Kiva’s Fight Journal: Chapter 3 by Kiva

Chapter 3: Awakened

Texas is a wonderful place to live, I’ve discovered. With the low cost of living, low taxes, and real estate prices, combined with the many cultural and recreational opportunities, what isn’t there to like? The education system and healthcare facilities in our community are excellent. Our neighbors are very nice. But there is one feature of Texas that has significantly changed our lives – the winters are mild. As a native yankee, I will say that few sights are as beautiful as a pristine snowscape. A snowfall can change the world around you into a wondrous Thomas Kinkade Christmas card picture. But those brief periods of aesthetic moments come with a price. I don’t miss the weeks of bitter cold, defrosting our vehicles every morning, driving through ice and slush, and months of bulky winter coats and boots. For me, it was a happy day when we sold our snow blower. For my husband, the Texas climate meant just one thing – the golf courses are opened year round.

“Kiva, wake up. We have a nine o’clock tee time. We’re with the general and his wife today.”

“Ugh” I wanted to sleep in on this Sunday morning. But I’ll do this for my husband, I told myself. Tom loved playing golf since he was a toddler. He introduced me to the sport when we were dating. I enjoyed it much more than I thought I would. Golf is a tough skill to learn but I seemed to have some natural proclivity to it. I’m not a great golfer but I’m better than most women who play regularly. For me, golf was purely a social activity. Tom and I would often play foursomes with other couples. In recent years, however, due to work and motherhood, my golf participation became less frequent.

In Texas, we joined a country club which became a major source of our social life. In an effort to meet people, Tom and I resumed our couples golf outings. With both of us off work for the next three days, we planned to spend time together and reconnect.

After two cups of coffee, a light breakfast and quick shower, I slipped on my leopard print golf skirt with a matching visor atop my long ponytail. My top was a sleeveless black polo shirt which matched my black golf shoes. Looking at my face in the mirror, the twinges of uneasiness started again.

It had been two weeks since I fought Freda. I still hadn’t told Tom. The scratches were healed. The wheal on my cheekbone from her punch to my face was finally gone. I had hidden the scratches from Tom. I told him my facial swelling was from an agitated dementia patient at work. I told my coworkers I was struck by a tree branch while doing yard work. My vacillation continued. One moment, I relived the rush of a fight and desired to find my next one. I watched fights on the internet. I looked up local trainers. I studied instructional videos. I analyzed my many deficiencies in my fight with Freda. The next moment, I felt ashamed as if I was on the verge of living a double life. I resolved that I would not fight again without my husband’s support. The question was how to obtain his consent. Gradually I went to work on him. I avoided the term “fight” and used the more sporting term “match” instead. In bed, I made up sexy fantasy role playing stories for him. In one story, I came home to find him tied and bound by a female burglar. The intruder and I engaged in a clothes ripping, hair pulling, tit mauling catfight. I prevailed, tying up the burglar, freeing my husband and giving him a robust fucking in front of my hapless foe. In another story, I fought a grotesque mutant woman from “The Hills Have Eyes”, who attacked us as we hiked the Appalachian Trail. Once again, I won, we fucked. These stories worked really well in bed. Whether or not they’d persuade him to actually let me fight remained to be seen.

We dropped off our daughter at her friend’s house for the day and headed for the club, passing through the large iron gates, sprawling landscape and majestic fountain. After checking in at the pro shop, warming up at the driving range, and acquiring our golf cart, we waited to meet the other couple.

I never considered myself a country club type of person. I equated the words “country club” with rich old white people. Perhaps that’s a bit unfair. To be sure, there’s no shortage of status conscious individuals in the club. And my husband and I are one of the more younger couples. Most of the people are actually interesting and nice and some do admirable charity work. But as is often the case in large social groups, cliques develop, especially with women. There’s the popular group, the cool group, the nerdy group, the very rich group. Kind of like a middle aged high school.

“Well hello, hello,” called a deep gravelly voice. At age 80, retired Major General Peter Brockman was still an imposing figure. With his stocky frame just an inch under six feet tall, and a ruddy rectangular shaped face, thick jaw and thin straight white hair, the general lost little of his commanding presence with his advancing years. Next to him stood his wife, Kyong, a slender Asian woman who seemed less than half her husband’s age. In fact, she looked to be no older than thirty years old. Appearing very attractive in her brown snakeskin golf dress, she gave me a big toothy smile as she eyed me up and down. Now that I was initiated into the catfight world, I knew exactly what that look meant. As I introduced myself, the general took my hand as his eyes walked all over me.

Tom had met the general before. In fact, this golf outing was extremely important to my husband’s work. Six months earlier, the general suffered a serious heart attack. He was taken to the hospital where he was rushed to the cardiac catheterization lab. There, my husband’s team of cardiologists performed an emergency procedure where they advanced a long plastic catheter through a small incision in the groin, reaching the coronary arteries of the heart and removed the blockages in the arteries with a little balloon at the tip of the catheter. Next, they placed stents inside the arteries to help assure the arteries stay open maintaining good blood flow. As with the general, this procedure is usually the best way to save lives in the event of a heart attack. However, time is critical and the procedure only works within a time window of a few hours.

Even more astonishing is the fact that Tom’s lab uses robotic equipment. The doctor performing the procedure is sitting in a cockpit several feet away from the patient, operating a robotic arm, using finger controls, a screen, and a joystick. Because this life saving procedure is often not available in remote areas, the university is interested in performing it remotely. Under this system, a patient having a heart attack may have his coronary arteries opened by a doctor many miles away. This would require an upgrade in robotic equipment and, of course, a lot of money.

Our foursome today was more than just a social event. The general, out of gratitude to my husband’s team, expressed an interest in funding the deficit on new telerobotic equipment. He and my husband would discuss particulars. My job, I supposed, was to put on a good face.

The two couples, each in their respective golf cart reached the tee box of the first hole. After a brief chit chat with the starter, I approached the tee and took a few practice swings with my driver. 

“Tom,” I heard the general rattle, “you sure found yourself a nice piece of property.”

“Thanks,” my husband answered. “We were lucky. It had just gone on the market. It had everything we wanted. The price was good. And the swimming pool was a bonus.”

“No,” the general replied with a cackling laugh. “I’m talking about THAT piece of real estate.”

Oh Lord, I thought. I lifted my eyes from the ball on my tee to have my fear confirmed. The old bastard was pointing at me.

“Yes sir,” he added. “Looks like you found yourself a winner.”

I gave him a quick half smile, half sneer. My husband’s face spoke volumes. Yes, I know you’re offended but please put up with it for me. Please?, he silently said.

“Look at our two lovely ladies,” the general started again. “One is dressed like a leopard, the other looks like a cobra. This should be very interesting.”

It’s going to be one of those days, I thought.

I resumed my golf stance. The other three watched intently, especially Kyong, as I executed my backswing. Maintaining my posture, I nailed the drive about 180 yards down the middle of the fairway. Next, Kyong approached the ladies tee. Her body was clearly more flexible than mine as she twisted and contorted her frame sending her club head down on a wide arc. Her shot ended up about ten yards behind mine and slightly off the fairway.

“After one stroke, the advantage goes to the leopard,” the general chortled.

I sighed. The men teed off, each sending his ball down the fairway, although Tom’s ball traveled about 50 yards farther than the old general’s. As my husband and I entered our carts to drive to our balls, my husband had no doubt about my exasperation.

“Try to suck it up today, Kiva,” he urged. “Take one for the heart center.”

I always found playing golf with another couple for the first time to be pot luck. On a standard 72 par golf course, I usually shot in the 80s. Not great but better than most recreational golfers. I could hit a good long ball and get down the fairway quickly. I’m not very muscular. The trick is to keep your arms loose and use your core muscles to initiate the swing. The club speed on the downswing creates distance. My short game is average. But it’s excellence in chipping and putting that separates the best players. For me, golf is purely for fun. I never cared for the tense atmosphere of tournaments. My favorite couples to play with were the ones who shared my philosophy. We enjoyed each other’s company without concerns for our scores. In fact, if the other woman was a beginner or poor golfer, I’d go out of my way to help her enjoy herself. Quite often, I felt there was a comparison between the two women: our outfits, our figures, our looks, how we hit the ball. It was usually unspoken. However, with Kyong and her husband, I felt like a piece of meat before the first tee.

As we slogged our way through the front nine, the activity pretty much followed the same pattern. Tom, as usual, played an outstanding game. The general wasn’t bad considering his age. He would have done much better if he drove from the closer seniors tee but I’m sure his pride wouldn’t allow that. For many men, admitting they need to shorten the distance of the course is like admitting they lost a dick comparing contest. Tom and the general pleasantly chatted throughout the nine holes. Kyong and I were tied after the front nine. I hit farther but she had the edge in the short game. We talked some. She immigrated from South Korea. She spoke broken English but was easy to understand. I decided questions of how she met the general and why she married him were best left unasked.

After the ninth hole, we stopped at the concession stand for a quick snack and a drink. The break was a nice relief. The conversation was light – at first.

“You got a lot of pop with that driver there, sugar pie,” said the general. Sugar pie? “I mean it, baby doll, you’re really nailing it.” Baby doll? My husband will owe me big time for putting up with this, I told myself.

Then general rolled right off a cliff.

“It’s funny to see a cutie like you hit the ball so far. Most women I see hitting like that are the fat cows down on the driving range. And most of them are dykes.” Tom and I looked  at each other.

“Dykes?” I breathed out loud almost involuntarily.

“Yeah,” the general resumed. “They look like men. They walk like men. They golf like men. I figure they do everything else like men.” Tom gave me another “just suck it up, just nine more holes” look. It got worse.

“I got out of the Department of Defense just in time. Now we got all the homos and dykes coming into the military in droves. The liberals tell them, ‘Join the Army, Join the Marines. You’ll find love and acceptance.’ Well, I don’t need to be in a foxhole worrying about my buddy trying to get in my back door, if you know what I mean. Now I don’t care what people due in their bedrooms. If guys want to pack fudge and girls want to bang their beavers together, I say ‘fine’. Just keep em away from the armed forces.”

Somehow the general missed the memo on how thousands of American women have been sexually assaulted in the military at the hands of heterosexual men. Furthermore, gays have always been in the military and have served extremely well. Our golfing companion wasn’t done yet.

“And now we got guys wanting to be girls and girls wanting to be guys and the liberals saying we must take them all. They want surgery to lop off their peckers and drill pussies into them and the liberals say the Defense Department should pay for it. Meanwhile, Putin is laughing his ass off. I’ll tell you, it’s just a matter of time before we become the United States of China. Or Iran. Or Russia. Or you name it. The US of A is going to hell in a hand basket. And you can thank the liberals.”

“OK, l think we should head over to hole ten, now” I said in a vain attempt to change the conversation.

“And the women,” the general continued. “I have no problem with females in the service. But not in combat. We need secretaries and cooks but we don’t need our ladies in armed battles. Do they have any idea what are enemies would do to them if they captured them? Do you think if I’m wounded, a little girl can carry me off the battlefield? Hell no! The only time I want a woman under me is in the sack.”

As we motioned toward our golf carts, the old man made one more point that froze me in my tracks.

“If ladies want to fight, they should fight each other.”

I couldn’t resist. “Ladies fighting each other…Um…what do you mean.”

“Well,” the old man’s gravelly voice answered. “Nowadays, we have women boxing, competing in MMA. Ladies are now wrestling in the Olympics. Even our school district is starting a girls wrestling team. In my day, this was all unthinkable. But I’m OK with it. To tell you the truth I like to see two dames tangling to settle their differences. My third wife used to get into scraps. Kyong here has been talking about finding a woman to test herself against.”

“That’s funny,” my husband interjected, “Kiva has been talking about wanting to fight. It’s this fantasy she seems to have developed. At night, she likes to turn me on by making up these incredible fight stories. And I must say…they are pretty hot.”

TOM, HOW FUCK COULD YOU??? My mind blazed with anger. I stared daggers at my idiot husband. Really, jerk? Sharing my intimate thoughts and desires? Why stop there? Tell them my favorite sex positions why you’re at it. Tell them what I sound like when I moan orgasms. Asshole!

“Well, I figured Kiva might be a fighter,” the general offered. “I’ve seen her around with Jake’s wife, Kelli. And you know all about her don’t you?”

Oh no, he brought up Kelli. I literally started to sweat, dreading where this conversation was going.

“Kelli?” asked my privacy violating husband. “What about Kelli?” I swallowed hard as the general’s gruff voice was about to spill God knows what.

“Kelli likes to fight,” she said. “She goes around looking for women to fight just for the hell of it.”

“Do you mean boxing?” Tom inquired.

“No,” the general replied. “Catfighting. Ya know, punching, kicking, scratching, clawing. Sometimes they get nekkid.”

“That sounds like a crazy rumor,” my husband retorted.

“It ain’t a rumor,” the retired military officer insisted. “It’s all true. I’ve seen it myself. I saw her fight in a cage at Billy’s. She was in there with this fox named Paige. Boy, was that a slobberknocker. Those ladies beat the holy hell out of each other.”

“Billy’s?” my husband asked.

“Yeah, it’s a sports bar that features cage fights. Sometimes they let housewives get in the cage to settle it. Yep, that Kelli is something.”

“Kiva,” my husband turned toward me. “What do you know about Kelli fighting? Is she why you’re getting interested?”

Time froze for a second. “Uh…um…no, I don’t know anything about Kelli fighting. I mean, she never mentioned it to me.”

I hate lying. I just didn’t feel that was the time and place to speak with my husband about it. And frankly, Kelli’s life was none of their business. I realize Kelli’s hobby is not a closely guarded secret. But one thing I noticed about catfighters is that they usually protect each other’s privacy. After trying to rip each other’s head off, they rarely discuss their fights with outsiders and don’t post photos or videos of their fights on their personal social media without their opponent’s consent. As far as I can tell, neither Deanna or Freda have said a peep about our fights at work. As much as I despise them, the three of us at least developed a working relationship at work and have kept each other’s secret safe.

“Well, it’s true,” the general reiterated. “And Randall’s wife, Patricia is another one. They live along the 15th hole here. She’s a catfighter.”

I met Patricia briefly at a club mixer. Nice woman but she seemed tough. It wouldn’t surprise me if she fights.

“Yes sir,” the general added, “we got some mighty tough fighting wildcats at this club.” For several seconds there was an awkward silence between the four of us, until the general spoke again.

“Well it seems like both our ladies have gotten bit by the fight bug. I think the only logical step now is to get our two pretty chickadees together and let them decide who is the better woman.”

“Yes, I would like that. Kiva, how about you?” Kyong quickly blurted before I could even process the thought.

“What?,…you mean..a..catfight?” I hesitantly asked.

“Yes,” Kyong answered. “But we can discuss rules.”

“How about tomorrow,” added Kyong’s husband. “You can come over our place. We got mats and lots of room. We can hang out at the pool, the girls can have their tussle, then we’ll have a barbecue.”

“I don’t know, general,” Tom answered. “I’m not so sure this is safe.”

“It’ll be safe,” the general replied. “I use to coach wrestling. I’ll make sure no one gets hurt. Then before you leave tomorrow, Tom, I’ll sign off on the paperwork for your robot.”

Tom and I both looked lost. I did not expect to be challenged to a fight and I was completely caught off guard. Tom was uneasy about having me fight but it seemed that might be the quickest path to the general’s huge gift.

“Kiva, what do you say?” My husband asked.

I bit my lip and stared at the ground. On one hand, I badly wanted to fight this woman. Like Freda, she was shorter than me and at least 10 lbs lighter. But, she was flexible, very fit, and probably fast. I knew my husband was nervous about me making the final decision. His hope was that we meet, I fight, no one gets hurt, and he leaves with funds for his new prized robot. I’m not sure why I answered the way I did. Maybe I put my husband’s uneasiness first, but I spoke my answer.

“No, I’m not looking for a fight at this time. But since we both have an interest, let’s consider it in the future.”

A look of disappointment fell on the general and Kyong. My husband seemed a bit relieved. The golf group behind us was closing in.

“We need to move on to the tenth hole,” I informed.

During the back nine, the whole group dynamic had changed. The conversations felt forced and superficial. The awkwardness was palpable.

“What a sexist homophobic jerk,” I told my husband while we rode in our golf cart. My husband defended the general on the basis of the time and culture he came from.

“Do you think what he said about Kelli is true?” he asked.

“No, I replied. “I think he has Alzheimer’s dementia.”

Kyong continued to eye me all over. Except now, I sensed she had a certain derision and assertiveness toward me. On the tenth fairway, she accused me of moving my ball and demanded I take a penalty stroke. What the fuck? Fortunately, the men stuck up for me and a confrontation was avoided. Tom had become nervous. The general seemed to have lost interest in discussing the robotics purchase. In fact, the general found a new way to entertain himself.

With our scores tied, Kyong and I both putted on the tenth green. She successfully made her putt. I didn’t, placing me one stroke behind her.

“The two ladies square off,” said the general. “Kyong has got Kiva by the hair, she spins her around and forces her to the ground. Kyong has got the advantage.”

“What is he saying?” I asked my husband.

On the eleventh hole, Kyong and I both bogied.

“Kiva is holding Kyong to a stalemate but Kyong is still on top of her,” announces the old man.

Now I get it.

“General, are you making up a catfight story?” I asked.

“Yes I am, hon. Since you and Kyong aren’t going to go at it, I’m using your golf game to decide which of you would win in a fight.”

“And that’s going to be me,” Kyong chimed.

Seven more holes to go, I told myself. It got worse. Kyong accused me of breaking another rule by patting down the sand in the bunker with my club, which is illegal. Bullshit. She blamed me for causing her to miss a putt by distracting her by moving. More bullshit. The truth was the woman was bullying me. By declining her offer to fight, she believed I conceded to her perceived superiority and she was out to prove it.

As I was walking back to our cart, I felt something holding my right upper arm. I jumped, looked and saw an old liver spotted hand grasping my bicep.

“What are you DOING?” I shrieked.

“Just checking out your muscles,” said the old lecher. “I want to see if you’re as solid as you look. Just for future reference.”

In the golf cart, I again seethed to my husband who again tried to defend to creep as having come from another era when touching a woman was permissible. Nice try.

After the fifteenth hole, the bitch and I were even again, a fact not lost on the general.

“Kiva is making a comeback. Both ladies are on their feet going at it. They’re both getting tired.”

At the eighteenth and final hole, we were still tied. Here, we would face the greatest challenge on the course. The hole is only a 125 yard par 3 but is home to an exceedingly dangerous sand trap. Situated to the left of the green, the bunker known as “the coffin” is a long rectangular and deep hazard. 11 yards long, 4 yards wide and 5 feet deep. Patterned after the 8th hole at Britain’s Royal Troon, the bunker looks like a large dug out grave. Once a ball lands in the coffin, it is exceedingly difficult to shoot it out. The reason for the name “the coffin” is simple. Golf balls go there to die.

The men teed off first, both of them reaching the green. Kyong’s shot fell just short of the green. My shot lofted up high, hooked slightly left, landed on the edge of the green, teetered, then rolled left down into the…coffin.

The men putted for pars. Kyong chipped up to the green. The coffin had a small ladder to assist in the five foot descent. The narrow width made it difficult to take a full swing. Using the loftiest wedge in my bag, I swung down steeply. My ball popped straight up, hit the top ledge of the coffin before tumbling back down to the bottom. My next shot was more successful, sending my ball on the green, just three feet from the cup. However, I had already taken three strokes to Kyong’s two. From twelve feet out, Kyong’s putt rolled downhill, rolled right with the slope and toward the cup. She read it beautifully. The putt was good. Kyong beat me by one stroke.

“Well I guess that settles it,” the general laughed. “Kiva got pinned and face sat. The winner is…Kyong. The cobra killed the leopard.”

Kyong threw her arms in the air in a faux victory pose as her elderly husband kissed her. She even lifted her leg as if she were stepping on my supine defeated body. Lovely. At least this outing was over and we could go home.

Not quite. As I placed my clubs back in my golf bag, I saw on the ground the shadow of a masculine figure behind me. And then I felt a …hand…on my ass…patting me.

“Better luck next time, cinnamon bun,” the curmudgeon again cackled, still holding my backside.

I had no control over what I did next. Pure instinct took over.

“Don’t… touch me like that again!!!” I screamed….. “I am NOT a piece of real estate!… I am NOT honey…I am NOT babe…I am NOT sweet cakes…I am NOT any of your other insulting names….DON’T you EVER get into my space again!!..You are RUDE!…You are INAPPROPRIATE!…You are a MISOGYNIST…And you are a HOMOPHOBE!

The four of us stood in dead silence. The general’s craggy face looked down at the ground. It occurred to me that it was highly likely nobody ever spoke to him like that before, especially a woman. For a brief second, I almost felt remorse. Perhaps there is some truth to my husband’s explanation. Is the general just a sad old figure passed over by time and changing social mores?

The old man looked up.

“Very well, then,” he softly spoke. “You expressed your opinion. Let’s just call it a day. We’ll be going now. I enjoyed golfing with you.”

He turned to his cart to place his clubs in his bag. Tom joined me in our cart. The look on my husband’s face said it all. The general’s gift may have disappeared as quickly as a pat on the ass. The two of us said nothing. We watched the general join his wife in their golf cart as he started to turn the key.

“Tom, come with me,” I instructed.

“Wait, general, stop,” I called as his cart started to pull away. The old ruddy face glanced at me.

“Sir,” I started. “Now that I said what I feel, that doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends. I’m glad we got to play today. I think we can start over.”

The old man nodded.

“Well then, apology accepted.”  Apology? Is he kidding?

He went on, “I admire a woman who owns up to her mistakes.”

Oh for the love of….At this point, it was time to punt. He isn’t going to change and I won’t fuck again with his male ego.

“And general,” I added, “If the offer is still good, I’d like to come to your house tomorrow and fight your wife.”

“Oh goody!” squealed Kyong, nearly jumping out of her seat.

“Well, we’d be delighted,” the general chimed.

“Now, I can’t get marked up for work,”I said. “And since this is the first time for Kyong and I, I’m thinking maybe we should start out simple, like a pins wrestling match. My husband and I are healthcare workers so we want it as safe as possible. So no chokes or joint locks.”

“Yes ma’am, we can just stick to rasslin. Come over at 1300 hours. We’ll hang out at the pool for a little bit, the girls can tussle, then we’ll have a barbecue. I’ll make my special chili.”

“I’m looking forward to it sir,” I replied.

“Kiva, what the hell?,” my husband started.

“No problem. Everyone gets what they want,” I said.

Once we got home, I felt a sense of excitement to have my first arranged match. I also felt relieved that nothing was being hidden from my husband. Being the consummate physician, he didn’t seem too worried that the match was limited to wrestling. The next day, as we prepared for the match, I packed a sports bra, yoga shorts, and high top sneakers into my gym bag. I added towels and water. Although I didn’t expect to swim, I brought a two piece swimsuit with my favorite design – leopard print!

As we left the house, I felt the excitement and butterflies. But there was more. Having my husband with me before I went into combat with another woman gave me a feeling I never experienced before. It’s hard to explain, but it was a sense of a primal tribalism, love, and raw sexuality all mixed together. Before we entered our car, I uncontrollably threw my arms around his neck and devoured his face with my lips. I would have done more if time permitted.

The security code the general gave us allowed us through the iron gate. The old commander and his young bride greeted us in his driveway. After a tour of the house and the sprawling property, we were directed to the pool. Of course, there was tension between Kyong and I. We sized each other up, we stared, we postured. I was directed to a guest room and instructed to change into my swimsuit. Well, OK, I thought, if they want to swim first, I’m cool with that. I thought I looked good in my leopard bikini. I picked up my bag and headed to the pool area where my husband, the general, and Kyong were waiting.

I was a bit astonished to see Kyong, wearing a bikini, more revealing than my own. Even more surprising was the snakeskin print, like her golf dress from the previous day.

“Well, what do you know,” the general bellowed, “the cobra and the leopard are finally going to settle it.”

“Wait a minute,” I demanded, “are we wrestling or swimming?”

“Wrestling, sweetheart,” Kyong said with a condescending sing song tone.

“In bikinis?”


I was a bit irked at being misled. My husband looked perplexed. OK, I thought. I’ll beat them at any game they want.

 “Alright, let’s go,” I responded. “Where are the mats?”

“Well, we decided to change the venue a bit, our retired host informed. “Come with us.”

The old man had us sit in the back of his private four seater golf cart with he and Kyong up front. Being Monday, the golf course was closed but as a member of the community, the general owned an access card.

“You mean we’re wrestling on the golf course,” I asked as we rolled onto the eighteenth hole.

“Why are we wrestling on the eighteenth green?” It didn’t seem too bad. The ground was soft and the surface felt like velvet.

“You’re not going to wrestle on the green. You’re wrestling down there,” said the old man as his finger pointed to….the coffin!

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I protested. “You want to fight in that sand bunker. Look I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

“I didn’t lie yesterday,” the general protested. “We promised we’d stick to rasslin but we never discussed mats or rings or anything like that. I think both you ladies will like this. You see, when I was in Tunisia, my buddies and I would go into town and watch the belly dancers. In this one club, after the main show, they had a sand pit in the back, and every night, they’d have two of the belly dancers go at it in the sand. My buddies and I would make bets. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to relive some of that. So here’s what I’m proposing. You two ladies rassle each other in the coffin. No dangerous holds like we said. You win by pinning the other woman to the bottom of the coffin for ten seconds. I’ll be up here keeping it safe. Are you good?”

“This is crazy,” my husband whispered in my ear. “Let’s leave.”

“May I make a deal with you,” I countered. “We’re here now. Let me do this once. If it bothers you, I will never talk about fighting again – except maybe in bed.”

Finally, my husband relented. “Good luck,” he breathed.

“Do I get a kiss?” I coyly asked.

Kyong descended down the ladder into the coffin first. Before I followed, I saw the general set up two beach chairs for the husbands in the grass over the bunker, opening a black case he retrieved from his golf cart.

“What would you like, Tom?” asked the gravelly voice as he pulled out two glasses. “I got bourbon, scotch…Jack Daniels.”

I stood for a moment on the green over the bunker. My eyes scanned over the golf course before I lowered into the sand. The afternoon Texas sun was hot, blazing through a flawlessly clear blue sky. The rolling flatness of the fairways was interrupted by a few stately oak trees and glassy water hazard ponds. Long grass waved along the fairway’s edges. In the distance, a construction crane stretched its long neck into the heavens. I know she is in the coffin’s sand waiting for me. She wanted this moment since she first laid eyes on me. She cannot restrain her desire to control me, to dominate me, to own me like a trophy. Yet, I feel something too that I cannot control. I also have a desire to show her I am the better woman. But I feel something else. Something deep and primal. Images and feelings that come from eons past. Our earliest past. They have reached out to me across thousands of years, telling me their stories. They say “You are one of us.”

The African sun was hot, blazing through a flawlessly clear blue sky. The rolling flatness of the savanna was interrupted by a few stately boabab trees and watering holes still left from the rainy season. Long grass waved along the edges of the plain. In the distance, a giraffe stretched its long neck into the heavens. I know Maheen is at the bottom of the sand dune waiting for me. She’s wanted my man from the moment she saw him. She wants me out of the way. I know only one of us may be alive after today. She stares at me with hatred as I climb down the dune. Facing each other, we remove our grass skirts. We approach each other, both of us trying to intimidate the other. We grunt out our utter disdain. Unable to control our urges and our bloodlust, we rush, our bodies colliding together.

I lowered myself into the coffin. Kyong and I took positions along the walls of opposite ends of the bunker, 11 yards apart. We intently eyed each other up and down. I am 5’7” and 128 lbs. I estimate she is 5’5” and 115-118 lbs. Kyong reached behind her back, unclasped her bikini top and pulled it over her head, tossing it out of the bunker. Without hesitating or thinking about it, I did the same, leaving us both bare chested. I think my husband might have protested above us but I didn’t  hear him. I didn’t care. Kyong is flat chested – about a 33A, compared to my 34C, but that didnt discourage her from puffing out her chest and rolling back her shoulders. I posed back. With her lithe body, thin Asian facial features and black hair pulled into a ponytail, she looked formidable. My chest and muscles were larger but she was not intimidated. Her body was lean and tight. Her abdomen boasted a six pack. From golfing, I knew she was very flexible. She may know more about wrestling, but I knew I could take her. We approached each other from opposite ends of the coffin.

At a distance of ten feet from each other, the general ordered “Ladies,…RASSLE!”

The bottom of the coffin was about eight inches of coarse white sand on top of a hard soil layer. The walls were more soil than sand to maintain its vertical cut. I learned immediately the traction beneath my bare feet would be challenging. With are knees slightly bent, hands held at mid-chest height, and shoulders hunched, my opponent and eye cautiously squared off across from each other. We circled each other. However, due to the narrow width of the bunker, we were forced closer together, causing our circle to look more like an oval.

With the torrent of adrenaline rush, I was completely in the moment as our feet slogged through the sand, our bodies moving within reach of each other, each of us contemplating the first move.  Although this would be a “friendly” wrestling match unlike my full on catfight with Freda, nevertheless, the thrill of competing against another woman, this time with my husband present, brought on a frenzy of emotions I’d never experienced before.

 Kyong reached in first, attempting to seize my right arm. I slapped her hand away. A second grab attempt by her brought the same results. She feigned going low to dive for my legs but I was not fooled. As she resumed a neutral position, I rushed in, grasping her left arm with both hands as she tried to back up. She held on to my left arm with her free right hand. Gripping each other, we both pulled back trying to throw the other off balance. We then pushed and pulled each other side to side, finally trying to swing each other by the arms, until we were both dancing in a circle while churning up the sand.

I sensed I was stronger as my swinging became more dominant. I yanked her hard across my body, letting go of her arm, sending her crashing on her back into the five foot high bunker wall. With the snakeskin bikini bottomed woman off balance, I lowered my shoulder, and rammed it into her belly, sending her back into the sandy wall. Using my height and weight advantage, I kept her pressed against the wall, keeping her small titted chest immobilized with my own upper body. Kyong frantically pushed back with her hands and kicked at my legs, evading my attempts to take her down. Violating our agreement to wrestling rules, the Asian woman kicked me in the shin, forcing me to back up. That increased distance between our bodies was all Kyong’s needed. As quick as a hiccup, she dove low on me, wrapping her arms around my hips, lifting me off my feet at driving me backwards, as we both tumbled into the sand.

The two of us struggled for control, rapidly breathing and grunting as we rolled wall to wall across the four yard width of the sand trap. Arms flailed at heads and shoulders as legs attempted to wrap around each other. Finally, I stopped rolling realizing I was trapped on the ground in a headlock. Fortunately, Kyong wasn’t able to apply maximal pressure because I had both of her thighs caught in a leg scissors. For a minute we squirmed and struggled, lying and panting in the sand. I squeezed my legs as hard as I could knowing I’d be in serious trouble if she escaped with my head still in her grasp.

The stalemate continued until I felt something sharp as nails, Kyong’s fingernails, dig into my left thigh. I let out a short high pitched scream as she freed her legs from my scissors.

“Fucking bitch,” I yelled as I returned the misdeed, digging my own nails into her bicep until I pulled my head out of her hold.  We rolled away from each other. I now accepted this wasn’t going to be a clean wrestling match.

We are locked together in the sand with neither of us able to gain the advantage. Although Maheen has my head and neck trapped, she cannot move. My legs wrapped around her hips keep her immobilized on the ground. Suddenly, I feel a sharp stab in my thigh. My enemy is holding a piece of flint and has cut my leg. I scream and thrash, releasing my hold on her. Wriggling one arm free, I punch her in the nose until she lets go of her hold on me. We roll away from each other far enough until we both stand and I see the blood trickling down my leg. I pick up an old wooden tree branch I can use as a club. We face each other again, this time brandishing our weapons. I now know only one of us will leave this sand dune alive.

As we both got to our feet, I heard my husband shout, “Kiva what happened? Are you alright?”

I wouldn’t have had time to answer. The second I stood up, Kyong shot in on my legs, sweeping both of my feet away, sending me falling backwards into the sand. Before I fully recovered my senses, I found myself lying on my back in the center of the coffin with the general’s fourth wife standing, holding my legs with my feet in the air, pushing them toward my head, attempting a  matchbook pin.

As I suspected, this woman is very quick. A feeling of panic set in. In an effort to keep my shoulders from being pinned, I propped myself up on my elbows. As Kyong started to fold my body, I scooted backward on my elbows, trying to prevent her pressure from forcing my shoulders down. As she pushed my legs forward toward my head, I dragged my body with my elbows to keep pace. My elbows ached from the sand scraping my skin raw trying to maintain the crab walk. Finally, I had no space to left as Kyong walked me into a sandy wall. I propped up my head, neck and shoulders against the wall. Kyong, continued to force my legs forward, planting my feet over my head and into the side of the bunker, successfully matchbook pinning me vertically to the wall.  Scrunched up and feeling powerless, I saw no escape.

“Got you, loser,” Kyong taunted. “Start the count, men,” she shouted, “She’s helpless.”

Not hearing numbers, she repeated belligerently, “Count her out, I got her.”

“No, love,” the general rumbled back. “You have to pin her to the ground…not the wall.”

“Fuck,” Kyong muttered. Frustrated, she peeled my legs off the wall and threw them down, leaving me in a twisted heap.

Taking advantage of the men’s partially blocked view, the devious wife swiftly kicked me in the vulnerable tailbone, sending a sudden jolt of pain up my spine like an electrical shock, momentarily paralyzing my legs.

From above, I heard the general exhort his young spouse, “Drag her to the center of the coffin and pin her.” I heard nothing from my husband.

Defensively, I rolled onto my belly. But as quick as a cat, Kyong lifted my legs under each armpit and backed up, pulling me away from the wall, dragging me face down toward the center of the bunker. I was surprised how quickly the smaller woman was moving me over the gritty surface. My fingers clawed the sand in vain as my exposed belly and breasts slid over the the unforgiving terrain, the coarse granules grating my skin and nipples. Briefly, I lifted my chest by pushing down on my abraded elbows, but was unable to maintain stability. Kyong’s quick yank of my lower body collapsed my arms as my face flopped into the powdered earth. Nearly my entire body was coated with a thin layer of sand as the gritty material attached to my sticky sweat.

After five yards, we reached the midpoint of the coffin’s length, where Kyong unceremoniously dropped my legs, leaving me prone on the coffin floor. Before I could move, she pounced on my back, pressing her knee between my shoulder blades, grasping my wrists, pulling back on my arms. The knee holding me in place was replaced by a sandy bare foot, as she rose to a standing surf board position, stretching my arms and shoulders, straining the ligaments to their limits. My flattened breasts and nipples felt excoriated, forced down into the unforgiving scratchy sand. My feet kicked uselessly, succeeding in only agitating the grainy ground.

“You have to pin her for ten seconds,” the general hollered.

“I’m softening her up first,” his wife responded with apparent delight.

What the hell? The miserable shit wants to wear me out and inflict punishment on me. In a way, I understood it. Ten seconds is a long time to hold down another wrestler’s shoulders. The winner would have to either beat down her opponent or apply a very tight combination. I realized again that I’m being dominated. Kyong was stronger than I thought and a decent technical wrestler…and dirty. I felt helpless as she worked me over.

Having thoroughly tortured my arms, shoulders and chest, the Korean woman released my arms, then promptly mounted my back. Next, I felt my head yanked up by the hair, and a pair of rough hands under my chin. Pain shot through my neck and back as my opponent rocked back hyperextending my neck.

The husbands were positioned behind us. I grunted but tried not to scream fearing my husband would stop the match. So far, he had been silent. I had no idea what he is thinking, but all I could do is try to fight on.

Kyong rocked back and forth several times as I tightened my muscles attempting to withstand the onslaught. I felt a moment of relief as one of her hands released my chin and tried to seize the opportunity bucking and squirming. My escape attempt was suddenly halted when the bitch returned her hand to my face, this time with a fistful of sand, rubbing it over my entire face. Tiny pebbles of earth and grime entered my mouth, my nose, my eyes. I stopped resisting. I coughed. I snorted. I spit. My eyes involuntarily teared trying to remove the grit. I couldn’t see. I used my free hands to wipe away as much as I could. Thoroughly distracted, I barely realized I was being rolled onto my back.

Weren’t the men seeing this? I could hear the general blathering with excitement but his words were unintelligible. Was my husband even there?

What the men, or at least one of them, did see was me on my back with my opponent lying across my chest in a lateral body press.

“One…Two…Three…Four…” the general counted.

Instinctively, I twisted hard to the left and raised my right shoulder to stop the count. Kyong shifted her weight to my right, pushing the shoulder down as the old man began another count.   I dug my feet in hard. The sand did not allow much traction but I pushed up and turned with all my might, successfully lifting my left shoulder blade out of the sand.

“You dirty cheating foul smelling cxnt,” I snarled through sandy clenched teeth. “You fucking put sand in my face”

“Get used to it,” she sneered, “I’m going to bury you here.”

I knew I was in trouble. Worn and fatigued at this point, I couldn’t bear to suffer the indignity of being long pinned into the sand by this skank. Summoning as much energy as I could, I rocked back and forth and bucked as violently as I could but wasn’t able to shake this woman’s snakeskin covered ass off of my chest. However, I did manage to push her down toward my pelvis, freeing up my shoulders. When she repositioned to recover her place on my upper chest, I saw my opportunity.

I wrapped my left arm around my opponent’s neck and pulled to my left side. Positioning my right arm between her legs, I pushed off with my legs, rolling to my left, taking Kyong with me. By the time we were done rolling, it was Kyong on her back and me lying across her chest in a complete reversal.

“Start counting, guys,” I shouted. “She’s down.”

The old Army commander only reached three as Kyong was still relatively fresh and I didn’t have ideal leverage. But I was still in control.

“Here’s payback, bitch,” I growled as I flung my own fistful of sand at her face.

“That’s a foul Kiva,” the general hollered. “One more time and your disqualified.”

Stupid old fuck! And where the fuck was my husband? Was he present in body only?

Back to business. I kept my full weight on Kyong’s chest, grappling with her arms and shoulders.

“Look at these tits,” I taunted. “Are you twelve years old?”

I trapped one of her arms with a leg scissors, but Kyong could twist just enough to keep her opposite shoulder up. Desperately, she bridged, then kicked. She lifted up her pelvis and pulled her legs up high to try to kick out. I held on. Kyong repeated the kick out attempt but this time, I was ready. When the Asian woman pulled up her legs, I hooked one with my arm. As I rolled back toward her neck, hoisting her foot in the sky, I forced her shoulders down flat.


I liked my chances. I felt Kyong’s shoulders pushing upward but my weight kept them stuck in the sand. I felt her thigh muscles contract in vain, as I held the leg captive.


Almost there.



Another nail. This time it was driven into my right nipple. In sudden agony, I released her leg and sat up as Kyong, squirmed out from under me and rolled into freedom.

Holding my seared boob, I rose to my feet to see my opponent was already standing.

“Mine might be smaller,” she jabbed. “But mine are winning.”

Infuriated, I threw a hard slap, my right hand striking the side of her face with a resounding SMACK. She slapped back, her blow grazing my cheek as I stepped back.

“Fucking whore,” I screamed.

“Fucking stuck up bitch,” she countered.

“Gold digger.”

“Miss Perfect,” she ridiculed, “Cxnt!

“Look, this has gotten out of hand. They’re taking this too far,” my husband finally spoke.

“Nah,” the general opined. “You know how womenfolk are,Tom…Tempers flare…They get their panties in an uproar…I say let them settle it themselves….Time for another bourbon.”

Damn right we’re settling this ourselves, I thought. I’m playing by new rules now. This bitch has been going by her rules since we started. It’s time to even things up.

With renewed energy, Kyong and I went right at each other, throwing wild slaps and punches, missing kicks, grabbing for hair. Using my size advantage, I took control. I was able to push her around, land a few shots to the body, and managed to keep her off me. Finally, I had her trapped against the wall of the coffin like a boxer on the ropes, hitting her repeatedly with a flurries of slaps.

Then she once again played the dirty card, driving her knee into my leopard print covered crotch, nailing me in the pussy. I dropped to one knee. She started throwing punches to my back when I decided how I would bring an end to this fight.

I stood up ignoring the pain, blocking Kyong’s shots. I remembered my fight with Freda. I already knocked out one bitch. I’ll do it again. I cocked my right arm, and prepared the set up by throwing jabs. In the center of the coffin, we faced off, hands up, feigning and bobbing. I threw a jab, then another, then I saw my chance.

Aiming for my opponent’s chin, I launched the haymaker. As my fist flew through the air, I felt the sensation of my knockout punch connecting with….nothing.  Kyong parried out of the way. Similar to my Freda fight, I left myself vulnerable to a counterattack. Kyong, lowered her shoulder, wrapped her arms around my waist and drove me backwards, tripping my feet, sending me crashing into the sand, on my back with her on top of me.

She quickly shifted into a cross body press as the old coot counted to five before I lifted up my right shoulder. My situation felt worse than the last time I was in this predicament. I was exhausted, sore, and short winded. Her weight on my chest made my breathing worse. Sand was stuck to me all over. It was in my hair, my ears, my mouth. It made its way into my bikini bottom and chafed my ass crack. My eyes were irritated. Beating the ten count felt harder. Kyong knew this. She had no intention of letting me up again. She changed her position very little, waiting for me to wear out.

The general started several more counts. Tom seemed to have returned to silence. I attempted to execute a reversal but Kyong was not so careless this time in maintaining her leverage. I kicked my legs, which moved her slightly. I was able to move several inches in the direction of my head, closer to the wall. More kicking inched me closer. Another kick brought my head even closer, but with a price. Kyong hooked my right leg and lowered her scrawny tits on to mine. I panicked. I knew I would not overcome this pinning combination.

The count started. I was terror-strickened knowing I was about to be defeated. I struggled and kicked with everything I had left. At the count of five, I kicked Kyong’s hand off my trapped leg, freeing it, and bridged up pulling up the left shoulder.

I maintained the bridge for what seemed like forever, creating excruciating tension in my abs and back. Kyong finally ended it by clawing and punching at my navel. Exhaustion was now mixed with despair, as I realized I was dying a slow death on the floor of the sandy coffin. I felt I was now truly inside my own crypt.

“Make it easy on yourself, loser” Kyong taunted. “Just lay down and I’ll stop hurting you. Can’t you see it’s over.”

My enemy has dominated me in this fight. She is stronger than I thought. She is faster than me.  I’m exhausted and nearly broken. Maheen sits upon my chest. I’m feeling crushed by her weight. I’m holding back her wrist. Her hand is coming closer to my neck, her fingers outstretched, reaching for my throat. I push against her wrist with everything I have left, but she is more powerful. Most of my strength has left me but…I don’t want to die.

My aggressor decided to speed up my demise. She lifted herself on her knees while positioned over my chest, then plunged her body down onto mine. She repeated this body thrust three more times, each one taking away more of my wind and resolve. Her tiny breasts hovered over mine, proclaiming their superiority. Her nipples, free to come and go as they pleased, tickled and ridiculed mine, laughing at their state of confinement. My leopard bikini bottom by now slid halfway off my ass, the result of my backside scooting against the granular terrain.

I sensed the humiliation but I couldn’t bring myself to quit just yet. Kyong pinned me two more times but I still used my legs and kicked and twisted to break the count at eight seconds both times. Every muscle in my body was tight. I inched a little closer to the wall. I doubted reaching it would help. It wasn’t like professional wrestling where a hold is supposed to break by reaching the ropes. Perhaps I could use it for traction, something I could push off of to escape. I noticed Kyong eyeing the wall. She repeatedly glanced at the wall, then my legs, her eyes moving back and forth. She was planning something. Perhaps she also thought I could use the wall to my advantage. Or maybe she recalled her failed matchbook pin attempt earlier and wanted nothing yo do with the wall.

Quickly, she made her move. She leapt off my chest, seized my ankles and began to push forward in a matchbook pin attempt. I struggled and fought. I made it more difficult than I expected. I hooked my toes around her hips, making her work to extract them. She made the mistake of leaning forward, allowing me to lock my ankles around her, catching her in my guard. Frustrated, the bitch started clawing and punching at my legs but I held on. Instinctively, she bent over forward, reaching down at my body with her arms, trying to take hold.

That was the break I needed. I sat up halfway, grabbed her arms and dug both feet into her hips. As I rolled back, my legs lifted her up as my arms pulled her forward. Now off of her feet, my legs propelled her toward my head, sending her tumbling head over heels into a monkey flip. Kyong let out a short scream as her back crashed into the dirt and sandy wall sending her sliding head first onto the floor of the coffin.

Dazed and weakened, I got to her as quickly as I could. Pulling her by the arms away from the wall, I crossed her legs, wrapped them with my arm, and lay across her chest. With her legs tied up and hooked, I wrapped my other arm around her head while maximizing the weight on her chest.


I thought I had her this time. I felt her legs twitching and her body writhing, but I knew I had her shoulders firmly down


Maheen lies at my feet beaten and broken. It was an extremely hard battle. I shouldn’t be standing. My enemy brought me to the brink of death several times during this fight. Yet, here I am, bruised and bloodied. She made one critical mistake, now there she lies. She looks up at me begging for mercy. My eyes scan the area until I spot the object that I seek. It’s ten yards away. I retrieve the rock. It’s not the largest but it will do. I wish I didn’t have to do this but I have no choice. For my safety and the safety of my man and child, this is what must be. As I raise the rock over my head with both hands, Maheen looks on with sad resignation in her eyes, then she looks away. I don’t want to see her face but I focus on her forehead. My target. With my remaining strength, I shriek…and…bring the rock…DOWN!


“That’s it,” the general declared….”Kiva wins”

I dropped her legs, rolled off her. Our battle over, we both lay on our backs, exhausted, sweaty, sandy, and grimy at the bottom of the coffin. Our husbands helped us exit the ominous bunker. I quickly covered up. Tom gave me a hug and a kiss and asked “Are you all right.” He said little else. Kyong was tearful as she leaned onto her senior husband. I gave her a quick uninspired hug and said, “Good fight.” We had no further interaction that day.

Kyong and I were completely encrusted with sand, which infested the general’s golf cart on the way back to their house. I drank water and hosed off. We declined the general’s offer for a barbecue. I just wanted to get home.

“Well then,” the general said, “Let’s get down to business. Tom, I have the paperwork done for your gift. After my attorney looks at it tomorrow, I’ll send it to the board of trustees, and we can complete the transaction.”

“Now, I have to make an amendment to the paperwork. You see, I had a stipulation that one requirement for the gift was that…I choose the name for the robot…I was going to name it Peter…after me. That’s because the robot gets in there, does it’s work, and gets out. No nonsense. No bullshit…Just like me. But I changed my mind. Earlier today, in honor of our two fighting ladies, I decided to name the robot after the winner. So, my stipulation for the gift will be that the robot be named…Kiva.

“Now the robot sure isn’t as pretty as you but it is tough, it’s smart…and it saves lives…just like you.”

Stunned, all I could say was, “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, young lady. And if you’re going to go now, I’ll go help the missus get washed up and give her a little pickle tickle for her efforts today. But Kiva, may I say one more thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“First, I want to say you’re a tough ol broad…er…Is it OK to say ‘broad?’”

What’s the use? “Yes, sir. ‘Broad’ will be fine.”

“Well, good. I sure don’t want to use words that’ll send the ladies into a hissy fit. I realized times have changed. And so…I’ll leave you with this…from one warrior to another.”

What the general left me with was probably the best gesture he could think of…a salute.

“Thank you sir, I’m very honored,” I said as I tried to return my own well intentioned but probably half assed salute.


I love this water pool. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. The water soothes my wounds and feels great over my sore tired muscles. My man washes the dirt, sand and stones embedded in my body. With the exception of the waterfowl, we have the pool to ourselves. We wash, we splash, we dunk, we play like two river otters. I never want to leave here. But the rainy season is over and soon, the pool will be gone. We lie in the grass, holding each other and laughing. Now we must go, to return to our shelter before darkness falls.

I love this large walk-in shower. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. The water soothes my wounds and feels great over my sore tired muscles. The water splatters onto my scalp. I’m still removing grains of sand from my body. The lavender scented soap is intoxicating.

I’m startled. I didn’t notice him come. He places his hand on my shoulder from behind me, tenderly caressing it.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” I say with a faint smile.

His hands are on both of my shoulders as he massages my scalp. My eyes focus on his dark blond hair, blue eyes. Tom is four inches taller than me. I place my head on his chest. We kiss. Something about this encounter already feels different. I feel different. It’s as if I have an awareness that I only knew vaguely before. About me. About him. He knows it but he’s confused. I wait for the water to soak his hair, then I lather him up. We smile. We giggle. We splash and slap each other like two river otters.

I know he wants me. I attack his face with my lips. He reciprocates as our tongues wrap and twist around each other. I kiss his neck while my hands run along his smooth chest. I massage his arms and work my hands around to his back. He outmaneuvers me and works his mouth on my neck, then shoulders. My husband licks away the last of the sand granules from my breasts, carefully avoiding the scratches. His fingers gently lift my globes from underneath as he gently glides his thumbs ever so lightly across my nipples, moving them in delicate circular motions. He’s always known the right buttons.

I return to his chest, planting my kisses and little love bites. My hands run across his belly, until I drop down onto my knees caressing his legs. And between his legs. I look back up at him and give him a sly smile….He’s not ready….It’s OK…I’m really not surprised. After all I’ve put him through. He looks at me with equal parts excitement and bewilderment. He’s not sure who I am. He wonders exactly who did he marry.

Come with me, my love. I lead him by the hand to the shower bench behind the shower head. The water sprays in front of us as if we were under a waterfall. He sits down first, then I sit on his lap. We kiss.

Women fight, my love. We always have. From our earliest days in the savanna, our first home. We had to fight. We were a family. We fought for men. We fought to protect our children. We fought over food. We fought to defend ourselves. Families became tribes. We defended each other. We fought against other tribes, those that were not us. Then we left the savannas of Africa, venturing out to new lands. We were hunters and gatherers. We still fought for the same reasons. And the right to use land.

We discovered rivers and invented irrigation. We learned how to farm. We stopped gathering and living as nomads. We built homes and grew our food. Around this time, we stopped fighting. The men were more expendable. We were needed to care for houses, carry babies, raise children, prepare food. Then we became cities and divided the labor. We forgot we were fighters. In most of our societies, we told ourselves female fighting was taboo.

Women still fight my love. But not with punches, kicks, or wrestling. What we do now is worse. Instead of choking off oxygen, we choke off social support. We punch and kick with lies. We knock out reputations. We humiliate at work, in our neighborhoods, even in churches.

I leave the bench to kneel on the shower floor. I kiss and caress his legs, then separate them apart. I take him into my mouth. He places his palms on my temples, his wet fingers combing through my tangled drenched hair. His grip is firm yet careful. He guides my movements. Up and down. Circles.

Hold on to me, my love. No rush. Some things cannot be awakened until the right season. Let’s share this moment. You will come to see it too. You’re almost there.

I haven’t changed. I’m still a wife, a mother, a nurse, a friend…and a fighter. It was always there. Some things are hidden but there’s nothing in the dark that isn’t there in the light. I see it now. I’m just…awakened.

He’s ready. I take his hand again and lead him to the shower floor. On my hands and knees, I offer him my hindquarters. The shower head blasts it’s water onto my back. I’m leaning on my elbows and lower my head onto my arms. My drenched hair hangs to the tile floor. His wet fingers reach under me exploring the outer doors, then enter into my Elysian Fields, probing my most sensitive spots. We’ve barely started and I shudder. The hard tile hurts my elbows but I don’t care. His fingers play me like a musical instrument and he’s hitting all of the right notes. As a lover, he’s so attentive, so considerate. His music is reaching a crescendo and I don’t want to wait. I want it all…now!

He thrusts but it’s a cautious thrust. He thrusts again…and again. We gradually pick up steam, like a locomotive making its first tentative chugs as it leaves the station. We know our destination and we love the ride. Thrusting! Faster!…Harder!

Each thrust forces my dangling breasts to sway forward and backward. My swollen, scratched nipples are agitated by the movement, but the pleasure is overwhelming.

Our train is now careening at breakneck speed. It can’t be controlled. We’re nearly flying off the tracks, down mountains, over villages, past faceless people. We both know we are headed to an explosive conclusion. And explode we do…Me first…than him. I scream, then shake, then release.

I feel my body shatter, then break apart like glass into thousands of pieces. Each piece floats away, then dissolved into…sand. But I’m awake. I’m in the shower. In an instant, I am not. I’m standing in a grassy plain. There are few trees, pools of water, and African animals. It’s a savanna. It feels vaguely familiar.

In a flash, the scene changes to ancient Mesopotamia, perhaps the first known civilization. Then the city states of Athens and Sparta. On to Persia, Egypt the hanging gardens Babylon, Macedonia under Alexander the Great, Rome, the kingdoms of China, India, the Americas, the fall of Rome, the rise of Europe, the Caliphates. Kings and emperors. Sultans and presidents. Never ending parades of armies. The history of civilization in just a matter of seconds. And I see it all.

I’m leaving now, heading into the sky, then out of the atmosphere. Earth is a blue ball, shrinking into a blue dot as I whisk through the outer regions of the solar system, past Jupiter, Saturn, and Neptune. Then out of the solar system, through the Milky Way, past countless stars and planets. Now, I see the universe as it is. Billions of galaxies, with billions of stars and billions of planets. I want to see it all. I want to know all. I want to…

“I love you, Tom.”

Still on all fours, I feel the fluids, mine and his run down my leg, dripping into the pooled shower water circling the drain, mixing with the sweat, salt, dirt, and sand from the coffin, a symbol of love and struggle, earth and sea, life and death. We both roll over and lie on our backs in this consecrated mixture as my husband holds my hand. The shower stream falls between us. I don’t want this moment to end.

Finally, life’s obligations call and we rise. We kiss one more time, then towel off. Following my husband, I reach back and turn off the shower and ceiling lights.

Darkness falls on the savanna.

This Story is Continued in Chapter 4. Coming Soon!

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