The Amazon Chronicles

So let's start off with physical attraction. What is it that lights-up my radar, makes me notice one woman over another?

OK, here goes:

What I find physically attractive in a woman is not at all typical; it isn't the television-oriented ideal of big boobs, or a skin and bones fashion model with a come-hither-look and a sexy Pepsodent smile. I happen to be addicted to the kind of woman you are more likely to see in a Ms. Aerobic Fitness contest than in a "Playboy Magazine". You see, I'm attracted to what you might call modern-day Amazons . . . like those athletic gals in the Soloflex ads.

Ever since I was a youngster I have been drawn to women who were sports-minded, active, and well-buffed; women whose positive zest for an out-of-doors life set them apart from the rest of their more fragile sisters. During h�igh school and college most of my girlfriends were "feminine jocks", pretty girls who were as much at ease in slow-dancing as they were at fast running. And they all had one thing in common; they possessed an evident degree of well-sculpted muscularity.

Whoa, hold on a minute, I'm not talking about massively muscled she-hulks. I really don't enjoy the look of those thickly sinewed professional female bodybuilders who bulge and flex their over-trained bodies on ESPN-TV, the ones who look more like muscle-bound men with siliconed breasts added on! No, that's not what I mean at all. What I'm talking about is an obvious degree of smoothly etched definition in combination with a nice curvy female form. Gabby Reece, the beautiful female volley ball champion/model comes easily to mind.

A firmly toned female body serves me as a kind of metaphor, a subjective confirmation of some of those� characteristics that I most prize in a woman; physical and emotional strength, pride and self-esteem, a sense of self-discipline, courageousness, assertiveness and personal integrity. Of course, one of the traits that I most love in a woman is a marvelous sense of humor, the spirit of playfulness that athleticism seems to accentuate.

Then too, a woman's well-trained physique, together with her overall presence, also suggests to me the promise of her personal power - what the woman is capable of doing with me, as a partner. And there's also the flip side of this; such a projection of physical strength is a way of helping to define what can and cannot be done TO a woman. Strong women are seldom seen as victims, and they seldom have victim mentalities. I like that!

Now I realize that this seeming preoccupation with a particular kind of female body-type suggests that I view women one-dimensionally, as no more than sexual objects. Hey, not true at all. What I'm talking about here has more to do with physical attractivity than an appreciation for the whole person. My appreciation for women is much more appropriately balanced than simply being fixated on the muscularity issue. With me, it has always been a case of the subtle look, gestures and attitude of femininity and the juxtaposition of smoothly sculpted, clearly defined muscularity that have most often attracted me to a woman. But IÕll certainly admit that an athletic female body captures my attention more quickly than just a sparkling personality.

Unfortunately, to be so out of sync with society's normal beauty standards puts a person with my rather unique preferences at a distinct disadvantage. The man who becomes aroused at the sight of a beautifully sculpted bicep instead� of a set of over-endowed breasts is looked upon as a fetishist . . . even though the typical American male's boob-fixation is itself a fetish, by popular consensus! But that hasn't always been so. Beauty standards in terms of female body-type have changed dramatically during our recorded human history, with these tastes reflecting the male mood toward women from era to era and culture to culture.

For most of history, women have been judged by males according to their "fitness" for bearing children and their ability to perform the hard physical work of gathering food. The stronger the physique, the more prized the woman. But then only a few hundred years ago, in the Middle Ages, women's physiques began taking on a more ethereal look, their reed-slender bodies reflecting the severe linear style of Gothic art and women's passive roles.

At almost the same time, the idea of what was considered beautiful by the wealthy and sophisticated Moslem culture was vastly different. They had a preference for stronger figures in their women. Byzantine art reflected this taste for strongly rounded forms in their mosque domes, and their poets and writers celebrated an outright muscularity in their Heroines. The epic "Arabian Nights" stories described alluring and physically powerful desert damsels actually wrestling with would-be male lovers in erotic combat (and winning!)

In our own era, during the 1920's and 30's, the mood of the time was to build skyscrapers and to celebrate the monumental. This was represented by Art Deco, with its enormous naked male and female figures showing their anatomi�%cally disproportionate muscularity, mirroring the idea of titanic strength that permeated the culture of the time.

And, by the end of World War II, Western women, thanks to "Rosie The Riveter" and her war-time sisters, were slowly becoming liberated, and letting their strength and athleticism show. A new breed of women was emerging . . . the Amazons were coming!

Today? Well, all you need to do is leaf through a few women's health magazines or watch an evening's worth of TV and you'll see that sleek-sinewed female forms are where "body fashion" is these days. Even the beautious bimbos of television's "Baywatch" manage to combine big breasts with big biceps, which seems to keep everyone happy. So you see, my own personal taste in well-muscled female physiques has more than a little historic�al precedence, and is not really as weird as one might at first think.

Like the countless others who enjoy this kind of athletic body type, I'm sure that is my own unique way of manifesting a very complex subconscious psychological state. Such psycho-sexual preferences as mine are usually the result of deeply ingrained imprints from childhood, as Dr. Freud would say.

Closer to the surface, I'm certain that this attraction to athletic females at least partly evolved from a series of adolescent erotically-charged adventures with a tomboy named Cathy when I was only 14 or so; partly from an even more sexually explicit teenage relationship with our young highly "buffed" family maid; and the rest due to the rather unconventional attitudes of my mother, who was an early feminist and an assertive woman in her own right.

Let's begin with my mother's contribution to my Amazon orientation. She was a strikingly attractive, free-spirited lady with a fine intellect. She had been a platform diver in college and played a mean game of tennis, but she didn't possess the obvious strength and well-developed physique of the women I was always physically attracted to from childhood on . . . so we can dispense with any ideas about my predilection for muscular women being the result of an unrecognized Oedipus Complex.

After my father was activated as a reserve officer during WW II, my mom had to serve as both mother and father during the nearly four years he was overseas. I was only 13 years old when my dad was called up, and mother was determined that me and my younger brother wouldn't suffer from not having a father around to tea�ch us typical "male-stuff". Single-moms of today would understand what this meant, but back when I was a child this was rare.

So it was our mother who played touch-football with my brother and me in the backyard, who taught us tennis, played catch, and who even helped get me started in the martial arts after I'd been pounded by a school bully. Mother figured that it was time that I learned to take care of myself in those kinds of situations. She wrote to my father and asked him to send us an Official U.S. Army Hand-To-Hand-Combat instructional book, ordered a "Charles Atlas Muscle- building Course" for me, and then put me in the strong and capable hands of our family maid, Sadie, for self-defense training and physical exercise. By then I was 14, approaching 15 years of age.

Sadie was an exceptionally attractive 20 year old African-American who was a live-in domestic helper for our family, and served as a "nanny" for my brother and myself. She looked like the beautiful black actress Angela Bassett, with the same chiseled muscularity but taller. While she was only six years older than me, Sadie possessed an amazing maturity beyond her age, especially sexual maturity.

Sadie had grown up on a small share-cropping cotton farm, and had hand-tilled the fields until she moved to the city and started working for my parents. The physically demanding farm work had given her lots of raw strength and a perfectly proportioned curvacious body; a powerfully sinewed back, wider than usual shoulders, well-rounded biceps, a firmly rounded butt, and a pair of long legs with solidly muscled thighs and firm-molded calves. Sadie also had a set of medium sized melo�n-solid breasts thrusting proudly from her broad, deep chest. At least to my teenage-eyes, she reminded me of some tall, regal African Princess.

Remember, this was about the time that the comic books came out with a series of "Jungle Queen" characters . . . including the blonde Sheena and the black beauty called Shawna. Sheena was every boy's fantasy figure with her long blonde hair and skimpy leopard-skin fur bikini. Shawna on the other hand, was a powerful Black Princess, Sheena's polar opposite and chief antagonist. And Sadie, with her slightly aloof regal bearing and superb musculartity, was a come-to-life Shawna to my eyes (and fantasy-mind!)

This striking cocoa-colored Amazon came into my life at a most impressionable age (by then I was nearly 15 ), and she was truly responsible for leading me through that dark mysterious doorway of adolescent sexuality. I was blessed and cursed at the same time, as you'll discover as we conti�nue this biographical journey.

The fact that my mother actually encouraged me to work-out with Sadie boggles my mind to this very day. However, my grappling sessions with our superbly sinewed young maid actually began several months before the self-defense instructions. They began in the swimming pool in our own backyard, where Sadie served as the "lifeguard" for my brother and me and our neighborhood pals. Sadie, in a wet swimsuit clinging to her curvacious, sinewy body, was certainly something to behold . . . and I did lots of be-holding, AND every other kind of holding that I could get away with, too!

It was always great fun for me to try to "duck" Sadie when she was in the pool with us. Those struggles, particularly when I would plaster myself against her sleek body with my arms wrapped around her in a frontal bear-hug and my legs scissoring one of her thighs, would most often produce a . . . hm-mmmm, well you know . . . a "genital arousal of increasing prop�ortions".

The first time this happened to me I was really embarrassed. But Sadie responded in an unexpected and mind-boggling way . . . she simply squirmed closer to me and held me even tighter, wriggling her hips so that her pelvis was ever so slowly moving against my lap. WOW! Every single teenage hormone in my body exploded at the same time. Sadie, however, never let on for a second that anything unusual had occurred. It was as if she thought this was the most natural thing in the world, just an expected part of "pool wrassling"!

And she didn't so much as blink an eye the next time it happened, or the next. After a few more times of this tight-locked squirming, I finally quit being embarrassed, and simply started enjoying what was happening. Oh, by the way, if you're squeemish about some of the explicit sexual language you've just been reading, you'd best stop reading this personal biographical sketch right about now. There'll be more. Much more!

Anyway, as you ?can imagine, I spent a lot of time trying to get Sadie into the pool for this highly erotic playtime. And she was happy to oblige, for a price! My ticket of admission to this incredible sexual experience was silence, and a blind eye to the frequent nips she took from the bottles of liquor on our livingroom sideboard. Sadie developed a taste for well-aged and VERY expensive Scotch, of which my father had a fine collection. And of course, he was overseas. By the time he returned there were few if any of his treasured bottles left. Sadie and I were the chief beneficiaries of his loss . . . and I never drank a drop.

Then, several months later, Sadie and I began the Jujitsu training that was encouraged by my mother . . . which, as it turned out, was a BIG mistake on my mother's part. She had obviously never seen Sadie and me at play in the backyard swimming pool, and she certainly had no idea of how� sexually stimulating our "water-wrassling" had become. My mother simply thought I should learn to defend myself, and that our athletic young maid would be a good teacher. She was! And boy oh boy, was I ever a good student.

I pestered Sadie to practice with me at every possible opportunity; out in the grass of our backyard, on the kitchen floor, in the livingroom, and, best of all, down in our basement play room where we had spread out a couple of old mattresses covered with a king-sized rubber sheet to form an exercise mat. Hm-mmm, I still remember the feel of that slick-surfaced mat and its pungent sweat-scent!

Our so-called Jujitsu training got to be like something out of a Peter Sellers "Inspector Cleusou" movie (remember how his Japanese houseboy would continually be jumping out of closets, darting out from beneath furniture, hiding behind doors . . . to attack the Inspector as a form of martial arts Ninja training).�? You never knew when Cleusou would be pounced upon by his houseboy.

I was doing the same thing with Sadie, but with raging teenage hormones fueling my compulsive desire to wrestle with this marvelously muscled young Amazon at every opportunity. And, fortunately, my mother thought that the erotic grappling that Sadie and I were engaging in was nothing more than "self-defense" practice. Mother kept telling me what a good boy I was for practicing so diligently, and even gave Sadie a raise in pay. Hey, I'll tell you . . . I was in adolescent sexual heaven!

Of course, as I'd discovered during our earlier pool-play, Sadie didn't seem to mind the fact that all of this hot and heavy wrestling was arousing me sexually, just so long as I was cool and my mother didn't find out what was going on. It was, as it turned out, a VERY stimulating turn-on for her as well.

As I learned much later, these erotic hard-straining g�rapple sessions were a safe way for Sadie to self-satisfy her own lusty sexual needs, since her only boyfriend was away in the war. The wrestling turned her on, the same as it was arousing me. Gradually, as time passed, all pretenses that what we were doing was nothing more than Jujitsu training were forgotten. Things began to get VERY seriously sexual. And that is the understatement of all time!

What Sadie and I were doing on the sweat-soaked mats was a lot of slow-motion grappling, squeezing, clamping and scissoring as we lay locked together full-length. With our sweat-slippery bodies wrapped tightly, limbs entwined, and loins locked, we would squirm and grind against one another; Sadie with an almost dreamy economy of movement, and me with a more feverish urgency.

At some point in our humping and straining I would often hear a strange kind of hissing and moaning from Sadie's clenched lips, and her powerful hips would slap against mine with a faster and faster rhythm. She would shudder against me for a moment or two, and then her body would suddenly relax. That's when I'd pin her, surprisingly, without too much resistence on Sadie's part. I wasn't completely certain what was happening at those moments, but I was beginning to have my suspicions.

Hey, remember that I was just a 15 year old virgin . . . gimme'a break!

But then one afternoon, as we lay facing each other in a kind of dual headlock situation, with our legs scissored around each other's thighs, something unexpected happened that added an explosive new sexual component to our wrestling.

As I moved my head within the clasp of her hard flexed arms, my lips unexpectedly brushed across Sadie's. Without even thinking, I suddenly kissed her, and she kissed me back . . . at first lightly, then harder; a deep, probing "French Kiss" that sent electricity sizzling up and down my spine. At that precise moment, as I felt the sinewy strength of h�er superb body against me, as I thrilled to her tongue grappling with my own, I sensed that Sadie was caught up in the same boiling sexual energy that I felt. From that instant, it was clear to both of us where we were heading. I was frightened, but like a moth dazzled by the flame of a candle, my greedy erotic attraction to Sadie's splendidly muscled body overwhelmed any inexperienced timidity I felt.

After what seemed to me like years, Sadie finally ended our delicious kiss and crawled atop me, pinning me down to the mat with her sinewy weight. Her long legs grapevined around mine as she spread-eagled my arms, her fingers locking around my wrists, holding me captive beneath her sweat-wet body. While holding me prisoner, Sadie resumed deep-kissing me, and began humping her lithe hips up and down as she thrust against me. . . slowly at first, and then gradually with a faster rhythm. I found myself reminded of the incredibly erotic piece of musicâ called "Bolero". It followed the same slow beat that gradually became climatically frenzied at the peak, then slowed back down . . . just like Sadie's powerful hips and thrusting loins were doing.

I bridged up beneath her weight, pressing against her with my aroused penis jammed into the inverted V of her crotch, trying to match the wild rhythm of her piston-like pumping. My legs started trembling from the exertion of holding her weight aloft, and I tried to roll us over so that I'd be on top, but Sadie all too quickly regained the dominant position. Again and again we traded positions, first one on top and then the other, each of us trying to . . . what? It became a strenuous and highly erotic ballet, and I soon caught on how to do the dance. It was Sadie who demanded the lead and controlled the action, and it seemed at times as if I was just along for the ride. Our movements grew ever more frenzied, our limbs seeming to move of their own volition.

Somewhere along the� line, her maid's uniform had been stripped away, and Sadie was wrestling me in nothing more than her panties and bra. My hands found her melon-solid breasts, cupping the weight of them, pinching the aroused nipples, gently squeezing until Sadie gasped with pleasure.

One of my hands slid on down across her smooth flat belly, tracing intricately muscled abdominals that felt like a satiny washboard. Then my other hand left her jutting breast and moved slowly downward, my fingers slipping under the waistband of her silk panties, exploring the curly thatch of crinkly black pubic hair . . . already wet with her desire.

OK, it's now or never, I thought to myself!

I began tearing frantically at the under-clothing that still shielded Sadie's curvacious body from my touch; letting my hands slide up and down the hot,� gleaming length of her torso. And then . . . oh my GOD-DDDD, she FLEXED herself like a big jungle cat, and I felt the ripple and play of female musculature sliding and bunching beneath my touch.

Her own hands were ripping away my sweat-soaked T-shirt and unzipping my pants. Then, with quick pantherish strength and a low growl of impatience, Sadie took hold of my throbbing cock and slid me inside of her. She wrapped her long legs around my waist, scissored them across my back, and then Sadie wrestled my male seed from me with squeezing strength.

Only it didn't come about as quickly as it sounds. She worked her muscle-magic on me for a good three minutes before I came with my explosive orgasm. To me, those few minutes were like a lifetime. And it was THE most exciting and mind-blowing experience of my young life. And even more important, I was no longer a virgin!

Twice more that afternoon we grappled to an explosive orgasm, but this time I wa�s more the aggressor and Sadie seemed content to let ME take her, instead of the other way around. Everything was marvelous . . . until I started worrying about getting Sadie "knocked-up". My sudden realization of what we were actually doing down there on those mats, AND the possible consequences, quickly extinguished my passion. The mood was shattered. Sadie sensed the change, and a stricken look crept across her face as she, too, realized what had happened on that sweat-slick wrestling mat.

We broke apart without a word and climbed to our feet. We turned our backs on one another, got dressed, and went back upstairs. Later, alone in my room, I felt a strange mixture of uneasiness and excitement about what had happened. I suppose that it was about then I realized that we should have used a condom, but to tell the truth, I'd never even seen one, let along used one!

The next day at school all I could think about was the steamy mat sessions that I'd had with Sadie the previous afternoon. When I'd finally gotten home from classes, still more than a little scared about what had happened, I knew that I had to talk to Sadie. I found her down in the basement, curled up on the exercise mats, sobbing almost uncontrollably. Sadie was totally freaked out about what had taken place the afternoon before. Fearing the wrath of my mother if she found out, worrying about being accused of . . . "contributin' to da delinkency of a miner" as she put it. And, afraid of losing her job, she quickly swore me to secrecy.

Sadie also told me in no uncertain terms that there would be no more of our passionate wrestling sessions. I of course protested, but rather half-heartedly; for if the truth were known, I was even more frightened than Sadie was.

But while we were on our best behavior for the next couple of weeks, the energy between Sadie and me was electric. I knew that we would be back down on the mats before long. At least I hoped we would be. Meantime, I tried my best not to look at Sadie's magnificently muscled body with too much lustful desire, for fear that mother would get wise to what had already happened.

HOWEVER, my mother was no dummy, and she sensed that something odd was going on between Sadie and me. Mother started showing up at home unexpectedly, spending less time playing tennis at the country club, which meant that Sadie and I were seldom ever alone at the house. I could hardly stand it. I was like a kid with a new toy, but one that I was told I couldn't play with.

Then, one early afternoon almost three weeks later, when I was certain that my mother wouldn't return home until evening, I began pestering Sadie to get her work done quickly and meet me down in the basement recreation room for a quick session. To say that she was reluctant would be an understatement, but I kept at her. It wasn't too long before she agreed, after I told her that I'd bought a "rubber" for her protection, and a few minutes later we were once again back down on those sweat soaked mats, locked tightly together in a straining tangle of limbs.

For a while we enjoyed ourselves in the slow-motion foreplay that our wrestling had become. Then several minutes later, just as things were getting out of control, we both heard the sound of the upstairs door opening and someone coming slowly down the basement steps.

Oh My Gawd! We'd been busted!

We quickly unlocked ourselves from around one another, rolled apart, and hurriedly straightened what clothing we still had left on. But we didn't have time to get fully dressed or climb to our feet. We looked up from the sweat-soaked mats to see my mother coming into the room with a puzzled frown on her face.

"Hi Mom, Sadie and me are just working out," I stammered, hoping that my mother would believe me and not her own eyes. Sadie crawled quickly to her feet, rearranging her rumpled uniform, and mumbled "uhuh, uhuh, that's right, ma'm . . . we was jus doin' da Jew-jitsu stuff."

The fact that Sadie and I had shed most of our clothes during our frenzied grappling ses�sion in that hot basement didn't help matters any. Mother wasn't exactly sure WHAT was going on, but it was quite obvious to her that it wasn't "kosher" . . . and the sight of the two of us lying together on a couple of mattresses in a partially unclad state wasn't at all what my mother had in mind as "self-defense-training" for her young teenage son!

Mother had a little talk with me, a much longer talk with Sadie, and from then on Sadie was no longer my "trainer" . . . and, when her boyfriend returned home from the war a few weeks later, she quickly departed from our household. You can't imagine how distraught I was, how much I missed my young sexual mentor and our passionate wrestles on the basement mats. The worst thing was that I never saw Sadie, my "Amazon Princess", again. A couple of months after Sadie's departure, I was shipped off to an Eastern prep-school to receive a far different kind of education than I'd enjoyed with Sadie!

Act�ually, the stage was set for my erotic wrestling adventures much earlier than my sessions with our maid. Sadie was really not my first female mat partner. My introduction to this kind of co-ed tussling began a year before Sadie came into my life, while I was still very much a virgin. It was one particular series of experiences with a girl named Cathy, at the age of fourteen or so, that probably wrote the code for the psycho-sexual programming of being turned-on by female muscularity. And there was no doubt that this unusual set of experiences with young Cathy was the reason that I responded to Sadie the way I did just a year later.

Cathy, the tomboy daughter of a local teacher's college football coach, was almost a year older than me. She was tall for her age - actually a couple of inches taller than me - blonde, lithe, hard-bodied but curvy. Cathy had that kind of sharply etched, clearly defined sinewin�jess that gymnasts often develop. She had well-developed biceps, rounded deltoids, and long legs that were as sinew-packed as a ballerina's. And she was incredibly strong, as I was soon to discover first-hand.

For whatever her reason, Cathy picked me as her special playmate the first time we noticed one another at recess at the beginning of the new school year. This VERY unusual relationship began by Cathy grabbing my arm as I walked by, deftly tripping and then pouncing upon me. With all the kids urging us on, Cathy and I began rolling around there on the schoolyard ground. It was a very short-lived battle, and she won. It was the first time that I'd ever "wrassled" a girl, and I couldn't believe that she actually beat me.

The next day . . . same thing! However, this time we lay there face to face, bodies locked up and tangled together within a circle of ch�peering kids, straining together for several long minutes before she finally admitted defeat. Cathy didn't like losing, and so we agreed to meet again the next day. I won again. Next time she took the fall. We ended up engaging in this bizarre test of strength twice more that week, but now after-school . . . and without any spectators.

Something quite unexpected happened during those schoolyard wrestles. All that grappling gave me the first erection I'd ever had with a girl! I loved the sensation of rubbing against her firmly muscled body, of being locked within the strong grasp of her arms and legs, as my heart began to pound and my "little guy" slowly hardened. And I sure knew one thing; I wanted lots more of that particular kind co-ed playtime. It turned out that Cathy did too.

Very quickly our erotically-charged grappling moved from the schoolyard to a quiet pa�Crk about a block away. We found a grove of trees that contained a secluded grassy clearing, which became our secret meeting spot. Later on, as the Fall days began getting colder, we discovered an abandoned park barn with a loft full of soft straw which provided an even better wrestling mat.

However, our most exciting grappling sessions took place in the gymnasium wrestling room at the small private college where Cathy's father was the coach. These "matches" always took place late in the evening when no one else was around. Cathy had managed to swipe a key to the gym from her dad, and so we had the place all to ourselves. Of course the possibility of being discovered was an added element of excitement for us. For a couple of young teenagers, we were really living dangerously . . . or so we thought.

To this very day I can� still smell the sweat-soaked aroma of those mats, feel the slickness of Cathy's strong, lithe body straining against mine as we wrestled together in that steamy-hot room. The memory of those sessions, and the way in which our two young bodies tangled in tight-locked combat, the feel of those sweat-slick gym mats sends tingles of excitement up and down my spine, even today.

As you can imagine, I began looking forward to our after-school "wrassling matches" with great anticipation. It was quite obvious that Tomboy Cathy relished this hot and heavy grappling as much as I did. She was always waiting for me, eyes gleaming with her own excitement, stripped down, ready to go!

Only much later, after my experiences with Sadie, did I learn what we were actually doing in those endless hours of interlocked grappling and straining. I suppose it could be called a kind of mutual masterbation, or, as it was known back then, "dry-humping".

In those days a variation of what Cathy and I were doing was called "making out". It was THE alternative kind of safe sex of that era. Only it was usually practiced by boys and girls grappling one another in the back seat of an automobile as they traded hot kisses, not by a couple of teenagers rolling around in the grass, in a hay-loft, or on the sweat-slippery mats of a college wrestling room! Cathy and I also engaged in the impassioned "smooching" sessions of our more sexually sophisticated teenage elders . . . but mostly, we just wrestled.

Perhaps fortunately for the two of us, before our wrestling developed into a more seriously sexual situation, our mat sessions came to an abrupt end. Cathy's father took a coaching job at the larger State University, and the family moved away. Cathy and I kept in touch through letters for several years, but we never saw one another again.

In any case, the die was cast. My erotic experiences with Cathy, and the flat-out�Ü sexual wrestling sessions with Sadie, set the stage for a life-long partiality for sleekly sinewed females and for what has been called, in psychological parlance, "erotically aggressive foreplay." And then, of course, there were all those high school and college girl friends who added fuel to the fire of my predilectional passions. Hm-mmm, you know I've often wondered what the flavor of my sexual appetites would have been if my mother hadn't put me into Sadie's hands for that "special training". But I think by then the neural programing had already been accomplished . . . by Cathy!

Actually, it wasn't until my mother was in her 80's that I had the nerve to discuss any of this early sexual turn-on experience with her. And during that very intimate and revealing conversation she absolutely blew my mind by letting me know that she already knew all about my "deep, dark secret".

Mother informed me that she had always known about my thing for muscular females. She said that it was pretty hard to miss the fact that all my girlfriends had "buffed" bodies and well-developed biceps. It turned out that she also know about my hayloft wrestles with Cathy. She reminded me that she'd once asked me where I was getting all of the straw in my clothing that I kept shedding all over our house.

Had she also known about our late night, half-nude sessions in the college wrestling room, I doubt that my mother would have been as unconcerned about our childhood "rough-housing", as she used to call it.

It was while discussing Cathy with my mother that I realized that it was this young Tomboy with her intricately etched muscularity and exciting strength who was probably responsible for the deeply ingrained psycho-sexual imprint from my childhood that I mentioned at the beginning of these Chronicles, an imprint that was accentuated by my experiences with Sadie a year or two later.

And, speaking of Sadie, it appeared that my mother did NOT know the full story of my Jujitsu training sessions with our magnificently muscled young maid. Mother apparently thought that the day she discovered me humping Sadie down in the basement was the first time that had happened. Amazingly enough, Sadie and I had apparently been far more discreet in our erotic grapples than I had realized. I did not correct my mother's ignorance of how sexual our workouts had been. Nor did I admit that I lost my virginity within the sweat-slippery clasp of Sadie's superbly sinewed limbs. Hey, there's some things you just don't tell Mom, right?

Now, I'd be very surprised if at this point you weren't wondering how I define "wrestling". After all, I've devoted several pages to this subject. You might say that it's the PROCESS, when it comes to erotic wrestling, not who wins or loses.

It's the doing of it - - - the straining of one body against the other, experiencing the ripple and play of effort-aroused female muscles beneath your fingers, of exploring the woman's full-out strength. It really doesn't have anything to do with who actually "wins". Instead, for me at least, it's the sensation of being held captive within the tight embrace of strong female limbs, of feeling the sculpted smoothness of the woman's hard-flexed sinews against my body as she exerts her full strength, of experiencing the power of her body locked around me . . . a struggle of equals that usually ends in an explosion of passionate love-making. That is really at the core of my delight in wrestling with a woman.

It is the slow-motion straining in a hold, almost any hold or grip that will accentuate the feeling of my being held tightly within the sleekly sinewed limbs of my Amazon mat-mate, and then escaping the hold just before she makes me yield or visa versa. . . so as to prolong the experience! That's what it is really all about, at least in my case.

And I'm happy to say that over the years I've been able to find my fair share of women who seem to delight in this style of sexually aggressive but non-abusive foreplay. In fact, more often than not, the women in my life who were encouraged to explore their own female strength were thrilled at the opportunity to go beyond the normal gender boundaries that society has imposed upon them. They enjoyed being powerful, they delighted in being able to wrestle a man into submission, or themselves being forced to yield only after a prolonged struggle during which they could explore their own female strength.

This kind of erotic-play was fully explored and validated with a former wife; a tall, attractive, athletic woman who not only delighted in testing out her own considerable strength within the context of our grappling sessions, but who also encouraged me to explore my Amazon fantasies to my heart's content . . . so long as it was with her!. But far more important than merely indulging in a rich fantasy life, it permitted the two of us to explore both symbolically and actually the rapidly changing cultural factors taking place during the 1970's and 1980's, changes which led to the increased independence and empowerment of women. Feminism was by then in full-flower, and typical gender roles were being challanged. Amazons were once again among us!

I discovered during my marriage to this woman that living with an "Amazon" is certainly far more challanging than any other kind of relationship, especially in terms of power-sharing. And isn't this what its really all about - POWER! The very attraction to a muscular female physique really has to do with the PERCEPTION of power, the wrestling itself becomes the PRACTICE of power.

We also discovered that you cannot engage in this kind of power-sharing partnership in terms of the typical Judeo-Christian Male Dominator/Female Submissive arrangement. And so we had to invent our own marital reality. We enjoyed what could only be called a "partnership of equals". Ours was a loving and passionate partnership. It was hard work, but worth it.

Eventually, the two of us grew at different rates of emotional, intellectual and spiritual maturity, and we finally parted amicably to travel separately on quite different life-paths . . . she on hers, me on mine.

Since my marriage, there have been fewer and fewer wrestling partners in my life. While the spirit (and libido) are willing, the body isn't up to that kind of all-out physical effort these days. But that doesn't mean that I can't enjoy a more slow-motion session, when the opportunity presents "herself".

So there you have it, what I call The Emish Chronicles; the steady progression of events that led to my life-long appreciation of strong, smooth-muscled, athletic women.

However, interwoven with this seemingly unusual preference is my very deep appreciation for all of those more generally acceptable characteristics of women, those that extend beyond the physical aspects of body-type.

I truly love the marvelous feminine traits that make a woman a woman. Certainly not all of my women friends have had the kind of clearly defined muscularity that I love so much. Not all of my Amazon lovers have enjoyed straining with me in a late night, tangled-sheeted wrestle. In fact, not all of my favorite women have been Amazons. But when I've had my druthers, and been lucky, the women in my life have mostly fit into my "thing" for this special kind of female mate.

Even today, my eyes continue to seek out the sculpted curves of a well-toned female figure in the daily parade of women who pass by. Who knows; the strong-limbed Amazon who comes striding along, meets my gaze, and gives me a smile just might challange me to the best two falls out of three . . . or perhaps she would like to play a starring role in my next life-adventure.

Meanwhile, I'm quite content to enjoy the company - and delightful female energy - of all the non-Amazon women I am fortunate to have as friends. But I must hasten to admit that few of my current women friends, except for a couple of former-lovers, know anything at all about my life-long Amazon "fetish".

I suppose you could say that this "Erotic Autobiographical Treatise" is my emergence from the sexual closet, sort of a straight hetrosexual version of a gay or lesbian "outing". I've pretty much always been comfortable discussing my erotic predilections with the women with whom I've been intimate, but seldom with friends, familiars or acquaintances.