Soccer Moms' Fight Club -- Probably My Favorite Story! (PG-13)

Soccer Moms' Fight Club

"You want me to do what?!" I asked, my voice louder
than I intended. I couldn't grasp what my mom had
just asked me.

She looked at Mrs. Johnson for help. "I know it
sounds weird," said the petite woman, trying her best
to be understanding.

"You're damn right it's weird!" I interrupted. "You
want me to beat all of you up? That's just crazy!"

"No! Not at all!" said Mrs. Johnson. "We want to
wrestle you, to fight you, not to have you beat us
up!"

I looked around my living room at the four women
there. In addition to my mom and Mrs. Johnson, there
were Mrs. Strickland, a curvy neighbor who had once
been my Sunday School teacher, and Mrs. O'Rourke, the
elegant mother of one of my best friends. The four
women, all in their forties, fit the stereotypical
soccer mom profile: attractive, feminine, affluent,
and suburban.

I shook my head in disbelief. "So you want me to
wrestle you, or whatever, but not to beat you up? I
just don't get it."

Mrs. O'Rourke, a tall woman with a regal bearing,
tried to explain. "You see, Mark," she began, pausing
to lick her lipsticked lips, "we have a wrestling
club. The four of us, we like to wrestle each other.
We've gotten pretty good at it, too. And now we're
looking for, well, more of a challenge. We need a man
to wrestle with, or a boy." There was a faint hint of
a smirk on her face, and I felt anger rising at her
insult, but she continued. "Perhaps you will win, at
least at first. We wouldn't see that as `beating us
up.' We want the matches to be competitive."

"Do you understand, honey?" my mom asked. "We think
you'd be a good match for us. We think you would help
us get better. It's like you always say about tennis,
that you have to play better players to improve. We
want you to help us improve."

I tried to process this idea. It was hard enough to
imagine them wrestling each other, wrestling at all.
To imagine them thinking they could wrestle against me
truly stretched the limits of my credulity. I
assessed each of them in turn: Marilyn O'Rourke was
possibly my height, 5'10", though she probably weighed
ten or twenty pounds less then my 160. Cassie Johnson
probably didn't break 100 pounds and couldn't have
been more than 5'1". Beth Strickland's big hips and
chest might have put her in my weight class, but I was
at least half a foot taller. And my mom was only 5'6"
and 125 pounds. None of them ever struck me as overly
athletic, while I played tennis and various other
sports. Not to mention that I was 23, at least twenty
years younger than all of them.

My mom spoke again. "We know it's a lot to think
about, and we know it's a big favor we're asking,
honey. But we'll try to make it worth your while.
We'll pay you $25 for every match, and an extra $25 if
you win."

"We thought it would be good to give you an incentive
to win, so you wouldn't hold back," added Mrs.
Johnson.

"So you'll pay me $50 a match?" I asked? Although I
was teaching tennis lessons at the country club, extra
money definitely wouldn't hurt.

"Don't assume you'll win every match," giggled Mrs.
Johnson.

There was silence for a few moments. "So which one of
you is the best?" I finally asked.

The women all smiled, taking my question to be an
implicit agreement to join their club. I suppose it
was.

"That's a matter of some dispute," answered my mom.
"Marilyn was the champion, but in the past few weeks
Cassie has been undefeated." Mrs. Johnson smiled
smugly while Mrs. O'Rourke glared at her. Clearly
this little club was quite competitive. "Beth and I
have our moments," said mom, "but we can rarely take
Cassie or Marilyn."

"But you're so small," I said to Mrs. Johnson.

She smiled and licked her lips. Pointing a polished
fingernail in my face, she said, "You'll find out that
size isn't everything, big boy. We drew straws, and
I'm going to be your first opponent!"


* * * * * * * * * * * *

"You need to take this seriously, honey," my mom said.
We were sitting in folding chairs at one corner of a
large wrestling mat spread out in the finished
basement of Mrs. Strickland's house. Mrs. Johnson sat
in a chair opposite me, staring at me amiably as my
mom gave me advice which I ignored.

Frankly, I had mixed feelings about the situation. On
the one hand, I was excited about all the money I was
about to make. I was going to wrestle all four of the
women in a row, so that meant I'd win $200. Well, I
would at least get $100 just for wrestling, and I'd
earn the full amount if I won. Like there was any
doubt.

It wasn't the question of winning or losing that
bothered me; it was the situation itself. Here I was,
wearing a tight green pair of lycra bicycle shorts
that my mom had bought me, and nothing else, in a room
with four middle-aged women who wore matching pink
bikinis. I wasn't embarrassed of my body, and I
wasn't a stranger to women's bodies, but I simply
wasn't comfortable being in this level of undress with
my mother and her friends…especially with the idea of
wrestling them. And of course I had had crushes on
the women at various points in my childhood. This was
going to be tricky.

I was amused by the enthusiasm of the women. It turns
out they had made quite a deal out of their weekly
wrestling matches. In addition to having bought
matching outfits, they had all painted their nails a
matching shade just for the event. Just like women to
use any excuse to by new clothes or new nail polish.
Mrs. Strickland, as the host, had made a platter of
finger sandwiches and had several different beverages
arranged on a table in the corner.

Suddenly it was time to wrestle. My mom took her
place on the leather sofa next to Mrs. O'Rourke and
Mrs. Strickland and I walked to the center of the mats
to face my opponent. The scenario was so bizarre that
I actually laughed; Mrs. Johnson was barely more than
half my size! In her bikini she was quite attractive
for a woman her age, but she was extremely slim.

"Get him, Cassie!" yelled Mrs. Strickland. "You go,
girl," yelled my mom. I glanced to the side, annoyed
that my mother would be cheering on my opponent, and
in the instant I took my eyes off her Mrs. Johnson
lunged forward and tackled me, wrapping both her arms
around my knees and driving me backward. We collapsed
in a heap.

Mrs. Johnson tried to pin me immediately, scrambling
up my torso and grasping for my wrists. It was
unnerving having such close body contact with a woman
in a bikini, but I realized that I couldn't waste any
time. In a matter of seconds I had seized her arms
and rolled her over, so that now I straddled her
stomach. She twisted and bucked like a wild animal,
but I was clearly much too big and strong for her. My
mom kneeled beside us and began counting.
"One…two…three!" And just like that, I had won the
first fall.

I stood up and let Mrs. Johnson spring to her feet.
She was smiling slightly, but I could tell she was
angry at having lost so quickly. My strength seemed
to have surprised her, though I don't know why; I
suppose she was just so used to wrestling other women
that she wasn't prepared for a man.

"Don't worry, Cassie, you'll get him in the next
fall," yelled Mrs. O'Rourke.

"That's right, Cass," said my mom, patting her on the
back. "Just do what you know how to do. You still
have the experience on him."

This was going to be an easy $200, I thought as Mrs.
Johnson and I prepared for the next fall. All I will
have to do is avoid hurting any of them. These
thoughts were knocked out of me when the next fall
began and Mrs. Johnson tackled me again. This time,
though, she secured a headlock on me and wrapped her
thin legs around one of my thighs. I tried to push
her off but succeeded only in twisting myself so that
her wiry bicep was digging into my throat. Although
my hands were free, I couldn't pry myself free of Mrs.
Johnson's octopus-like clutches. I laughed at the
silliness of it, even while my mom and Mrs. Strickland
shouted encouragement to their friend. But then I
began to have trouble breathing, and soon my position
became decidedly uncomfortable. Mrs. Johnson managed
to tighten her arm around my throat even more, and I
felt like I was being garroted. Suddenly my mom was
on her knees, looking into my eyes: "Mark, do you give
up?" I found myself nodding my head, almost
imperceptibly, on the edge of panic.

She had beaten me! I had let ninety-something pound
woman in her forties force me to submit. As this
realization sank in, and as I lay on the mat massaging
my throat and trying to breathe, I saw Mrs. Johnson's
small feet in front of me, joined by three other pairs
of female feet, their toenails all painted the same
color, as the women all hugged their victorious
comrade.

"I knew you could do it, Cassie!" yelled Mrs.
Strickland.

"Our first win over a man," said Mrs. O'Rourke.

"Great job, Cass," giggled my mom, hugging her friend
and glancing down at me, bemused.

Their excitement at my expense caused my adrenaline to
kick into high gear. I bounced to my feet. "Nice
job, Mrs. Johnson," I said curtly. "I'm ready for the
third fall."

Once again the petite blonde and I faced off. This
time I was the aggressor, and I lunged forward. Mrs.
Johnson tried to sidestep me, but I managed to take
her down. Quickly I secured her wrists but this time
she squirmed so much I couldn't straddle her. We
struggled wildly; even though I was stronger, her
determination and limberness kept me from holding her
still enough to pin. While I was clearly dominating
the action, I couldn't pin her. The other women were
cheering their friend on as we rolled across the mats,
which began to grow slippery with our sweat.
Eventually, after five minutes of awkward but intense
wrestling, my size and strength wore down Mrs. Johnson
enough that I was able to straddle her stomach. I
held her wrists above her head. My mom kneeled down
to count out the pin. However, for what seemed like
an eternity, Mrs. Johnson raised one of her shoulders,
then the other, preventing my victory. The look of
determination in her eyes actually scared me a little
bit; it was a little bit like trying to pin down a
wild fox or coyote, in that I was scared of her
wildness despite my superior size. In the end, I was
simply too much, and with my sweat dripping down onto
her face she accepted defeat and my mother counted out
the pin.

Twenty minutes after the match had begun, I won.
Fifty dollars for me. Just three matches to go.

My mom gave me a quick hug and whispered "good job" to
me while Mrs. O'Rourke and Mrs. Strickland consoled
Mrs. Johnson. "You did great! It was your fist match
against a man, and you won a fall! That's awesome,
girlfriend!"

I moved to the food table for a snack and some water
between matches. My mother followed me. "You're
going to wrestle Beth next. She's not as aggressive
or athletic as Cassie, but she's a lot bigger. If she
gets a good grip on you, she'll probably win."

"I'm not worried, Mom," I said.

"Look, honey, I'm just trying to help. Cassie could
have knocked you out with that choke hold."

"Oh, please, Mom," I snapped.

My mother stared at me for a moment. "I can't wait
until it's my turn, honey," she said. "I'm going to
teach you a lesson." She walked back to join her
friends.

Five minutes later I was back on the mats, facing Beth
Strickland. She giggled nervously, a trait of hers.
She was a very pleasant woman with, I observed now,
very big hips and very large breasts. Her bikini
barely contained them. Mrs. Strickland was not nearly
as sure of herself as Mrs. Johnson, and I took
advantage of her indecision by striking first. I
pulled her right leg out from under her and pounced on
her fleshy stomach just as I had Mrs. Johnson. Mrs.
Strickland was considerably stronger than my last
opponent, but I still managed to force her wrists to
the mat. My mom appeared and counted out the pin. In
less than a minute I had won the first fall. I gave
my mom an "I told you so" look as she and the other
women helped Mrs. Strickland to her feet and offered
her encouragement.

When she was ready, we began the second fall. I
didn't want to hurt or humiliate her, so I decided not
to be quite so aggressive. This proved to be a poor
decision on my part. Somehow Mrs. Strickland and I
wound up in a double bearhug, but my arms were inside
hers. We jockeyed for position, and I realized the
advantage of a low center of gravity when she suddenly
toppled me to the mat, landing on top of me. Before I
could recover, she had wrapped her arms around my head
and I found my face wrapped in the considerable flesh
of her breasts. Somewhere I heard her giggling. I
kicked my legs and flailed my arms but I was very much
trapped. I heard a slap on the mat next to me and
realized my mom was counting out my pin. In
desperation I found the strength to roll us to the
side and avoid losing the fall. "You've got him,
Beth!" I heard someone yell. Again, I could hear Mrs.
Strickland laughing. Furious, I managed to roll my
busty opponent to her back and, with a concerted
effort, jerked my head free from her chesty grasp.

"Look how red his face is!" yelled Mrs. Johnson.

I was dazed, and Mrs. Strickland tried to capitalize
by grabbing me again in the same hold. I crawled
backward and avoided her. Having had a little
success, she became more aggressive and was now
chasing me around the mats. "You've got him on the
run!" shouted Mrs. O'Rourke. "He's afraid of you,"
said my mom.

Soon, though, my head cleared and I stopped my
defensive strategy. Mrs. Strickland and I locked up
in the middle of the mats on our knees. As I began to
get the other hand, she spun around to prevent me from
forcing her to her back. She tried to crawl away, but
I secured a full nelson. Mrs. Strickland squirmed,
but I locked it in deep and forced her chin to her
chest. She was sitting on her bottom, her legs spread
in front of her, her arms waving helplessly in the
air. I poured on the pressure even while noting how
good her hair smelled. Unlike Mrs. Johnson who fought
with every ounce of strength she possessed, Mrs.
Strickland seemed to give up the fight. My mom
kneeled down and looked in her face. "Beth, do you
give up?"

"Yes, yes, make him stop!" she begged. I immediately
released the hold and the other women all huddled
around their friend.

Fortunately I hadn't injured her, and within a few
moments she was laughing and joking again. So now I
was 2-0 and $100 richer.

I went for another drink of water. Mom came over and
congratulated me on my win. "But your next match
won't be so easy," she said, suppressing a grin.

"You?" I asked.

"No, Marilyn," she said. "I get you last, honey."

"So Mrs. O'Rourke is pretty good?" I asked, ignoring
the implications of her smile.

"She's as aggressive as Cassie, but a lot bigger and
stronger. Don't let her hurt you, OK?"

"Hurt me?" I said. "I don't think so."

"Just don't underestimate her."

Staring at her across the mat five minutes later, I
was not underestimating Mrs. O'Rourke. I did,
however, remember why I had a crush on her a few years
ago. She had long, shapely legs, a gorgeous tan, and
sensual lips. And here she was, wearing a pink bikini
and holding out her hands toward me, offering to begin
with a test of strength.

As I intertwined my fingers with hers, I marveled at
how long and elegant her fingers were. Her long nails
(natural, not press-ons) were perfectly shaped. A
second later, I marveled at the strength of her hands
and the sharpness of her nails; we were locked in a
stalemate as we both poured on the pressure, try to
drive the other backward. Her pink nails cut into the
back of my hands. I knew she worked out regularly at
a local fitness club, and she was nearly my size, and
yet I was nevertheless amazed that a woman her age
could be nearly as strong as I was.

Even so, I slowly began to force her wrists backward.
Just when I felt I was gaining a real advantage, Mrs.
O'Rourke quickly reversed our hands so they were at
our waist level and our fingers were toward the floor.
Then, in the blink of an eye, she twisted them back
again, so they were at head height. This quick
maneuvering back and forth allowed her to gain an
advantage. My wrists were now bent slightly backward,
giving her leverage. Inexorably she forced my hands
further and further back. I couldn't believe it! I
sank to my knees to relieve some of the pain, a move
which of course only increased her advantage. Her
nails had released small rivulets of blood on the
backs of my hands, but that pain was less than what
she was causing with the grip of her fingers
themselves, bending my own painfully backward. Tears
welled up in my eyes as she stepped forward,
increasing the angle, forcing me backward. On my
knees, I was staring at the pink triangle covering her
crotch, and at her lean, middle-aged stomach. I
looked up and saw her breasts, sagging but still
proud, and then her beautiful face. She stared down
at me, a look of contempt and victory on her face. I
noticed her lipstick matched the fingernails and
bikini.

At that point if my mom had asked if I submitted, I
would have done so without hesitation. But Mom didn't
ask, so Mrs. O'Rourke kept up the torture. Then she
pushed me even further back so that I fell onto the
mat. Without releasing my hands, Mrs. O'Rourke
straddled my body and wrapped her long legs around
mine. Hooking her feet inside my calves, she suddenly
tightened her legs and jerked mine apart. I screamed
at the pain in my knees and hips. At the same time,
Mrs. O'Rourke stretched my arms above my head as far
as she could, so that it seemed like she would pull
them out of my shoulder sockets. I was helpless
beneath her. A woman in her late forties was holding
me on my back, spread-eagled, and it felt like she was
going to rip all four limbs off my body. I was
completely at her mercy.

Strangely, Mom didn't ask for my submission, or count
me out, even though I was pinned. And I was in too
much pain to think clearly enough to give up. So Mrs.
O'Rourke just continued applying the pressure. Her
elegant face was inches above mine, and in the midst
of my suffering I noticed the perfection of her
makeup—her eyeliner and lipstick unsmudged by the
wrestling match.

Finally my mother appeared at our side. "Had enough,
honey?" she asked, giggling. I nodded my head. "He
gives up, Marilyn." Mrs. O'Rourke released me and I
rolled to my side, massaging my hands and shoulders.

"You made it look easy, Marilyn," I heard Mrs. Johnson
say.

"I don't think he was expecting that," said Mrs.
Strickland.

I couldn't believe it. I hadn't simply lost a fall to
Mrs. O'Rourke. I had been helpless! She had
completely dominated me. And this from a woman I had
known for years, a woman about whom I'd had many
adolescent fantasies…albeit much different from the
reality I had just lived out. Once again I felt an
adrenaline surge. She wouldn't beat me again.

She stared at me at the beginning of the second fall
with a predatory expression on her beautiful face.
Refusing to be intimidated, I lunged forward and tried
to capture one of her legs. But Mrs. O'Rourke was too
quick; she sprawled backward and her leg slipped from
my grasp. Now her body was on top of mine, and I was
face down on the mat. Before I could extricate
myself, she locked her strong thighs around my head,
and from her knees she squeezed ferociously. I pried
at her legs desperately. Just when it seemed I was
going to be able to slide my head free, Mrs. O'Rourke
dropped her full weight down and drove my head
face-first into the mat. I lay there, stunned, as she
circled me like a runway model.

The women hooted and hollered, offering suggestions
for what she could do to me. I wasn't ready to just
roll over and quit, though. As Mrs. O'Rourke
approached for the kill, I lunged again, and this time
I caught her unaware. Knocking her to the mat, I
pounced on her stomach and tried to secure her arms.
She grabbed my hair and threw me to the side. For
several minutes we grappled evenly on the mats,
rolling from one side to the other, each gaining an
advantage and then losing it. I was determined to
gain revenge.

Unfortunately, though, I let Mrs. O'Rourke get behind
me. Before I could react, she had locked her long
legs around my midsection and crossed her ankles.
Like a python, she drove the air from my body. I
pried at her legs, and she in turn tried to pull my
arms away. We were positioned directly in front of
the sofa and I saw my mother, Mrs. Strickland, and
Mrs. Johnson all cheering my tormentress on. Their
enthusiasm fueled my anger but didn't help me escape.
Mrs. O'Rourke tightened her hold on my body and I
gasped in pain.

I found myself reclining backward almost
involuntarily, so that my head lay on her chest. She
giggled. "You're not getting away from me, little
Markie," she cooed in my ear. I struggled to sit up
but she pulled me back, wrapping her left arm over my
own left arm and grabbing my right elbow, pulling my
right arm across my body. In doing so she held both
my arms immobile. At the same time she wrapped the
long fingers of her right hand over my mouth, pinching
my nose shut with her thumb and forefinger, and jerked
my head to my right. Her fingernails dug into my
cheek. Mrs. O'Rourke was now holding me completely
still, like a mother swaddling a baby. I kicked with
my legs until she unhooked her ankles and put her feet
inside my thighs and forced my legs painfully to the
sides. Once again, I was completely at her mercy.
Her slim, strong hand had completely cut off my
breathing, and before long the edges of my vision
began to darken. The last thing I remember was my
mother sitting on the sofa, blowing me a kiss, while I
heard Mrs. O'Rourke wish me sweet dreams.

I awoke, probably only seconds later, spread-eagled on
the mat. All four women were standing over me,
celebrating in Mrs. O'Rourke's victory. "I knew one
of us could beat a man!" exclaimed Mrs. Johnson as she
hugged Mrs. O'Rourke. "Let's hear it for the Soccer
Mom's Fight Club!"

"Don't forget that Amanda hasn't wrestled yet," said
Mrs. O'Rourke. "I wouldn't be surprised if she beat
her son, too!"

I was getting to my feet as she spoke these words, and
my mother bent down to help me up. "You better drink
something, honey, and get something to eat. Are you
going to be able to wrestle me? Or do think you should
forfeit?"

I jerked away and stalked toward the refreshment
table. "Don't worry, Mom," I snapped. "I'll be
ready."

The women all giggled at my bad attitude and went back
to their celebratory discussion while I tried to clear
my head. How had this happened? How had this woman
beaten me, two falls in a row? She had actually
knocked me out! And now I had to face my mother in a
wrestling match.

I took a long drink of water and tried to calm myself.
For one thing, I had already beaten two women. For
another thing, Mom wasn't as big or strong as Mrs.
O'Rourke. And I had probably underestimated Mrs.
O'Rourke. Maybe I let my guard down because I used to
have a crush on her?

Ten minutes later, I found myself ready for my fourth
match. I had already earned $125; not the $150 I
should have earned, but still not bad. All I had to
do now was beat my forty-seven-year-old mother in two
falls of wrestling, and I'd win $50 more. And as she
stood there, fifteen feet away, and I saw her wide
hips, flabby triceps, and swaying breasts, I didn't
see any possible way that I could lose. I put my last
match behind me and strode forward confidently. . . .
. . . As I reached her, Mom suddenly giggled sadistically and reached out
toward my stomach with her long, pink fingernails. She didn't appear to be
punching me, and I hesitated for a moment. Too late! When I was a young
boy she used to tickle me in the mornings to wake me up. And now she was
resurrecting this bittersweet torture. Instead of fighting back or grabbing her

wrists, I immediately reverted to my boyhood and doubled over. Mom
reaching behind my ankle with one foot and tripped me. Now I was on my
back, my knees pulled toward my chest, trying in vain to protect my exposed
belly and chest as my mother kneeled over me and tickled any bare skin she
could find with her sharp fingernails. I laughed madly in spite of myself.

Soon the silliness of this situation began to fade and I began to feel more pain

than giggles as she continued the onslaught. I managed to grasp both of
Mom's wrists and force them away from my tender stomach, but not before
she straddled me with her legs. She sat on my belly and we struggled for
control.

My size and strength prevailed and I rolled her to the side. Her legs still
entwined my torso, though, and now she locked her ankles and began to
squeeze. I grunted and gasped. Nevertheless, I continued on the offensive
and forced her arms to the mat beside her head. Even though she flexed her
legs and crushed my weakened ribs, I held her down until Mrs. O'Rourke
finally counted out a three second pin.

I released Mom, but she didn't immediately relax her legs. "Let go!" I shouted.


"A little touchy, aren't we, honey?" she smirked as she finally unlocked her
ankles and allowed the air to fill my lungs again.

I had won the first fall of this last match, and yet it seemed as though my
mother was the victor. I lay on my back, gasping for breath, and she was
bouncing around on her corner of the mat, talking merrily about strategy with
her friends. They began whispering, and then I heard a lot of laughing.
Clearly they were brewing up something I wasn't going to like.

As the next fall began, I knew I had to try to win quickly as my strength was
waning and I wouldn't last much longer. But my plan to attack quickly was
thwarted when Mom shot toward me like a lioness and tackled me before I
could respond. I found myself on my back with Mom perched on my chest
trying to force my wrists to the mat. I bucked her off, but she jumped to her
feet, and while I was trying to sit up Mom grabbed me by the hair and pulled
my head between her thighs. I was caught in a standing head scissors. Her
fleshy thighs covered my ears, so I couldn't hear, but I could see the laughter
on the other women's faces as the gawked at my predicament. At first I tried
to claw at my mother's legs and pry them apart, but she was able to grasp my
wrists and, using her leverage from standing over me, twist both my arms into
hammerlocks. I was completely helpless! Mom squeezed my head so tightly
and twisted my arms so violently that I didn't even have the presence of mind
to yell my submission.

When Mom released me I collapsed to the mat, completely beaten. It wasn't
until she pulled me to a sitting position, again by my hair, that I realized the

match was still going on. Dazed and confused, I heard the women talking as
if in the distance, and I heard them laughing. Suddenly Mom bent my head
backward. She stood behind me, and she forced me to stare straight up at
her from my position sitting on my butt on the mat. She bent down and buried
my face in her armpit as she wrapped her arm around my head in a sort of
reverse headlock. My eyes could see the back of her shoulder, while my
nose and mouth were completely covered by her sweaty armpit. I tried to
push her off, but she managed to trap one of my arms with her leg and hold it
captive, and my one arm was not enough to pry her deadly headlock loose.
This left Mom a free hand, with which she began to torture my exposed
stomach and chest. I would have screamed in agony as she twisted my
nipples with her fingernails and scratched my sides but my mouth was
covered, and all I could do was kick my legs vainly. Mercifully, the lack of
oxygen soon caused my vision to fade, and I woke up a few seconds later flat
on my back.

"Want to give up now, honey?" Mom asked as she stared down at me. Her
hands were on her wide hips and she wore an amused expression on her
face. I could hear the other women chatting joyfully from behind me.

"No way," I moaned as I tried to stand up. But it was useless. Mom began the
final fall immediately by kicking me back to the mat with one of her slim feet.

Sitting on my chest, she easily forced my arms over my head and then placed
her knees on my biceps. "Ow!" I yelped, only to receive a light slap from my
mother.

"Stop whining, honey," she said. Mrs. O'Rourke counted out the pin while I
struggled pathetically, completely humiliating that I was so weakened that I
couldn't dislodge my own mother from my chest.

"Let's take your picture in a victory pose!" said Mrs. Johnson.

"That's a great idea!" said Mom, adjusting her breasts in the pink bikini. "Can

you hand me my purse? I want to freshen up my lipstick first." I squirmed
frantically, but ineffectively, as my mother sat on me and calmly reapplied her
lipstick, looking at herself in her compact. "Stop moving!" she chastised me.
I
resisted, so she held my face still, digging her nails into my cheeks, and wrote

something on my forehead with her lipstick while the other women all giggled
and cheered her on.

"What are you writing? Tell me!" I demanded, tears now running down my
face, as I was utterly humiliated by my mother's complete dominance over me.

Mrs. Strickland leaned over me and planted a wet kiss on my cheek. "It's OK.
She just wrote `Wimp' on your forehead."

The women ended up using the camera's self-timer so they could all be in the
photograph, posing with me as their thoroughly beaten opponent.