Still Waters 
by 'Any Given Sunday'



The sound of my parents' car receding into the distance sealed my fate, and I
turned to walk past the flower beds that led to Aunt Beatrice's front door.
Bea was writing in her study window, but put her pen down on seeing my
approach and came to usher me into the house. My mother's sister was the
despair of the family, a woman who worked as a bus driver during the week and
otherwise led a solitary life which offered little prospect of matrimony. And
now my parents had insisted that I spend my Saturday afternoon keeping her
company, instead of going to the big game with the other guys.

Bea's black hair was pulled back into a severe bun and her stocky frame was
encased in a shapeless cardigan, pleated skirt, thick stockings, and sensible
sandals. I found myself agreeing with my mother that my aunt had no prospect
of romantic involvement in the foreseeable future.

Beatrice fetched coffee and a tray of her home-made biscuits from the kitchen
and sat me beside her on her small settee. She then proceeded to quiz me
embarrassingly about college work and girlfriends, and I was glad when her
attention was distracted by the start of the wrestling show on TV. She seemed
to follow every hold intently, but I was irritated by some of the sloppy
execution and exclaimed 'That's not how you apply a wrist lock'. Bea seemed to
momentarily forget herself and took hold of my arm and twisted it, replying
'Yes it is dear, you apply the pressure behind the elbow like this'. I tried
to extract my arm but became aware that she had deceptive upper body strength
derived from her work at the steering wheel. We became engrossed in our little
struggle and then the settee tipped over, depositing my Aunt Beatrice on top
of me. She noticed that I wasn't complaining too hard and seemed to reach a
decision. Standing up and smoothing her skirt, she turned off the TV and said
'Hold that thought, honey' before leaving the room.

Ten minutes later the door opened slowly and Beatrice waddled in hesistantly
clad only in a black one-piece swimsuit. She was no bathing beauty, the
elastic of the costume accentuated the rolls of fat at the top of her thighs
and her calves betrayed the beginnings of varicose veins. Anxious to allay her
fear of ridicule, I quickly guided her into the centre of the room and then
stripped down to my jockey shorts. We faced each other and I could see in her
eyes that I was going to have to invest some time in persuading her that I
could be trusted to play without hurting her. I offered her a double finger
interlock and we stood and flexed muscles without trying to force a
conclusion. Then we dropped to our knees on the carpet and I fell easily into
Bea's opening side headlock.

Her confidence quickly increased and we soon we were enjoying the interplay,
intimacy, and occasional indignity of hard mixed play-wrestling. Bea had a
surprising knowledge of holds and counterholds and we taught and learned from
each other, each knowing and eagerly anticipating that any particularly
spectacular or humiliating move would soon be revisited upon him or her by the
'opponent'. Pinfall attempts were loose enough to escape from with a little
determination, and submission holds were applied just firmly enough to allow
the recipient to taste them.

We savoured our contrasting skin textures, and the difference between Bea's
high-pitched voice and my deeper one as we called for submissions, counted
pins, or faked pain like the best of the pros. As would be expected Bea was
less agile than me, but this was balanced by the vulnerability men always seem
to display to leg scissors moves when play-fighting women. I was starting to
sweat and Bea's musky pheromones were becoming more pronounced, but this just
seemed to sharpen our senses.

At length, with my aunt's black-clad torso suspended above mine in a
backbreaker, I decided it was time to bring the 'fight' to a climax. I lowered
her carefully to the floor, then pushed her ankles back to her shoulders, slid
forward around her extended legs, and pressed her shoulders to the carpet with
my shins in a classic folding body press position that I was sure a
connoisseur like Bea would appreciate. Bea kicked vainly with a desperation
incongruous with our play as I reached a full count. When she arose she seemed
thunderstruck, and I felt that a wall of ice had sprung up between the
playmate of moments ago and myself. She muttered that she had to visit the
ladies' room and walked out slowly, her shoulders sagging. I heard the stair
floorboards creak and then all was silent.

After fifteen minutes waiting for her to return I became bored and started
walking around. As I passed the study my eyes were drawn to a word in Aunt
Beatrice's open journal. I quickly flicked the pages and confirmed to my
astonishment that my aunt was leading a double life. This diary told not of
the daily toil of a bus driver but of the exploits of a female wrestling
champion who travelled the world vanquishing all comers of either sex. I now
had an idea of what had happened, and I set off upstairs to find Bea.

I saw her sat on the corner of her bed, slumped in dejection in front of the
mirror in which she must have rehearsed her victories and too miserable even
to scold me for entering her boudoir. I put my arm around her and tried to
coax her into coming back and playing again. Finally she consented to be led
haltingly back down the stairs and I again stood facing her in the living
room.

I offered her a trial of strength but she put up no resistance at all. Then I
twisted her arm lightly behind her back and said 'Who told you women can
wrestle?'. This lit a spark in her and she reversed the hold and pushed me
towards the floor. Gradually her enthusiasm returned and then once again my
body was positioned for the leg scissors and she greedily wrapped her thighs
around it and started to squeeze. I clasped my hands to my head and 'gave
pain', while Bea insistantly asked the question. When she allowed me to escape
I crawled backwards, eyes wide-eyed in fear and hand raised in supplication,
and begged 'No no, not my back'. Bea took her cue like a trouper and
immediately seized my legs and turned me into a boston crab, applying the hold
fully as I'd expected from such a ring technician. We both took up the strain.

Now maybe it was awareness that my plan had reached fruition and maybe it was
concern at the speed that Bea was increasing the pressure via her podgy rump,
but quickly I tapped the carpet with an outstretched palm and said 'I submit'.
The words came easier than I'd expected and I felt the glow of virtue of a
good deed done. However Bea had not released the hold and was twisting me
still further. 'Can't hear you', she sang musically. With rising panic I felt
the mounting protests from my thigh and abdominal muscles and tapped again.
The only response was further tightening of the hold.

Third time is a charm and when I had given up again, this time pounding the
floor and yelling, Bea reluctantly stood back up. She turned me over and then,
to my horror, my Aunt Beatrice planted her horny right foot with its chipped
red toe-nail polish firmly in the centre of my chest and raised her clasped
hands above her head in a bicep pose. Staring into the distance, she declared
in clarion tones 'STILL undefeated world champion, here is your winner by
submission, LAY-DEE NIGHT-HAWK in the red corner'.

She saw me looking questioningly up at her and flushed pink before turning to
leave the room for the third time. I could swear however that her waddle had
turned to a strut. I got dressed and could hear noises from the kitchen. The
door opened and my dowdy Aunt Beatrice returned in her cardigan and skirt,
carrying another tray of coffee and biscuits and beaming radiantly. Honour had
been satisfied and our friendship seemed repaired. She took little persuading
to tell me the legend of Lady Nighthawk and then we sat together on the settee
and discussed favourite moves until my parents' car horn blared outside.

It is now two years since I left college and I still visit Lady Nighthawk for
our own sessions of Saturday afternoon wrestling. Our ring attire has improved
over the years and I have acquired several alter-egos. Nighthawk defends her
world title against all comers, be it the flashy but cowardly 'Ricky the
Gigolo', the femicidal Frenchman 'Mad Pierre', or the mysterious masked
challenger from 'parts unknown'. On those occasions when I can be persuaded to
don a blonde wig, padded bra, and very tight pants, Nighthawk must fight for
all the marbles as her ladies' belt is also on the line in a no-holds-barred
grudge match against her archrival and nemesis, Vicki Vixen the Swedish
Bombshell. These always seem to be bitter protracted down and dirty affairs
that end when one woman screams her submission, as Nighthawk tells me that
this is the only way that a ladies' title match can be decided.

I have learned that Aunt Beatrice's diary was almost right, because Lady
Nighthawk is a queen of the squared circle who wins the vast majority of her
matches. But Nighthawk has also come to terms with the fact that the fighting
heart of a true champion is measured by her ability to recover from the bitter
gall of occasional defeat.