The Tara Trilogy, Part Three: The Fight
by Rax

 
This is the conclusion of a true story about an off-again, on-again
couple who developed a serious wrestling rivalry during the course of
their relationship.
 
To state the obvious, the mat had been a bad idea. It had shifted the
balance of power dramatically, as Michael expected, but to the wrong
party. 
 
Tara had always enjoyed the upper hand, winning all but one of their
numerous wrestling matches, but the level of violence that had marked
their most recent contest represented a seismic upheaval.
 
When Michael closed his eyes he could sometimes still feel the sting from
Tara's relentless hard slaps to his face, the lightning bolt of pain that
shot up his arm as she shoved her foot into his back, making him
practically taste the mat with his face, while she twisted his wrist
and shoulder socket skyward.
 
Her words stung even more. She taunted him by making him repeat the terms
of surrender he had tried to force first on her: "You are my physical
superior", she made Michael shout as payment for the release of her grip.
And at least once daily, he heard her warning to him: "I'm only going to
say this once, Michael: Don't you ever, EVER slap or hit me again.Do you
understand?"
 
He couldn't say "yes" fast enough.
 
Now the wrestling was over. Their last match, when things had gotten so
out of hand, Tara said,  was proof positive that Michael couldn't handle
the "emotional trauma"--as she put it--of losing to her, and it could
lead to one of them getting seriously hurt. Most likely, she made it a
point to add--him.
 
Michael was furious, but hardly had an argument of his own. He had
finally beaten Tara, and the pent-up frustration that had come from
scores of previous defeats had taken over, forcing him to overplay his
hand in terms of trying to get payback, and he was the one who ended up
paying.
 
But it was hard for Michael to let it go. He brought the subject up again
and told Tara he could handle the emotional side of it, even if he lost.
He said he would approach it from a strict competitive standpoint, as she
did. And Tara said something that made his blood boil even more.
 
"You know what, Michael? Even if you could handle it--what's the point? I
mean, it's not like there's even a rivalry we have, because a rivalry is
competitive. We wrestled HOW many times--two dozen? More? You beat me
ONCE, Michael. Think about that. As you always like to point out, I'm a
110-pound girl, and I out-wrestled you virtually every single time. Since
you're the 170-pound guy in this "competition" (and here she made the air
quotes), maybe you should just admit that you're out of my league when it
comes to wrestling, and move on to something else."
 
Tara flat out refused to wrestle him anymore. He even tried attacking her
a couple of times just to force her to defend herself but she just went
limp and let him pin her. Then she said in a mocking deadpan "Oh, you're
so strong, Michael. I give up." 
 
Their relationship was following a similar path. There was too much
mutual resentment, and Michael's wounded ego got in the way of
everything. Without the release from wrestling, he started to take it out
on the rest of the soccer league. He dominated the league in scoring and
put everything he had into his play, but he also found himself picking up
more and more yellow cards for hard fouls and blowing his top at
officials and opponents.
 
Michael couldn't get back at Tara physically, but he started doing things
he knew at a subconscious level would bother her. He started to be more
flirtatious with the other girls in the league when they went out for
beers after the games. He spent less time chatting with Tara, and more
paying attention to some of the "pretty girls", as Tara called them, who
were classically prettier and more "girly" than her, but who lacked the
tomboyish, athletic allure that Tara projected so perfectly.
 
Their conversations became more strained, and they were making love less
often. It was, in some ways, only a matter of time before things came to
a head.
 
It happened after a dance party they were going to at a club rented out
by one of the soccer league teams for the night. Michael wasn't much for
dancing and didn't really feel like getting all clubbed-up for the night,
but Tara was raring to go, and could hardly wait, so Michael was
compelled to go along. That evening they were getting dressed at Tara's
apartment. Michael called from the living room "Are you ready yet? We're
gonna be late."
 
Tara said "yeah, yeah, hang on", and came out of the bedroom dressed as
Michael had never seen her before. She was wearing skin-tight red leather
pants that showed off her long, thin legs and hugged her ass; She had on
a thin, tight, long sleeved white T shirt that accentuated her large,
firm breasts, and she topped it off with her tight-fitting black leather
jacket that snugly rolled over her long arms. She was wearing her black,
silver buckled boots with the thick high heel that added nearly 3 inches
to her height and had her essentially as tall as Michael. She had taken
some extra time with her make-up, something she almost never bothered
with at all, and had covered up well some minor blemishes, boldly
highlighting her eyes with dark mascara, and her wild raven hair was
blown dry into a smooth, flowing, thick sheen of ebony that draped
provocatively over the shoulders of her dark leather jacket. Michael had
never seen her more beautiful or sexy, but he was still consumed by his
anger and resentment.
 
"A little much, don't you think?", was all he said.
"Fuck you", said Tara, "I look good", and Michael thought her heard her
voice crack with from the hurtful comment he had made. "I don;t care what
you say."
Michael said "Whatever", and they drove off to the party.
 
Tara spent almost no time with Michael at the party, making it a point to
thoroughly enjoy herself. She danced and revelled in the turned heads of
guys who normally saw her only in jock mode. Michael heard a lot from
guys who said "Tara looks smoking tonight!", and Michael had to agree. In
the tight leather outfit she wore, with her hair done, under the
lights dancing with the throbbing beat of the music, she looked smoking
hot indeed.
 
But she was also spending a lot of time flirting with one guy who had
always given her a lot of attention in the past. She used to complain
about his attentions to michael, saying "Doesn't Joe know you and I are a
couple?", and so Michael never gave it another thought. But tonight she
was laughing with him, leaning in to hear what he had to say over the
music. Joe was touching her wirst, and bought her a beer at least twice.
 
Michael watched and his anger grew. Finally, after being at the party for
several hours, tired, irritable, and very drunk, Michael approached Tara
while she talked with Joe.
 
"Let's go", he said, not even bothering to address Joe at all.
"What?", Tara said irritably, "Michael, I'm talking. Give me a minute."
Michael said, "Yeah, Tara, you've been talking all night. Now it's time
to go", and he grabbed her wrist.
Tara glanced down at Michael's hand around her wrist, then looked
directly into Michael's eyes. Without uttering a word, Michael knew what
that look meant. It read "Michael, unless you want to get smacked down by
your girlfriend in front of all these people, you'd better let go of my
wrist right now."
 
Michael let go. Tara immediately turned back to Joe, and said "Sorry,
Joe. What were you saying?"
 
Michael went to the bar and had yet another shot of vodka. He was about
at boiling point some twenty minutes later when Tara said, "OK, i'm ready
to go now."
 
They walked to the car in silence, except for Tara humming some of the
dance tunes. She was all smiles, and ignored Michael's angry glances.
Finally on the ride home Michael could no longer contain himself.
 
"What the fuck was that all about?", he said.
Tara rolled her eyes and sighed. "Michael, don't start. I'm sorry you had
a bad time, but it's your own damn fault."
"You know what i'm talking about. Were you trying to make me jealous,
talking to that asshole all night?"
"You're the asshole, Michael. Joe's a nice guy, and we were just talking.
At least he likes paying attention to me, and liked what I was wearing,
instead of criticizing, like you."
'You want to dress like a whore, Tara, that's your business."
"Fuck you", Michael.
"That's the second time you've said that to me tonight, Tara."
"Probably won't be the last."
 
They bickered and threw insults at each other the whole way back to
Tara's apartment. When they got to her door she said "I don't want you
staying here tonight. Just go home."
Michael said, "I'm too drunk to drive. At least let me call a cab from
your apartment".
Tara said fine and let him in.
 
Once inside Michael said "I want you to explain to me what you thought
you were doing tonight", but Tara said "I am so not in the mood to talk
about this."
Michael said "That's too bad, because we're going to", and Tara said "I
don't think so. You don't dictate what I do or don't do. You don't get to
say when i leave a party, what I wear...in fact, you get NO SAY in
anything about me, got it?"
 
Michael's anger, fuelled by the alcohol in his body, was growing stronger
by the moment. He talk a step towards Tara, and said "You better watch
your mouth, Tara."
Tara just put one hand on her red-leathered hip, and said "Or what,
Michael? What will you do if I don't watch my mouth?"
Michael was breathing hard, his mind churning, trying to beat back
thoughts of violence, and memories of his past humiliation at this girl's
hands.
 
They were standing inches from each other. With Tara's boots on she was
at exact eye level with Michael. She looked into Michael's eyes and then
a grin crossed her face. She said, "Oh, my God, Michael. You actually
want to fight me, don't you?"
 
She started to laugh, and turned her back to him, her long, wavy black
hair sweeping tauntingly across the shoulders of her black leather jacket
as she spun.
 
She was still smiling as she turned back around and said "You didn't want
to call a cab at all. You thought if you could get me in here, you could
try to beat me up! Oh, Michael, you are a sad, pathetic creature. What in
the world makes you think you would stand a chance against me in a fight?
Was it all those times I beat you at wrestling? Or the time I made you
submit and admit I was physically superior to you?"
 
Michael was turning red with rage as she spoke.
 
"Seriously, Michael", Tara said, as she pointed to the phone. "Call a cab
and go home. It'll spare you yet another humiliation, and you'll be glad
you walked away."
 
But alcohol and male pride are a mix that renders better judgment
useless. Michael spun Tara around and slapped her across the face.
 
Tara backed up, and her smile was gone. She glared hard at Michael and
said, "You forgot what I told you about slapping me, Michael. And now
you're going to regret it. You're just lucky you slapped me, and didn't
hit me with a fist. That's the only thing that's keeping me from using
mine."
 
And with that Tara moved in and faked a slap with her left hand,
following sharply up and under Michael's protecting arm, striking him
hard across the face. Michael was actually glad he was drunk, because it
dulled the sting. He figured if he was in this now, that drunken layer
would help him recover from her blows. But he also recalled something
Tara had said about growing up with her 3 brothers, and how she used to
beat the crap out of them on a regualr basis:
 
"...we wrestled, we had boxing matches..."
 
Boxing matches. The words were still echoing in Michael's head when
another hand flew across his face, then another. Tara was lightning fast.
Michael couldn't see where the blows were coming from until it was too
late. He was seeing only flashes of Tara's black leathered arms, and
her tiny, white open hands splashing across his cheeks in rapid
succession. Michaels' attempts were lumbering by comparison; his swings
were long and telegraphed, and Tara easily ducked under each of his
counter-attack strikes, emerging with stinging upper-cuts of her own that
landed each with more force than the one before it.
 
He heard Tara say "The only reason you're standing is because i'm
bitch-slapping you, Michael. If I was using my fists you'd be knocked
cold by now."
 
Michael's rage peaked. With the sting of her slaps muted somewhat by the
alcohol, he ignored the pain as she shot him another blow to the face,
and blindly grabbed for her shoulders. He got lucky and found them and
then with all the force he could muster grabbed tight and pushed her,
holding on until he drove her back against the wall. He heard Tara grunt
with what he hoped was some pain, then swung at her face with his left
hand. She was able to duck a little, but the blow still caught her pretty
sharply on the side of her head. She was on the defensive now, and
Michael went for broke. He swung his right, also dealing her a glancing
blow to the side of the head. He kept alternating these hits one after
the other on either side, trying to get to her face. But Tara had ducked
her head down and had both her arms up tightly against the sides of her
head. Mostly Michael was hitting the black leather arms of her jacket,
the resulting force knocking her a bit to the side but doing no real
damage.
 
But at least his onslaught was keeping her from landing any blows,
and Michael found that far preferable. Even though he knew he wasn't
landing many clean shots on her, he felt compelled to say "Who's laughing
now, Tara? Huh? You're not so tough now!" 
 
But his advantage would be short-lived. Michael remembered seeing a
documentary on the famous Ali-Foreman fight of 1975 in Zaire, in which
the much larger Foreman was defeated by Ali's "rope-a-dope" strategy, and
as his side blows started to become weaker in impact, and slower in
execution, as his breathing, already hampered by his drunken state,
became more labored, and his lungs ached for air, Michael had a sinking
feeling that he was about to face yet another hard truth about
challenging this 110-pound girl to a fight.
 
He launched another strike from his left side, but his arm was stopped in
mid swing by Tara's  leather-clad arm. With his left front exposed, Tara
shot out a straight-arm with her right that pounded Michael's left breast
and sent him staggering backward.
 
Tara was back on the offensive, slicing short slap-jabs into Michael's
face, then landing an open palm squarely over Michael's right ear, a blow
that made him shreik with pain, as he doubled over and shuffled back to
get clear of her attack. Michael was winded, but like in their wrestling
matches, Tara was still completely energized. She allowed Michael to
recover from the blow to his ear, and instead taunted him with fakes to
his head that had him cowering, putting up a protective arm for a blow
that didn't come.
 
Her smile had returned, and she was laughing at Michael's fear. Then she
said, "You know, there's something i always wanted to try when we
wrestled, but I was always worried it would hurt you too much if I could
pull it off. But I told you never to hit me again, Michael, and you did,
so I couldn't care less how much this hurts you now."
 
Tara moved in quickly and grabbed Michael's left arm, up under the
shoulder. She twisted her hips and bent her back low, keeping hold of
Michael's left arm. In one swift, sure motion, she began to flip Michael
up and over her back. He felt his entire 170-pound frame glide
effortlessly over the smooth black leather of Tara's jacket, and then he
found himself looking up and seeing the ceiling a moment before he felt
his back smack hard onto Tara's carpeted floor.
 
Michael groaned. He looked up and saw Tara standing above him, both hands
on the hips of her leather pants. "Wow", she said. "I've never taken a 
judo class, but I'd say that was about as perfect a shoulder throw as
anyone could execute. Wouldn't you, Michael?"
 
Tara left Michael on the floor, his chest heaving for air. She inspected
herself in the mirror, checking her face for any damage. "Lucky for you
i'm unscathed, Michael", she said. "I'm not really surprised, though. I'd
say you fight like a girl except that I know a LOT of girls who fight
better than you."
 
At that insult Michael couldn't stop himself. Even as the words left his
mouth he knew he'd pay for them. The C word flew and Tara spun around as
Michael slowly got to his feet.
 
"Oh, you did NOT just call me that", she said. Tara removed her leather
jacket. She walked to the closet and hung it up. She rolled up the
sleeves of her T-shirt and said "OK, Michael, for calling me
that word--now you get the fists."
 
Michael looked across the living room floor to the door of the apartment
and tried to calculate if he could make a run for it. Tara saw him look
there, saw the panic in his eyes, and knew what he was thinking. "Don't
bother, Michael. You won't make it."
 
She steppeed between Michael and the doorway and raised her fists, moving
towards him, rotating her hands slowly like a seasoned fighter.
 
Michael was just putting up his hands as he felt Tara's first jab strike
his nose. He felt a hot liquid from the blood that gushed forth, then
recoiled again as a second fist landed just below his left eye, knocking
him backwards.
 
He heard Tara say "This is going to end badly for you, Michael", and she
reared back her fist again. Michael ducked his head and put two arms up
defensively. But Tara had another harsh surprise in store for him.
Instead of taking another swing, she hopped back on one foot, and drew
her right leg back towards her stomach. Then she released it, sending a
devastating side kick towards Michael's unprotected mid-section.
 
It all unfolded in front of Michael like a slow-motion scene from a
movie. He tried to bring his arms down in time, but could see he wasn't
going to make it. Tara's red-leather-clad leg shot towards him, and he
watched helplessly as her thick black boot pounded into his stomach.
 
All the air went out of Michael in one fell swoop and he was driven
backwards, backpedalling until he felt his back slam into the far wall.
His legs gave out from under him, and he crumpled to the floor, wheezing
for air. All he could do was curl up in a fetal position and hope Tara
would have mercy on him. His lungs begged for air. Spots ran across his
vision, and when he finally felt some air return he gulped at it
spasmodically, spitting back the blood from his nose that was dripping
into his mouth, and tasting the salt from the tears that were flowing
involuntarily from the corners of his eyes.
 
When Michael's vision finally cleared, he allowed himself to look up, not
daring to say a word for fear of angering Tara further. Tara ordered him
to roll over on his back. "I don't want you getting blood on my carpet",
she said. Michael did as he was told. He watched as Tara removed her
T-shirt, revealing a sexy black bra underneath. Michaels' eyes ran down
from her prodigious breasts to her impossibly lean torso, her perfectly
flat stomach.
 
With her soft black hair rolling down over her now bare white shoulders,
her long, thin arms at her sides, and her skin-hugging red leather pants
showing off her long, elegant legs, Tara was the very personification of
a hot, sexy--and yes, athletic woman.
 
 "This was for you, Michael", she said softly. "I picked this outfit
specifically for you, to try and make you realize how good you had it.
But you rejected me. You couldn't see past your stupid, male pride. You
called me a whore, you made me feel secondary to the girly little bitches
you flaunted in front of. Why, Michael? Because I was a better wrestler
than you? Because you couldn't deal with a slender girl who grew up
learning how to fight and protect herself besting you in a contest? Yes,
Michael, I'm 110 pounds. I'm a woman. I defeated  you in hand to hand
combat on numerous occassions. If you had only been able to accept that
for what it is--just an uncomfortable reality, you would have been
rewarded in ways that would have been well worth the damage to your ego.
But you have had enough chances, Michael, and I'm through with you now."
 
Tara walked over to her closet and reached into the pocket of her black
leather jacket. She pulled out a piece of paper. "Joe gave me his
number", she said. "I was going to toss it, but I think I'll give him a
call tomorrow, see what he's up to. Now it's time for you to leave."
 
Michael tried to say he was sorry, but was still out of breath, and
nothing came out. He felt an ache throughout his body when he tried to
move. Tara moved toward him and repeated that it was time for him to
leave, and fearing another attack Michael scrambled to his feet, groaning
with pain as he did.
 
He found himself looking into the mirror across the room. What he saw
made him want to crawl into a hole. There was a bloody mess under his
nose, and his left eye was beginning to swell up with what would surely
become a classic black eye, even if he started icing it right away.
Michael couldn't stand up straight from the pounding his back had taken
slamming into the wall after Tara's kick, and from her over-the-back judo
flip. He was  thoroughly beaten, and it showed in every facet of his face
and body.
 
Tara was on the phone calling for a cab as Michael shuffled toward the
door. "15 minutes", she said after hanging up. "You can wait outside."
 
Michael finally recovered his voice enough to say "Please, can I have
some ice?"
 
Tara walked to the freezer and grabbed a handful of ice from a tray,
wrapping it in some paper towels, and handed the bundle to Michael,
perhaps her final act of mercy to him.
 
"Good luck explaining that", she said, pointing to his rapidly swelling
eye.
 
Michael turned and looked at Tara, hands on the hips of her skin tight
pants, her head held high and back in a pose of defiance and triumph.
Still standing in her boots, and with Michael hunched over from his
beating, she was quite a bit taller than him He realized this was how he
would be seeing her, in all likelihood, for the final time. He walked out
into the cold dark night and slumped to the curb, waiting for his cab.
 
--------------------------------------------- EPILOGUE
---------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Michael twisted his napkin nervously, refusing a third cup of coffee from
the waitress. He checked his watch again. Was she going to stand him up?
It had taken all his courage just to ask her to meet him, and he was
shocked when she agreed, but maybe she was having second thoughts.
 
Finally, the door to the cafe opened and Tara came in. Her hair was cut
into a smart, shorter style, and her wild tangles were gone. Otherwise
she looked much the same as she had two years ago. Still lithe, fit, and
tall in a pair of brown high-heeled boots. Of course she looked good.
 
"Sorry I'm late", she said. "Traffic." 
 
"No problem", said Michael, "Thanks for coming. You look good, Tara."
 
"So do you, Michael." She sounded like she meant it.
 
They caught up quickly. They hadn't spoken since the night of the fight
two years ago, but Michael had to thank her for a final act of kindness
beyond the ice pack she gave him for his face. Unable to face his friends
or peers at work, he had told everyone he had been in a car accident,
slamming his face against the dashboard. He missed a week of work, and
when he returned, his eye was in its last stages of discolored
black-blue-yellowishness, and the cut under his nose had healed. He never
did return to the soccer league, unable to face seeing Tara each week,
knowing what she did to him.
 
But even though rumors abounded that Tara had beaten him senseless, she
denied them all, laughing and telling people "I would LIKE to have beaten
Michael up, but no, I didn't." She had started dating Joe, and they were
still a steady item. Michael said he was happy for her.
 
"What about you, Michael? You dropped off the face of the Earth."
 
Michael told Tara everything. How for a year he withdrew from everyone
and everything. He dated no one, dropped many of his friends after their
repeated efforts to find out what was wrong were rebuffed. He worked,
came home, ate and slept. He gained weight, and was depressed nearly all
the time. Michael knew it was all his own fault, and realized much of it
was not feeling sorry for himself, but guilt at how he treated Tara, and
he told her so. She thanked him for it, and said "But what happened? You
look fine now."
 
"I am fine now, Tara", he said. In his second year of isolation, Michael
finally had enough, and tried to regain his confidence with new
activities. He started by taking a meditation and Tai Chi class at a
nearby martial arts center. He found it calmed his nerves and he started
getting back into shape. He also met a woman there, a karate instructor,
and they started dating, now going on a year.
 
Tara had to laugh. "You're kidding", she said.
 
"No", Michael chuckled, "I'm not. She's a 4th degree Dan Black Belt. Just
a tiny girl, but deadly."
 
"And you can deal with that?"
 
"You know what the funny thing is, Tara? She says one of the reasons she
likes me so much is that i'm one of the few guys she's ever met who's not
intimidated by her skills, and accepts her as a martial arts expert AND a
woman. And in its own twisted way, Tara, i owe that to you. I'm so sorry
for the way I acted. I really am."
 
Tara looked touched and said "Thank you, Michael. I'm sorry you couldn't
see the light then, but maybe it all worked out for the best."
 
"Maybe", said Michael. "I'd like to think so."
 
They chatted for a few more minutes and then Tara said she had to go.
 
"You know, Tara", Michael said as they were getting ready to leave,
"Karen's taught me quite a few karate moves. I could probably kick your
ass now."
 
Tara smiled. "No, Michael", she said calmly, "You couldn't."
 
Michael smiled as well and said "I know", and shook her hand.
 
Author's note: The Tara Trilogy is a true story. Only the names have been
changed. Any questions or comments can be emailed to the author at
kraxxll@yahoo.com