The Boxer: Cathy

Six weeks is not a lot of time to train, but when you're training for a purpose, it is enough to make a difference, enough to pick up a skill or two, enough to perfect a move or a punch. I relayed what Kerry had told me to the coaches. I didn't tell them where I had heard it or how I heard it, just what I was told. They sat down and looked at the Castlewood roster and talked it over with me. They wouldn't agree to a fight with Frankie Jones. Frankie had fought in the Golden Gloves before turning semi-pro and he was a fast and vicious fighter with a record of 5-0. But, according to Coach Smith, it would be easy to force the bout. Castlewood only had two other fighters in my weight class. Schedule me with one of them and then, at the last minute, withdraw him due to injury or illness and substitute Frankie. I could then either withdraw or go up against a fighter who was significantly better than me.

I'll be honest. I wasn't interested in withdrawing. I'd had my first taste of fighting and my first and second taste of groupies and I was solidly hooked. So, after each night's training session, we sat down with the tape and started working on a plan. Frankie was beautiful in the taped matches we watched. He had amazing form, great technical skills, and he was as fast and violent as a cheetah attack. He threw wicked combinations. He'd clearly dominated every fight to date, and he'd won two of them by knock-out. To say he was formidable was an understatement. Compared to him I looked like the ballet dancing hippos in that animated movie, the one with classical music. So, after much discussion, we just jumped straight to the point. The coaches penciled me in to fight Frankie in Castlewood.

Coach Smith took the lead when it came to training. Besides the physical training, he focused on two things; defensive tactics and how to break a combination. He figured my best shot was two-fold. First, don't get my ass knocked out. Second, break the combinations. For a fighter, combinations mean speed and power. Because you learn and practice throwing specific sets of punches in combination you don't have to think about what you're doing, just fire off that combination as fast as you can. But, if you think of each combination as a locked door, if the other fighter can find the key, essentially a set of counterpunches and defensive moves, and then match those up, a combination can be rendered way less effective, even with the speed involved.

It was my crash-course in the strategy involved in the sweet science. We sat there, watched the tape, looked for the keys, and then practiced them relentlessly in the ring. I sparred with guys two weight classes above me, to get used to being hit and being hit hard. I sparred with guys in a weight class below me to get used to the speed. Weight classes are all about matching up fighters to make the bout as even as possible, to give the audience a good show. The general rule is smaller fighters hit faster and bigger fighters hit harder. I can attest to the truth of that general rule.

Within any rule there are exceptions, the little guys who punch above their weight, the big guys blessed with lightning speed. My friend John was one of the latter. He was big and he was fast. He settled in to being my primary sparring partner for the next month or so. He was a good sparring partner. He'd won his first match on a TKO, like I had, though his had happened in the second round. John had both talent and skill. Fortunately, he also had that strange quirk that makes some people natural teachers. He'd rock my world with a combination, then he'd slow it down, sometimes way down, so I could see what he was doing, get my brain wrapped around it, learn how to recognize it, then speed it back up while I learned how to survive the onslaught and maybe jam it up with the right movements or the right counterpunch. If I made a mistake, he'd hit me so hard I saw stars. I learned to keep my chin tucked in, so he didn't just straight knock me out in the sparring ring.

Coach Smith gloved up and stepped into the ring with me as well. He'd been a successful fighter in his youth and even now was far better than I was. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of strategy and tactics. My nights were long hours of getting the crap knocked out of me by my friend and my coach. Often the coaches would be teaching the rest of the club using me as the crash test dummy. They tried to take the things they were showing me and show them to the rest of the club. I think in those six weeks leading up to the Castlewood fights we all grew leaps and bounds as boxers. It was hard training, and we took it seriously.

Outside of the ring, about once a week, Cindy or Kerry would catch me after training and give me their version of training, which hurt a hell of a lot less but was incredibly invigorating. Cindy was also hopping back and forth between me and John as the recipients of her lust. We didn't compare notes or even acknowledge that we were fucking the same woman, but I suspect that sometimes it slipped into the ring. I noticed that, after Cindy spent the night with me, generally the next day John would knock me around a bit more in the ring. At that point though, I wasn't going to stop fucking her and I needed the experience fighting someone who could out punch me, so it was all good.

Cindy and Kerry were different lovers. When I was with Cindy it was hard, primal, pounding sex. She didn't have a soft mode. She wanted to be roughly taken, tossed around, and manhandled. She loved being bent over and taken from behind or mounted in doggy style. Though she was a good kisser, kissing and softness were aperitifs for her. Oral sex was always just prelude. It was all about the hard fuck. Other than light conversation she didn't want to discuss anything. She just wanted to show up, get fucked hard, and go home. She didn't care about where we fucked either -- a closet, an empty room, the backseat of a car, bent over the hood on a country road, in the dirt by the lake, they were all fine with her.

Kerry on the other hand was more refined in her debaucheries. It was always at her small house in Crooksville, and it was always an overnight stay. I learned what a "scene" meant from her. She had scenarios, some elaborate, some simple, in mind whenever I was invited over. She'd lay out the scene, the position, or positions, and walk me through it, coaching me, giving me tips, teaching me. Some of them we'd play over across multiple sessions, just like sparring in the ring.

Where Cindy was just pure, primal, sex, Kerry was an education in sex. She was the science part of that other sweet science. Often, when we were done and laid there spooned together, on her bed, on the floor, on the couch, she'd tell me why we had done certain things. The emotions and sensations that accompanied the act. What it felt like to be lifted and then powered over a piece of furniture, both physical and psychological. How to put my hand around her throat, how to choke her by cutting off the blood flow or the air flow, how each of them felt, how to watch carefully and time them. The differences in the variations in oral sex. When she wanted me to take the lead and be forceful, when she wanted me to lean back and let her do all the work. Like John, she was a natural teacher, and I was grateful for every lesson.

Prior to her and Cindy, I'd only slept with two other women, both after a long period of courtship, and both vanilla, another term I learned from her. No fault of theirs, I had to admit I was also vanilla at the time. Now, I was on my way to all 31 flavors, courtesy of two powerfully sexual women. Just like I was learning in boxing, I was learning there was way more to sex then I had ever imagined.

I learned one very powerful lesson from Kerry, one night, after we'd fucked, a particularly rough session, and were curled up on the couch watching a late-night cable movie and eating chocolate eclairs. For some reason, the conversation had turned to Cindy. I think Kerry had been answering a question I'd asked about the "why" of something Cindy had done, and she turned the conversation.

"You know she's fucking John, right?"

I nodded. "I know."

"How do you feel about that?"

"To be honest," I told her, "I don't really think about it. It's between them."

"Good," she said, "but, be aware he doesn't feel the same way. I know he's your friend, but he's falling for Cindy. He's cool with it for now, mainly because Cindy put him in his place. But he's not the kind of guy who's naturally cool with it, and she's getting inside his brain. At some point, you're going to have work it out with him."

I hadn't really thought about it. I'd just assumed he was cool with it all, the whole "to the victor go the spoils" thing. It gave me pause. Nestled on my shoulder she looked at me and smiled that half smile of hers.

"Ah, there goes the Cowboy brain, that's good to see. In the ring or in bed, never stop paying attention and thinking about the things you see. Everything in life is a fight of some sort."

I nodded.

"I've also got some good news for you, while you're contemplating that."

"Okay."

"Frankie is not taking the bout with you as seriously as you are. The Castlewood Club has watched the tapes and they think it's in the bag already. They're confident he's that much better than you based on what they've seen, so his training regimen is straight up and straight forward, strength and conditioning, perfecting the skills he already has."

My brain whirred on that for a moment.

"How do you know this?" I asked.

Kerry just laughed.

"How do you think I know it?"

My brain fired then.

"You're fucking him?"

She nodded, her smile blossoming to its full brilliance.

"Bonus points for the Cowboy." She said, sliding her hand onto my cock. "How do you feel about that?"

I thought about it for a few moments, thought of the wonderful and wet things we'd just done, imagined her doing them with the guy who was scheduled to kick my ass in a few weeks. My cock twitched under her hand.

"Oh," she said, "Now that is the proper response, Cowboy. When it comes to groupies, don't ever forget what we are. We're fucking whoever we want, whenever we want. Either you're cool with that, either it turns you on, or you need to be a different line of work, because this world, our world, will break you if it gets a chance."

She unzipped my blue jeans and pulled my cock out, starting to stroke it slowly as it hardened.

"Pop quiz. What am I about to do to you."

I thought about it for a few moments. Then, I leaned back on the couch.

"You're going to make it up to me by worshipping my cock."

She smiled again and let go of my cock long enough to pull her hair back.

"For what it's worth Cowboy, you cock is way better than his."

Then, she leaned forward and wrapped her lips around the swollen head. I closed my eyes and let her take it into her mouth and slowly slide down the shaft. I did nothing for the next thirty minutes, just sat there and enjoyed it as she sucked and licked my cock, edging me for the whole time, until at last I exploded in her mouth and watched her swallow every drop of cum.

For a few weeks at least I was in one of those tiny corners of paradise we're fortunate to stumble into in this life. However, like in the ring, sooner or later you must come out of the corner. That's the whole point of it.

The Castlewood event was a big one, running parallel to their county fair, five full days of bouts involving half a dozen clubs. There were three solid days of undercard fights, then two days of title fights in every weight class. I fought Frankie on Tuesday evening at 8:00 PM, a good time for an undercard bout. Both clubs showed up in strength to watch the bout. Frankie drew his strong core of fans and my club showed up to see how I would do.

I'd love to tell you it was a stunning victory for the underdog, but it wasn't. It's one thing to watch a fighter on tape. It's another thing to climb into the ring with him. Frankie was fast, lightning fast. He threw wicked combinations at impossible speeds. He came out of the corner in the first round and nearly ended the fight right there. The first two minutes of the fight he just simply knocked me around and I did everything I could not to get knocked out. At about the two-minute mark I pulled a standing eight count from the referee, who was rightfully concerned. It gave me what I needed to make it through the first round, a brief respite from the blizzard of punches.

When the second round opened, I'd tightened up my defense and started punching my way out of his combinations. Not effectively, but at least I was throwing and landing a few punches. He pretty much had control of the tempo of the round all the way through, but I picked up a few points and tried a few different things, some of which worked. He was fighting high, meaning he kept his hands up at about eye level. I was able to crowd in and land a few body blows, catch him with a couple of hooks to the abdomen, pop him with a few jabs. He just kept pouring it on. The bell was a welcome relief.

Between the second and third rounds my head cleared. I'd been in a fog since that first flurry of punches at the start of the first round. I could see two places where he was opening himself up that we hadn't seen in the tapes. With him fighting with his hands high, I could trade a few solid body blows for every combination he threw. Then, with him coming out so fast and strong, I could sense his speed was waning a little. So, I went to work.

He'd come in high and hard. I'd tucked my chin, shoulder in, and worked his body. I was basically letting him batter my head around in exchange for a few solid shots to his body. With about forty-five seconds left in the third round I got a moment that brought the crowd to its feet. We'd spent the first part of the round in a steady exchange, him high and fast scoring two or three points with each combination, me scoring one or two points with those hooks to the body. Then, as he moved in to exchange punches again, he dropped his hands, pulling his elbows down in anticipation of my hooks to the body. That's what I was waiting for. I fired out high and fast; jab, cross, jab and snapped his head back, surprising him. Then he made his first and only real mistake in the fight. I could see it in his eyes, he got angry. I slipped back, weaved through a fast but sloppy combination set and popped him twice with a left hook to the side of the head, a punch I hadn't thrown through the whole fight because I'd never seen an opportunity. He stopped. Just a split second, and I pumped a right cross from my toes straight into his chin. It surprised him and rocked him back and he tucked his chin and pulled his hands up to cover his head. A purely defensive move to give him time to recover.

Which he did of course. When he came out, he was calm again and spent the last thirty seconds of the round knocking me around while all I could do was cover up and not get knocked out. The blessed bell took us back to our corners and brought the bout to a close. The referees put their heads together, compared notes, and then called us back to the center of the ring. There was only one surprise there. The round was decided on points. The first and second round went to Frankie by a clear half a dozen points in each out. Trust me, it felt way more lopsided than that. The third round went to me by one point, which brought a weird sound from the crowd, half groaning, and half cheering. The bout went to Frankie on points, as it should have in my opinion.

The aftermath of the fight was mostly a blur. The crowd loved it, so the noise was a constant roaring. I'd taken a pounding, so I was a bit punch drunk, which added to that sense of floating that overtakes you after a good fight. I'd done a good job of protecting my head, but at the expense of my arms and shoulders. In the locker room the physical trainers went straight to the ice, so I spent a good thirty minutes sitting there, wrapped up like some sort of Siberian mummy, equal parts ace bandage and cold.

By the time I came out of the locker room the evenings matches were over. My friend John was waiting for me. His fight was scheduled for the next day, so he had just watched the bouts. He shook his head when he saw me.

"Damn boy, you would have thought you were some kind of demented pinata the way he was punching you."

I laughed.

"I felt like a freaking pinata. I kept expecting to burst open and discover I was made of candy."

We kept joking in that vein as we headed out to his car. The club had a cluster of rooms at the local hotel, but John had heard of a post-fight party at some local's house, and we'd been invited to stop by for a beer, so we headed over there. As much as I would have liked to go back to the hotel and climb into a soft bed, I knew that would be a mistake. I could already feel that I was going to hurt tomorrow, once I stiffened up, so I wanted to keep moving around as best I could, for as long as I could.

Now, here is how guys resolve issues.

We were in the car trying to find the house party and the conversation went like this.

"Hey, John, got a question for you."

"Sure."

"This whole Cindy thing, it is going to cause a problem?"

"I thought about kicking your ass, but I figured what the fuck. Coach says keep your head on straight, so I'm going to let it go. It is what it is. Not a problem for me. As long as it's not a problem for you."

"I'm good. If you change your mind, let me know and we'll sort it out again. Preferably at some point in the future when I can lift my arms over my shoulders. Otherwise, I'll have to pummel you with little dinosaur arms."

I raised my arms at the elbows, about as far as I could without pain and flopped them from side to side.

John laughed and that was that. Guy conflict resolution 101. Shrug it off. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. It worked this time, and it didn't.

We found the house party at a split-level ranch style house in one of the nicer parts of Castlewood. There were about twenty cars parked in front and down both sides of the street, so we found a spot, pulled in and got out, walking up the street. You could hear the bass thumping away and the sounds of conversation and laughter. It was a sizeable crowd, maybe a hundred people, spread through the house and out into the back yard.

Inside was a bustling crowd, full of conversation and laughter. To my surprise there were two big, burly, bouncers at the door, checking ID's. Though John and I were outsiders, we were quickly accepted and embraced, midwestern hospitality at its finest. Somewhere in the crowd I lost John, but found my way into the downstairs den, where I was leaning against the wall, sipping a beer, and talking about boxing with a couple of locals. I kept rotating my shoulders and shaking my arms out because I could feel the stiffness coming on.

She caught my eye when she came down the stairs. She was short, barely five foot tall, and I'd describe her body as "small and round". She was well-proportioned, with all the curves in all the right places, and you could tell by the way she moved, light and fast, that she knew it. She had short hair, honey blonde and curly, a sensuous smile, and big green steal-your-heart eyes. She was wearing a snug fitting pair of terry cloth shorts in bright blue and a white State University wife-beater, through which you could see the bright red outline of her bra. I must have been staring because suddenly she stopped, put her hand on her hip, and stared back at me.

I shrugged and made the universal "busted" gesture, putting my little dinosaur arms out in front of me and turning my palms up as I gave what I hoped was a sheepish look. She mirrored my gesture and then worked her way across the floor to where I was standing, weaving gracefully through the crowd.