Democrat vs. Republican (PG)

She is one of the talking heads on our local Sunday morning political TV show. Always immaculately dressed; her nails always long, perfectly shaped, and polished the same color as her outfit; her makeup heavy but tasteful, usually with lipstick that matches her nails; her brown hair always elegantly styled; and always expressing conservative opinions with her steely but delicate southern drawl-this were my impressions of Carol Stevens-Morrison. And because of these impressions, I had always disliked her. For one, she seemed artificial, with her makeup and styled hair and expensive suits. I prefer more down-to-earth types. For another thing, Carol Stevens-Morrison's obvious life of privilege annoyed me. It's just jealousy, maybe, but rich people, who act rich, really tick me off. And finally, her far-right political leanings bother me. Not that I'm exactly a bleeding heart liberal, but I simply despise people like her, who were born into wealth and power, who've never lived paycheck to paycheck, who've never had a bad break in life, who then go on TV and talk about how the "lazy people on welfare are dragging this country down" and how "young people, particularly young men, just don't want to take responsibility for their actions." More than once I'd yelled at the TV, "It's tax cheats like you who are screwing up the country," not knowing, of course, whether she had ever cheated on April 15 or not.
Mostly, though, I didn't think much about Carol Stevens-Morrison, until she showed up in an exercise class at my YMCA one day. She'd been a member for a while, but as she had previously worked out in the evenings, I'd never seen her there. Apparently her schedule had changed and now she was going to be coming when I was usually there. "Great," I thought to myself, "now I'll have to put up with her whining while I'm trying to get a decent workout." I consoled myself thinking of how much fun she would be to laugh at.
To be honest, I suppose I'm something of an exercise and fitness snob. It's one of my faults. After all, though, I'm a 33 year-old man who runs 20 miles a week, swims 3 times a week, and has body fat that hovers around 5 %. Yet I enjoy exercise classes at the Y, especially our circuit resistance class, that encompasses both aerobics and strength training. Part of my enjoyment of the classes is secretly laughing at some of the other people working out along side me. While I would never let them know what I'm thinking, just looking at the middle-aged insurance salesmen with their black socks and pot bellies and the twenty-something housewives who don't use any resistance on the machines makes me giggle inside. And when I saw Carol Stevens-Morrison walk into class that day, I had to choke back a snort.
Really, though, she didn't look half bad. Most women in their mid-forties couldn't pull off wearing an exercise bra, but she did and looked fine. She certainly didn't have a supermodel's body. Instead, hers could have been a gymnast's-fairly short and compact. And rather womanly, with pronounced curves around her chest and hips. Her bronzed midsection didn't look like a washboard by any means, but it wasn't overly flabby, either. Her bra and her skin-tight exercise shorts were both dark pink, the same color as her lipstick. Ha! Wearing makeup to an exercise class. Her clothes contrasted quite nicely with her dark tan-achieved, no doubt, from hours in her home tanning bed.
By the end of class, she had worked up a sweat. I was surprised; she actually took the class seriously. Nevertheless, she had not a hair out of place, and her makeup was still perfect when she left the room. What a victory of style over substance, I thought. Appearance is everything to people like her.
Over the few weeks, she showed up in class fairly often. Strangely enough, she turned out to have a fairly open, gregarious personality. Carol quickly got to know most of the regulars. And she seemed to take something of a shine to me. Not romantic at all, nothing like that. For some reason, she tended to talk to me the most before and after class. Despite my inner thoughts ("What a rich little bitch" and things like that), I rather enjoyed talking to her. Soon we were working out side-by-side and talking throughout our classes. Me being me, I couldn't resist teasing her about her political views. She was good-natured about it, though I could tell that she was holding back her real thoughts.
One day, though, I pushed too far. We had been talking about women's rights, and sexual harassment, and she had said something that sounded to me like it came out of the mouth of Rush Limbaugh (my mortal enemy). "You know, Carol," I said, "sometimes I forget you're even a woman."
"What do you mean by that?" she shot back.
Apparently I'd hit a raw spot. Not always being tactful, though, I poured on the salt.
"Nothing. Just that it doesn't seem like you know anything about what real women have to go through, when they don't lead such sheltered lives."
Her eyes smoldered. She stopped working on the machine she was using (bicep curls) completely and stood up to face me. "I've had enough of your crap! What you call a sheltered life, I call the reward for hard work. But punks like you don't care about hard work. It's just what mommy can give you!"
What was she talking about? I didn't know. And neither did the other people in the class, who all turned to stare at us. Embarrassed at the scene she was making, I tried to back off. "Sorry. Geez, I was just teasing. I didn't mean it. I'm really sorry."
"Quit your whining," she hissed. She wasn't going to let this go. Although she did go begin to work out again, for the rest of the class she berated me and my "liberal" views. While I was a little sad that I'd destroyed our blossoming friendship, in a way, I was relieved: she really was the bitch I had originally thought her to be.
Finally class ended and everyone filed out the door. Carol stood in my way, however, physically blocking my exit, and she continued to let me know what she thought. I wasn't listening any more. "I told you I'm sorry," I said as I gently pushed her aside to leave the room.
"Don't you touch me!" she shouted, and grabbed my wrist as I tried to edge by her.
"Let me go, damnit!" I pulled back.
For a few seconds, we played an awkward sort of tug-of-war, with my arm as the rope. God, she's gone psycho, I thought to myself. Carol was not only stronger than she looked, she was also smart. After getting me leaning one way, she quickly reversed her direction and slung me back into the center of the room. I stumbled a few steps but kept my feet. However, she was once again between me and the door, which she turned and closed.
"What's your problem?" I shouted, hearing both anger and desperation in my voice. "I've got to go!"
"Not until you listen to me, young man. What's wrong with our country is people like you, who don't understand what it means to work hard to get what you want."
"Oh, get off your high horse, you damn bitch!"
She didn't yell in response, but the look on her face was more frightening. I suppose I really crossed a line, calling her that. After several seconds of silence, she spoke slowly and clearly, with her aristocratic drawl never more pronounced. "What you need, young man, is a good spanking."
Her words hung in the air for a moment. At first a grin broke over my face-this whole situation was just too weird. But clearly, she wasn't backing down.
"What?" was all I could say.
"You heard me. I still spank my sons, and I think I need to spank you, too. You need to understand the consequences of your actions."
"You spank your sons? What are you, living in the dark ages?"
"Don't you believe in discipline? Obviously not. You have no sense of consequences."
"Look, I don't need you trying to teach me the consequences of anything," I said. Then, almost under my breath, "Like you could if you wanted to."
"Listen here, young man," she said, jabbing her index finger at me, the polished fingernail inches from my face, "last week I wrestled my oldest boy to the floor and spanked his bottom until he cried, and I can do it to you to."
"All right Carol, this is ridiculous. I'm sorry I said those things. I apologize. I was wrong. You're entitled to your political views and I just pushed too far. I'm really sorry. Now why don't we calm down and just go."
"You're afraid, aren't you?" she grinned, without mirth. "Just like a Democrat. But you know, you can't talk yourself out of situations you've behaved your way into. That's a lesson you need to learn."
"Maybe so, but you aren't the one to teach it to me," I said, trying to control my anger. What was wrong with this woman?
"You are afraid, aren't you? You're afraid of being spanked! And well you should be-it hurts."
"Look Carol, I'm not your little boy. You can't spank me. Get it? I'm bigger than you!"
"My fifteen year-old is bigger than me, too, but his bottom is red just the same!"
"To use a cliché, you couldn't beat me even if I had my right arm tied behind my back."
She laughed. "I'll take you up on that. I'm going to teach you to take responsibility, and I'm going to teach you to be careful with your challenges." With that she headed toward the side of the room where the smaller exercise equipment was stored.
"I'm outta here," I said, seeing my chance.
"Come back here, coward," she ordered, running toward the door. In her hand was a jump rope. "Here's the deal, unless you really are too scared. We'll tie your right arm behind your back. And then, struggle as much as you want, but I'm going to spank your bottom until you learn your lesson. If you can fight be off, you're free to go."
"You're crazy! I'm leaving."
"You're scared. You're a spoiled brat."
She had pushed my buttons perfectly. Calling me spoiled made me furious, because clearly she was the spoiled one, living the life of luxury, while other people had to work for a living. I called her bluff.
"All right. You tie my arm behind my back. Then we'll see who learns a lesson."
She smiled and licked her lips, still perfectly covered with lipstick. "I'm going to enjoy this," she cooed as she wrapped the jump rope around my wrist. She knotted the cord tightly, then one of the ends around my waist. Finally she draped an end through my legs and made a knot around my left thigh.
"This is to keep it from slipping," she said, anticipating my question, "so you don't slide your wrist around front. Not that it really matters," she laughed.
"OK, are you finished? I've got things to do."
"Yes, I think so. I'm quite finished."
Carol motioned me toward the center of the room, away from the equipment and machines. "Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Then make this easier on yourself and just bend over by the bench press."
"You're crazy," I said, heading toward the door. I eyed her cautiously, apprehensive about how she would approach me. "No low blows," I said.
"Kind of late to think of that now, isn't it?"
Carol ran at me quickly and threw her arms around my body. It wasn't exactly a bearhug, because she was on my side, rather than directly in front of me or behind me. However, as she was on my left, she was pinning my left arm to my body; since my right arm was tied down, I had no free arms to fight her off. She pushed and pulled me back and forth, side to side, trying to rock me off balance. I spread my legs to brace myself. This strategy backfired, as Carol quickly she wrapped one of her legs around mine and used the leverage to trip me.
I landed on my stomach. Before I could gather myself, she released her grip and scrambled to her feet. Remembering my high school wrestling, I knew the first step was to get to my base (my hands and knees)-a task made difficult without the use of my right arm. I extended my left arm and pushed myself backwards to my knees. Before I could gain my feet, Carol and seized my wrist with both her hands and, running backwards several steps, yanked my arm as hard as she could. Not prepared for this, I was pulled to my stomach again. She tried to continue dragging me, but I was too heavy. Despite the advantage her position gave her, I was able to pull backward and reach my knees again. She attempted her yanking maneuver again, but this time I resisted and kept my knees. Somehow I got to my feet. Once again, we were playing tug-of-war with my arm. Awkwardly we spun around the room, trying to gain an edge, trying to throw the other off balance. I had no offence, because I had no real goal in our struggle. I was simply trying to block her attacks. Eventually, she got me moving forward. Abruptly she changed her direction and launched a kick at my groin. I dodged and she wound up kicking my thigh. Even so, that changed the nature of the contest. Now I tried to back up and pull away. She faked another kick, and when I recoiled, she charged me, in effect tackling me. Instinctively I rolled to my stomach. Damn! Carol still held onto my wrist! When I rolled to my stomach, intending to regain my base, I allowed her to get me in a hammerlock. She straddled my lower back and wrenched my arm high up toward my shoulder blade.
"Get off me, damnit!" I spat.
In stark counterpoint to my pained command, she replied with her slow, high-voiced drawl, dripping with sugar. "Not yet, honey. You're going to suffer the consequences. And your lesson has just started. Are you ready for your spanking?"
"You bitch!"
"It sounds like you've got some more to learn." Carol jerked my arm for emphasis and I groaned.
While she taunted me, I was working on my escape. Even though I didn't have my hands free, I figured I could get to my base. I slid one, then the other knee up toward my chest. Then, using my chin, forehead, and chest for leverage, I pushed myself backward. Even with her on my back, I was strong enough to push myself into a kneeling position, forcing her to tip off behind me.
Carol wouldn't release me so easily, though. As I pushed her backward she regained her feet and pulled my arm behind me-straightening it out from the hammerlock. Then she twisted it counterclockwise and used it to push me forward. I had gone from the frying pan to the fire, because now she was able to force my chest down to my knees and she was exerting tremendous pressure on my shoulder. Holding my wrist high in the air, she circled around my body and planted a knee on the back of my neck. Now I was completely helpless. Both my arms were immobilized, my legs were folded up underneath me, and her bodyweight resting squarely on the back of my neck was more than enough to keep me trapped. Carol twisted her knee ruthlessly into my neck, while at the same time digging her fingernails into my arm and wrist.
Involuntarily, tears started to drip onto the padded floor. I wanted to shout but couldn't even form words.
Again, she spoke slowly and sweetly. "All right, then, honey. I think you're in a jam. I think you're learning you can't just mouth off to your elders, and your superiors, and get away with it. Is that right?" I didn't answer and she bounced on my neck. I screamed, then gasped out a reply. "Of course I'm right. I know this is a painful lesson, but it's time you learned it. You didn't want to listen to me before, but you're listening now . . . aren't you?"
"Yes," I whispered.
"Of course you are. As we're finding out, you're soft. Your ideas are soft. You don't understand the value of hard work. But let me tell you something. My fifteen year old put up more of a fight than you when I had to spank him. You're quite a wimp."
At that moment I realized the absurdity of the situation. I hadn't been in a fight in fifteen years, and here I was fighting a woman. And losing! The idea was too much. My rage at her, at women, at republicans, all boiled over. I lunged upward and sideways. Apparently in her gloating, Carol had relaxed, because my surge succeeded in toppling her from her seemingly invincible position.
I rose to my feet and Carol scurried to hers. Finally my left arm was free from her grasp, and I wasn't about to let her get it again. I charged her and knocked her down with my shoulder, then straddled her stomach. I pinned her down with my left hand, ignoring the flailing of her arms. She twisted and squirmed like a cat in a bathtub, and soon knocked my arm aside. Now it was more even. Eventually we began rolling around the floor, stomach to stomach, each temporarily gaining the top position. Carol started breathing hard and my hopes soared-if she was winded, maybe I could just knock her off and escape the room.
With a concerted effort toward this goal, I allowed her to get astride me, then I bucked up and threw her to the side. Our bodies were separated; now was my chance. I rose to my feet and began to run. But before I'd taken two steps, she leaped to my back. I fell forward, landing on my knees. Carol had her right arm wrapped around my neck and she quickly hooked her right arm behind my head, creating a choke hold. I tried to reach back and trip her, but she held her leg out of reach. I tried to pull her arms away, but I couldn't get a good grip as she held me so tightly.
"You're in trouble now, sweety."
I tried to reply but couldn't. In a suprisingly short period, my peripheral vision started fading. I don't know if it was lack of blood or oxygen or what, but she was putting me to sleep, and there was nothing I could do about it. It was like my eyes had become tunnels. Everything got blurry. She released me and I dropped to the floor. I couldn't resist when she pushed me to my stomach and pulled my left arm behind my back and used the jump rope to bind it to my right. She dragged me over to the bench press and somehow forced me sideways over top of the bench. Pulling out another jump rope, she tied my knees to my shoulders underneath the bench, leaving my rear end facing skyward. Then, to my horror and humiliation, she pulled my shorts down to reveal my bare bottom. Although I had by now recovered from the choke hold, I couldn't free myself.
I watched desperately as Carol walked to the stereo system and turned on the music, loud. "I know this room is soundproofed," she said, "but just in case, I wouldn't want anyone to hear your screams."
Then, with a third jump rope, she gave me the spanking of my life. And I did scream. I begged. I pleaded with her. Carol ignored my pleas. If anything, they seemed to drive her on further. She taunted me with her mocking, feminine voice. "Poor baby. You're learning a lot of lessons today. Lesson one, you have to back up what you say. Lesson two, Carol Stevens-Morrison can kick your ass. And spank it, too, if she wants."
It felt like my bottom was bleeding. I thought it had to go numb, but it didn't. Finally, she dropped the rope and began untying me. "I know what you're thinking, sweety. You're thinking, man I'd like to have another shot. You're thinking if I'd just been able to use both my arms, I'd have overpowered her. Well, sweety, I'm giving you your chance, if you're man enough to take it. You're untied now. Stand up, pull up your shorts, and if you want, you can try me."
I pulled myself slowly to my feet. I wiped the tears from my eyes and looked at my tormentor. Short, feminine, sassy-Carol grinned at me. Damnit! Her hair was still perfect! Her lipstick was still unsmudged! Again, I had an emotional surge. I charged her and tackled her. No chances this time, I thought. I'll punch her if I have to.
Carol wasn't going to roll over and play dead. She fought desperately and managed to keep me at bay. She couldn't mount an offense against me, now that my right hand was free. Somehow, though, she prevented me from hitting her. And then, as though a switch was flipped, my surge of adrenaline waned. Perhaps my previous suffering had depleted my stores. Unbelieving, I watched as she forced my hands upward, holding my wrists with her long, elegant fingers. At that point, she was simply stronger than me. Before I knew it, Carol flipped me to my back and slid up so that she straddled my chest. She stretched my arms out on the floor and drove her knees painfully into my biceps before pinning my arms under her shins. I tried to buck her off, to bridge up, but my struggles were useless. She had completely beaten me.
"You've got one more lesson to learn, honey," she drawled. Helpless to stop her, I watched as she reached down and covered my mouth with her right hand. Then she squeezed my nose shut with her left. Laughing, she leaned her face over and watched my desperate but futile struggles. Once again, tunnel vision. The last thing I saw were her puckered lips, as she leaned down as if to kiss me.
I woke up on the floor, alone. The jump ropes were put away. There were no signs of our skirmish. I staggered back to the locker room, past the stares of other club members. What did they know? When I got to the locker room I saw what they were staring at: a big lipstick mouthprint that Carol had left on my forehead. My humiliation couldn't get any deeper.
Waiting until the showers were clear, so that no one would see my rear end, I gingerly washed off and got dressed. My plans for slipping out unnoticed were dashed. I passed by the front desk and there she was-in a white ribbed turtleneck that accentuated her bosom, a tight brown skirt, and open toed high heels that showed her calves to their full potential-Carol, my conqueror. She smiled slyly. I tried to walk by her quickly, but she swatted my bottom playfully, and I jumped. "Matt," she said, loud enough for the desk clerk to hear. "How are you going to vote in the next election?"
"Republican," I blurted.