel gaze finding Charlie, who’s looking a little glassy-eyed herself, slack-jawed at the sudden switch from raw and shameless sexuality to sheer unbridled bloody brutality.

I level a finger at her like the fucking mask of the Red Death at a party she’s hosting.


Melodramatic, sure. But what the fuck is pro wrestling if not a mix of bloodsport, ballet and vaudeville?

I turn back to you, panting. Leaning back on the ropes, hooking my elbows on the top for deep hungry breaths. Still soaring on adrenaline. My aching, pulsing bloody head filled with madness and such deliciously brutal thoughts. You’re starting to stir, tough bitch that you are, pushing your hands into the mat vaguely to try to get yourself up out of your compromising position, peeling your aching head off the canvas. Can’t let ya get your brain up and runnin’ just yet. Gotta keep you breathless. Keep you hurting. I take in a deep, steadying prana breath, cycling in oxygen and taking one moment to control my breathing (and thus the universe, as the man says) before I snap off the ropes and lunge forward, grabbing a fistful of your sweaty dark hair tail, and with my other hand snatching the BACK of your suit, HOISTING it up into your cheeks with a vengeful twist of my fist, YANKING that hot sweaty enamel up into your ass and sawing it into your cunt as I crank your head back – “Come with me, darlin’,” I purr, low and growling and sultry – and I RUN you forward and SLING you into the corner …

… aiming that pretty face of yours right between the first and second buckles, so you shoot between them like a fucking dart and your head CRACKS against the steel ringpost, and blood begins to flow as you slump in a limp heap over the middle rope, arms dangling outside.

Sometimes I have those fuckin’ interminable flashbacks for a reason, y’know.

There’s another fucking explosion of “HO-LY SHIT!” chants, along with some of the classic “YOU SICK FUCKS!”. I give the punters a grin through the blood, and get howls of glee in return. Fuckin’ animals. My eyes go back to you, slumped groaning over the second rope.

I have an idea. And it’s not a nice one.

But it’ll look fucking sick for the highlight reel.

I turn and snarl at Pippa through my crimson mask. She’s looking a bit shell-shocked. There’s not much head trauma or blood loss in the part of the wrestling biz where insurance salesmen use their family’s vacation fund to pay for you to gently headlock them and then sit on their face.

“Try to count us out again and I will EAT YOUR FUCKING HEART.”

Don’t even care how she responds. No time. Back to you. You’re moving a bit. God damn, you’re tough. I HURT. My head is ringing, my body feeling the aches from the brutality we’ve inflicted on each other – but we ain’t done yet. And THAT thought has me tingling, my cunt still slick with orgasm and eager for more, my nipples achingly stiff and hot. I relish the iron sweetness of blood on my tongue and move to you, my hips pressing hotly to the smooth line of your back, smearing my heat on you, curling fingers in your hair gently, pulling sticky slick wild strands from your moaning, bloody face. The camera girl is close, so I beckon her in closer. Cradling your battered bleeding face as I grin wolfishly in my crimson mask. “This is what you all paid to see,” I purr to the camera – and DRAG my pierced tongue over your neck and cheek again. This time tasting your blood along with your sweat. Lewd. Horrid. Savage. Intimate.

The crowd GROANS and gasps and wriggles in uncertain vampiric lust. I can hear the howls and catcalls and gasps from the crowd across the street in the fucking park.

“So watch.”

I drag you up, off the ropes, and turn you to face me. Cradling your ass, I hoist you up, sitting you on the top buckle where you sway in a daze. I lunge up off the toes of my Docs and drill a forearm across your jaw, just to be sure, to keep you tranquilized, spit and sweat and blood beautifully misting off your face as I cross your eyes with the jaw-rocking forearm shiver.

Then I step through the ropes, and the crowd is crowding closer, not wanting to miss a second. I give them a grin over my shoulder, sly and wicked and letting them know shit’s about to go down.

This is SUCH a fucking stupid idea, I think to myself. Then I laugh, cackling like a mad crow, and answer myself out loud, a mad gleeful yell.


I step UP, onto the second rope, bouncing on it before I find my balance, favoring my braced knee just a tiny bit, swaying a bit from the likely concussion. I reach over the ropes, and SNATCH your hair, dragging your head under my right arm as I TOSS your right arm behind my neck. The noise of the crowd gets louder. Surging, like a tidal wave.

My gloved left hand slides down your body, along your suit, over the curve of your breast, down your tight belly, along that incredible quad, tracing the tattered fishnets with maddening little ticks of my black nails and then hooking my hand behind your knee, and TENSING my arm to drag that leg up. The tension of my cradle grip lifts your ass off the buckles a bit, and the ropes sway under my boots as the crowd noise swells louder, a tsunami looming over the shore.

I flick a look over my shoulder at Charlie, where she’s gaping open-mouthed. Starting to lift her hands, to plead for me to stop.

I give her a wink.

And then I tense up EVERYTHING, my abs etching to sheer steel, my back defining brutally as I HOIST you up off the top buckle and TOPPLE backwards, my boot coming up and pushing at the steel post, KICKING off the second rope and DRIVING us backwards …

… to fucking CRASH into the apron with a SUPER FISHERMAN’S SUPLEX!

There’s a THUD of a couple hundred pounds of meat hitting a wooden platform at high speed, the ring boards all SHAKE hard enough to rock Pippa off her damn feet and down onto her generous ass, the ropes jolting and dancing as we land like a fucking bomb going off.

I manage to brace just enough to let you take most of the impact, kicking my hips up and torquing my shoulders, and even for braced for the inevitable hard landing it STILL hits like losing a fucking game of chicken with a train, BOUNCING me off the edge of the ring and toppling me to the Shed floor where I land in a sprawl – and grin madly, even as I knuckle at my battered spine and drum my boots on the concrete.

And above me, laid on the apron like an offering, you lay like a beautiful painting of a shipwreck, one arm and one leg dangling off the edge, your head canted to the side, your cameltoe flaunted with your legs sprawled wide, your body shuddering with little beautiful aftershocks as sweat and cum and saliva and blood paint the curves of your taut perfect brutalized body.

Fucking … wrecked.

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“Right bitch!  Get your fucking over inked fat ass back in there!” I growl as I toss you into the ring under the bottom rope by your purple pigtails and your little skirt.  To be honest you don’t offer a lot of resistance as you roll onto the canvas and flop over onto your back with a soft moan, daubing the grubby mat with sweat and blood and girlie cum.  And you just lie there, eyes half closed, mouth half open, pert tits pumping up and down, flat belly going in and out.

That’s when it sinks in.  I’ve hurt her.  I’ve actually really hurt her!  That’s Megan Dow lay there on the mat, distressed and bleeding and I’m the one who fucking did it to her!  This select little Shed crowd, plus all the great unwashed masses across the road in the park, not to mention the whole fucking internet within a few hours have been witness to this!  It’s everything I wanted!  Every fucking thing! 

I’m delighted (“Yeah I just fucking stuck it to dat bitch!!!”).

But I’m appalled too.  (“OMG!  Meg, I’m so so sorry!  We just made each other cum, girl, and now I’ve put blood on your face!)

Fuck!  Fuck!  How did she do this to me?  How can you hate someone and love them so much in the same instant?  This whole damn match is totally messing with my head!  I’m going to end this.  I’m going to end this right now!  Pin her nice and quick.  Pin her nice and clean before it all gets out of hand.

I scoot into the ring under the bottom rope and slide over to you.  You’re so … so … so fucking lovely.  Lay there, all hurt and vulnerable.  But still, that crazy gleam in your half lidded eyes.  Deep breath, Brandi girl!  Then I smear myself across you, my tits compacting against yours, your sweat sodden shirt wetting my shiny rubberised suit.  I press my forearm against your head almost tenderly as I turn your left cheek to the canvas and then I reach down and hook your near thigh to raise your leg.  The pale skin is silky, fucking gorgeously silky smooth and I grip on tight as your big red boot is hoisted over us and I lean back on you with a little gasp of … well, desire actually.

I look up at Pippa.  No yelling.  Normally I’d yell at the ref, not to make her go quicker but to rub it in for my trapped victim that she is getting her ass damn well pinned.  But not this time.  This is respectful, this is considerate.  She’s down nice and smart, hand slapping the canvas.

“ONNEEEaaaah!”  Yeah, that’s it Pippa.  Good job love.  Let’s get this wrapped up now.

“TWOaaaaah!”  Nearly done now, Meg, my little love.  Then I’m going to take you back to that hotel room and lick the folds of your sweet cunnie until you …


Did you just kick out?  How the fuck?  Why the fuck?  This match was done.  You were done.  Or at least I thought you were!  You were wasted and looked like hell.  But you still kicked out.  Now I’m confused.  Now I’m fucking mad as fucking fuck! FUCK!!

“Why the fuck didn’t you just stay down, you crazy mare?  I was gonna take the win.  Then take you back to the hotel.  I was gonna be on top.  It would have been so fucking sweet!” I mutter angrily as I hoist you to your feet.  “Now I’m gonna have to fucking WASTE you!” I snarl as I drill my big gold boot low into your belly, folding you over with a little grunt.  I hook your limp arm over my shoulder, grip ya head tight with my own arm and grab onto that leather belt around your waist with my free hand.  Then I set myself and with a soft moan of sheer effort, I hoist you up into the Vertical Suplex! 

And all of a sudden, I get a flashback.  To The Miners’ Welfare Club in Cwmbran, South Wales.  I’m in a match with a girl called Tanya from Cardiff.  She’s the holder of a tinpot little title, The Welsh All Comer’s Title or some such bullshit and I was an all comer, so to speak, well more like all cummer actually as back then I was shagging anything that moved!  Either way, we’re in this title match in this fucking miners club.  There was no coal mine by this time of course, Maggie Thatcher had put paid to that, but there was still a social club where the now ex-miners could get hammered on Brains SA and watch two girl wrestlers beat the shit out of each other.  Tanya had held the belt for a while.  She was an amateur submission style wrestler turned pro.  A gym rat too, with an ugly face but a good body and lots of fake tan and bottle blonde hair.  She specialised in submission finishers and right now she had me in a real fucking doozy.  She called it the Welsh Pretzel.  I might have taken issue with her regarding the notion of a pretzel coming from Wales but I was too busy screaming my face off as she had both my legs grapevined  around each of hers, sinking down in a half squat, whilst she hoisted me off the mat with a hammerlock applied to one of my arms and a choke hold around my neck.  It had been a long hard match so once she got this calamity of a hold locked onto me I was screwed.  The home crowd were on their feet urging the local girl to finish me and the ref was in my face getting ready to accept my inevitable submission.

But then, as I regarded the fat sweaty balding bloke in the stained white tee shirt through eyes screwed up with pain, I had an idea.  A desperate one, granted, but it was better than giving this Welsh bitch my screaming submission.  Besides, there was a fifty quid win bonus on the line, not to mention the plastic title strap!  So I beckoned the ref to me, like was gonna whisper a sweet nothing to him or something.  And then when he got close enough, I grabbed his filthy white cotton tee and pulled him towards me hard.  The fat twat lost his balanced and bowled into us both collapsing the deliciously balanced hold and sending us all in a heap to the mat.  Okay, not the most noble of action ever seen in a wrestling ring but sometimes needs must.

And things got even better.  As I scrambled up to my feet I noticed that ‘Tough Tanya’ as she like to refer to herself was still down.  The gym bunny bitch had twisted her ankle!  Before I could capitalise though, the ref was in my face, chewing me out, threatening to DQ me as the crowd roared their disapproval at me too.  In all that mayhem and madness, no one noticed me stood there, nose to nose with the ref, grinding my black patent leather boot down onto Tanya’s gleaming white boot embossed on the side with bright red Welsh dragon, as I mangled her ankle a little more.  From the way she was howling and slapping at my leg, guess Tanya wasn’t quite as tough as she reckoned.

Then I went for the finish.  I’m not stupid though.  I knew how dangerous a wounded submission hold specialist can be.  Which is the fucking point of all this!  Before I tried to put her away, I took her out with my go=to move for this very purpose, The Vertical.  Back in the day, the Vertical was about as big and spectacular as things got so it was actually my signature finisher.  This was in the time of financial crises, stock market panics and all that shit so I called it The Wall Street Crash.

So I got her up there and the whole room went quiet.  They knew I was gonna waste her and they didn’t like that.  But they just couldn’t stop watching.  Well, it was such a fucking sexy scene.  She was wearing this new skimpy one piece in the colours of the Welsh flag with a big red dragon embossed on the front.  It was a very sexy cut and with her toned and fake-tanned legs and gleaming white patent leather boots she definitely caught the eye of those ex-miner boys, especially when I had her hoisted up there upside down and on display, with a big handful of that suit so it was wedgied up her firm pert ass. I had on a deep dark red leather one piece with my fishnets and black boots.  I was the bad girl tonight and took plenty of abuse I can tell you.  Not that those guys would have kicked me out of bed.  They should have been so fucking lucky!

BAAAMMM!  Nailed her.  Fucking hurt her.  Wasted her.  She was done.  And she didn’t resist when I locked her into a figure four, ensuring that her injured ankle was the on the bent leg, the one I threw my boot across to lever the hold!  A screaming submission followed and I took the belt, standing over her with it as she cried her eyes out on the mat, pushing my crotch into her to rub in my win as the crowd booed loudly.  I still hold that title belt.  Probably because nobody can be arsed challenging me for such a fucking piece of shit!

Anyhow, the point of this happy little tale is this.  If it was good enough for not so Tough Tanya, it’s  hopefully good enough for you.  So I hold you up there … and hold you up there … and HOLD YOU UP THERE!  Gleaming red DMs high in the air, firm toned legs perfectly straight, your body moulded side by side with mine.  And your bloodied face a picture of distress as the blood sinks into your skull, flooding your brain until there is no room for your thoughts, only the urgent throbbing of your pounding heart.

And there it is.  The whole world can see it.  Megan “Punky” Dow, the no-two-ways about it, beyond-all-doubt, great Punky, held up there in MY fucking Vertical Suplex, my Wall Street Crash, unable to do anything but wait until I decide to send her crashing into the canvas.  And I make her wait … and wait … and fucking wait.  I got you set up nice, your hot bleating body wedged against mine, a ferociously firm grip on that leather belt with my hand.  I’m managing to control your weight as it shifts minutely this way and that, the way you do as a kid when you balance a stick on the end of your finger.  I can milk this pose for fucking ages!  I’m  fucking loving it!!!  The crowd are fucking loving it!!

Then, when the lactic acid begins to burn and my muscles start to tremble, and only then, do I kick my gold boots out from under me and send is hurtling back matwards! 

TTHOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!  The ring boards shudder under us.  I lean into you and use you as a half crash mat, letting you take the full impact of both of us on an only very slightly springy and otherwise hard ring floor.  You jerk up momentarily into a sitting position, with a what the fuck just happened to me? look on your shocked face, before flopping back to lie on the canvas, wasted, just like they all do. So you are mortal after all, Mrs. Dow.

I roll myself onto you, to make the cover smartly, efficiently, all business.  This match is about to end.  There is no doubt in my mind.  I use my right arm to scoop up both legs and use my left one to force your head to one side and paste your cheek to the mat in an act of bitchy dominance.  I roll back a little to make you take my weight (You’ll be taking it a lot more later love, I’m thinking) and roar at Pippa do her job.  “COUNT HURRRRRRR!!” And she does.  The over excited Shed mob count along with her.  It’s like primary school for drunken thugs.




Okay, what happened to fucking THREE!?!?  Surely these fucking morons can count to three?  Well I know Pippa can but she’s pulled back, her hand held up in the air, a look of total amazement on her ugly hard face.  And then I realise.  You’ve kicked out!  You’ve … just … fucking … KICKED OUT!  I can’t compute this.  I don’t know whether to laugh or throw up. I turn my head, take a little to look down into your face.  It’s impassive, eyes closed, but there’s still just a trace of that insane grin, taunting me.

I get to my feet and stand over you.  Maybe I can take this out on the ref?  Blame it on Pippa and a slow count?  I look at her and her quiet confident bitchy gaze back to me says, No way, love.  That was spot on.  Like a Swiss fucking watch and you know it!

So it has to be you then.  You are the one responsible for me not now celebrating the biggest win of my career.  You, the total fucking nutcase who I’ve totally fallen in love with!  “JUST STAY DOWN, YOU MAD BITCH!” I shriek at you.  But my rage just seems to wash over you, more like a gentle breeze than a raging storm, as you simply tell me, “Nnnnnnaaaah!”

“That’s it.  That’s fucking it!  You cocky, patronising bitch!  You think you’re such a hard ass!  You think you’re all that in the ring!  So much better than everyone else!  Up on your feet, Dow”  Up! UPPP!  U … UUUGGHHHHHH!

My eyes are focused on the top of your head where my hands and gripping your pigtails.  I don’t see the uppercut.  My hands aren’t free to protect myself even if I did.  I guess I didn’t think you would have that much fight left in you.  How wrong was I?  It’s pretty basic stuff, mind.  Desperation stuff.  But I suppose that’s the level we will be at from now on.  It’s a low blow.  Not quite a cunt bust.  But in some ways worse.  My hands fly involuntarily to paw at my shiny covered lower belly as my cheeks blow out and I fold over, whilst I watch you slowly get to your feet, a wide crazy grin lighting up your previously ashen face.  What are you Dow?  The fucking Terminator?  Surely you’re not ready to go again?  Stick it to me some more? 

“It ain’t naptime sugartits!”  You snarl at me.  Now that line wasn’t one of Arnie’s.  But it should have been!  You’ve got my hair now and winding your head back.  No, you wouldn’t!  Not the face!  I thought you liked my face!


A loud OOOOOOOOHHHHHH!! From the crowd.  Plus one male voice above all the rest: “Awww that must have fucking hurt!”  Oh really?  Ya fucking think, dickhead?

Fucking headbutt!  “Awww faaackk!  Bitch!”  I instantly have the mother of all head aches and and what borders on 20/200 vision.  My legs nearly buckle under me and I teeter mid ring, hands on my head, sort of hunched over. You’ve moved away from me I sense.  But then I hear the creak of the turnbuckles and the steady drumming of boots on the ring floor and know you are heading back my way at speed!


Another loud OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!! from the crowd.  This time it’s nearly drowned out by you roaring like a bear.

SSHHIITTTT!!! I don’t know what just connected with my head but it wasn’t just flesh and bone. A wave of nausea washes over me as my knees just buckle and I flop onto my front, tits cushioning my fall, my body shuddering as I try to absorb the trauma of a massive shot to the head!

I hear you yelling.  Well there’s a surprise!  You running off your big mouth for a change!  I just catch the end of “ … you fucking asked for what’s gonna happen!”

And what is gonna fucking happen exactly?  Isn’t this bad enough?  I have a bad feeling as you haul me roughly up off the mat, my suit wrenched up between my butt cheeks in most unladylike fashion, and my eyes bug out wide when we run towards the corner and the waiting ropes … turnbuckles … corner post.  Which is to be?  Fuck!  Corner post it is!  Nasty fucking bitch!

CLANK!  A short sharp metallic sound.

Yet another OOOOHHHHHHHH! from the Shed not so faithful.  But then the chants of HO-LY SHIT! And YOU SICK FUCKS! suggest this is bad, really bad.  The warm glow from my just above my eyebrow confirms it.  I’m bleeding.  Oh Jesus!  I’m fucking bleeding!  I look out at the crowd as they gleefully respond to your crazy gloating antics, my body just hanging limply over the middle rope, bouncing up and down ever so gently.

I shake my head to clear it and begin to try ease up off the middle strand without toppling myself out of the ring.  But you are swarming all over me again.  With a camera up close now.  I guess you want everyone to see this now, just like how I did before.  Like I’ve always said, matches ebb and flow.

“This is what you all paid to see,” you say, which makes me feel sick as you grab my face in your hands and run your tongue over it.  This isn’t tender.  This isn’t sexy.  This is you getting right inside my head, trying to destroy my self-belief, making me think that I can never ever beat you.  And you might well be succeeding because when you say, “So watch.” into that camera, my heart sinks all the way down to my nice new gold wrestling boots.

You pull me back off the ropes, spin me around to face you and hoist me up to sit on the top turnbuckle.  I don’t like it up here.  This is a bad place to be.  A really fucking bad place.  I shake my head weakly, pleading for mercy with you when you rock me with a big forearm to the face.  Blood and sweat and spit fly up as it connects, scrambling my brains for a few seconds more, leaving me exposed and vulnerable as I sit up top, my legs spread, my crotch grinding down on the thinly padded metal. 

You vanish for a second and then you’re in behind me, up on the fucking ropes.  Shit! More bad!  More really fucking bad!  “Oh gawd. What you doin’?” I mumble as you hook my arm around your neck, shackling us together for some insane ride no doubt.  “What ya gonna do, you crazy bitch?”  Your other hand is all over me … tit?  No such luck.  Belly?  Not likely.  Under my leg, hooking it.  Oh fuck!  But this is all wrong.  Surely we are arse about face here.  We should be the other way round for this move …


You wouldn’t. Oh yes you fucking would and here we go ….

Your hot bod is pressed tightly to my back and I feel it stiffen, flex and harden and know we are about to fly.  You haul me backwards off the top and we hurtle downwards!  Jesus! You’re trying to fucking kill me!


Fisherman’s Fucking Buster right onto the fucking apron!  I’ve just taken a Fisherman’s from the top rope onto the apron!  I can’t breathe!  I can feel nothing but pain!  I can’t move!  I can’t speak!  I can’t even think! 

For fuck’s sake, Megan!  I can’t BELIEVE you just did that to me!

My head flops to one side as my right arm and leg dangle weakly off the apron and I just stare blankly at the shrieking hysterical crowd as they point and wince and laugh nervously.  I’m done.  I’m fucking finished.  I can’t come back from this.  Get that fat lady warmed up folks, because she’s going to have to break out a tune very soon!

I stop feeling sorry for myself to wonder where you are and what happened to you, because why aren’t you taking advantage of this?  Then I realise that you’re down too.  On the arena floor, splayed out, a crazy satisfied grin all over your face.  There’s a strange hiatus in the match now.  The Shed is going nuts with chants and shouts and screams and wild excited chatter.  Pippa meanwhile, is watching anxiously.  She can’t start another count.  Every single person in the whole venue, not least both of us, would lynch her if this ended in a count out now!  Her other option is to call the paramedics and have us both taken to A&E but she decides to take a rain check on that one when you begin to stir. 

The crowd urge you to your feet as you haul yourself up using the apron edge.  Then, grinning, nodding to them, arms wide, hands coaxing them to a crescendo of noise, you move towards me. 

“C’mere, sugartits,” you growl at me as you grab my trailing arm with one hand and my leg with the other to haul me off the apron.  “Like I said, it ain’t naptime yet!”

I tumble off the apron and have the presence of mind to land on my knee pads rather than go splat on the floor, and then you generously help me up to my feet with a handful of my sweat sodden dark hair.  I’m propped back against the apron to help keep myself upright, and give a little relieved gasp as you hand slips out of my hair.  But that is the least of my worries.  As I wobble slightly, mouth gaping, hair half covering my face, you stand in front of me, legs apart, hands on hips, a cruel smile on your lips, your head nodding gently, knowingly.  Your worryingly glazed eyes are on me, more precisely they are on my tits.  I deliberately wore this outfit to distract you, I deliberately arranged the front zipper to show off some teasing cleavage and fuck me, have you picked a hell of a time to notice it!  We’ve more or less left each other’s tits alone during the match so far.  But now I get a feeling that is about to change.

The crowd are tuned into this too.  They know the score.  A nice pair, prominently displayed, demanding attention, are fair game in a women’s match.  If you don’t want them hitting, you shouldn’t have them out!  A cruel murmur of excited expectation bubbles up and you play up to it instantly.

“Well, Whaddaya think?”  You ask, half turning to them, grinning.  “Shall I?  WELL?! FUCKIN’ SHALL I?”


More grinning, nodding from you.  I’m feeling pretty sick right now.  You place your right boot forwards and slowly and deliberately bring your right hand up and around then …


“AAAAAYYYIIIIEEEEEEEEE!!”  I cry out as you unleash a ferocious back hand chop right across my half exposed boobs, sending a spray of sweat up off them that glistens under the ring lights, as the sound of hard martial arts calloused hand impacting on tender flesh reverberates around the night club.  My knees almost buckle under me with the pain.  Fuck!  Talk about feeling the burn.  And you’re not done yet.  You turn and grin at the crowd, lick the end of the fingers with that studded tongue and then wait for the reaction.


The chant gets louder and faster until …



An overhead chop this time.  Another spray of sweat.  Another anguished cry from me as the sadistic fuckers in the crowd whoop with delight.  I sag to my knees with both hands flying to my chest to cover my stinging burning boobs.  I look up at you, eyes pleading, no more, please no more.  You give me a patronising ‘Aww, poor baby’ pout and sink your hands into my hair to haul me up.  I feel your heat as you lean into my and bury your face in my sweaty hair. 

“Time to give these mad fuckers a big finish, sugartits!” You gasp hotly in my ear, before your roll me back into the ring under the bottom rope yet again.  But this time you roll in with me, never releasing my hair as you haul me up and immediately drive your knee low into my black shiny enamelled belly.  I fold over, air leaving my lungs via my mouth with a loud “OUUUUSSSHHH!”

As if in one smooth motion you then ram my head between your thighs by the grip on my hair, your sodden boy shorts pressed to the back of my neck, your arms wrap around my waist and you haul my boots off the mat and continue lifting until my legs are draped across your shoulders, my crotch is rammed in your face and you have there, perfectly positioned for a powerbomb! 

Up to now, there has been no grandstanding, no posing for the crowd as you milk the moment and I suppose my poor battered and confused brain had wondered about that.  But now I know why.  Because once you have me up there, it’s NOW you go for the the big pop from the fans!  I know what’s coming but I can’t stop it.  I just sit up there high, on your shoulders, my hands gripping your hair, shaking my head weakly as you turn us slowly through a full 360 degrees. I’m bracing myself for a big big impact.  And then I feel that delicious tingle and my eyes roll up into my head as you go to work with your mouth on my vinyl covered crotch.

“Fucking dirty bitch!” I gasp down at you so only you can hear.  Your hands are cupping my butt cheeks, forcing me onto you, and it feels sooooo fucking nice!  Even nicer because of the precarious position I’m in moments away from being smashed into the mat and probably pinned for a three count.  Mouth and tongue working furiously now, my hot upper thighs pressed tightly around your ears, you spin us.  More rapidly this time and only half a turn, as you execute a TILT A WHIRL SIT OUT POWERBOMB right in the middle of the fucking ring!


The ring shudders violently as we hit so fast, so hard.  You’re fucking good at this.  You’ve done this before!  My head, neck, upper back right across my shoulders, all take a serious hit!  And I just lie there between your legs, my body bleating and my own legs in those tattered and torn black fishnets draped across your shoulders still and giving out the odd spasm as the after shock washes over me.

It’s a huge huge move. But the thing, the fucking thing that really gets me is that your face never comes out of my crotch.  You keep on me all the time.  And when Pippa dives to the mat, checks my shoulders, slaps her hand and yells “ONNEEAaah!”  You still keep going.  And then


It dawns on me.  I know now what you meant by a “big finish!”

Isn’t the brain a funny thing.  Sometimes it can take seconds to formulate just one thought.  Other times the old grey matter can process a whole fucking scenario in a fraction of a moment.  You’re not content with just nailing me with a big move and making the pin.  You want me to orgasm whilst you do it!  And you might just fucking well do It!  I’m soooo aroused and you’re working me so beautifully and I feel deliciously vulnerable all cradled and rolled up in your arms with your head between my legs.  Mmmmmm yeeahhhh.  Fuckkkkiitttt.  Why the hell not?  Just surrender yourself to it … to the superb move, to the super hot pin, to this gorgeous bitch who has just beaten the fuck out of ya!


But then I think about you after the match, that big gloating grin on your face as you take the plaudits of the crowd.  And your Twitter feed bragging about how you “owned me” in that ring as you pinned me.  I just know you’ll crow about this.  You’ve been real nice to me about this match and all, but after the show we have put on, you’ll take the glory!  You’ll take the kudos from this!  At the end of the day this is pro wrestling and you’ve worked hard for these bragging rights so you’re gonna make the most of it to build you career and your reputation.  I imagine the crazy triumphant grin on your face, your mouth running off to anyone who will listen:  “Brandi was tough, but I took her! I then I owned her!  Did you see me fucking OWN HER?!”

No way!  No way you’re doing that to me!  NO FUCK-ING WAY!

I lift my right boot, disturbing the leg clad in wrecked fishnet which was lazily draped over your shoulder, and I slam the heel down hard into your upper back.  At the same time I jerk my right shoulder up and around to break Pippa’s diligent counting.  You let out a surprised grunt, rearing back reflexively, your face now only half lust crazed, whilst the other half shows the beginning of pain.  That’s good, bitch.  Because that’s how you need it to be right now!  I bring my boot back and around and then ram it sole first into your crimson streaked features.  You fall back with a little pained cry.  And I ram it into your head again.  And again.  And again.  Driving you off and away from me and further scrambling your already well whisked brains into the bargain.

Suddenly I feel so fucking PUMPED!  So ultra turned on.  I’m starting to realise what has been  driving you for most of this match.  I feel like a horny psycho on amphetamines as a mixture of raw sex and violence stimulates ridiculous levels of adrenaline to surge through my body.  I’m not even planning my next moves right now.  I’m just going with the flow, riding the tide of fury.  Up to my feet.  Grab your hair.  Then you’re up to your feet.  Take the left arm.  Whip to the ropes.  You seem out of it, but wrestler’s instinct turns you to take them on your back and fling off the, right back at me.  Rushing to meet you.  Extend the right arm and throw myself at you.  Flying clothesline!  Right across the throat.  It nearly takes your fucking head off and flips you right over through 270 degrees so that you land face first on the mat, shuddering, groaning one red DM kicking at the canvas weakly in painful fury.  On my feet, still not thinking about it, your hair, up you come, arm, whip to the corner, it’s poorly timed, weak, but it doesn’t matter, all it needs to do is get you there!

And there you are.  Sagging onto the turnbuckles.  Panting.  Wondering what the fuck just hit you.  I could charge in.  But you might slip out and leave me to crash into the pads.  Besides I need to draw breath and also think.  I walk in slowly, deliberately.  You give me that insane knowing grin, daring me to … no actually, WILLING me to punish you some more!  And I’m so in the mood to give it to you!  I place the tips of the fingers of my upturned left hand under your chin and tilt your head back gently, opening up your chest to me.  Then I turn to the crowd, a questioning look on my face, before I lick the tips of the fingers of my right hand and bring it up and down onto your tits with a nasty WHAP!

You cry out, your mouth grimacing, but your eyes are still smiling, asking me, Is that it?  Is that the best you got?  Well don’t think you can draw me into this you crazy bitch!  That was just a bit of showboating payback stuff for the morons in the crowd, this is the real business of the moment.  I stoop down, grab the backs of your thighs just below your ass and hoist you up to sit on the top turnbuckle.  Then up on my toes, a little jump and a forearm to your jaw just to keep you off balance whilst in clamber up in front of you, my boots on the middle rope, your head lolling against my shiny enamel suit.  I wind my left hand onto a pigtail and jerk your head back as I stand over you and look out into the crowd.  And then, just to remind them AND YOU that I haven’t forgotten your nasty little trick with your entrance routine, I yell:


And then I give it to you.  Repeatedly.  The crowd counting it down.  Most of them even manage to make it to ten.  Then I let you hair go.  Your head flops back against me.  That was a right fucking pasting for you bitch!  I bet your eyes ain’t smiling now! 

Which is just as well.  Because where I’m going next is high risk, especially if your opponent is compos mentis, which hopefully you ain’t right now.  I plant my hands on your shoulders and slowly, gingerly clamber up to stand on the top ropes in front of you, your face trailing along my belly and onto my camel toe quite deliciously and distractingly.  But sadly, once my boots are planted up there, I need to go, as with my balance I shouldn’t even be up there in the first place!  So, three quick little bounces on those top ropes, leap up, clamp your head with my knees and fall backwards, hauling you off the top with me as I turn a somersault to land on my knee pads and spike your head and back in a TOP ROPE HURACANRANA!

I get MY biggest pop of the night so far from the crowd for that one as you crash to the ring floor, half sit up from the impact and then flop down to settle on your back, motionless, eyes half closed, chest pumping madly in that sodden, well worn, tight, cotton tee.  I stay down on my knees gasping, delighted I managed to nail something I’ve been practising for weeks, something normally way out of my comfort zone.  Of course, purists amongst you will be anxious to point out that my new signature move is in fact a Frankensteiner which is why I have cornily termed it the ‘BRANDISTEINER’ but I don’t think the drunken Shed mob give a fuck about all that shit anyhow!

Whatever you wanna call it, I’m on a roll now, putting on a real high spot show for the fans.  So what is it building to?  Where do we go from here, Punky, my lovely girl?  I’ll fucking tell you where, bitch!  I push up to my feet and stomp across you, slipping my gold boot under your shoulder and using it you flick you over, lifeless, onto your front.  I’m hungry for this one now.  Pumped, focused, all over it.  All over you.  I plant my left boot into the fold at the back of your left knee and hook your boot around mine.  I do the the same with my right and grapevine that boot too.  Then I quickly reach down with my left  hand to grab your belt, steadying myself, whilst I reach down and grab your right wrist with my right hand.  Then I slip my left hand across the grab your left wrist.  I pull back on your arms, lift you up so your tits are clear of the mat, steady myself and then fall back, in one smooth swift movement, no rocking back and forth, no struggling to get you up there, just using momentum and timing to hoist you aloft into a Romero Special!

My arms strain, my fishnet covered thighs bulge, as I fight to hold you up there, your back arched out, shoulders yanked back, your tits thrust skywards, tiny skirt riding up to show off those tight black shorts as your crotch quivers in mid air and leather boots creak as they strain against leather boots.  The crowd go mental.  It’s the first submission spot of the night and it might be the end after the long slug fest we have been engaging in with each other.  You look around, wild eyed, cursing, yelling and then your head falls back as you howl in pain, completing an exquisite sculpture for all to see in the centre of the ring.

And Pippa’s there to do her part.  She knows the ref adds something too, an important bit part to the drama.  She leans in close to your head, her face full of anxious concern for the suffering vulnerable wrestler. 


And she does, urgent, feigning being on the verge of panic, her hands held out, pleading with you:


“CMONNNNNN! !  SAY IT!  SAY IT, SLUT!  FUUCCKKINGGGGSSAAYYYYIIIIITTTT!!!!”  I roar again through teeth gritted with sheer effort!

And I think Pippa might have a heart attack:


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Writer 2:

It’s sometime as we’re plunging through the air towards the unforgiving ring apron and the Shed’s concrete floor that I realize exactly how hard I’m falling for you.

And not just because of that incredible wordplay I just pulled off, but for real.

The immediate attraction I had for you has just ramped up the more we’ve fought – with the determination, brutality and creativity you’ve put on display, with your sheer fucking grit and your attitude, that sexy mix of fuck you and fuck ME that you’re giving off in warm waves, I’m just falling head over fucking heels, while right now you’re heels over head as I drop you back in the Fisherman’s BUSTAH right onto the god-damn apron. I CRASH in along with you and tumble to the concrete, and I just lay there, blood painting my busted face with that big grin I can’t get rid of stretched madly across my features.

It’s not too long before I’m dragging myself back upright, panting like a night wolf. Up on my boots – and I want the crowd, now. I want them LOUD. I know how to goose a fucking crowd, too. I’ve been conducting them like god-damn Bugs Bunny in that one Looney Tune for over a decade now; whether I’m makin’ ’em rally behind me when I’m down and bleeding or whether I’m makin’ ’em snarl with hatred when I torment the hometown girl, I can always get the beautiful unwashed masses to play the tune I wanna hear. Right now I just want them LOUD, I want them FRENZIED. It’s easy to get ’em there; we’ve both been bashing each other all over the place, we’re both slick with orgasm, there’s been drama and brutality and bloodshed and they are CRAVING more. I can’t blame them. I’m the same fucking way.

Looking at you laying there on the apron in a broken heap, I want SO MUCH FUCKING MORE.

I give you a little trash-talk and haul you up, fucking salivating. I’ve been watching your tits all fucking night, but I think just NOW is when you finally start to realize how hard I’ve been eyefucking you. It’s almost like you offer your tits up more, TAUNTING me, daring me to drive on. And I DAMN sure don’t want to disappoint as you slump bow-legged against the apron, urging the crowd on – although I’ve clearly been fucking hanging around the UK too long since I ask “SHALL I?” – before I CRACK a chop across those lush tits. And ANOTHER. FUCK, that feels incredible. The cracks ECHO across the Shed, and you let out these delicious fucking moans, ripped from deep inside, your face twisted in exquisite torment. I can’t wait. I have to get you in that fucking ring. I have to fucking HAVE you. I’m actually god-damn salivating. Purring in your ear, promising to show these mad fuckers what we’ve got on tap.

Rolling you in by your suit with a grip on your hair, I gator roll right with you, my hand never leaving your hair. Great trick, that – I actually learned it from an mad old bitch heel from the ’80s who worked for me in FTW – and come right up to my feet dragging you with me right into a pistoning knee to that shiny belly, doubling you over.

Gods, you’re a fucking FEAST for me. My eyes wide and hungry, studded tongue glazing my black lips. Bent over with blood glazing that moaning beautiful face, your freshly-battered tits swaying in that sweetly revealing shiny suit, your lush ass jutted behind you. Fuckin’ hell, girl, I wanna grind into your face until you’re just PAINTED in me. God damn, I don’t think I can wait for a taste of you. And I don’t HAVE to. Time to have some fucking FUN with my lovely opponent. The only sad part is that this might just finish you –

– but what a fucking finish.

My heart pounds with excitement, my pierced nipples achingly stiff and tenting my SPLX sports bra, my sweaty Black Flag tee painted onto me as I draw in hot breaths with savage hunger, tasting blood and beer and desire on the air. I catch your head in my thighs, giving you a squeeze, rocking my hips to smear my soaked shorts on the back of your neck, and lean down to wrap my inked arms around your waist. I take a warm breath.

I started using a straitjacket powerbomb right around the debut of FTW, when I first started teaming with Gemma. It was my half of our tag finisher, the Stroke of Midnight – I’d get ’em up for the straitjacket bomb, and she’d catch them coming down with a backstabber. Fucking brutal piece of action. That was the kinda move that could break your damned back (hi, Rowan!). I learned the straitjacket from my best buddy and mentor, the Red Enforcer, who wanted me to start using more power moves as I built more lithe muscle, and to “stop diving headfirst outta the dang ring, dammit Meg”. It’s a damn fine move – with your arms restrained across your chest, there’s nothing to break your fall, and you take the full whiplash on your spine and the back of your skull.

But I don’t cross your wrists. I’ve got something ELSE in mind. A grin plays across my lips as I HOIST you up, feeling the moaning tension in you as I sloooowly turn around – grandstandin’ a bit. Feeding the crowd. We’ve fired ’em up, gotten ’em all primed, and now we’ve gotta keep ’em fueled until they’re ready to explode for us. That means showing ’em the goods, giving the mad fuckers some of what they want from a ladies match – and not intense psychosexual intimacy like we were doing before. Nah. Chops to the tits. Maybe at some point there might be some sweaty asses grinding into faces. And right now … showing you off to them.

And as I slowly turn, my gloved hands cradling that gorgeous mostly bared ass, my boots sliding with slow deliberation along the mat as my abs, quads and traps all tense up from holding you – I bask in the feast in my face. And I start to lick you, right through the vinyl. My tongue bead makes wicked little clicks. You hiss down at me in whispered flushed protest, but it sounds a lot like there’s no No in your moan, but instead a whole lotta Keep goin’.

So I do. I turn you again, my tongue working, my lips suckling, tasting you like honey, a low sweet purr in my throat as i give you one more faster turn –

– and BOOOOOM! fucking PLANT you mid-ring, with your legs draped over my shoulders! You’re on the mat, legs in the air, one hand on your hip to roll you up, my legs splayed out wide – and my other hand on the mat behind me to lift me up so I can keep my face tilted down and keep fucking eating you like ice cream even as I go for the pin.

Dirty, sure. But I’d hardly be lickin’ you so easily if you weren’t so damn wet.

Your legs go lax a moment, and I get that sad twinge again, not WANTING this roller coaster to stop, but willing to eat you alive until the train pulls in and you gush all over the station – but then you dig deep again. You’ve got iron veins that run DEEP in you, girl, like a fuckin’ eagle’s mountain, and you BUCK that shiny gold boot into my face!

“PFUHHHHH!” My bloody face snaps to the side, saliva and crimson and some of my late dinner misting off my face.

Then the boot crashes home again and again, my head snapping back each time, until my eyes roll like dice and I flop back. You’re on me in HEARTBEATS, the brutal beating and suicidal crash you just took shaken off you like a winter wolf shaking off snow, and my eyes gleam as I see the look on your face. I know that look because I’ve seen it in the mirror in cheap motels where I’m brawling some bitch in nothing but a clinging wet thong, in gym training mirrors where I’ve got some smug student right where I fucking want her, reflected in the nervous referee’s glasses as I drag a gasping opponent up to her feet and grin through the blood –

– you’re INFECTED with it now. The manic, erotic, savage DESIRE to compete and to LUXURIATE in the heat of it, to take pain as a gift and give it out threefold. The thing that drives me. Now it’s driving you just as fucking hard.

And I fucking KNEW you had it in you.

You haul me up and my dazed grin looks like a drunkard at dessert as you SLING me to the ropes, and I barely catch them on my back and hips and get snapped back with my bell fucking rung by your big shiny boot before you LEAP, and DRIVE that powerful arm right across my chest and collarbone! “UNGNGHHHHH!” I groan, fucking WHIPPED by the sheer momentum into an artful flip that’ll make the highlight reels of this affair as my boots god damn beautifully flail through the air before I CRASH down on my tits and bloody face, bouncing off the canvas wetly and then flopping back down with my skirt rucked up around my tattooed ass and one blood-red Doc thumping the mat. And you’re on me AGAIN, beautiful madwoman, giving in to the heat of the moment like we’re fucking Asia and hauling my deadweight up, basically just TOSSING my ass into the corner where I hit the shittily padded buckles with a THUD that rattles the ropes.

And as I sag back, my head lolling, my arms dangling over the top rope and my ass half sunk back on the middle buckle, I lick blood off the candlewax heat of my black lips – and grin at you. Because I fucking KNOW what you’re feeling. I WANT you to feel it. You come in – not rushing, no. Slow. Letting me watch you. My hips shift a little because you look so fucking HOT right now, surged with adrenaline that colors your rich complexion with sunset, your full breasts rising and falling even with the brutal chop bruises, the suit shining like forbidden secret painted onto your skin. You touch my chin, almost gently, and I fucking GIVE you my tits, arching my back a bit and TAKING that chop.

“AUUNHHHHHHHHHHHNnnmMMmmmh …” I growl, jolting with the shot – but I’m not showing nearly as much slappable cleavage, so the sound isn’t as impressive as my chop, with my tattered scanty shirt and my SPLX sports bra taking some of the hit. But you don’t take the dare in my eyes and do some more wicked chopping – fancies of you ripping my shirt off to get better louder chops into my tits and starting us on the naughty road to peeling each other out of our attire entirely as we brawl will have to wait until I can get you on Punky By Night, or at least until I’m in the shower with a waterproof vibe later this week – instead HOISTING me up and settling me on the top rope. I make quite the disheveled sexy fuckin’ picture up here, swaying a bit with my hands vaguely gripping the top rope, my skirt fluttering sweatily around my hips as my ass perches on the thin leather padding of the buckle, and you climb up with me, standing over me, those tits right in my face as you crank my head back –

– and I can’t help but grin even wider as you throw my own vintage Punky entrance back in my face for the glee of the crowd. “Ooooh, ya fuckin’ UNNH! UGGH! UNNH! NNH! UNFF!” My moans ring over the Shed as you fucking POUND my forehead, fresh blood running down it as you split me open further – we’re approaching Ric Flair levels of crimson masking here – and I slump in a dreamy daze against you. And then you’re sliding up, my aching hot slick face dragging over your incredibly tight fucking core, and over the heat of your cunt, still shiny from my licking –

– and I only have a moment to bask in the dreamy scent as my head rings like a concussed gong before you WRAP those legs around my head with vicious power and fucking FLING me off the top!

Fucking GORGEOUS, I have time to think in wonderment before I CRASH land – “UUUUUUUUGNHHHHHHHHHHHH …. fffffuuuuuck …” – jolting almost fully sat upright off the BRUTAL fucking impact as I stare vacantly across the ring into a cameragirl’s lens past the ropes. She focuses on my glazed stare and catches a trickle of saliva dangling from my black and blooded lip before I flop back into a splay, jolting from aftershocks and on fucking Dream Street! The crowd ERUPTS, their noise in the background as I’m laid the FUCK out by the Brandisteiner (I dunno if that’s what you’re calling it, but c’mon, it’s gotta be).

I think if you got a good solid pin on me right now, there’s a chance I’d be down for a three second tan which would be all you’d need to win. But you don’t want that, no. You don’t want to win yet. We’re not DONE yet.

It ain’t naptime (sugartits), after all.

Instead you flop me over onto my bloodied face, my sugartits mushroomed into the mat, and then you start to fold me up in a way that’s VERY familiar. I did my time in Mexico (ask me sometime about the ring name La Zorra Murada), and even if I hadn’t I’ve been in the ring with a few dozen girls from the same generation as me who wanted to be Eddie Guerrero or Rey Misterio (suckers – the cool kids wanted to be La Parka). So I’ve been snapped into the Romero Especial before – and you do it fucking BEAUTIFULLY.

I mean, I’ve been awkwardly folded and rocking horsed up after so many tries that my knees hurt more from THAT then the fucking hold. I’ve been slowly teetered into place with a hand free and wavering in the air. But you brook NONE of that shit.

You LOCK me in place, vining my legs, securing my belt for a grip before you get my arms, my eyes blearily blinking back to life and then widening as I realize just how fucking efficiently I’m being secured. There’s no hesitation, no delay – you just ROLL me right back up and I’m RAMMED into the air, my arms and legs fucking JAILED in place, arching me up to the lights like a god-damn offering.

“HOLY FUUUUUUUCK!” I curse, and not just from the pain, which is exquisite. Just from sheer AWE. I’ve worked with a handful of wrestlers who can just fucking blow me away with their submission skills, their fluid grace as smooth as ballet: Calli Quinn, Cheerleader Melissa, Bren Rua, Vivianne LaBelle and Deonna Purrazzo all spring to mind. But this was on par with ANY of them. Maybe even a step beyond. You’re smooth as fucking QUICKSILVER.

AAAAGHHHHHHHHH! FUUUUUUUCK!” I cry out, looking around in case you accidentally left something I could use to escape, like a helpful yoga instructor who could disentangle us or a bunch of lube or something. I snap my teeth at the air as I moan in pain, considering gnawing my own arms off at the shoulders before my head finally sinks back, my purple punkytails now dark indigo with sweat and blood swaying under me, my tits jutted up to the lights as I’m BENT into quarters.

NNNAGHHHHhhhhhh ahhhhhhh …” I groan, and you ROAR your demand that I tap as Pippa shows off those legendary fetish vid acting skills and gets right in my face to plead for the submission. Okay, I’m being cunty for no reason – she’s actually doing a really good job. A ref sells a hold every bit as well as the aggressor and the victim, and she’s doing marvels with that. I shake her off, scattering blood and sweat. “NAAAAHH!”

The crowd’s roar is an animal now, fucking convinced I’m about to die up here, bound and staked in mid-air like a Roman criminal in the old days and even condemned to my doom I STILL refuse to give, like a MADWOMAN. Your snarl speaks volumes, DEMANDING I tap, those incredible fucking muscles tensing and TORQUING my legs and arms back viciously. My own lithe muscles etch like steel in resistance as we both roar, and right now we could be used as a fucking reference for human figure painting, at least if the paintings were extremely fucking raw and vicious. God DAMN, what the fuck did you do, train with Ivan Drago? YOU’RE SO GODS-DAMNED STRONG!

Pippa pleads AGAIN for me to give, and you roar and give me a shake and I SCREAM – but I roar “FUUUUUCK NOOOOOOOOO!”

Snarling, protesting. I can feel my reserves depleting, my body aching so viciously as the humiliating suspended hold forces me to endure every ache I’ve suffered tonight.

But I take a hungry shuddering breath, flooding myself with oxygen, and FORCE myself – force myself at fucking mental gunpoint – to be still.

That was the hardest thing for me to learn in wrestling. I could ONLY learn it the hard way. It’s EASY for me to go fast and hard. It’s easy for me to go over the fucking top, beyond the pale, and off to Parts Unknown. But the hardest thing … the hardest fucking thing in wrestling … is knowing when to be still.

To take the pain and not feed off it, not fire the rage or competitive heat or erotic twisted desire – take the pain and flow with it. To be like water.

I breathe in as deep as I can in this strained torment, my biceps and quads shuddering, my calves clenching and pulsing, my abs stretched out so brutally taut that they’re like a drill sergeant’s bedsheets. But I FORCE myself to breathe, taking the air through my nose and out through my mouth. You’ve got my arms bent behind me, held out brutally straight – and my legs curled and locked around yours, strained viciously tight. A prana breath.

The yoga thing surprises people. They see the tattoos, the piercings, the bottle of Jack in my fist, the way I set my fist on fire to punch Mickie Knuckles in the twat after I soaked her jeans in lighter fluid – and they think it’s all out front, all jagged edges and loud noises. But for years and years and years, I’ve been learning that even behind all the fury and the sharpness and the lusts and the raw emotions that paint my world in such viciously beautiful colors … there can be serenity.

With a deep enough breath, I can be as serene as water.

I let out a slow throaty groan, swaying in your grip so for a moment you think – hell, the whole Shed things – that I’ve blacked out from the hold, a surprising but appropriately brutal end to our match. But my head hangs back, pigtails swaying as I look through the dripping blood slicking my face with big lustrous eyes, staring upside down at you.


I snarl, and I SWAY, rocking side to side a bit at a time. The temptation to try to rock DOWNWARDS, to follow the bend of my lifted and spread knees, is very real – but it’s a trap I’ve fallen into before. Candice LeRae was only to happy to demonstrate to me that when you do THAT you can end up trapped in a Dragon Sleeper with your knees bent under you real quick. So I just ROCK, my hips swaying, my back shifting, shoulders moving as I try to just DESTABILIZE the Romero instead of fighting it. You know why it’s hard to hold a fistful of water? Because it just flows away faster the harder you try to squeeze it.

You’ve got INCREDIBLE musculature, and your strength has been fucking HONED – but the more I wriggle, the harder it is to hold on. Your hands are already glossed with sweat from enduring the brutal hell we’ve put each other through headfirst, and your grip on my gloves is slipping. My legs flex, working the round toes of my Docs into the muscles of your tensed, quivering thighs. Every fucking move is AGONY, my knees brutally strained, my braced right knee creaking as my arms are PULLED back, my shoulders viciously cranked and my back arched – but I can feel the hold SLACKING, and I can feel your frustration as you fight to keep the hold on, but the harder you fight it, the looser the grip gets, and eventually one leg slips free and the beautifully executed artful Romero Special ends with a tumble of my sweaty body down onto you with a thud, bouncing off awkwardly as I draw a groan of frustration and ache from your ruby lips while I tumble with an aching cry to the side and lay on my face, trying to loosen the cramping aches in my shoulders and thighs and lower back. I can taste the blood running down my panting features. I’ve been tasting it since that Implant DDT into the steps that put me straight into fucking Dreamland only to get dragged back out by the sweet pressure of your gorgeous body across mine and the slap of the ref’s hand. I grin down at my shadow on the mat, even as I roll my shoulders and flex my aching legs, watching the blood dribble to the stained canvas, outlining my shadow in a terrible raining beauty.

You’re getting up. I can feel the slight shiver of the boards, hear you drag along the canvas. You’re not flying QUITE as high on that adrenaline spike that hit you, but you’re damn sure better off than I am. I can feel the muscles in shoulders and thighs burning with lactic acid, that deep fucking sear like a really high-end steak.

But I know what you’re gonna do.

You’re not gonna stomp me into the mat, not when I’m laying in such obvious pain. I’m not down flat on my back so you’re not gonna head up for your moonsault. Naw.

You’re gonna drag me up again. I can FEEL your eyes on the back of my head. You wanna see my face. You wanna look into my eyes and see how glassy they are, see how much pain I’m swimming in. Well … c’mon, darlin’.

Come take a good look.

You’re standing over me, talking heatedly – half to me, but half to you, it seems, pepping yourself up to finish me while also threatening me with what sounds like a real good time of being dragged back to your hotel and having all my bloody attire peeled off. Fuckin’ hell, bitch. You’re SO hot and bothered. The lust is coming off you in waves, and you’re channeling it into aggression … just like me.

So I know just what to do to buy myself some time when you come for me. And to entertain the lewd fucks at the Shed somethin’ FIERCE.

I’m lying facedown, lightly puddled in blood, shifting and writhing as I try to ease the aches in my shoulders and knees after the brutally close escape from your submission hold. You see me, and I’m pretty sure you see someone pushed to her limits. But darlin’ – I only find limits so I can fuckin’ break ’em. You peel me up by those sodden punkytails, and drag me to my knees, craning my bloody crimson-masked battered face back up at you. You see the pain there, but you also see that SPARKLE in my mad hazel eyes, the Saraya Jade eyeliner run in dark lines from the blood and sweat. And as you’re staring intensely down at me readying yourself for how to finish my exhausted frame –

– I SLAP my right hand up between your thighs. Cradling your sodden, dripping mound, all swollen from the loving attention I’ve given it, the enamel rubber all hot and simmering. The crowd GASPS because it’s fucking BLATANT. This isn’t a low blow – this is an outright, full-on CLUTCH, just SEIZING your cunt – and SINKING my fingers into it to draw a low, hot moan from your lips, your eyes going wide and your jaw seemingly unhingeing. You double over above me, your beautiful face painted in erotic shock – and I GRIN like a fucking vixen and give my wrist a twist, sinking my fingers in deeper.

Crotch claws are interesting holds. The clawhold is a key part of any veteran female wrestler’s arsenal – but while it seems simple, it takes practice. And I’ve fucking practiced, for years and years, to the point where I can crush a fucking melon. A clawhold can be devastating when applied to the forehead and temples – crippling when sunk through the abdominal wall into the belly – but they’re like nothing else when your rival’s steel fingers just SINK into your cunt for an arena full of people to gawp at. You go to your toes, your ass jutting back. I don’t think you quite believe what I’ve got on here.

Now, this isn’t full force. I’d need you down on your back with my shoulder not all tensed and fucked up to REALLY pour the pressure on. But even with sheer grip strength there’s a LOT of sensitive nerves and delicate flesh being crushed in my tattooed grip. But more importantly, this isn’t anywhere CLOSE to legal. I’m fine with it, though – after all, you cuntbusted me first, so it’s fair game. Pippa, of course, after getting over her shock at me toppling out of the nearly-inescapable Romero and then at seeing me surge back to life with something so BLATANTLY forbidden, she manages to sputter out.


I pant back at her, wild eyes only locked on you. “DO IT.”

She goes fucking EGG-EYED at such a blatant challenge, and starts to count fiercely. Such a ferocious count, she has! Throwing numbers at me like fucking knives, thrusting her hand down into my fucking bloody face and snapping fingers up one after the other!

“ONE-ahhh TWO-ahhh THREE-ahhh FOUR-ahhh …”

Bitch is counting fast. Even by the generous fucking standards of a referee trying to break an illegal hold. So I let go, dropping my right hand, but my left hand comes up now as I remain swaying on my knees, my gloved fist clenching tight right below the valley of interest where your breasts are revealed, keeping you doubled over as I pant for breath. You’re still flatly in shock at the nerve-pulsing erotic agony of the pussy claw – and I give you a grin.

“That’s the trade-off, darlin'” I purr, a murmur just for you. “Fire in your belly keeps ya goin’, but then the heat of battle becomes HEAT in battle …”

And I SLAP my right hand up again just before you can recover enough to cover and soothe your aching sex, and I SQUEEZE one more time, tattooed knuckles going white and tendons standing out on my inked wrist and your moan is MUCH louder this time, your knees turning inwards as you almost crumble, but I keep you up. I can feel the adrenaline surging in me. The heat. The same lust that’s fueling you now has fed ME for over a fuckin’ decade, and I BASK in it. I can feel the heat in your pulsing cunt under my palm. My fingers sink into your delicate folds as my thumb grrrrinds over the peak of you, smearing the berry your clit through the enamel and sodden thong beneath with worrying expertise – call me for a fuckin’ game of quoits sometime, because I’ll hit the bullseye every fucking time.


And I drop my hand again. With presence of mind, you drop both hands to my right wrist. Clutching it. Trying to stop me from doing that again. Shivering. Pippa furiously seething. And the whole time I keep my eyes god-damn riveted on your beautiful, pain-filled, determined, gorgeous blood-painted face.

“First time I ever made my wife tap out was to a pussy claw, darlin’ – kinda fuckin’ romantic for you to be gettin’ the same move. She’ll be jealous.”

My voice is a wicked, low insinuating purr that makes Pippa reel back in affronted shock as your eyes widen and darken with forbidden desire – and I drop my grip on your suit and SLAP my left hand up between your thighs as you clutch my right wrist, now digging THAT hand in to your treasure box. Did you know I’m ambidextrous? I guess you do now. I growl deliciously, sinking my fingers into your tormented sex so hard and hot that the enameled rubber lets out a tormented wet set of creaks.

I can see that glaze run over your eyes – that combination of humiliation and agony, of ecstatic bliss and furious frustration at the betrayal of your body. I can tell just from the way your lips quiver that you’re so achingly caught between orgasmic heat and crushing ache that you don’t know which way to Heaven and which to Hell.

Pippa is counting again, FURIOUSLY, clearly just a half-inch from fucking socking me in the face.


And I let go again. She’s fucking SEETHING, bent right over in my face, and I just tune her out, my eyes only on you. On the sweet brutal bliss on your face as you finally cradle your aching sex – and the juices sopping your tattered fishnets and slicking your thighs seem to be flowing MUCH more freshly. My fingers glisten.

I only don’t suck them clean because I wanna keep fuckin’ hurtin’ you but I know that if I get another taste of your cunt I’m gonna yank you to the mat and lick you raw instead.

The Shed is fucking ALIGHT with savage delight at the wicked clawholds. We’ve played properly dirty with each other on the outside, but nothing quite like this yet – not inside the ring. Something so vicious, so intimate, FLAUNTING the rules and skirting the razor’s edge of disqualification to squeeze out every fucking ounce of pain and pleasure out of you – it has them on the fucking BOIL, love. And I DRAG myself to my boots, my left fist coming up and gripping your suit again, purring the zipper a bit down your chest as I rise up to my feet, my eyes fucking NEVER leaving yours. The crowd is trying to get chants going, footy hooligan songs about groping and fingerfucking, but they’re mostly lost in a sea of sheer NOISE. Pippa’s still talking, so I snarl at her without turning my head.

“I’VE GOT ‘TIL FUCKING FIVE,” I growl, and I DRAG you to the ropes, stumbling while you cradle your ravished sex, walking back and then twisting to SHOVE you at the cables, my left boot coming up and drilling my heel right into the back of your right knee with crisp efficiency. Your leg folds under you – I don’t give it a choice – putting you on your knees. I don’t really SMIRK back at Pippa, per se. No. I just glance back over my shoulder and grin as I take a fistful of your sweaty dark hair and drag your head over the middle rope, hanging it outside. Pippa keeps squawking but she knows if she lays hands on me she’s in for a fucking sleigh ride to hell, not just from me but likely from you and everyone in the damn building.

Anyway, I’m about my business now, leaning over the top and DRAGGING your head up, pulling your shoulders back against the top rope and then snatching each banded wrist, pulling those beautiful strong arms back over the top rope to hang them there. You’re struggling, but the double cunt claw has you a bit shaky-legged and shocked still, the surge of adrenaline and heat you were riding ebbing a bit as you feel the aches. And I want you to feel MORE. My shoulders are still pulsing, my quads visibly twitching with a hitch in my walk, but I force my body to fucking behave as I step over the middle rope, one leg and then the other, straddling your back as I push your belly to the ropes.

You’re on your knees, your ass flaunted against your calves, your back VICIOUSLY arched as your arms are hung back over the top rope with me now straddling your back, my aching legs hung over the middle rope – and as Pippa realizes what I’m doing she SHRIEKS in protest, but she’s so busy coming up with innovative threats for what she’s going to do to me the second she catches me alone that she’s not COUNTING, and I grin as I lace my hands under your chin and YANK your neck and shoulders back against the top rope as I THRUST my hips, GRINDING my swollen drooling aching cunt into your spine and FORCING your body in two agonizing directions at once.

I did this move for the first time against Rowan Chance in the match that almost ended my career in Paris – the match that left me requiring two blood transfusions, 80 stitches, a vaginal rejuvenation and a rebuilt knee. I did this to her because I wanted to break her. I’m not going as insanely hard this time – for one thing, there’s a five count, and for another, I want you intact both because I want you to get a chance to get as famous as you deserve in this fucking business … AND because I am more determined than ever to drag you to a hotel and fuck you senseless all weekend and I can’t do that if you’re in traction.

But right here and now I DO want you fucking conquered, and this is certainly gonna shove you along that merry way.

A straddling grinding arching highly illegal rope-hung camel clutch. I call it the Wave of Mutilation.

“RRRRAHHHHH!” I snarl, my abs tensing, my shoulders brutally aching as my biceps sharply define, my cunt GRINDING over your bent spine as I YANK you back, hauling your head back over the ropes and thrusting your tits out at the crowd, the ropes digging into your shoulders and belly.

Pippa already has her hand on my shoulder and I fucking SNAP my teeth at her.

“GOT ‘TIL FUCKING FIVE,” I roar over your tormented cries.

She starts to count, so fast the numbers are barely registering. So I make every fucking second count, the pleasure of grinding against your bent back so intense that I quiver.


And I fucking SNAP my hands loose and just FALL back off you, tumbling over my own shoulders in a roll, ending up on my knees, my back arched, my head hung back with my bloody face turned to the Shed’s blazing boxing-style ring lights, arms splayed out wide like Willem DaFoe in Platooon. The crowd god-damn ERUPTS as you slump forward, almost hanging over the ropes like a fresh carcass, your ass lifted up sweetly and your arms dangling out side as your belly folds over the middle rope, looking like the sexiest god-damn bit of butchery I’ve ever seen. The Wave of Mutilation is no fuckin’ joke.

Pippa’s in a froth now. All her World of Sport professionalism gone in the face of such defiance of her authority, of such flagrant rule-twisting. She GRABS my Black Flag shirt and DRAGS me off my knees to my feet, shouting in my face – and I snatch her thumbs as she grips my ragged bloody lapels. Just her thumbs. Bending them outwards just enough that they creak and her eyes narrow to pinpoints at the sudden intense realization of how easily small joints can break.

“Touch me again and I’ll drill my boot so far up your cavernous cunt that you’ll taste the fuckin’ laces,” I hiss, and I YANK myself free of her grip, leaving her working her mouth and wide-eyed. I stalk towards you and slither through the ropes to the outside, awash in the noise of the crowd. But I’m not goosing them now – they don’t need the fuel. They’re hitting max throttle. We all are. We’re ALL in a hard burn now, you and me and Pippa and Charlie and everyone in the fucking Shed and everyone in the park outside and everyone watching at home.

I snatch your hair as I stalk to face you from the outside, lifting your bloody face to mine as you groan from the ache in your wrenched neck, still hung over the ropes.

“You fucking beautiful mad bitch,” I growl, and I crush a kiss to your lips. And to my intense and immediate satisfaction, you don’t twitch like a schoolgirl or wriggle away in affronted fury or slap at me or punch me in the throat. You kiss back, moaning in pain, the ropes digging into your aching ribs, your sex a slick hot pulsing mess, your battered tits half-pouring from your shining suit.

And the kiss breaks, my lips parted, panting. I’m dizzy from blood loss, slick with sweat and glistening with cum. Everything hurts, and I’ve got some bruises that will last days if not weeks. But I want MORE. I want fucking MORE of you, Brandi.

And so I step back with a hungry hot breath, pivoting on the ball of my foot with long-practiced smoothness, turning my body to put my right hip towards you, my punkytails flicking back with bloody grace as I hop-step forward and SNAP my long right leg up, high and beautiful, in the first wrestling move I ever fell in love with watching HBK do it. The move that has basically defined my generation thanks to him and the Young Bucks, originated by your countryman Chris Adams as the Judo Kick.

I DRILL a fucking Superkick into that beautiful bloody freshly-kissed face as you’re hung over the middle rope, fucking LAUNCHING you back into the ring as the sharp *SMACK* of my Doc driving home echoes over the Shed and is followed by the immediate rising OOOOOOOOOOOOH! of the crowd. I got FULL fucking extension on that, throwing myself into it like a god-damn machine, and the SHOCK that runs up my leg tells me worlds. I reel back off the kick, slamming my ass into the railing, sagging back into it a moment as hands paw at my back and shoulders, and squeeze my ass (fucking Scots!) before security muscles in and shoves them back, but SOME thoughtful fuck puts a beer in my hand.

I TOSS it down the hatch, fucking pouring the Caledonia Best over my face, SCREAMING as the sting hits my sore hot throat, my stinging busted face, washing some blood and sweat from me, soaking my shirt and bra so thoroughly that my pierced nipples look like protruding nails. It would’ve been better cold, but compared to the steam heat we’ve made it’s like fuckin’ spring ice. Panting and soaked in beer, I dive back into the ring, sliding under the bottom rope where Pippa is checking on you, and I shoulder right past the bitch, slithering onto you.

My slick hot body pressed to you, breathing your scent in like a god damn drug. I dig my arm under BOTH your thighs, snaking in low, my gloves rasping greedily over your fishnets, black nails tugging new runs and tatters as I curl my hand around your outer thigh and ROLL both legs into the air, your shiny gold boots overhead as I clutch my left hand in my right, my forearm pushed low in your belly. I dig for purchase, panting for hungry hot breaths, my breasts hot against yours as I wait for that sullen cunt Pippa to count the fucking pin with my face just low hot inches from yours.





She does. You shake her off spraying sweat all over my face as it cascades off you in tiny glistening salty pheromone charged droplets.

I’ve dreamed about this moment, you know. Putting you up in a Romero. All the world watching. Everyone getting to see that I’m a great technical wrestler who can stick it to the best of them! And okay okay. I’m not gonna lie. I have practised this move a little prior to the match. Well a lot actually. I done it on small wriggly girls and big hefty girls too because you ain’t small but I’m damn sure you can be wriggly if ya need to. And all that work seems to be paying off don’t ya think? Because here I am, hanging out to dry one of the very best. But now I’m thinking I could even go one better. You’re tired, you’re hurt, you’re emotional. And you’re trapped in a nasty hold that works all four limbs, abs and back and the more you struggle, the worse it fucking gets. I might just submit you! Right here! Now! Me! The big submission winner over the so-called great Megan “Punky” Dow!

But you’re not struggling are you. You’re pretty damn still actually. Just what the fuck are you up to now bitch? Other girls would be screaming their heads off and panicking like fuck by now, but you’ve gone quieter and stiller the longer I’ve held you up there. Gawd I hate you! I fucking hate you!

Your head falls back. You’re almost totally fucking limp! Have you passed out? I should be so fucking lucky! But sadly, you ain’t! You give me that crazy defiant look. The I can take anything you throw at me look. The you’ll have to fucking kill me to beat me look. And then you start to wriggle. I knew it. I knew you’d be a fucking wriggler! I bet you’ve been a damn wriggler all your fucking life, Megan Dow! From the moment you were born, heck, even before that in the womb, forever restless, never satisfied, never at peace, always trying to find the sweeter spot. So I guess rocking the boat comes naturally to you. But this is MY BOAT. My big moment and YOU are screwing it up!

“I said …..NNNNOOOOOOOO!” You growl down over your shoulder at me.

No? NO? What do you mean, FUCKING NO!?!? I’m in still control here. I’m the one in charge! But then again why are you swaying from side to side above me. I’m not doing that. I don’t want that! It’s not helpful. It’s making it much harder for me to keep you up there, you fucking heavy fat bitch! And those boots of yours. Why are they ferreting around, then probing insidious toecaps seeking out the pressure points in my legs. When you do that my leg twitches reflexively and I nearly … whooaaa! … fucking lose you.

Nearly lose you.

Nearly lose.


“AAWWWFFACCKK!” I groan as your left boot just pops out of the grapevine, freeing your leg, one of the four central pillars of my hold and then the whole fucking structure just topples! JEEZ! Talk about fucking messy! You flop down onto me and roll off to the side. Furious, frustrated and forlorn, I shove you off me with my left arm and kick at you with my gold boot. “Fuck off bitch!” I snarl which is pretty pathetic I know but I’m upset and bitterly disappointed. I thought I might have had you then. How utterly stupid and fucking naive of me! Fuck! Fuck! FUCCKK!

You’re not in a good way of course. That must have hurt you. Taken a lot out of you. I’m still able to get up first and swarm all over you. But something has changed. Something is missing. I’m still so fucking horny; that insatiable urge is still firing my belly as much as before and feeding in amounts of energy I shouldn’t really have at this stage in such a brutal battle. But there’s something else that has changed. Something inside my head. A doubt. A niggling little thought that perhaps I’m not going to win this match. I can’t beat you whatever I pull out of the hat. I shake it off, rolling my shoulders a little to ease the ache and manage to tuck that poisonous negativity away in a cupboard at the back of my mind. But worryingly there’s no lock on the door.

“Up bitch!” My hands are in your purple pig tails. “GET UP! I thought you wanted to go to my hotel room! Well you just had your chance! What’s the matter with you? Don’t you EVER quit? You’re done, love! Just accept it. Tell ya what, let’s make it Moonsault time shall we? Then we can go back to my hotel room and I can rip that shitty gear off you and …

“OOOOOOOWWWWWWW!!” My eyes bug out wide and my mouth goes even wider as I inhale sharply.

No … nooooo … you can’t do that! You can do a lot to me, but you can’t do that!

Your hand is rammed between my legs and you’ve latched a fucking claw hold onto my…well, right on my fucking cunt! The whole room lets out a gasp of marvelling disgust. This is so blatant, so primitive, even for you! You just don’t do this in a public wrestling ring! And You’re just looking at me, right into my wide, startled eyes. And you know you’re fucking hurting me sooo much! And you know you’re fucking humiliating me in front of all these people. But the worst bit, the worst fucking bit, and you know I’m liking you doing this to me!

“AAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWW!!” I let out a shamelessly loud moan, the kind of noise you should only make if you are doing the sound effects for a porn movie, and the crowd bubble with lewd excitement. I’m ashamed. But how can something that hurts so much feel soooo fucking NICE at the same time?

Oh the ref’s here at last. Well spotted ref! Yeah, we got some rule bending going on here, ya know! Time to do your job love! She yells at you, threatening to DQ you. “DO IT.” You say back, impassively, your eyes never leaving mine. If I had any breath to join in this debate I’d be yelling, “Don’t you fucking dare! No way! No way this is ending in a DQ!” But a rapid count begins, the numbers being barked out. And thankfully you let go. I’m partly doubled over, my barely covered ass jutting out, up on the tippy toes of my gold boots, as you kneel in front of me. You grasp the front my suit with your other hand to keep me close to you, the front zipper easing down a little more. You’ll have my tits spilling out if you’re not careful. But maybe that’s your plan. You’re grinning at me. Whispering, intimately. But I’m not really hearing you. I’m too hurt, too embarrassed, too shocked.

AAAWWGGGGGAAWWWDDDDDDDDD!! Another porn star moan as you clamp your hand back onto my pussy. Even bolder this time. Digits seeking out, teasing, coaxing. Jesus! You’re fucking fingering me thru my suit whilst everyone watches. Aw C’mon ref, for fuck’s sake! Surely she can’t just reapply such a blatantly illegal hold! We could go on all night this way! But of course I’ll have submitted by then. Or cum. Or more likely both. Because you are soooo good at this. Just how the hell did that happen? When do you get to practise this stuff?

Your face is strangely dark, set in a expression I can only describe as pure evil. And I fucking love it and I’m appalled by it, at the same time in equal vast quantities. Another staccato count. Your hand jerks back and I gasp. I know you’re just going to reapply the claw in a moment, so in pure desperation I grab your wrist in both hands. You’re not gonna do that again! You’re fucking not, bitch!

Those painted black lips move again and you mutter something into my haunted face, softly like pillow talk. “The first time I ever made my wife tap out was to a pussy claw, darlin’ – kinda romantic for you to be gettin’ the same move. She’ll be jealous.”

Now that gets my attention. Not only the words. But the knowing tone of your voice. The way your eyes seem to be looking right into my heart. How have you sensed my growing resentment towards Gemma Rox? I’ve never said a word, not even pulled a face. Ever. And yet you seem to have drawn out my deepest darkest wish: to fight her, with you the only spectator.

And then, as if you are punishing me for ever dreaming of such a thing, the claw hold is reapplied wickedly. At first I wonder how can that be? I look down and see my two hands still controlling that gloved hand. But there’s ANOTHER hand, your OTHER hand, rammed between my legs, twisting and tearing!

And that’s when I almost break.

I choke back a sob and that old negative thinking smashes its way out of that cupboard, but now bigger, bolder, more certain of its validity. And I try to hide my deflation and despair from you as you continue to stare at me intently.

I don’t know whether you notice it or not but you let out an animalistic growl as your fingers tighten on my cunt so hard they nearly tear open the crotch of my vinyl suit, which might suggest that you know I’m almost done and you are underlining your dominance. The count is coming again hot and heavy thankfully. You grudgingly let go and I immediately clutch at myself with both hands, shocked at how wet I am, my crotch, my upper thighs, like I’ve pissed myself!

You grab me by my suit, more minuscule unzipping, and use the grip to pull yourself up. Then I’m mauled towards the ropes. I don’t know what’s coming but sense it’s gonna be bad and not to be found in the rule book when you growl at Pippa, “I’VE GOT ‘TIL FUCKING FIVE!”

We blunder to the ropes. I go down on my knees, not sure if I was tripped or stumbled, but it doesn’t matter as I’m draped over the middle rope, to look out at the sea of wide eyed, excited, all aglow faces. I’m yanked up and back, arms draped over the top ropes, my fucking tits thrust out towards the gawping crowd!

Oh shit this is fucking bad! This is fucking REALLY bad. I know this. I’ve heard about this. This is turning into a camel clutch in the ropes, you call it a fucking wave of something or other, something not good fucking for sure! This is the move you did on the amazing Rowan Chance to try and put her out of wrestling for good. And whilst I’m kinda flattered that you have pulled this one out of the armoury just for insignificant little ol’ me, I’m terrified as to how this might end. And where the fuck is Pippa?

You throw you big leg across me, mount my back hungrily and gleefully cup my chin, yanking my head right back to stare up into the harsh ring lights, your hips bucking gently as the small of my back takes your weight and you start to ride me in the ropes. And now I’m yelling like a kid, not caring about my loss of dignity and tossing away any semblance of stoical resistance, because this hurts like fuck!


Pippa’s disapproval for what you are doing to me is very laudable but what I really need right now is another rapid fire five count! Because you’re literally fucking me now, your hips jerking madly as we bounce up and down on the ropes, the turnbuckles creaking so alarmingly I’m frightened they will snap and the ropes will come unattached, sending me crashing down onto the unforgiving arena floor below with you still bucking away like crazy.

“GOT ‘TIL FUCKING FIVE!” You roar, your voice scarily thick with desire. Fuckinghell! Are you enjoying this so much you’re about to cum, you nasty bitch?!? Finally a count begins. But it’s too late. That negative demon is rampaging thru my head now, rocket fuel propelled by the unspeakable agony and the absolute fucking humiliation of being ridden in the ropes by you like an overinflated sex doll. You’ll never take Punky Dow! It’s screaming. You can’t beat her! You’re not good enough! Not tough enough! SHE’S OWNING YOU! She’s fucking ALL OVER you! She’ll do ANYTHING to win now, you know she will. AND YOU CANT STOP HER!!

“Oh my dear God!” I sob as you abruptly flip off me backwards, to leave me dangling in the ropes, body arched and on display, rocking up and down gently, the gimps in the crowd pointing and grinning because my two blind cobbler’s thumb erect nipples have finally managed to peek out through the zippered neck line of my gleaming black suit, whilst my cleavage glistens with a fine sheen of sweat, dotted plentifully by thick gleaming droplets. My body quivers uncontrollably with the residual effects of what you just did to me and my shiny black rubber enamel suit is suddenly cold and clammy as it clings to my skin. I give a little moan and start to go all shivery. Oh god, I’m going into shock!

I seem to hang there for a long time, the crowd staring, chattering nervously, some yelling with the sheer tension and excitement. I’m aware of some shit going down between you and Pippa behind me, but all I can do is dangle on the ropes, afraid if I move I’ll tumble out of the ring, and wait until I’m pulled (or knocked) back into the ring!

Eventually I hear you coming, feel the ring boards shuddering as you clomp to me in your big red DMs. You drop down outside the ring in front of me and inspect your handiwork. Face bloodied, eyes glazed with pain and desire, mouth gaping I stare back at you. And then you reach up, grab my hair, tilt my face to yours and KISS ME! A cocky, intimidating act, the move of a real bitch! But I kiss you right back. No hesitation, no flinching, matching you for pressure, for suction, for movement. We mouth each other hungrily and for me it isn’t hard to do because I fucking adore you, bitch! You’ve almost broken me, taken me to the very edge and then stopped just short. No wrestler has ever done a number on me like this before, physically and psychologically and I fucking love the only woman who has been able to do that. So no. Kissing you right now isn’t hard at all!

Then you break off. Step back. Another change comes over your mercurial personality. This is violence now. Explosive violence. I can tell from how you set yourself, your whole body stiffening, going all hard, arm and leg and neck muscles suddenly sharp and defined under a coating of glistening sweat. You pivot on your left leg. I’m shocked at how graceful you are. I don’t see your boot until it’s right in front of my face. Gleaming red leather, fine lines long the edge of the rubber sole with its chunky tread and it feels like a sledge hammer when it connects, flinging me back off the ropes, my boots coming up as I flop onto my back with a little girlie cry.

I hate myself for giving you that cry. It I just couldn’t help it. The brutality of the superkick dragged it right out of my soul. Pippa looks down at me pityingly, checking if I’m still conscious, which I am, just about. But I can’t move. I feel like the back of my head has been nailed to the canvas and so I’m still flat on my back by the time to reach me and smear yourself across my chest, your perky little boobs mashing with mine, bare nipples displayed. I grunt as I take your weight and you roll me up, hooking both legs and hoisting my gold boots high above us. With your tired taut body on top of me, the pin locked and cinched in and Pippa in perfect position to make the count, this should be it!

ONEaaah! … TWOaaah! … THR-…

MY turn to INSTINCTIVELY kick out! My body bucks and twists, my shoulder somehow comes up. I flop to my side, look up at you now on your knees, sat back on the heels of your boots. Now I dunno what’s what here! Did you let me kick out of that one? Because you don’t look too dismayed about it with that crazy not quite rueful grin on your face as you gaze back at me. Maybe you didn’t want the match to finish like that? Maybe you wanna give me one last desperate fling at winning this before you finish me, which you now undoubtedly can if you hit me with one of your big signature moves. That would be so typical of a crazy bitch like you. You have me here ripe for the taking but you think hey, let’s see if this girl has something left, let’s see if she can pull something out of the bag even now.[/i] Always pushing it. Always wriggling. Seeking out that even sweeter spot.

As you ease me to my feet with a handful of my hair in your hand, I decide to rise to your challenge. I’m at least gonna fucking try and do something! I’m not just gonna stand here and let you put me away with some fucking fancy ass finisher of yours!

‘Something’ is nothing too subtle. I’m way too far gone for subtle. Once up on my feet, but still hunched over, I slam a blatant punch low into your belly, very low, certainly below your leather belt securing your skirt, but the working definition of ‘lower abdomen’ seems to have got looser and looser as this match has gone on, so Pippa says nothing.

You fold over with an angry growl. And then I take my chance. My right hand grabs your left wrist and extends your arm it as my own left arm hooks around your neck. I’m going for a swift Swinging Neckbreaker. You probably realise that but hopefully you’re too surprised by my comeback womb punch to react. Using your extended arm as a lever I sway us side to side, with rapid short movements, left-right, left-right, then jerk us all the way around so we are momentarily back to back before taking us down to the mat hard!

TTHOOOMMMM! The ring boards shudder under us. I think I hear a little croak of pain from you as your neck jolts against my slightly heightened shoulder and the rest of your body impacts with the mat. You briefly arch up, face distressed, and you jerk violently before settling back on the canvas, your posture resembling a turtle flipped on its back, struggling briefly to right itself and then giving in. I sit up quickly and twist around, eyes narrowing, lips tight, grimly satisfied as I look back at you splayed out, not moving, eyes closed, but still just a trace of that crazed smile on your now smeared black painted lips. Emergency responders and military medics will tell you that those guys who are down hurt and are yelling, writhing and kicking are actually not as badly hurt as those casualties which just lie quiet and still. Well I hope that’s the case with you right now, because this is my final and only chance and I’m gonna go for it.

“Let’s give that fucking Moonsault a go now shall we?” I mutter, half to myself, half to you, as I haul myself up and wearily stagger to the nearest corner. There’s a stunned quiet in the room after that sudden violent turnaround. An out of the blue neck breaker will do that for ya! But then a little gasp of dismay comes off the place. It appears this seems like a bad idea to everyone in the room but me. And everyone in that room is willing me not to do it. Charlie is willing me not to. Pippa is willing me not to. The morons in the crowd are willing me not to. Heck, even my opponent is willing me not to as she lies wasted on the fucking canvas! Well FUCK ‘em! Fuck ‘em ALL! Especially YOU!

Because, like the Romero, I’ve practised this one too. Again, lots and lots. I nearly wore out that big old blue crash mat trying to perfect this move just for this match. And I paid my dues in sprained this and bruised that, not to mention mat burns where a gal who aspires to have an active sex life really doesn’t need them! So I’m damn well gonna try and pull this off! And it’s gonna be dramatic. Its gonna be spectacular. It’s gonna be a noble act of courage in the face of overwhelming odds. Actually this is beginning to sound a lot like the charge of the fucking Light Brigade and that didn’t turn out so good right? Aww, fuck it! I’m climbing those ropes anyhow!

Wearily, awkwardly, I clamber up top. I’m not naturally agile and acrobatic. My legs are too heavy and my shoulders and chest cavity are too broad. But I just love the big high flying moves. And so, a bit like certain relationships I’ve gotten into, I just can’t help myself. I make the top rope and gingerly stand up, facing out to the crowd. Once stabilised, (well … stabilised-ish!) I extend my arms out to the sides and wait. And then the crowd, even though they think this is the stupidest idea ever on my part, do a lovely thing. They start up a chant:




If you drive up the A1 to Newcastle and you round a broad sweeping bend, just as you are about to enter the city, on your right hand side, you will see The Angel of The North. It’s a gigantic, rust coloured Iron statue, towering over the River Tyne valley and dominating the landscape. The massive metal sculpture of an angel with extended wings, symbolises the city’s industrial past and its iron hard people. And it’s scarily fucking impressive!

So I thought I would name my signature finisher after it. Okay okay! It’s a regular moonsault off the top rope with a bit of arm extension first, but these guys get it. Anyone who lives in the north of the British Isles gets it. We’re a breed apart and have always been, the poor relations to our privileged, soft bellied Southern English cousins. Our ancestors were hard people who had hard lives. Either that, or these fuckers have been binge watching way too many back episodes of Game of Thrones!

Either way, I stand there, arms out, face bloodied and sweat soaked, damp lank bedraggled hair half masking my features, my exposed chest heaving up and down mightily in my black enamel suit, which is almost as wrecked as my tattered fishnets. And I like to think I’m terrible and magnificent!

I milk the moment. Milk it for too long probably. But I’ve waited my whole career for this so who could blame me? I’m on the top rope, towering over the ring, Punky Dow is splayed out wasted on the mat beneath me, I’m bathed in harsh bright ring lights and I have a chanting crowd right in the very palm of my hand! Whatever the fuck happens next, it doesn’t get any better than this!

Eventually I have to go for it. This lot would go on chanting for a longer but always leave them wanting a bit more is what they say. So, with a soft moan of pure fear from my half open mouth and a violent clanking of steel turnbuckles as the ropes shudder violently under my gold boots as I push off, I hurl myself backwards from the top, my body arching up and somersaulting into FUCKING OBLIVION!!


Sometime lost in the middle of that steaming kiss is where I properly realize how fucking deep my need was for this match. Not just for the savage, aggressive Brit-pro action, which is fucking intoxicating. Not just for the psychosexual play, which has me fucking dripping even after all the blood loss and orgasms. I needed YOU – I needed someone as hungry for the ring as I am, someone who fucking LIVES it the way I do, and still does, and still will a fucking year from now. My wife is one of the most amazing wrestlers I’ve ever known, and has defeated me multiple times in and out of the ring – but she has a life outside the ropes. She has her businesses, her investments, her connections. She’s been gliding away from the ring, step by clacking step of her Louboutin heels. She’ll still happily beat my ass in one of the brutal nude brawls we have all around Rox Manor, but she’s moving away from the ring where our love was forged. My friend and my early wrestling crush Calli Quinn retired recently, supposedly. I’ll never quite TRUST her so I’m always suspicious she’s lurking in the closet holding something to brain me with, but she did her whole curtain call thing. So did Bren Rua, the woman who handed me my most spectacular losses early in my career and gave me the nickname “Punky”. My mentor the Red Enforcer is spending more time at home and with family and not in the ring powerbombing brats through the mat. Bit by bit, my wrestling world is getting smaller, and I’m getting older regardless of how much time I spend pretzeled into impossible yoga positions and controlling my breathing, no matter how many crunches I do, no matter how many fists I lace into the heavy bag, no matter how many younger cunts I beat for cheering crowds happy to see an indy icon in action. I’m slowly becoming a fucking legend and my story ISN’T GOD-DAMN DONE YET.

So I fucking NEEDED this.

I needed to be in the ring with someone who has lived and breathed and bled and sweated wrestling as much as I have. And oh, Brandi. You and I are cut from the same fucking bolt of cloth. I feel like I’ve found the sister I always wanted and now I’m desperate to beat her sweet ass senseless and then fuck her, which doesn’t speak well to our family’s habits but god DAMN, sister, you’ve got soft lips. I purr into the kiss, studded tongue dancing with yours, our lips crushed together, tasting the blood and sweat and tears we’ve spilled together, my fingers quivering with the urge to slide them down your ludicrously tight sweat-glazed body and caress those achingly stiff nipples jutting from your suit so fucking shamelessly. That one reason I have to superkick you so god-damn hard when I finally break the kiss – just to make sure the shock of impact helps jar me out of this state of flushed alley cat heat long enough to finish this fucking match so I can drag you off to a motel and sort you out properly, as you’d say. I slither into the ring and cover you up, but even despite the brutalization I just laid on you between ravaging your cunt and grinding your spine into a curve in the ropes and superkicking your jaw sideways hard enough to leave an AirWalk logo imprinted on your cheek … despite all that, I just KNOW – even as my sweaty firm breasts press hotly against your mostly bared ones and I hook those long powerful legs up high, locking my fists together to set the hook tight – that this isn’t gonna keep you down.

Because it wouldn’t keep ME down.

And you kick out, HARD, that perfectly taut chiseled body going from moaning limpness to bucking wiry strength in a fiery instant of instinct. And I grin, my eyes gleaming. Oh, no. That won’t be enough. I’m gonna need somethin’ SPECIAL to put you away. Something fucking SPECTACULAR, something to pop this crowd so god-damn hard that they burst at the seams. Sat up on my knees, my sweat-glazed tattooed ass back on my heels, blood painting my battered face, my tattered Black Flag battle tee painted onto my tits, my punkytails hung lank and dark and soaked on my shoulders. I wanna find just the right way to do this – to find that perfect moment. The superkick wasn’t good enough. The Wave of Mutilation wasn’t even quite good enough. It has to be … something … there’s gotta be sensual heat to it. I want everyone in this fucking fucking Shed to see how much I want you. I want you WRECKED, but I also want you to feel fucking POSSESSED. I start to gather you up off the mat with a fistful of sweaty dark hair, luxuriously taking you in with that strained and tattered attire and those perfect curves painted in sweat. And I’m just forming the perfect notion for what I want when your fist SLAMS into my fucking mound, flattening my mons and squashing my dripping cunt hotly, mashing my feminine vitals achingly as I groan out a hot, throaty “AUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHH!” with my eyes squeezing shut and my bloody smeared black lips rounded off in a pained erotic O. My ass JUTS back, jiggling softly from the impact with my shorts wedged up deep into me, my hands leaving your hair to clutch myself with my damp fingerless gloves as the crowd half-groans in empathy and half-roars in delight as the hometown girl isn’t quite dead yet.

Just like I fucking hoped.

I dunno what’s coloring that thought more – is it my desire for the elusive dream of a perfect match? The one that brings us both so fucking close to defeat but keeps going, over and over, kicking out and avoiding submission, gliding on fucking bloody angel’s wings of adrenaline and riding that eternal wrestler’s high of the last-second kickout as far as it will go? Is it because I want to make this glorious match with you last longer and longer, until even the drunken Glasgow crowd is worn out from roaring, until people are collapsing in the park across the street from sheer fucking exhaustion (and 8-euro beers)?

Is it because I just want you to fucking pin me?

Is that it, Megan?

Is that it? Is it my self-destructive streak coming through again, the one that Calli kept trying to work around in the Countdown and the one that’s brought so many of my friends and loved ones to gritted teeth and bitter tears? Or just the desire to lose to such a powerful, determined, hard-edged, cunning, gorgeous and vicious rival? To find MYSELF dragged into YOUR fucking Glasgow motel, beaten and worn, put on my knees and savagely kissed as you rip my bloody attire off me and strip me bare for your hungry eyes?

Or maybe I was just a little distracted and you fuckin’ cunt-punched me. The world may never know.

Pippa lets it slide. We’ve both been playing so filthy that I think she’s finally had it, even smirking a bit since I was in her fucking face while I was working you a few minutes ago about letting me do what I fucking like, and she’s more than happy to see me get a womb-busting receipt. And you don’t hesitate for a moment, capturing my wrist and stretching my arm out as you snug my head up against you, my ass swaying behind me and my other hand buried between my quivering sweaty thighs as I breathe in your scent, tasting your sweat, your desire. You start to SNAP me around – and you keep it going, short swaying JERKS. This is fucking REAL old school shit, this is Honky Tonk Man territory (and say what you will about Wayne Ferris but that motherfucker not only worked a perfect gimmick but he had one of the best neckbreakers in the business). You’re breaking my balance, jolting my bent over form so my hand comes loose from between my swaying legs, pawing at your hips but then swinging under me, my pigtails loosely bobbing with each swaying jerk of my body before you WHIRL me all the way around, my back against yours and my bloody face cranked up to the lights with my neck bent back on your shoulder – and you fucking DROP perfectly, sliding forward a bit and YANKING me to make sure my neck hits on your shoulder a fraction of a second BEFORE my slightly lifted hips hit the mat, meaning the whole impact just JOLTS on my neck and spine.

“GUUUUGHHHhhhhh …” I groan, SNAPPING off the shot, my eyes going glassy as my back arches in pain, pawing at the air with spasming fingers before the nerve pain hits as my spinal column submits damage reports like a frenzied ensign on the bridge of a starship just before the consoles explode, and I flop fucking bonelessly back to the mats to lay in a sprawl with chills running down my aching neck and my eyes mostly curtained shut as the crowd ROARS at seeing the brutal move jolt the Queen of Pandemonium flat onto her shapely arse! My legs are akimbo, one boot faintly shifting on my heel, one arm sprawled to the side and one loosely above my head, looking properly dazed. Because I fucking am. I’m a bloody, sweaty, pummeled, aching mess and you are drinking in the view of me like fine fucking wine (or more likely, since you’re so much like me, like strong fucking beer). I can feel your shadow over me, hear your panting breath through the ache of my battered body’s low revving pulsing in my eardrums, and over the roar of the drunken crowd – who are, in fact, getting worn down from our glorious savagery. They sound hoarse out there and it takes a lot of shouting to get a Glaswegian wheezy. They’re famous shouters, even by the explosively loud standards of Scots – and even in my pained daze with the ring lights burning through eyelids rolled dreamily shut, I’m pretty damn proud of what we’ve done to hear ’em out there sounding like a roomful of chainsmokers.

But even amidst the boozy chaos and clamor, I hear the words you growl out standing over me as clear as pillow talk purred into my ear in a dark and sweat-perfumed bedroom.

“Let’s give that fucking Moonsault a go now shall we?”

And my heart fucking races.

You beautiful mad bitch.

I’ve studied up on you, Brandi. Thoroughly. I have a well-earned reputation for being fucking headstrong and going in fucking headlong (buy the catchphrase shirt at!), but I was also trained by a god-damn mastermind in Raven and worked with both sensible veterans like Reddy as well as a bunch of conniving cunts.

I know the value of LEARNING about a rival. So I’ve watched that moonsault in footage of your matches going back to when you were a rookie (the downside of the bump in pay and the notoriety you get for an indy show being taped is that now there’s a record of everything), how it’s come up over the years from a desperation spot that looked as loose and suicidal as Terry Funk’s into something crisp and gorgeous. You get SUCH good height on that god damn thing, and you hit like a fucking TRUCK, drilling your tensed abs right across your opponent’s sternum to just fucking DESTROY their breathing, using the perfectly smooth rotation of those long powerful legs to whip yourself in. The Angel in the North. Even the NAME has high drama. Like the sculpture you were inspired by and the cold stony lands of your birth, it’s a thing of unforgiving beauty.

And I know, as tough as I fucking am, and as many impossible things as I’ve kicked out of, that if you hit this clean after the battering you’ve laid on me tonight that it’s more than likely you’ll be able to keep even my twitchy feral form down for a 3 count. So I move my fingers. It takes a few heartpounding seconds to get them to respond since you just damn near disconnected my nervous system with that fucking neckbreaker, but I get them going, pawing down my body, under the sodden flutter of my microskirt, over my thigh glazed in sweat and cum, and down to my knee-high compression sock.

You’re still staggering for the ropes, determined, resolute, but not moving at full speed. The crowd is torn between egging you on and trying to wave you down since top rope moves have like a 35% success rate in wrestling unless you’re Rob Van Dam or Ricochet. But you’re not gonna listen to anyone. You know what you’re going to do and by fuck you’re going to do it. And the temptation to lay here in pain and breathlessly admire your ass before you flip over and drop onto me to compress my rib cage to the height of a breakfast muffin is pretty damn real, but I’m driven on just the same as you. Because we’re fucking Amazons, born to fucking battle.

An eternity ago before the bell rang, your darling friend Pippa was giving us a going-over, making a big deal about herself, asserting her authority. Making it clear she was here to call shit down the middle. And she drew dangerously close to finding something that almost every referee misses when I have it on me, which would have resulted in me doing something drastic like socking her in the face and claiming she was trying to feel me up, or kneeing her in the cunt and claiming it was a nervous twitch.

That would’ve been pretty fucking unfortunate, since it likely would have cost us this incredible god-damn match.

But I didn’t have to. Because you got impatient for action and fucking ROARED at Pippa, and got her off me. Which means the little caplet I carry to almost every single match I’ve ever wrestled since coming back from Japan is still tucked into the top of my compression sock. I’ve told this story before in interviews with RF and on Colt’s podcast, but I learned the art of poison mist during my second run in Japan, after graduating from the pain and relentless work of the Kaientai Dojo into the greater pain and more relentless work of a run with Ice Ribbon. As a born and bred ECW mutant, I naturally sought out the man I thought of when I thought of poison mist.

Yoshihiro Tajiri was freshly back from WWE, just getting started with HUSTLE, the Fighting Opera, when I found him. (HUSTLE’s championship was as gold and black spiked baseball bat. God, I fucking wanted it so much.) I’ve kind of started an urban legend about all the weird shit he made me do to learn the art of the infamous poison mist, but that rumor was really his idea. He just agreed to teach it to me after a night of drinking Asahi at Motion Blue, a jazz club in Yokohama. He was happy to teach me when he learned Raven had trained me – over the next couple of weeks, he showed me the formulation, how to make the caplets, how to stash them, how to palm them and get them to your mouth, how to bite down, how to resist the bitter toxic surge of the poison on your tongue, and how to spit a proper plume.

His only real price for doing so was that I tell everyone he made me do all sorts of weird deviant things so youngboys wouldn’t be knocking down his door to learn the art. And I had to buy the Hibiki whiskey after each training session. Nothing else BUT Suntory Hibiki premium whiskey, he said, would get the poison safely off your tongue. Since Hibiki was about 18 dollars American for each double he downed, it wasn’t a cheap secret. But even so, I have a great story about how he made me dress as a schoolgirl with a live octopus draped on my head if anyone really gets insistent.

I almost didn’t bring the poison with me from Rox Manor. I wanted you so fucking bad, wanted to grip your lapels and drag you into the fucking stardom you deserve with a bloody brutal BRAWL showcasing our wrestling talents that I thought something like the mist might … cheapen it. But at the last moment, I snatched my Altoids tin of poison mist caplets and stuffed it into my duffel before I headed out to get on the fucking six hour Cardiff-Glasgow train. And I tucked one into my sock when I got ready, nestling it right where I always do, in a little tuck of gauze just beside my left knee. The poison mist is not only a big pop moment, but it’s a useful tool – you don’t JUST have to spit it. I’ve crushed it in my hand and applied poison-smeared clawholds. I’ve even stuffed the caplet into my OPPONENT’s mouth and then palm thrusted them under the jaw so it dribbled from their lips as they gagged and coughed. But right now …

… the crowd is chanting. My eyes flutter open.




You’ve made it to the top. My fingers pull the little red pill from my sweaty stocking as my other hand curls and uncurls distractingly, as I kick one boot on the mat, my hand dragging up my body like I’m having a bad dream and thrashing in my sleep.




My hand drags over my sweaty bloody face as I still lay there, trying to clear my vision, two fingers dipping into my black lips to place the pill on my studded tongue where I can still taste our kiss.




They see you up there, solid as the fucking mountains, your arms thrown back, those tattered fishnets and that peeled and strained enamel suit just emphasizing the incredible beauty of your chiseled, honed form.

Gods, I could fucking stare at you for ages. But I can’t because you’re going to LEAP.

I bite down and the familiar bitter sweetness fills my mouth, burning like an angry demon kept bottled until it needs to be unleashed onto the world. The pain and toxic sting of it stirs me. Moves me. Muscles clenching and tensing as you fucking jump in pure perfection.

Everything has to slow down now.

This happens within a second.

I’m already moving as your legs tense, as you commit to the jump, those delicious glutes tensing perfectly, your quads etched like a god-damn illustration in a textbook on the anatomy of a war goddess. My legs snake up, and curl. Hips shifting, pulling my knees under me as I rise up off the mat with my thighs splayed wide, skirt fluttering between them. My arms just swaying at my sides, moving almost like some kinda fucking living dead girl.

(The people who know know.)

You’re FLYING. The motherfucking Angel of the North. Beautiful and terrible and there’s ecstasy on your face.

I’m swaying up like a cobra, on my knees as your body rotates.

And I SPEW the mouthful of red venom right into that exquisite fucking face, my head arched back just under yours as if for an upside-down fucking Spider-Man kiss, my arms thrown back like demon’s wings and my back arched, tits jutted with nipples like fucking bullets as I PLUME that fucking crimson mist into your face. The flashes go off all around us, everyone trying to seize this one fucking moment, this half-second, and capture it in light.

It happens so fucking fast the Shed barely had time to take it in. I slithered from writhing down on my back to up onto my knees as you mounted and leapt from the ropes, and as you turned over I BLASTED a cloud of red into your face and you just BARELY crashed over me, missing me by less than a fucking eyelash as I dropped to my back, bent over my own knees like a god-damn possessed bitch.

Your scream pierces the air as you CRASH to the fucking mat, the beauty of the Angel of the North gone to crimson ruin, and true to form you hit like a god-damn truck – but one with the driver blind and swerving the wheel wildly across the damn M77. And for a moment we’re both just laying there – you tits-down and clutching your misted face as your gold boots kick furiously, bucking in breathless agony and burning rage as your arms wrap your devastated body after crashing it flat-on to the mat; me laying like a portrait from the violent part of the Kama Sutra, legs splayed and folded under me, arms sprawled and my bootheels pushing into my ass, my back arched as my head flops back on the mat – and the Shed fucking explodes.

I don’t even know how I fucking pulled that off. It was sheer instinct. It was pure fucking luck. I stood just as good a chance of getting up on my knees in time to smash our faces together so the fans could have had the fun of watching us both spit out the shattered bits of our bloody teeth.

And it might not have mattered anyway. I’m in no position to argue with Pippa right now, since I’m laying on the fucking mat panting for breath. And what I just did was pretty fucking blatant. So blatant that it’s gonna be the thumbnail for every upload of this match, and so fucking obvious that I’m gonna need to make sure Gems gets the distribution rights to the best photo we can find of it, because that shit has 24×48 poster written all over it. I just spit a mouthful of poison right into your face in the middle of a wrestling match, and Pippa wasn’t laying down semi-conscious or reeling back from an “accidental” rake to the eyes like referees normally are when I bust this shit out.

She’s just standing over us as you breathlessly, agonizingly scream and gasp curses, your hips bucking on the mat, pawing at the burning on your bloody face, and I lay there staring up at her, laid back and bent over my own folded knees like I’m in an exceptionally long and carnal supta virasana on the yoga mat.

She looks at me, with red staining my teeth – and at you, clawing at your face.

And she snorts, and flaps a dismissive hand.

“Sod it. YOU TOLD ME TO HURRY UP WHEN I WAS CHECKING HER, YOU TWAT. SO I BLOODY WELL DID!” she booms at you, letting the whole fucking Shed hear it, and the place bursts up again, with outrage and drunken glee, with taunting and encouragement, with lust and bloodlust, shouting for heroes and villains, just fucking reveling in the drama that is a wrestling match. And I grin, wide as a Cheshire cat with blood on her fangs, because Pippa’s adding her own little twist. I saw right away that you two had a history – and apparently she waited until just now to pull that out and twist the knife.

I twist my hips, rolling myself over, getting to all fours. My breasts pressing hotly into my sweat-sodden sports bra, my pierced nipples so fucking stiff they almost jut through the Lycra. The Black Flag shirt just hanging on me, like one of those ragged barely-shirts Cyndi Lauper wore in the ’80s. My skirt rucked around my hips, my snake-adorned ass flaunted as my hips sway, punkytails hanging under me – and my gloved hands pushed to the mat as I crawl to you.

I really should feel bad about that. And I will, I’m sure, in time.

But right now?

But it feels so fucking good to be evil.

You’re furious, but you’re also agonized, and I can see the emotions running over your painted, bloody, beautiful face; rage, pain, betrayal, frustration, doubt, lust, amazement. Your head must be a ROIL of emotions right now. And I don’t intend to make you suffer them for long. I rise up, bent low and stalking forward, my hands out to the sides with my fingers wriggling, stalking you as you’re still collapsed on the mat.

NOW … it’s naptime, sugartits …,” I growl hotly, lust painting every fucking panted word until it drips down the consonants. I grab a fistful of dark hair, and DRRRRRAG you up, hauling you roughly to your knees, your body shuddering from the brutal impacts, from the will-crushing attacks, from the savage heel tactics I’ve brought to bear on you. I lean down, my ass swaying behind me as your powerful toned arms hang at your sides, your suit mostly unzipped and rucked, baring so much of you, your tattered fishnets peeling around your thighs as I CRANK your head back by the hair, my bloody smeared black lip curling as I lean down to hiss some savage taunt in your ear. will speculate about what psychologically damaging shit I said, because it makes you visibly shudder.

And what I whispered in your ear was “Because I’m not waiting another fucking second to get you back to my fucking hotel room, you beautiful fucking cunt.

And I turn and drop to all fours, facing away from you as you sway on your knees, breathless. Panting. Nipples defiantly jutted. And my leg slides up and back with an almost maddening grace, my left leg slipping up and back, gliding over your left shoulder. Then my weight balances on my hands on the mat as my right leg pushes up and back, slithering over your powerful right shoulder. You can feel the sweaty slick heat of my powerful toned quads resting on either side of your neck, clasping your cheeks. My right leg curls, the calf behind your head, the sweat-sodden and shiny Doc Marten tucking behind my left knee as I flex that leg up. Locking in the hanging reverse figure-four headscissors with an almost audible CRUNCH of my quads around your head, my thighs suddenly tensing hotly. I can hear your low aching groan into me as you paw at my steel legs.

But I’m not done.

My weight shifts entirely to my right arm, my gloved hand flat on the mat, my bicep flexing tautly, the tattoos sleeving that arm shifting with the tensing muscle. And I turn my shoulders, reaching back with my left hand – lacing it in your dark hair. Taking a moment to admire you. Beautiful, weary, aching, exquisite, defiant, lustful war goddess. And I tense my grip –

– and PULL your face tight against the sweat-glazed tattooed creamy curves of my ass, adding a blatant, shameless and heated smother to the crushing hanging reverse figure-four headscissors. The noise from the crowd is INTENSELY animalistic, furious and desiring, raucous and unbelieving. A wave of sound rolling over us as I PULL you, feeling your nose slide against the hot sweaty Lycra to sink between my cheeks, feeling your moaning lips crush hotly against the pulsing, slick heat of my aching cunt. My body bent into classical etched lines and curves, a sculpture of feminine aggression, my back arched to reach back for your hair, my breasts pushed up to lift my ragged shirt, my head craned back to watch you with ragged purple strands painted to my blood-masked face, my hazel eyes wide and hot and hungry. Lips parted to take hot hungry gasps. Arm like a steel bar underneath me, my thighs flexing like serpents around your neck – and with each grind of my hips, I pull you deeper.

Sinking you into the heat.

Marking you with my scent.

It’s pure feral female combat in its most essential form. A blatant display of need and desire and aggression and dominance. It leaves the crowd fucking breathless.

And it leaves YOU breathless. You struggle, but you’re so weary. Missing the Angel in the North and taking that faceful of poison, that crushing crash to the mat, my ceaseless needling wicked taunting – it’s taken its toll. And now you have nothing to breathe … but me. Nothing to smell or taste or see … but me. My thighs closing off your ears, burying your head. Your face pushed into the breath-stealing curve of my serpent-tattooed sweat-glistening ass. And my hips grind, smearing the heat of my cunt over and over against those exquisite red-painted soft lips. My back shifts like the snake inked on my creamy buns, my punkytails swaying under me. Each breath hot and ragged.

I can feel the burn of my own red mist smearing my pussy from your weary face, the toxic fire of it only adding to the exquisite pleasure. A bit of pain makes everything sweeter.

Pippa draws near, but she knows better than to say anything now. She’s given up on it. She’s just watching. The whole Shed is just fucking watching. NONE of them have seen anything quite like this moment. Not even in the Glasgow clubs.

Your hands are falling, clutching at my clenching glutes, at my brutally tensed quads and slowly sinking … slipping down under you. Swaying at your sides. You don’t tap.

No. You never even dream of it.

You hang on until there’s no air, until there’s nothing but me. Filling your whole fucking head. Until I see those eyes flutter shut, your lashes brushing the taut curves of my ass, feel the last whispers of your fading breath against my sodden shorts. And Pippa, for whatever else she may be and whatever she may think of what’s going on, just waits to the side. Sat on her knees, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes.

And seeing you go out … seeing the incredible woman who I called out and who responded by honing herself into a weapon, who’s kissed me so hotly that I forgot the whole fucking universe, who’s fought toe to toe as brutally as anyone I’ve ever wrestled fade away into a smothered slumber …

F-fff-FUCK … AUH … AUHHHH! OHHHHH *FUCK*!” I cry out, and where what we were doing before made people gasp and wonder, this time it’s pure undiluted fucking orgasmic HEAT. I GUSH against my shorts, and PAINT your lips and face, SMEARING you in my juices. My hips fucking BUCK, my back arching so deep it looks like I might snap my own spine, my head thrown back and face a portrait of fucking unknowable ecstasy. And my hand slides from your hair, dropping to the mat. Your face slumped into the plush of my inked ass. My head hanging down as I pant, saliva trickling from my lower lip, my soaked punkytails draped over my shivering shoulders. My hips buck with soft aftershocks as your unconscious form sags, your knees splaying, your face sinking into me deeper.

And all Pippa does is lift your wrist and let your hand flop like deadweight before she calls for the bell.

I don’t even hear it, lost in heat and pleasure as she unhooks my legs and lets us both drop to the mat in shining heaps of bloody exhaustion.

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Do you know what the shortest living animal in the world is?  No?  Well it’s the mayfly, you dumb fucks!  It lives for one beautiful sweet day, when it gets to mate, and then it dies.  For the rest of its existence, it lives as what is known as a nymph, a hideous alien like creature, grubbing around on the muddy bottom of some lake or other.  Fascinating huh?  And what is the point of this entomology lesson you may ask.  Well the fucking point is that the one day mayfly is a pretty good analogy for how I’m feeling right now as I somersault off the top turnbuckle and hurtle towards my downed opponent.  This is MY moment!  The time when I get to do my thing at long last after grubbing around in the mud of that lake bed.  And everyone is looking admiringly at me, this thing of beauty, as it flutters delicately through the air.

And you know what?  When I’m all wrapped up and absorbed in this very special but fleeting moment I actually believe I can still win this match.  Against all the odds, having risked it all, the brave tenacious underdog pulls off an incredible win against the mighty Punky!  And why the hell not?  This is a lovely moonsault, although I do say it myself.  Power, timing, elevation, shape and form are all spot on.  Everything feels tight.  No wayward arm or leg to pull me out of kilter, my head back so that my body follows pulling me up and around through vertical.  Now to spread my arms and legs out, like a skydiver on the descent, looking for that big hit right in your tits with my tensed belly.  Then control the G-force of the impact to prevent me bouncing right off you, before I settle down on ya and pin your ass for the 1-2-3!

It all sounds oh so straight forward.  Yeah, fucking right!  Don’t think so!  There’s too many imponderables here.  A bit like a lunar landing, there’s lots that could go wrong.  First thing, as I flip over I need to take a quick glance down to check out my landing site – you!  I need to make sure  I’ve gauged this right.  If My trajectory is only a little way out, this is gonna hurt me as much as you!  So I got a split second to assess the situation.  And … aw shit! You’ve READ my move.  I was up top for too long.  Now I’m totally screwed.  But I don’t fucking believe this!  Fucking you!  Again!

Now some bitches who clock your move will roll away to safety like a scalded cat.  Others will present you with their shins and the laces of their boot as they bring their knees up into your abdomen as you crash down.  But you!  Fucking you!  You’re upright on your knees, legs spread, swaying back and forth like a fucking jack in the box that’s just popped up out of the box!  This is insane.  It’s really dangerous.  You could land us both in hospital here with our careers over and done with.  This is so typical of you.  Fucking plain reckless!  Reckless about my safety!  Reckless about your own safety!  Reckless about-


My face gets alarmingly close to yours as I hurtle towards you, then something red … a red cloud … a cloud of some kind of fucking red shit just spews out of your mouth into my face.  I can’t work out what it is.  I can’t work out how you shot it out of your mouth right up into my face like you were the projectile vomiting bitch from The fucking Excorcist.

But suddenly none of that matters right now because the filthy grubby stained mat of the Shed ring has just rushed up to meet me, and my tits and belly have taken the full force, because I’ve been blinded by that fucking red shit and couldn’t see to break to break my fall!  It’s stinging my eyes, it’s in my nostrils, my mouth, the back of my throat.  I’m scared I’m choking!  I’m scared you blew some kind of acid in my face because it’s burning like crazy.  But how could that be?  It came out of your mouth! 

Now I’m lay on my front.  My hands pawing at my face, probably making things worse as I wipe more of the fucking stuff into my eyes and mouth.  My boots are kicking wildly as I try to vent some of the pain and anger I’m feeling.  But that’s not the worst bit.  The worst bit is the total fucking confusion!

“What just happened?  What THE FUCK just happened?  What have YOU DONE TO ME, you fucking crazy bitch?”  I’m shrieking as I thrash and writhe around on the mat.  “My eyes!  My fucking eyes!  I’ll kill you for this!  I’ll FUCKING KILL YOU!”

All kinds of threats and venom pour out of my mouth but they’re all just borne out of anger and fear and resentment and utter utter bafflement. 

And our beloved referee isn’t exactly helping clarify things for me here either.  Just why the fuck is she yelling at ME?  Surely it should be YOU she’s bawling out for whatever despicable thing you’ve just done to me!

“You told me to hurry up when I was checking her, you TWAT!  So I bloody well did!”  Is hardly what you want to hear from the official when you’re down on the mat, wasted,  blinded and fighting for every breath.  But that aside, what the fuck is she so angsty about!?

And then the crowd react to that too.  Booing.  Cheering.  Whatever happened really got to them.  Divided them. Drew them right into the trauma going on in the ring. There was a loud gasp when that stuff hit my face so it was obviously something really dramatic.  Since then they’ve been screaming and yelling.  And then one particular drunken high pitched voice carries to my ears above all the rest and clicks it all into place for me:

OHHMYYGGAWWD!  Did you see that?  Punky misted her!  She fucking misted her!  Absolutely fucking awesome!

Misted me?  She fucking misted me?  That’s why Pippa was fucking going on about checking her! But who the hell uses mist nowadays?  It’s so fucking horrible!    I’ve never experienced Dokugiri in my whole career! 

Why did she do that me?  She didn’t have to resort to that!  And it was the red stuff too!  Isn’t that the one that’s meant to REALLY HURT!?

Well I’m FUCKING DONE now.  I’ve taken all the pain and punishment you dished out, all the ring shuddering moves, all the insidious fucking verbals that got inside my head and left me wondering whether you adored me or despised me, I even came back from that fucking evil in the ropes camel clutch thing that you did to me.  But the fucking mist!  The mist breaks my heart!  You didn’t need to have done THAT!

I cough up a big choking sob and in you come, right on cue.  Hands relentlessly sinking into my sweaty, red mist stained hair.  You’re hungry for the finish now.  I can smell it on you.  I just know, like a hunted animal knows when its pursuer finally brings it to the ground. 

“NOW … it’s fuckin’ naptime, sugartits.”  You growl as you savagely drag me up.  I just stay there on my knees, my spirit broken, a tiny wail of dread and fear escaping my lips.  And then you lean in and whisper, just for me:

“Because I’m not waiting another fucking second to get you back to my hotel room, you beautiful fucking cunt.”

Your words shake me to my very core.  Not because I dread going back to your room.  But because I’m going back there owned.  Totally completely and utterly fucking OWNED!  And you just absolutely adored telling me that!  Because this is what it’s always been about.  We were always going back to a hotel room after the match.  It’s was just a case of whose.  It was just a case of who would be TOP bitch. 

Well … now we know.

And so you set about putting me away.  And it’s utterly cruel and brutal and shockingly erotic!

Your porcelain white legs entwine around my head and neck like steel pythons so that when you snap the hanging reverse figure four head scissors tight shut I fear that my neck might snap.  As it is, my crimson face is jerked fully into the sodden crotch of your black Lycra shorts.  The soaking wet material does little to shield your lust engorged labia from my mouth and my acute shortage of breath means that I almost immediately find myself sucking feverishly on the sodden acrid material.  This sends you crazy.  Your hand comes up and ferociously grips my hair and forces my face deeper into you, nose to asshole, mouth to cunt!  I marvel at how you are finding the strength to do this after what we have put each other thru.  You are controlling this intricate, delicately balanced move on one arm just so you can haul my features right into you, until my face and your crotch become one.  If I didn’t worship you as a wrestler before, Punky Dow, (which I most certainly did) I fucking do now!

My hands paw so desperately at your flexed thighs, the skin silky smooth, the muscles steel hard beneath, and then your taut, tattooed ass cheeks.  But all that seems to do is SPUR YOU ON!  It’s as if you want to scent me, to mark me permanently as yours.  Your hips begin to jerk and gyrate, rocking my head back and forth, my face practically buried now.  The urgent motion makes you even wetter if that was possible!  And then an awful realisation dawns!  FUCK!  You’re going to take an orgasm from this, you fucking slut!  You’re going to get off whilst putting me out!  The humiliation.  The fucking exquisite humiliation!

Fortunately (or do I mean unfortunately, I’m really not sure right now), it doesn’t take much of this to have me fading away.  I mean, essentially what you are doing to me is sexual waterboarding and given the levels of pain and fatigue that I’ve accumulated, I really don’t have a lot left in the tank.  Now here’s the thing.  I may not have been misted in a match before, but I have been put out.  A sleeper, a rear naked choke, I’ve been there!  Mind you, I ain’t been put out in another wrestler’s ass before, but the effect on the body is pretty much the same.  So as I was saying, the thing about it is you’re never really sure just exactly when it is you went out and so you are never certain whether your recall of certain events is a dream or real.  Take now for instance.  My hands slip from your ass and down to my sides as my eyes roll up into my head and you start to pump your hips into me like a fucking crazy woman until you are cursing and shuddering and gushing all over me.  And my heart just dies inside me because I know you’ve cum just as you’ve finished me and everyone will get to see that!  Pandemonium breaks out amongst the crowd as Pippa at last does some refereeing and raises my arm, which flops down by my side lifeless.  Now I think I’m present for that.  Because I’m feeling really worried that I can’t control my own arm and scared about what might happen if you don’t release me very soon from those vice like, milky white thighs.

And then somewhere far away in the background I can hear a bell ringing madly even though I’ve been hearing nothing in my ears but a high pitched whistling for what seems like ages now.  But I suppose Pippa must have prised you off me as she called for the bell to end the match.  I really dunno …

Because I’m not properly back in that ring in the middle of the raucous, violence and lust fuelled night club until I look up to see Charlie kneeling over me as I lie on my side on the mat. And I’m cursing her as she’s just splashed water all over my face and is now wiping it off roughly with a scruffy towel.  ‘Course my mate is looking after me here, getting that caustic crap, the red blood mist, out of my eyes and off my skin as best as she can.

Now some dickhead once wrote, “You never lose.  You just win or learn.”  Well that idiot never had Punky claw their cunt, nearly break her back on the ropes, spray poison mist in her face and then put her out with a smother scissors.  Because if they had, they’d know damn well that you CAN lose!  And sometimes you lose HUGE! 

But in my dazed state, I feel the need to ask Charlie to confirm my status as a big time loser.  Because you never know, the last couple of minutes might have all been just a bad dream! 

“Did … did … did she just put me out?”  I mumble, my lips not properly working yet.

“Yeah, hon.  She did.” Charlie nods ruefully.

“And….did she cum?  I thought I felt her cum.  Could you tell from ringside if she did?”

“Yeah we could tell.  We could hear her cumming.  Fuck, the whole of Glasgow probably heard her cumming!”

Jeez, Charlie.  Okay, love, that’s enough.  I wanted you to just confirm my huge loser status, not underline it, write it in bold and add an exclamation point! 

Then I feel eyes on me.  It’s you.  Sat on the mat, a little way off, your knees drawn up to your chest and your arms wrapped around cradling them, blatantly displaying your sodden crotch for all to see.  And you have this savage triumphant grin on your face, like some prehistoric cave dweller who has just smashed her rival’s head in with a rock and taken her mammoth tooth.  I just look back at you, searching your blood streaked face for even the tiniest hint of pity or empathy for me.  Nothing.  Not right now.  You’re completely absorbed in the heat of the fight, the desperate primal struggle … and you just FUCKING WON!!

The ring announcer says so:





And that’s your cue.  Without even a glance back at me you’re up on your feet, sprinting to the corner where the rowdiest, most drunken section of the crowd is situated in order to mount the middle rope and lean out over the top, body arching, arms outstretched, face insane with triumph as you roar:


They shout back at you, the drunken mob as one now, because, of course, every wrestling fan loves a winner:


You gently nod along in agreement with them, a victorious radiant grin still fixed on your face.

And then you put your hand to your ear with a look of feigned disapproval as you wait for them to cotton on.  Then they get it:


Another satisfied nod, your hands now out in front of you, beckoning the crowd to increase the volume, which they do.  Nobody works a crowd like you.  But fucking hell, Megan!  Do you have to enjoy your victory over me quite so much as this!

I sink back down to lie flat out on my back on the canvas.  “For fuck’s sake. Get me out of here.” I say looking up at Charlie, my voice cracking slightly as tears start to fill up in my eyes.

She nods, seeing how badly I’m taking this now.  “Can you stand up?” She asks.

I shake my head, “No.  I’ll just roll to the apron and out under the bottom rope.” 

And I do.  Fortunately there only a few eyes are on me to witness the pathetic sight of me rolling myself painfully to the ropes, out under the bottom one to drop down awkwardly off the apron where Charlie catches me. First thing she does is to zip up my suit to preserve my modesty and then she wraps my arm around her shoulder so that she can half carry out to the back.  She pushes us through the jeering, leering, seething mass of drunkenness using her free arm and her battering ram of a voice.  “Out of the way, love!”  Mind your back mate!”  Move dickhead!”  If she isn’t wrestling, Charlie works most weekends on night club doors.  She’s fucking good at this stuff.

Most eyes, meanwhile, are on you, now leading the mob in an Icelandic Thunder Clap.  The slow insistent hand clap, punctuated by a loud primal HUHHH! chant was made famous by the fans of the Icelandic soccer team, although they actually stole it from the fans of a Scottish team called Motherwell.  Anyhow, where ever the fuck it came from, this crowd love it.  And so do you.  You stand above all those people, working them, like some ancient warrior queen, psyching her troops up for battle.  The whole room joins in with you and the sound of the huge crowd across the road in the park, watching on the big screen, reverberates as far as the Shed now too.

Charlie and I reach the door to the back of the club and as we slip through it virtually unnoticed, I can’t resist one last quick glance back at you.  You’re oblivious to me.  I’d kinda hoped you might put me over tonight to give me a push.  But not a chance.  You guard your glory too jealously.  Sure, after the incredible match we just did I’m over with this crowd.  They accept what I’m about now.  Some maybe even love me, just a little. But I’m certainly not as over with them as you! 

But hey, who said there were going to be any happy endings in pro wrestling?  Heck, everyone knows they only happen in Disney films, right … well, animated features films and also in dodgy massage parlours!

Charlie eases me through the door.  It’s chaos out here too with drunken idiots milling around, shouting and shrieking.  Jake meets us.  He wraps a blanket around me and the two of them whisk me out the back door and into Jake’s waiting car. 

“Okay, I collected your bag, with your stuff.  You got anything else in there?” Asks Captain Sensible as he jumps into the  driver’s seat.

“Jake, I don’t know.  And really don’t fucking care right now!  Just get us the hell out of here!” I yell at him and he guns it down the back alley, heading for the main road.

Once out in the traffic, though,  we slow right down.  We’re heading for a Travel Lodge on the outskirts of the city but it’ll take us all night at this rate!  People are pouring out of the park, singing, yelling, running into the road, banging on the roof of the car.  I sink down in the back seat in case anyone recognises me.

As we crawl along, my phone pings in my bag.  When I check it, it’s a message from an unknown number.  But I know who this is!

Hey, Sugartits!  Where you at? 

I been looking for ya. 

We ain’t done yet, y’know.

I’m heading to the Kimpton Hotel in Blytheswood Square.  I decided to book us somewhere nice after tonight’s shitstorm. 

Come to me.

Fuck you bitch!  I can still smell you on me.  I can still taste you in my mouth.  I can still feel the sting of the red fucking mist in my eyes. 

I don’t reply.  I throw my phone back into my bag with a little angry snort.

We go along at a snail’s pace in the traffic for another ten minutes.  Time for me to calm down and think.  A plush hotel room with a big king sized bed and you all hot and eager and lustful.  It has to be better than a forlorn night in an fucking Travel Lodge eating cold takeaway pizza.  My phone pings again, right on cue, almost like you are reading my thoughts.


Come on over

… please

Please?  PUULLLLEEAASSEE?  In all the time I’ve known you I’ve never heard you say please to anyone!  That touches me.  That really gets to me.  Maybe it’s just a cheap trick.  But then maybe not.

I text a one word replay.


Then Charlie’s and Jake’s jaws nearly hit the floor as I announce:  “Guys, you’re not gonna like this.  But I need to go to a place called the Kimpton Hotel.  I need to go RIGHT NOW!”


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