This is The Tara Trilogy: Part 1:  "I Can Take You."
 

It was terribly awkward that first time.
 
Really, neither of them knew quite what to do...how to start, who should
make the first move? The challenge itself came from a rather innocuous
comment, made in jest, or so Michael thought at the time.
 
He and Tara were waiting for the subway after a night out with friends to
see a band. They had been broken up for almost a month, still trying to
"be friends", as they had been before they started dating, but it was
difficult not to want more. There was a mutual attraction, for sure, and
the nagging feeling that neither of them had tried hard enough to make
the relationship work, or that maybe they just tried to soon, and perhaps
now that more time had gone by they could make it work--and should.
 
But neither of them really wanted to be the first to say "I think we
should get back together", so there they stood, waiting for the train,
forced to talk to each other in the interminable delay, more than a
little drunk from pitchers of beer, and infused with a horny frustration
for each other neither was willing to own up to.
 
 Michael grasped for something to say to fill the void. "I like that
leather jacket a lot."
"Thanks", Tara replied, "You don't think it makes me look too tough?"
"No, it's sexy....like biker chic, instead of 'biker chick'".
"Good one", said Tara, and looked down the tunnel for the 8th time in the
last ten minutes hoping to see the train.
 
Michael really did like that leather jacket. Tara had a lean, lanky body,
and the jacket fit tightly, but not too so, around her long frame, her
slender shoulders, her smooth skinny arms. The black leather accentuated
her tight, faded jeans, down to her dark buckled boots, with just enough
heel to add a couple of inches to her 5'6" height, bringing her only a
couple of inches away from Michael's level gaze when she glanced at him.
And the hair. Her wild, dark, tangled and untamed Irish dark hair spilled
over the shoulders of the black leather and made him crazy. If Tara was
not a conventional beauty, she did have that hair, and something most
other women Michael knew did not have--a natural athleticism and the raw,
sensual allure of a true Tomboy. Freckles and all.
 
He had met Tara in a co-ed indoor soccer leaague. He was immediately
drawn to her aggressive style of play--not the most gifted ball handler
or scorer, Tara made up for it by playing an in-your-face, no-fear style.
She was unafraid to block shots with her body, she ran into corners
against even the biggest guys, and often caught an errant flying elbow
for her troubles. She ran and ran and never seemed to get tired, and when
she wore tight bicycle shorts that showed off her long, skinny-white legs
and thin-toned thighs, Michael found himself unable to look away.  
 
Now, after a few weeks of not feeling those thighs wrapped around him in
bed, marvelling at how such a skinny girl could also have such large,
firm breasts--and how good they looked in that tight white T-shirt under
her leather jacket, he found the longing coming back, almost unbearable.
But he knew it wouldn't be simple winning her back. His explanation of
"not being sure i'm ready" for a relationship as the reason he broke it
off last month was, he knew, more than a little lame. But he searched for
a way to get the conversation back to that track.
 
"So you had a good time tonight?"
"Not bad. The band sucked, though. Alex said they were great."
"Yeah, they could have been better. They were loud, too. I couldn't talk
to you all night."
"Oh yeah? What did you want to say?"
"I don't know, I mean...I think we're both dancing around something we
don't want to talk about."
"About us?"
"Yeah, i guess, I mean....."
"Well, I thought you told me everything there was about that a month ago.
Now you want to change your story?"
"I guess it's not that easy to talk about--it's like a struggle to get
the words out....I think we both are guilty of that...we're not great at
talking to settle our differences."
 
And that's when she said it. Just an innocuous comment...
 
"Yeah, maybe we should just wrestle each other instead."
 
Michael laughed. "Yeah, wouldn't that be funny."
"What do you mean?"
"Just the thought of us wrestling--I mean, a little unfair, don't you
think?"
"How so?"
"Ummmm...well, you being all of like 110 pounds soaking wet, and me being
around 170, and a guy...."
 
"I can take you."
 
It was the way she said it. Michael always knew when Tara was joking, but
this was not meant to be an ironic comment. She had looked him right in
the eye, and said it like it was a casual, simple fact....the sun rises
in the East, and I can take you at wrestling.
 
But Michael checked anyway: "You're joking."
"No, i'm not. You wouldn't know what hit you."
 
Just then the light from the train filled the tunnel and a rumbling
roiled the air around them. Michael stared at Tara, trying to figure out
if she was bluffing, and she locked eyes with him, the faintest trace of
a smile betraying itself on her lips. The train hissed to a stop and the
doors opened, people milling around them coming and going, but all
Michael saw was Tara, a mere two inches shorter than him in her
high-heeled boots, turning her back to him and taking a seat without
another word. He sat down next to her and said "I don't suppose you'd
want to back up your trash talk tonight?"
 
"Fine", she said.
"I'm not bluffing", said Michael.
"Neither am I. You can come over if you want."
Michael could think of nothing to say as the train pulled away.
 
They remained silent all the way to her apartment. When they got inside
the tension was palpable. Michael said, "So....how do you want to do
this?"
 
Tara seemed to have lost the bravado she displayed earlier waiting for
the train. She smiled sheepishly and said "I don't know."
 
Michael said "Well, do you want to start on the floor?"
"I don't know--the carpet's pretty thick but it would  still be tough on
our knees...maybe we should just, you know..." and she dipped into a
classic wrestlers pose, hands up, bending over at the back,  slightly
arched forward toward Michael.
 
It made them both laugh. This really was awkward. Michael felt so much
bigger than Tara, even with her boots on. She was so skinny. He knew what
a tiger she could be playing soccer, but this? He was afraid of breaking
her in two if he was too rough. Still, she had been so serious about
saying she could take him--and he didn't like that. Michael was
competitive, one of the best soccer players in the league, and he
certainly wasn't going to stand for Tara claiming she could outwrestle
him. He moved toward her, grabbed the arms of her leather jacket and gave
a solid, steady push.
 
Tara stumbled back a little, then righted herself, and brought her hands
up quickly, breaking Michael's hold on her arms. Michael moved in again
and again grabbed her arms, not sure what else to do. Suddenly, he felt a
sharp stab at the back of his ankle, where Tara had whipped her boot
around to try and trip him. Michael lost his balance for a split second
and his leg buckled slightly as Tara brought her full leg around his knee
and pulled it back, while pushing Michael around the shoulder. He fell
lightly to the floor.
 
It was just a trip, a stumble, and Michael chalked it up to his being
clumsy from too much beer. Tara was laughing, more from the comical way
he fell than anything else. Michael joined in a little and said "OK, that
was pretty funny. Cute little move. Now you better defend yourself."
 
He moved around her and put her in a bear hug, dropping himself to the
floor and bringing Tara with him. He figured from here it would be a
quick reversal to get her on her back, then pin her arms down, end of
story. But once on the floor, Tara immediately 'turtled up", drawing
herelf into a tight ball with her arms wedged hard to her sides, and
Michael couldn't get her on her back. He started to try and pry her arms
from her side, but to his amazement, he found he couldn't get them free.
He knew Tara had the strength of the wiry, but he never would have
guessed she was this strong. She held fast and after a minute or so
Michael realized to really get her arms free he would have to apply more
pressure than he was willing to--the kind that could hurt and possibly
lead to an injury. He also found he was breathing hard from the effort,
which he told himself again was from the alcohol.
 
He got up, feeling frustrated that Tara's defensive move had worked. She
got up, too, and said "Ha!", clearly pleased that Michael had been unable
to pin her. Michael readied for another attack, but then Tara said "nice
try", and left the room.
 
Michael said "What? Where are you going? We're not done here".
Tara said "I think I proved my point", and Michael got angry.
"No you didn't! You said you could take me!"
Tara came back in the living room and removed her boots.
"I did take you", she said. "I knocked you to the floor AND kept you from
pinning me. That's a win for me."
 
Michael was incredulous. He said unless someone got a pin, the match
wasn't over. But Tara just smiled at him and said "Hey, you need to let
it go. Why don't you come here?", and she patted the couch seat. She was
clearly not going to engage in any more wrestling tonight, and Michael
realized she was moving on to more amorous ambitions. He felt the desire
rise in him, and went to her.
 
The next morning they both knew they had engaged in drunken "slip-back"
sex. They hadn't talked about getting back together before getting naked,
and so things were as uncertain the next day as they were the night
before. They decided it was a one-time thing, and maybe they would leave
open the possibility of getting back for real--but when they were sober.
 
Michael was bothered by  this uncertainty, but by something else as well.
It ate at him all day, and wouldn't go away that night. Did Tara really
believe she had defeated him in that silly wrestling match?
 
Ridiculous, he told himself. And why in the world should he even care?
The whole thing was stupid. Of course he would beat her easily in a real
match, and she knew that. She was just teasing him, trying to start some
foreplay.
 
And yet....and yet she said she did win with the same conviction she said
she could take him the night they were waiting on the platform. And
Michael still had the memory of trying unsuccessfully to pry her arms
away under that black leather jacket. And that thing she did with her
leg. What was that? Even drunk, shouldn't he have been able to resist the
push to the floor?
 
He decided to send her an email:
 
Hey, T....Listen, last night was really fun, even if we kind of made a
mistake. I don't really regret it, and we shoukd talk about it some more.
One other thing--and I know this is going to sound stupid, but....i
REALLY hope you don't think you beat me at wrestling. I mean, I wasn't
even really trying very hard, and you KNOW i'm a lot stronger than you. I
don't want to make too much of this but just so we're clear--you did NOT
beat me, and if you ever want to have a REAL wrestling match, i'm more
than game. I just think it would be wrong of you to claim--even though
it's a silly thing--that you actually beat me, when we both know that in
a real match I would overpower you and pin you pretty quickly, right?
 
He hit 'send" and waited for a reply, checking his email more and more
frequently throughout the day, getting nothing in return. His frustration
level climbed, until her response finally came, and when it did, he felt
his face go hot with anger. Tara had written a 2-word reply--and nothing
more-- to his assertion that he would beat her easily at wrestling:
 
"As if."
 
He called her later that night. "OK, what's your problem?" he said.
"What are you talking about?"
"You know very well--this continuing crap that you beat me at wrestling."
"Oh", Tara said, "That reminds me--how's your bruised male ego doing?"
"Funny. How about I come over there right now and show you?"
"I don't think so. We agreed last night was a one-time thing."
"I'm talking about a wrestling match."
"Michael, I'm not going to wrestle you while we're still just friends.
It's too weird."
"Why?"
"How many of your other friends do you wrestle?"
"This is different, Tara. You're just doing this to drive me
crazy--you're going to lord it over me that you tripped me once while I
was drunk....."
"So was I"
"....and avoided a pin...."
"You didn't even come close"
"Well, then put your money where your mouth is and give me another chance
if you're so sure I can't beat you."
"We'll see."
"What does that mean?"
"Look, Michael, I'm tired right now, I don't want to have this
conversation--it's stupid."
"Will you at least consider it in the near future? I think you owe me the
chance."
"Fine. Whatever. Like I said, we'll see."
 
The next few weeks Michael kept pestering Tara for a rematch, and she
kept refusing, being coy at times, and teasing him for caring so much
that he "lost to a girl." Michael kept insisting he didn't lose and then
got angry at himself for taking it so seriously.
 
Eventually, he gave up asking. He looked for other girls to date, and
while he went on some dates with girls who were  prettier than Tara, none
of them gave him the thrill that she did--that animal impulse of
sexuality that came from her althleticism and raw Tomboy aura.
 
Then one Friday night after a soccer match, a bunch of the team were
going out drinking, Tara among them. Michael declined to go along,
feeling tired and sore from the match. Just before he went home, he
thought he caught a glimpse of Tara giving him a silent look that said
'Please come', but he told himself he imagined it.
 
He got home and was just getting a beer out of the fridge when when the
phone rang. As soon as he picked it up, without even saying "hello", he
heard Tara's voice say "I would have beaten you tonight."
 
"Excuse me?"
 
"I would have beaten you tonight. Wrestling."
 
Michael put his beer down and said "Oh, I see. Well, you still talk a
good game."
 
"I'm serious', she said. "If you had come out tonight, I was going to
invite you back later to get your ass kicked."
 
Michael had had about enough. "Is that right? Well, I can be over your
place in about 20 minutes, but I suppose NOW you wouldn't agree to a
match."
 
"Of course I would."
 
"I'm serious, Tara. If I come all the way over there and find you have
some lame excuse, i'm going to be really pissed."
"I'm ready", she said.
Michael said "20 minutes", and hung up the phone.

He drove in a frenzy, making the trip in half the time. He was surprised
to discover how much he wanted this opportunity to set Tara straight, and
his heart was pounding in his chest when he arrived at her apartment. It
beat even faster when she opened the door and he saw her wearing only a
black sports bra and a black bikini bottom. With her large breasts and
long skinny legs accented by this ensemble, her trim, hip-less figure
seemed especially athletic. Michael was reminded of the comic book super
heroines from his youth--the Black Widow was one who came to mind--female
characters always drawn with exaggeration of the breasts and legs in
tight spandex outfits. Tara's real life body could have served as an
artist's model.

She told him to come in and started gathering her thick, wild hair into a
ponytail, her back to him. Michael was entranced by this simple act. He
noted the subtle muscle movement in Tara's thin arms as she worked to tie
back all that hair, the long, straight firmness of her slender back, her
long legs--so thin and ghostly white against the jet black bikini piece,
but toned and strong. In fact, there wasn't an ounce of fat anywhere on
Tara that he could see.

She turned to face him and smiled. "Are you ready?", she said.
 
Michael could only nod. He was suddenly torn between his desire to teach
Tara a lesson, and that tentative feeling that he had to be careful not
to hurt someone who, after all, weighed probably 60 pounds less than him,
was slender as a toothpick, and a girl to boot.
 
He moved toward her unsurely, but then any reservations he had about
going easy were wiped clean when Tara shot forth her arm and shoved him
hard up around the shoulder, knocking him briefly off balance. Before
Michael could recover, Tara had locked one of her long legs around the
back of his knee and pulled it back, following with a hard push across
his chest, a combination of moves that sent him to the floor.
 
Michael was up quickly, and angry. Tara took a few steps backward, trying
to supress the smile at having thrown Michael down. There was no
awkwardness from that point on, none of the self-conscious silliness that
marked their first wrestling encounter.
 
Michael grabbed Tara's wrists and forced her arms down by her side. She
twisted sharply and was able to escape his hold, but Michael threw his
upper body into hers like a linebacker against a practice dummy and Tara
was knocked against the far wall, barely keeping her balance, but
stunned. Michael grabbed her around the shoulders and threw her to the
floor. She shocked him, though, by rolling with the force of the throw
and almost immediately getting back to her feet, prepared for his next
attack.
 
Without her high heeled boots on, Tara was a good 4 inches shorter than
Michael, and as Michael moved in he found it easy to get an arm around
Tara's neck, and he forced her into a headlock--at least that was what he
had tried to do. Tara kept ducking her head under and away from Michael's
arm and slipped through his hold, emerging behind Michael's back.
 
And to Michael's immediate sense of panic, she had brought a hold on his
wrist with her. She had Michael's wrist tightly in both her hands, and
from a standing position behind him, she twisted mercilessly, prompting
Michael's feet to move with the direction of her force. Michael
involuntarily let out a small expression of pain as he felt his wrist
twisting against his will, and another as Tara completed the throw,
lifting Michael off his feet and onto the floor. He had landed badly, on
his side, and his ribs ached with a sharp pain. Worse, the force of the
throw had knocked some wind from him, and he was having trouble catching
his breath.
 
When he got to his feet, Tara asked if he was alright, which infuriated
Michael.
"I'm fine", he said icily.
"You sure?"
"Shut up", said Michael.
Tara just shook her head at him, and said "whatever."
Michael ignored the pain in his side, and moved toward her again,
determined to take control of the match.
 
Michael moved as fast as he could to get behind Tara and was able to grab
around her and apply a bear hug. He poured every ounce of strength he
could muster into the squeeze and was able to slightly lift her off the
ground and throw her to the floor. This time she landed hard and didn't
roll. He momentarli was concerned he had thrown her too hard but in the
next instant he was more hoping the blow would keep her down. Michael
realized the effort to throw her--combine with the lengthof the match to
this point and his own hard fall to the floor--had pushed him beyond a
level of stamina he was comfortable sustaining for much longer.
 
For this reason he dared not get on the floor and try to pin Tara.
Instead he stepped back, trying not to show how hard he was breathing,
hoping she would say "enough" or even "i'm hurt, we need to stop." After
all, he had really thrown her down hard and the carpet--thick as it
was--only had so much give.
 
A second later Michael felt his first stirrings of self-doubt when he saw
Tara shooting to her feet as if nothing had happened, ready to continue.
She moved towards him and Michael felt himself back up, almost as if his
body was telling him something his mind didn't want to hear.
 
For the next 10 minutes, Michael was on the defensive. Tara came at him
with a relentless series of shoves to the chest and shoulders, brief
sharp kicks around his calves and ankles designed to trip him up. He
couldn't get a hold of her. She would move in fast, jab at his body like
a boxer, and move away. Michael felt himself getting weaker by the
minute. He couldn't hide his labored breathing, and couldn't muster the
strength to even say something back to her when she observed calmly
"You're getting tired, Michael." Why wasn't she as tired as he was? All
this energy--it didn't matter that she had no big muscles or weight to
her body--she was as sharp and energized now as she was the moment the
match started, and it was all Michael could do to fend her off.
 
He eventually caught her hands and they engaged in a kind of "mercy
wrestle"--both straining their arms outward, trying to twist the others'
hands backwards. Michael felt a hot shame when he saw his arms shaking
with the effort, and in contrast Tara's arms, smooth and long but without
muscular definition at all--steady as a steel rail.
 
Michael had to let go. Tara came at him yet again and Michael was
literally backstepping around the carpet, trying to avoid her grip,
finally planting his feet wide and grabbing the outside of her arms,
holding on as best he could.
 
They stayed like this for almost a full minute, Michael keeping his legs
far back to prevent Tara from getting a leg sweep in that would knock him
to the floor for good. There was no sound in the room except for
Michael's breath emerging in short, hard bursts, until he heard Tara say
"draw."
 
Michael wasn't sure he heard her right. "What?", he said, between gasps
for air.
"Draw", Tara repeated. "Let's call this a tie. We're both just flailing
at each other at this point anyway."
 
Michael's mind began to race. He blocked out the initial feeling of
relief, the urge to say "OK" and just sit for a minute to catch his
breath. Instead he thought what agreeing to the draw would mean: He had
failed to overpower a 110-pound girl. A skinny, 5 foot 6 female  with
pipe-cleaner arms and thin legs. He recalled her taunting, her pledge
that she could "take him." And he thought of how long he'd waited for
this chance to beat her, to show her who was physically superior.
 
"No way", Michael said. "We go unti there's a winner."
 
It didn't take long for him to regret his decision.
 
Tara shrugged, and said "fine."
 
She moved so fast in the next instant, Michael almost missed what
happened. Tara grabbed Michael's right wrist and lifted, his arm shooting
upwards. She whipped her head under the arm and brought it behind her
head, then down the middle of her upper back. Michael stumbled backwards
and suddenly felt Tara's leg lock itself firmly behind his already bent
knee. She drew it back...and as Michael felt himself hurtling towards the
floor he realized all too quickly thar Tara had been giving him an out,
giving him a chance.
 
A chance to retain some measure of his manhood. A chance to salvage a
part of his ego that was about to be pounded into a thick carpet by a
skinny girl. She had offered him a draw, a merciful chance to at least
say "neither of us beat the other." He rejected it, and now his pride had
doomed him to the inescapable fact that he went toe to toe with a girl,
and lost.
 
Michael slammed into the carpet and watched Tara walk across the room,
undoing her ponytail as she did so. She knew he wouldn't be getting back
up.
 
Michael could not look up. He pushed himself back til his back was
resting against the wall and hung his head.
 
Then he felt a brush of Tara's long hair against his ear, as she bent
down and whispered into it: "I beat you, Michael."
 
Michael said nothing. What could he say? He sat there for a long time.
Tara poured herself a glass of water and drank it slowly. Then she came
over to him and mockingly patted him on the head. "It's OK", she said.
"I'll still let you sleep with me."
 
Michael covered his face with his hands, and realized he was lucky about
that. But he also vowed silently to himself at that moment that he would
somehow get a rematch with Tara, and a shot at redemption.
 
He at least had to try.