Tomboy, Part Four - The Early Years cont.
by brooksie brooksie@pacificcoast.net
At age 11, she's taking on high school boys and winning


Author's Note: This is another look into the tomboy's pre-high school years,
this time from her mother's perspective. Again, these stories have not been
written in chronological order. To read them that way, they would go - Part 3,
4, 1 & 2. I originally planned on writing just one story, but many readers
wrote asking for more.

Driving home from my meeting with the school principal, my thoughts drifted
back to a day a couple of years ago, when my husband discovered what our then
9-year-old daughter was capable of. We'd been discussing his relationship with
her and I'd upset him, or at least provided serious food for thought by
suggesting his was a fairly superficial one and he should spend some time
really getting to know her. She was developing into a most unusual and
incredible girl, gifted both physically and mentally, but with a very focused
and specific interest. She was fascinated by physical combat. I hadn't quite
figured out how to make my husband aware of it. As so often happens,
circumstances beat me to the punch, so to speak, and he found out on his own.
After our talk, he decided to take the dog out for a walk and had encountered
(unbeknownst to her) our daughter and a group of her friends in the park.
Discreetly observing from some distance away, he witnessed her defeat a much
older, taller boy in armwrestling, wrestling and then watched her deck him
with her fists when he tried to throw a sucker punch at her. The fight ended
with him on his back, pleading with her not to hit him again. She obliged, but
only after he apologized verbally and then further demonstrated his contrition
by kissing her feet. My husband had come into the kitchen, sat down heavily
and stared at the wall. Almost as if in a daze, he said "you won't believe
what I just saw."

It was a memorable day for me. I'd been keeping a little secret from him and
this incident forced it out into the open. It was nothing bad, like an affair
or squandering our savings account. I'd begun taking some boxercise classes at
the gym but had soon become interested in going further than throwing a few
air-punches. Without telling my husband, I started going to another gym and
training in real boxing. As things progressed and I began to spar, there were
a couple of times when I had a little difficulty explaining some of the marks
on my face. But whatever I had come up with must have satisfied him because he
had no clue whatsoever. After the incident in the park, he was mustefied by
one thing in particular. Our daughter was a gifted athlete who excelled in
gymnastics, swimming, soccer and track. She was naturally muscular, with thick
limbs, broad shoulders and noticeable definition, even as a young child.
Athletics and age brought it out even more so. In every situation, she was
more physically capable than most other kids, of either sex. She was also a
little toughie. Her older sister had learned from around the time she was 9,
that her six-year-old sibling was not worth messing around with. There were
many occasions when the girls would be causing a ruckus and I would find my
younger daughter with her older sister helplessly pinned to the floor. My
husband knew she like to wrestle around with other kids and always seemed to
prevail. He wasn't surprised that she had put the older boy's arm down in
armwrestling either, but the thing that he couldn't fathom was how she had
learned to box. He described her stance, turned to the side, leading with her
shoulder and the professional way she had held her fists, using a jab to
penetrate the boy's defenses and then dropping him with a couple of powerful
punches that had all of her weight behind them. "Where did she learn to do
that?" he wanted to know, and I had to come clean. I told him about the boxing
and confessed to having shown her how to stand, hold her fists and throw a
proper punch. I'll never forget the look on his poor, confused face.

"Why didn't you tell me you were taking boxing lessons?" he asked.

A fair question, I thought. I took a minute to consider my answer. We were not
given to keeping secrets from one another and I wanted to explain myself
properly. I told him that, as much as I loved him, I thought every
relationship needed a little mystery. I wanted to maintain something about
myself that was mine alone. It wasn't that I wanted to hide things from him,
it just excited me to have this little secret. I'm not sure he completely
understood my explanation but he accepted it. Our talk then turned back to our
daughter.

"Do you think it was a good idea to show her how to box? I'm not too thrilled
about the idea of her going around getting into fights with boys."

I reassured him that I'd gone to great pains to explain to her I wasn't
showing her these skills to use on other people, that beating people up or
getting in fights was not the idea. It was for self-defence only.

"It didn't sound like she had any choice today." I remarked.

My husband agreed that it wasn't her that initated the fight. "But what about
the wrestling. Did you show her that stuff too?"

"No. I think that just seems to come naturally to her."

Now, two-and-a-half years later I was driving home from a meeting with the
school principal in which I'd been informed that my 12-year-old daughter was
facing potential disciplinary action for bullying other kids. She hadn't been
punching them out, but had been involved in several incidents in which she'd
gotten into wrestling matches with boys. The principal was particularly
concerned with her behaviour in these situations. Apparently she didn't simply
force them to give up to her, but sought more than mere submission. In several
cases she had made them kneel before her and kiss her feet. She had demanded
they apologized to her, or to friends of hers for some transgression or other
and, in one instance particularly aggregious to the principal, had pinned a
boy on his stomach with his arms twisted behind him. She held him in this
position using her legs and bodyweight while facing towards his feet. Then, in
front of a large group of students,had yanked down his pants and paddled him,
leaving him crying and humiliated.

"Now it's true this boy is a bit of a bully himself and has been picking on
some of the girls, but that does not excuse what she did. This has gone too
far. We are all tremendously proud of your daughter's physical abilities and
there is no doubt she is the school's top athlete, but this wrestling business
can not continue. I'll leave it in your hands for the moment, but it must come
to an end. If it doesn't, the possibility of a transfer to another school is a
very real one."

I promised her I would deal with it. Leaving her office, I didn't know what to
think. Could the situation have been exaggerated? I wished my husband had been
able to attend the meeting with me but he was away on business. At least he
was due home tonight so we could discuss it. In the meantime, I started
thinking about what to say to my daughter. I pulled into the driveway, got out
of my car and was just about to walk to the front door when I heard a
commotion at the rear of the house. I went down the walkway between the side
of the house and the garage, and had just about reached the backyard when I
heard my daughter yell.

"Give up?"

I poked my head around the corner and saw her with a wrestling hold on a
bigger, taller boy. She had her right arm under his and around behind his neck
in a half nelson, his left arm twisted behind his back with her left and one
of his legs tied up in a single-leg grapevine. Two of her friends were
watching, cheering her on. They were facing me but had their eyes glued to the
action and didn't notice me. I quickly ducked my head back and ran around to
the front of the house. I unlocked the door and went upstairs. I didn't want
to look out the large kitchen window, as they would be sure to see me spying
on them. I wanted to remain unobserved, to see what was going to happen.

I went up to our bedroom and peeked out the small window, most of my head
hidden behind the curtains. My daughter and her opponent were in exactly the
same position as I had last seen them in. The boy kicked wildly with his free
leg but he wasn't helping himself in any way. She was solidly in control of
his arms and his right leg. I carefully slid the window open and could hear
her asking him again if he had had enough. He struggled futilely for a few
more seconds until she forced his trapped leg a little higher in the air and
wrenched wickedly on his hammer-locked arm. The boy submitted. As her friends
cheered, she jumped to her feet, placed her bare foot on his back and posed
for them. He crawed away and quickly stood up, a disgusted look on his face.

I recognized him as one of a group of kids our older daughter hung out with.
He was a high school boy and probably 15, the same age as her. Watching my
younger daughter and him standing opposite each other, I could see he was
quite a bit taller than she was, but not thicker. He had the typically rangy
look of many adolescent boys his age who'd grown up before they grew out. She
on the other hand, had a tight, compact, muscular body that exuded athletic
strength. Watching as they moved around each other, hands occasionally darting
out in an aborted attempt at a grab, she seemed so much more graceful and
assured than he. Several years of gymnastics, swimming, track and soccer had
resulted in a nicely rounded set of broad (for a 12-year-old girl) shoulders
and an impressive pair of legs with thigh muscles that bulged out and hard,
well-defined calves. There was no escaping the conclusion that she looked
powerful.

I watched her step between her opponent's arms and pull him close in a
bearhug. With her solid little legs planted firmly, she twisted his torso
sideways and sent him sprawling, face down, on the grass. She went to follow
up while he was still on the ground, but he was fast enough to get to his
hands and knees and then partway to his feet before she got to him. Still, she
was able to apply a headlock and throw him down again, this time on his back.
She had her right arm wrapped around his head, fingers locked and her weight
across his chest. Her upper body was turned sideways, her legs were spread
wide and she looked quite comfortable as she watched him struggle beneath her.
His own right arm was behind her back and not much use to him, but he was
trying with his left arm to pry her fingers apart, apparently without much
success. He was also using his legs to alternately try bridging out of the
hold or twist himself loose with a type of sideways, spinning motion. All he
was able to accomplish that way was to rotate both of their bodies a few
degrees. It didn't improve his lot and looked like he had to expend quite a
bit of energy doing it. He went back to grasping at her fingers but every time
he tried that, she made it more difficult for him by leaning her body down and
tucking her hands into her chest. After using the hold to give his head a few
sharp tugs, he dropped his left arm. Quick as a flash, my daughter seized his
left wrist with her left hand and brought it between her legs, scissoring it
at the elbow. Then she joined her hands together again and grinned proudly at
her friends.

"I've got him now. No way he's getting out of this."

She looked at her victim, who was unable to avoid her gaze as she bent her
head down and whispered into his ear. I couldn't make out her words but I
assume she offered him a chance to submit because she lifted her head and
cautioned him, "Don't make me hurt you. You know I have you. Just give up."

"No!"

"Ok, you asked for it." With that, she tightened her legs. Her top leg was
pushng his forearm down bending his joint the wrong way over her bottom leg.
It took only a couple of seconds before she had him screaming that he gave up.
I looked at the precarious angle his arm was at and felt sorry for him. Even
from my second-story vantage point, it looked like it hurt. She released him
and ran over to receive the congratulations of her friends, while the boy sat
on the grass, rubbing his arm. The three young girls talked excitedly among
themsevles for a minute before my daughter came over and took her position
again, waiting for her opponent to get to his feet and join her.

"What's the matter, mister high school wrestler?" she taunted "Can't finish
the match? This was supposed to be three out of five. You going to get over
here or are you going to run home to mommy?"

I was amazed by the fact she was so unafraid of this older boy, who was
apparently on the high school wrestling squad, that she was willing to risk
making him mad by teasing him in front of her class-mates.

"Shut up!" he snapped.

"Make me." she answered back defiantly, hands on her hips.

He got up and approached her. I could see the anger in his face and my
mother's instinct had me poised and ready to fly into action. Once again, they
began circling and this time he went straight for her. They tugged at one
other's arms both trying to pull each other down. My daughter stood her ground
and actually got him off balance a few times. Neither was able to throw the
other down at first. Finally he braced himself and pushed hard, causing her to
tumble over backwards. For a second, my heart leapt into my mouth as he jumped
on her but I could see he wasn't having any luck controlling her. They
grappled and rolled around on the grass and for a while, I couldn't really
tell what was happening. But eventually, with an ever-diminishing sense of
disbelief, I could see that she was beginning to assert herserlf as the
dominant wrestler. Several times I could almost feel his adrenaline as he
desperately fought off her attempt at a hold. As they continued to wrestle, I
noticed his movements slowing down, while my daughter's energy was unflagging.
As he attempted to twist out of her grasp, she tugged on his shoulders and
pulled him down, scissoring his waist between her legs. She took a few seconds
to adjust her position, angling herself so her crossed ankles were down
towards his feet. She was lying on his right side, so she took hold of his
right arm, pulling it into an armbar. He had long enough limbs that he could
reach her feet with his left arm, but with it fully extended, he had no where
near the leverage he needed to pry her ankles apart. She had him again, that
was obvious. She had only begun squeezing and already he was moaning in pain.
Her two friends came over and stood above them, watching her torture his
stomach and ribs as she contracted her leg muscles in short, sharp bursts,
causing him to cry out in agony.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" she snapped.

"Please, stop" he gasped.

"Why? Are you giving up?"

He didn't reply.

"Give!" she demanded.

"Nooo." he said in a laboured voice.

"Squeeze him some more," one of her friends urged.

"You want more? I can squeeze a lot harder that this. Give up?"

I saw him shake his head and wondered why he didn't just submit. His face was
turning red and I could see he was having a difficult time drawing breath. He
must know he wasn't going to get loose until she allowed it. My daughter and
her friends giggled as he continued his feeble struggle to free himself. She
tightened her grip on his arm, lay back and flexed her leg muscles hard.

"How do you like that? Had enough now?"

He waved his hand in the air and gave in to her. Her friends cheered and
clapped. She relaxed her hold slightly but kept him trapped between her legs.

"So, what was that about girls not being able to wrestle?"

"Make him say he's sorry."

"You apologize? Take it back?"

"Yes," he said miserably.

"Say it!" she said, clamping her legs together again.

"Alright, alright! I'm sorry, girls can wrestle. Please let me go."

"Who's a better wrestler?"

"You. You are."

"Say I'm stronger that you."

"You're stronger than me."

The girls giggled and cheered again as she stopped squeezing and disentangled
herself from the boy. I thought she was through with him but she surprised me
by grabbing his arm and putting a wristlock on it. She used the hold to bring
him over onto his knees and continued to apply pressure, forcing him to bend
down until his face was pressed into the grass. Smiling broadly at her two
girlfriends, she placed her foot on the back of his neck and held him in this
humiliating position.

"Now, listen up loser. I'm only going to tell you this once. If you don't do
what I tell you, I'm going to hurt you way worse that I have so far. You
understand?"

I could barely make out his voice as he said yes.

"You are going to kiss my feet and beg me for mercy. If you don't, I'll break
your arm. Now, kiss them."

He complied immediately as her friends burst into laughter and made fun of his
helpless subservience.

"Now beg me for mercy."

"Have mercy please, I beg for mercy."

She pulled him to his feet, keeping the wristlock on him and walked out of the
yard.

"See you on the wrestling mat," she called out as she trotted back over to
where the two other girls stood laughing. They were all wearing bathing suits
and ran over to the pool, jumping in. I watched them splash around for a few
minutes, reflecting on what I had just seen. I was absolutely stunned at how
easily and effectively my daughter had wrestled a high school boy into meek
and obedient submission. She had looked so poised, confident and utterly
dominant as she had him on his knees, kissing her feet and pleading for her
mercy. I had never seen anything like it and understood that, if this was the
sort of thing she was doing at school, why the principal had been so adamant
it had to stop. I knew I needed to speak with her about it, but I had to get a
hold of myself first. I felt strange, a bit dizzy and my heart was beating
fast. I sat down on the edge of the bed. My skin was tingling and my face
flushed. Watching the wrestling match and particularly her show of dominance
at the end, had actually gotten me hot. Visions of female bodybuilders posing
and flexing their muscles began to flash in my head. I had never wrestled
myself, but I was a boxer. I started seeing images of myself, arms raised in
triumph as a KO'd man lay on the canvas at my feet. My whoe body was quivering
and I lay down on the bed, unable to stop my hand from straying to my crotch
where I brought myself to a shuddering orgasm.