Tara vs. Michael: Q&A and The Marathon Match 
by Raxx.
 

Author's preface: After recently posting "Outtakes From the Tara Trilogy"
and "Tara vs. Michael: The emails", a number of readers contacted me with
questions about my relationship with Tara. Most had gone on to read the
original Tara Trilogy ("I Can Take You", "The Mat", and "The Fight"),
which you can find on this site under a search in Miscellaneous stories,
and tells the full tale of my wrestling rivalry with Tara. Because the
Trilogy is a true story--along with the outtakes and real emails I
submitted, a lot of folks seemed eager to learn more about this
remarkable woman and why I chose the path detailed in the Trilogy. So
I've collected your questions here and am providing my candid, honest
answers. I've also included one final story that I haven't posted before,
which I probably should have included in "The Outtakes", but I'm glad
that a reader's question brought it to mind to be told here.
 
As always, I welcome any further questions or comments. Write to me at:
kraxxll@yahoo.com
 
Thanks for all the thoughtful questions that have come my way so far:
 
Q: Why did you keep wrestling Tara after she made it clear she could beat
you?
A: Beating her became an obsession. The more she defeated me, the more I
wanted revenge. No matter how one-sided the contests became, I kept
thinking maybe the next time would be the time I would finally win.
 
Q: Weren't you worried she would tell your friends you were getting
out-wrestled by a girl?
A: Absolutely. But we established early on a promise that we would never
discuss our matches with anyone else, and I knew Tara would be true to
her word. She was a very trustworthy person.
 
Q: Were you really that much bigger than her?
A: You decide: Tara was 5'6" and 110 pounds. I was 5'10" and about 160.
To me, losing to a woman of those proportions was inexcusable.
 
Q: Where did Tara get her fighting skills? Did she know martial arts?
A: Tara grew up with 3 brothers, and they fought all the time as equals.
She told me she consistently beat them all at wrestling, boxing, even
all-out brawls and fist-fights. She wasn't even the oldest--she was
second youngest. I found this hard to believe but one time I met one of
her older brothers and jokingly asked him if Tara was a tough little
sister. He told me in all seriousness that she was easily the toughest of
all the siblings and won almost every fight. He said even if she lost,
she never gave up and made sure she at least inflicted some pain before
the fight ended.
Tara did take some introductory Aikido classes at a local community
college around the time we started wrestling, but as she pointed out to
me, she only took 6 classes and never even did any sparring, meaning she
never even practiced any of the throws. She only learned the basics and
principles of the circular-based moves designed to help a smaller
opponent beat a larger one, but I am convinced she applied these lessons
in our matches. It explains her ability to lift me off my feet with wrist
throws and her wily escapes when I thought I had her trapped or tied up.
But she never earned even a beginner's belt level in Aikido, and her leg
sweeps and other take-downs were of her own doing. Her amazing stamina
and conditioning was also all her--she grew up playing sports and was
always physically fit. Her single greatest advantage in our matches is
that she never, ever got tired.
 
Q: Did she taunt you after kicking your ass, or during the matches?
A: Yes. At first, she didn't...she said nothing, at most smiling a little
after winning...but later she began verbally insulting me in an effort
(she admitted to me much later) to try and get me to stop challenging
her. She figured if losing to her wasn't enough incentive to get me to
stop, maybe making me feel like a wimp would. Unfortunately, my obsession
with beating her blinded me to even these assaults on my manhood. Some of
the crueller things she said to me included:
"I'd say you fight like a girl, Michael, but I know plenty of girls who
fight better than you."
"What's the matter, Michael--can't you even beat a girl?"
(After throwing me twice in succession to start a match): "This is going
to be a cakewalk."
"Are you going to cry, Michael? Because if you cry, you can leave--it's a
real turn-off."
"Who's the weaker sex now, Michael?"
"How's that bruised male ego doing?"
All of this was bad, but the very worst thing she ever said to me wasn't
meant as an insult at all. Once, after throwing me with an especially
hard leg sweep, I landed with a hard thud on the floor, and Tara gasped,
putting a hand to her mouth and said  "Oh my God, Michael--are you OK?" I
was hurt, but I was more angry and I snapped back "I'm fine--shut up.",
and she just looked at me and said "I think we should stop--I don't want
to hurt you." Her pity was far more hurtful to me than her insults.
 
Q: How come you weren't turned on by her fighting skills?
A: I was, and the after-wrestling sex was amazing. But inevitably, I
would think back on the match, remember how hard I tried to beat her, how
I had lost--again--and the anger would overcome me. My ego wouldn't let
me accept losing to a 110-pound girl.
 
Q: Why didn't you take some martial arts classes, or hit the gym and work
out to get stronger and beat her?
A: I didn't want to take any martial arts classes because I was convinced
I could--and should--be able to beat her without any extra help. And
despite what it seems like from reading the Trilogy and the additions
I've made, I am not a wimpy guy--nor was I then. I've always been an
above-average athlete, and as I described in the Trilogy, I excelled in
the soccer league Tara and I both played in. I was no linebacker, but no
pencil-necked geek either. As for working out more, I already had a
strength advantage--I was stronger than Tara by a wide margin, but she
negated my strength by either tiring me out or using well-timed subtle
moves to take me down that my greater strength could not counter. She was
faster and quicker than me as well, something I still hate to admit. She
was smarter, faster, and generally a better fighter. Had we been arm
wrestling, I would have won every time, but getting bigger at the gym
only would have made me slower than I already was for our wrestling
contests.
 
Q: How many times did you and Tara wrestle?
A: I lost track, but it's safe to say that over an 8-month period we
wrestled dozens of times. If I had to put a number to it I'd say we had
at least 50 matches.
 
Q: You never beat her? Not even once?
A: I did beat her exactly one time. (For the full story, see The Tara
Trilogy, Part 2: "The Mat.") The victory was not worth it, though it felt
amazing at the moment it happened. It led to the end of our matches,
though, and ultimately, to a fight that left me bloodied and beaten. (See
Part 3 of the Trilogy: "The Fight.")
 
Q: Dude, I would be psyched to have a girfriend willing to wrestle me,
and would be even more psyched if she could beat me. Why did you ruin a
good thing?
A: A fair question, but it was more complicated than it seems. First,
Tara didn't really enjoy wrestling me beyond those first few matches. She
thought it would be fun, but she also thought that I would take losing in
stride and would stop challenging her when it became clear I couldn't
beat her. The only reason she kept agreeing to wrestle me is because she
was proud of her skills and never refused a challenge. (See "Tara vs.
Michael: The emails") Her attitude was 'if you're dumb enough to keep
taking me on, I'll keep kicking your ass." But she didn't really enjoy it
(b/c of my bad attitude) and it started to put a strain on our
relationship. Also, the fact is Tara and me never were the right fit as a
couple. Our relationship had problems that went well beyond wrestling. We
argued too much, there were too many things about her that annoyed me
(and I'm sure the reverse is true as well), and I always wanted her more
when we were broken up (we had one of those on and off
relationships--always a bad sign) than when we were together. Our
relationship was not going to last even if we'd never had a single
wrestling match. And strange as it sounds, even if I had no problem with
her beating me, just having a girlfriend willing to wrestle isn't enough
to sustain a full and healthy relationship. In the end, of course, it was
she who ended things (after first beating me senseless--again, see Part 3
of the Trilogy for the full details.)
 
Q: Do you still keep in touch with Tara?
A: No, we went our separate ways, although we did reconcile things (see
the Epilogue of the Trilogy, Part 3), and I'm grateful for that. I
haven't seen Tara in years, and I don't know what she's up to these days.
 
Q: Tara sounds like a hottie. Do you have a picture of her?
A: No, I forced myself to get rid of any images I had of Tara. I had a
very hard time--lasting a full year--after she beat me up, and was
obsessed with her image. It was keeping me an emotional cripple, so I
destroyed any pictures I had of her to help me move on with my life. And
to be honest, I wouldn't share them with strangers even if I did have
them. I think that would be a very dishonorable thing to do. I've tried
hard to describe Tara in my stories. I know written descriptions aren't
as satisfying as pictures but all I can tell you is that Tara had a
smoking hot body: thin, tall and lanky, and she had large, firm breasts,
and long, lean legs. She had long, wild, wavy black hair, but she was no
beauty queen. She was not ugly, either...more of just a "girl next door
type"...she had a face that wouldn't stand out in a crowd but was sort of
country-girl cute. She didn't have the clearest skin or big blue eyes or
anything like that, but what made her sexy was her raw athleticism and
tomboy appeal (if you like that sort of thing.)
 
Q: What's the most intense match you ever had with Tara?
A: Well, for sheer intensity, nothing comes close to "The Fight" (Part 3
of the Trilogy.) But there is one wrestling match that does stand out in
my mind--one that I've yet to describe in full detail in any of the
stories on this site. I'll recount in now, and it stands as the
earliest moment when I realized beyond any shadow of a doubt that
Tara--despite her size, despite the fact that she was a woman--was always
going to be able to physically dominate me in hand to hand combat. It's
the match that should have convinced me to give up trying to beat her,
but I didn't, and I ultimately paid a terrible price for my ignorance. 
 
Tara vs. Michael: THE MARATHON MATCH:
 
It started as an innocent night out with another couple that played with
us in our co-ed soccer league. We were out to dinner and were discussing
a recent--and rare--loss to a team that we usually dominated. We had all
been frustrated with the loss and were trying to figure out what went
wrong. I didn't have one of my best games and knew it, but I didn't take
criticism of my play well, especially when it came from Tara. I was
easily the best forward on our team...I scored most of our goals and it
was not uncommon for me to have 3 or 4 in one game, but this night I was
kept off the scoreboard. Tara did score a goal, something she rarely did
because she primarily played defense, and had probably been our best
player that night. I said something to the effect that we took the other
team too lightly because we had beaten them so many times before. Tara
then spoke up.
 
"Well, that and...I mean, don't take this the wrong way..."
"What?"
"I think you were running on empty that game...you were really tired even
by the start of the second half and our offense kind of suffered for it."
"Excuse me?"
"No, no...see, I knew you were going to get mad...I just mean that we
depend so much on your goal-scoring that when you have an off game it's
hard for the rest of us to make up the difference..."
"What makes you say I had an off game? I was up and down the pitch as
much as anyone..."
 
Our friend Marcy could sense the tension and tried to ease the situation:
"Look, it's one time they beat us. We'll probably beat them by 5 goals
next time."
But I was already ticked off and wouldn't let it go.
"I don't know, Marcy...I mean, if I have an "off" game again we'll have
to depend on Tara to get it done...becaue, you know, Tara NEVER has an
off-game herself."
"Alright, Michael", Tara said, "Just forget it, alright?"
"No, really...I want to know what made it an "off" game because I want to
make sure it doesn't happen again...so tell me, what did I do wrong?"
"You didn't DO anything wrong...you just..."
"I just what?"
"Look, Michael, sometimes you get tired out, OK? You're a great player,
we all know that, but maybe your conditioning isn't exactly the strongest
part of your game."
In and of itself I probably would have been fine with the comment, but of
course I was thinking about our wrestling matches, and felt Tara was
taking a dig at me that our friends wouldn't pick up on, but that she
knew would have a subtextual meaning. I stared at her, shooting daggers,
and the tension was palpable at the table. My friend Jake practically
jumped out of his seat to say "I'll get us another round--that waitress
has been gone forever!", and Marcy looked like she wished she could go
with him. Tara returned my stare but said nothing.
 
The evening didn't last much longer. Jake and Marcy made an excuse to
leave early. Tara and I barely spoke on the ride home, but we were both
privately fuming--me for her criticism of my physical shortcoming, and
her because I ruined an evening out with friends. We were almost at her
apartment when Tara said:
 
"So, I'm guessing you'll want to wrestle tonight."
I didn't even look at her, but she had read my mind.
"Yeah, Tara. I do want to wrestle."
"Good", she said, "So do I."
 
We got inside her apartment and I immediately started to move furniture
aside. Tara had a very large living room area and once a coffee table and
a couple of chairs were out of the way there was plenty of room on the
rug for combat. And that's what I wanted. I was simmering with resentment
and decided I didn't want to just win--I wanted to do so while proving
false Tara's commentary on my lack of stamina. So for this match, I
decided to change the rules. As I've mentioned before, our matches had
been decided by a best-of-7 based on throws: whoever threw the other to
the floor 4 times first was the winner. On this night I suggested we
wrestle until one of us couldn't continue anymore, and gave up. The
number of throws wouldn't matter.
 
Tara rolled her eyes and said, "You really want to do that, Michael? You
do realize that part of the reason I keep beating you is because I wear
you down, don't you?"
"That's what you say, Tara. That's what you said tonight at dinner. I'm
going to prove you wrong."
 
Tara started to get undressed. She took off her black jeans and sweater
and boots and just for a moment I became distracted by the sexy black bra
hugging her large breasts, her lean torso and flat stomach, long lean
legs, and the silky black bikini underwear she wore whenever we wrestled.
But as Tara began removing her jewelry and earrings she started talking,
and what she said made the anger rise up in me all over again.
 
"You know, Michael, this isn't really about you being upset that I
questioned your conditioning in front of our friends tonight. It's about
your anger that a woman might be able to beat you at
something--anything. I scored a goal the other night and you didn't. That
bothers you as much as losing the game to that team and you know it, even
if you won't admit it. When I beat you at wrestling--like I'm about to do
again--what really freaks you out is that it's a female you're losing to.
You never say sexist things, you're politcially correct about this stuff
to the outside world, but privately, in your mind, you think women are
supposed to be weak...and having one kick your ass is your worst
nightmare."
 
With that, she slipped on her sleeveless white T-shirt and began
gathering up her long wild hair into a ponytail, turning her back to me.
I was livid, but couldn't find the words to express my anger. Instead, I
took off my clothes and slipped into the shorts I kept at her apartment
for wrestling. I was at boiling point, and ready to go all night if
that's what it took. She would not wear me down this evening. I would
wear HER down, and give her the battle of the sexes she thought I wanted.
Maybe I did. But whatever the cause of my anger, I was determined to
emerge the winner.
 
Tara turned back to face me, and dipped into her fighting stance-- knees
slightly bent, her long arms extended forward, hands spread evenly apart
at about shoulder height. She stared directly into my eyes, daring me to
make the first move.
 
When this match took place we were at about a quarter of the way into
our wrestling rivalry. Tara had already beaten me about 9 or ten times,
which is a lot, but given the ultimate total, it was still relatively
early on. I still was making excuses for each loss and I believed them.
And this night in particular I was more angry and resolved to defeat her
than ever before. I felt strong and confident, fueled by my bitterness
and what I perceived as Tara's inexcusable veiled reference to our
wrestling outcomes in front of our friends.
 
I moved in quickly and got my arms solidly around Tara's shoulders. She
went for a leg sweep behind my knee but was a second or two late. I threw
her down across my body as hard as I could and she landed pretty roughly
on her side. Had this been only a week or so earlier I may have had some
concern that I had been too rough, but my resentment this evening
overrode those kinds of thoughts. I wanted to not only beat Tara, but
to punish her--teach her a lesson. That's why, as she started to get to
her feet, I moved over and placed my foot on her back and shoved her
roughly back down to the floor.  It was a dick move to be sure.
Completely un-sportsmanlike and un-called for. I didn't care. I sneered
at her and said "Get used to hitting the floor tonight, Tara."
 
Tara stayed silent as she got to her feet, but her eyes darkened and I
could tell I had pissed her off with that sneak attack. She flew hard at
me, and this time was able to secure one of her long legs around the back
of my knee and was pulling back hard to take out my leg. She almost had
me, but I was just able to lock down my own leg and fight her off to a
stalemate. We were in a tight clinch, legs pulling against each other,
arms shoving each other's shoulders, and finally my upper body strength
won out. As Tara's upper body dipped backwards, her leg lock gave way,
and I followed through for a strong takedown that put her on her back. I
could hardly contain my glee. Revenge would be mine this night; I could
taste it. I was feeling so confident I went for another foot shove on her
back as she tried to get back to her feet, but this time she saw it
coming, and deftly rolled her body a few feet away and sprang to her feet
before I could get within range to shove her down.
 
If Tara was at all worried about my early take-downs, she didn't show it.
She was back in her fighting stance and staring me down as she did at the
very start. I again made the first move, going for her shoulders, but
rather than try to counter with a leg sweep, Tara instead dodged to the
side and dipped underneath my arms, moving quickly behind me. I spun
around and grabbed her wrists and started to move her arms downward. Tara
set her feet and quickly shot out her wrists in a sharp down-and-out
motion, breaking my grip. (I am certain this was something she learned to
do in those introductory Aikido classes). The violent release put me off
balance for a moment, but that was all Tara needed. In less than a second
she had whipped her leg behind my knee and pulled it back along with a
hard shove on my shoulder...a classic Tara leg-sweep...and I landed hard
on my back. I should have expected what happened next. As I started to my
feet, Tara moved in and placed her foot solidly on my chest, shoving me
hard back down to the floor. "We're even on that account now, Michael",
she said.
 
When I got back to my feet I was even more angry than when the match
began. I felt my heart beat racing and a kind of searing feeling made my
skin go all hot. Tara had a similar look. We were both still seething
about the night's events and were ready to take it out on each other
physically. The match was about to go nuclear. I glanced at the clock
radio near her bedside and saw that it was 10:45pm. We had already been
wrestling for about 20 minutes, and the match was nowhere near being
over. At the time, though, I wasn't concerned about running out of steam.
My adrenaline was pumping, and all I wanted was to take Tara down.
 
From this point on, the match see-sawed back and forth. We traded throws,
got caught in tight clinches that most often ended with us shoving each
other away when neither could get a take-down. Tara had lost none of her
quickness and was using her speed to duck away from my attacks, making me
chase her. I didn't care. I was still angry, still driven by a combined
rush of emotion and adrenaline, and didn't feel the fatigue that was
slowly creeping into my body until it was far too late.
 
After another clinch that ended in stalemate, Tara pushed away from me
and I saw the clock again. It read 11:45pm. We had been wrestling for
almost an hour and a half. It was also at that precise moment that I
noticed the sound of my own breathing--heavy, rasping, labored. Sweat was
massing and dripping from my forehead. Tara had a smile on her face.
 
"You're getting tired, Michael," she said. "You look beat."
 
Tara did not look beat. Her breathing was even, calm, measured. She was
sweating far less than I was. Her smile drove me into a frenzy. I was not
going to let her remark about my conditioning be proven true. I decided
to go at her with whatever I had left in an effort to throw her so hard
she would be forced to concede the match. In a mad rush I grabbed for her
shoulders. I missed her right as she ducked away but caught her left
enough to spin her half-way around. With all the speed and strength left
in me I kept turning her until I had her wrapped up from behind in a bear
hug. I clasped my left wrist with my right hand as hard as I could to
make my hold un-breakable around her stomach. She grunted a little in
what I hoped was pain and I started to move her from side to side. I was
building up momentum for a throw that would end the match once and for
all. Finally, I felt I had the motion I needed and I mustered every ounce
of energy left in my body to lift her from her feet. I had her well off
the ground, in my grasp, and I started to throw her off to my left. She
was in mid-air, helpless, and when she hit the flor from that height and
with this much force she would never be able to continue. I had her.
 
Except that I didn't.
 
As I went to complete the throw, Tara got her left leg down and set it. I
tried to break her stand, but she had her leg firmly planted on the
floor. The other was still in the air, but only for a moment. Losing the
force of my throw as she stopped it with her leg, the other one now
dropped down as well, and I was back where I started, with Tara in a bear
hug...but with one terrible difference: My vice grip on her was now no
more than a feeble ring of my weakened hands around her mid-section. I
was drained of all energy and strength, and my entire body was shaking
with fatigue. I watched helplessly as Tara reached her hand down to the
top of my right hand and easily removed it from its clasp of my left
wrist. She now had my wrist in her control, and brought her other hand
into play to get her own vice grip on my right wrist. She freed herself
from the bear hug and raised my right hand high into the air, gripped in
both of hers, and set her feet. We both knew what was coming. With my
hand high in the air I was brought to my tip-toes to keep from falling. I
had no balance whatsoever, and no strength to keep her next move from
happening.
 
Tara knew she had the upper-hand (literally), and took another moment to
get a tighter grip on my wrist. I watched as she loosened the fingers of
her left hand and then re-affixed them one by one to complete the grip
she wanted. I heard her breathe slowly in two successive "huffs"...huff,
huff, and then she twisted her entire body under my raised arm, keeping
tight hold, then exhaled hard, letting the fury of the moment resound as
she yelled out "HHHHAAAAAAAA!", bringing my encaptured arm down in a
furious motion to almost my knee level, then back up again. The upturn
motion lifted me right off my feet...my entire body floated in space for
what seemed like an eternity. I closed my eyes just as I felt the moment
of impact when my back hit the floor. Pain was not the first thing I
felt. Instead, it was a sense of panic, because I had no air left to
breathe. All the wind was completely knocked out of me, and as I opened
my eyes all I could do was gasp for air in a silent gulping spasm. For a
terrible second no air came, and then a rush of breath entered me and I
convulsed my chest over and over from my spot on the floor, coughing and
gasping for as much air to enter my lungs as I could gather. I was
spread-eagled on my back on the floor, gaping like a fish on a boat at
the ceiling above. Colored spots danced in front of my eyes. I can
remember catching a brief glance at Tara from ground level as she calmly
walked away and let me continue my grotesque chest-heaving.
 
Minutes later I was still on the floor, breathing heavily, unable to get
up. Tara stood above me, and then placed one foot on my chest. She
pressed down lightly, but in my present condition it was enough to remove
all air once again. I didn't even have the strength to raise my hand to
where her foot was to try and move it...I tried, and got only as far as
my rib cage. I gagged as Tara said "Do you give up?" I couldn't answer
her, so she removed her foot. "No more", I was able to whisper.
 
"No", she said, "Do you give up? I want to hear you say you give up."
"I give up", I said with effort.
 
Tara then got down and straddled my chest. She had me pinned without even
having to hold down my arms, which lay helplessly at my side. I was still
gasping for air as Tara started to undo her ponytail.
 
"Poor Michael", she said in a voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Beaten
again by a woman. I can't imagine how weak that makes you feel."
 
Tara now had her hair loose, tangled in great dark waves falling below
her shoulders. She leaned forward til her head was over mine and let the
ends of her hair fall onto my face. With my mouth still open trying to
get air, some of the strands fell in and I started to choke on them. Then
she brought her head back and began to shake it back and forth so that
her long hair was literally whipping the sides of my face, over and over.
I could do nothing to stop the humiliation. Finally, Tara reared back her
head, letting the hair fall back on her shoulders. She gave a smug smile,
then took off her sleeveless T and started to un-do her bra.
 
"Look, Michael", she said softly, "You can learn from this, or you can
fight it...it's up to you. I was so angry with you for acting like a
spoiled child at dinner tonight"...and now she started rubbing against my
groin, the silk of her black bikini bottom creating a stiring beneath my
shorts..."that if we hadn't wrestled, and I didn't get the opportunity to
kick your ass, I wouldn't be doing this right now. I had to teach you a
lesson...you need to accept that you're not always going to be the
fastest or the strongest...and that sometimes...."
 
She removed my shorts, and took off her underwear. I was at once relieved
and amazed that I was able to rise to the occassion, given my beaten
condition. I entered her and emitted a soft groan of pleasure as she
completed her thought...."you even have to accept losing to a girl."
 
And for at least at the rest of that night, I did.
 
(Let me know your thoughts. Comments or questions welcomed:
kraxxll@yahoo.com)