Hollywood Catpack
By The Raven (raven@ravensword.com)
Chapter 1, Part I of II
Update: 01/03/1998 to raven


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Summary:  All that Rocky Walsh wanted was to become a movie star. 
The express train to stardom in the 1960s was to step into the 
kinky Catfire Club, where every actress had to pay her dues by 
fighting other women to get the best roles. Stepping into the 
arena triggers old memories in Rocky, of a past-life of an 
ancient Femizon warrior...a past that will shock her 
present and future life in Hollywood!


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Introduction

My soul is in heaven, caressing the great cat-mistress as I 
await my rebirth.
	That is why you are reading this: my life’s story, the 
real autobiography of Rocky Walsh. Since my life is gone, this 
volume can finally be released to the Sisterhood of Catalan.
	I want you to know the truth, because, as the old 
saying goes, the truth can set you free.  It will certainly free 
me of my past, as I look back upon my life and prepare for my 
new one.
	The ocean is blue and calm on the day that I write 
this.  I can feel the kiss of the sea breeze on my cheek as I 
look out over Diana’s Peak.  I can see two femizons grappling 
in a grassy backyard far below me.  I can hear their grunts 
and smell their catlust, even from this distance.  Part of me 
would like to walk down the peak and challenge the winner.
	Even though I am sixty years old, both of these 
women are far more seasoned than I.  We are centuries of 
physical age and experience apart.
	The other part of me looks out across the ocean, 
wondering about the Sisters that I left behind in Man’s 
World.  Who is ruling the Hollywood Catpack now?  Will any 
of them make it here, to the real Catalan, as I did only a year 
ago?
	I need to leave all of that behind.  I must focus on 
the here and now.  I am a Senator in the House of Virago, 
serving under her Majesty, Empress Athena.  
	I must let go of my old life...
	...my real name, Rocio Cicone...
	...my birthplace, Chicago, Illinois, 1940...
	...my start in show business--making a pass at Stan, 
my first agent, and later on my  first husband...
	...discovering that I was a lesbian who loved to 
wrestle other women...
	...my life as a movie star...from the movie Two Billion 
Years AD to the TV series Rich Bitch!...
	...the bastards and bitches who manipulated me for 
their own fetish kicks...
	...the cunts that I had to fight and fuck to get the 
best roles...
	...the women I loved lost as I struggled to become 
Mistress Supreme of the first organized Hollywood Catpack...
	...the women’s movement and the battle over Catalan 
Island.
	The only way I know how to let go of my past is to 
write about it.
	I won’t bother to tell the boring and mundane details 
of my life, my childhood, my parents, life in Chicago, what it 
was like to work with such stars as John Wayne or Robert 
Mitchum, or my other successes in Hollywood.
	That’s not the past that weighs me down...
	...what I need to put into focus is the road that led 
me to Catalan...
	...how I fought my destiny...
	...until other women made me submit to it.
	I am writing this for your eyes only, my dear, sweet 
Sisters of Catalan.  How I’ve come to love out island nation in 
the past year!  What freedom I have known, to walk along the 
cobblestone streets of the Galleria at sunset, to find a 
fetching woman and challenge her openly to a night of sweet 
catfighting and sex...ah, it’s been such pleasure and 
happiness.  I have come out of the shadows, into eternal 
sunshine.
	This is my gift to you...the answers to all the 
questions you have asked me about my life in Man’s World.
	It is not only my story, it’s the story of how the 
Hollywood Catpack came to discover Catalan.  To truly 
understand my journey, you will need to know of events in the 
lives of other women.  Thus...you may find that my tale is 
interwoven into a patchwork of stories of other catfighters.
	Although I write this for the Sisterhood, I am taking 
no chances that this may be leaked out to Man’s World.  I 
have changed the names to protect the women who still exist 
in the shadow society of catfighters.
	There is one man who knows all the secrets of the 
underground catfighters, whether they exist in the studios 
of Hollywood, the arenas of Asia, or the health clubs of the 
Corporate world.  His uncanny senses may even be keen 
enough to penetrate the inter-dimensional boundary that 
separates Man’s World and Catalan Island...
	...his name is THE RAVEN.


Part I: 
The Catfire Club

Chapter 1

I was bound in the velvet chair, my mouth gagged with silver 
tape, as I watched Angie pace naked in front of a movie 
screen.
	Angie Prickerson, 1964: Movie and TV actress, wife 
of film producer Art Prickerson, one of the founding 
members of the Catfire Club.  She had attacked me just five 
minutes ago in the basement of her house.  My summer green 
dress was ripped off my body like cache paper by her razor 
sharp nails.  
	I had never been in a fight with a woman.  My nipples 
still ached.  My heart threatened to leap out of my chest as I 
looked at the bottle blond.  She was smaller than me, 
standing at about 5’2", weighed less, at a hundred pounds, 
mid-size tits, toned legs, and a face that looked like she was 
tough girl from the boondocks.
	"Ya wanna know what the club is like, honey bun?"  
Angie said sarcastically.  She whipped her blond hair out of 
her face, tapped her heel on the floor.  The grey images "6 5 
4 3 2 1" flipped across her face as the film began to play.  
She took a sip from a glass of wine, never taking her eyes off 
me for a second.  "Watch this, then, and tell me afterward if 
you’ll still do anything to make it in Hollywood."
	The film started: a home movie, shot in the 
Prickerson’s backyard, which I had just walked through.  
There was no sound, just moving pictures.  Hordes of famous 
faces, attending a party: Dino Martini, Peter Lawford, 
William Holden, Gig Young, Hugh Hefner, Stella Stellar, 
Margaret Ann, Jane Blonda, Julie Newmar, etc.  I had seen 
many of them just minutes before as Angie led me into this 
trap.  The women were decked out in bikinis and heels, letting 
the actors, producers, agents, and directors oogle their 
bodies.  Everyone seemed to be happy and drunk.  I saw some 
of them dragging on joints and getting stoned.
	The camera followed a trail through the vast 
backyard, to the poolside.  There was the big M herself: 
Marilyn, sitting with her beautiful thick thighs crossed, in a 
white polka dot bikini.
	"Two years ago."
	The spoken words shocked me: I was transfixed by 
the movie, forgetting my predicament.
	Angie had moved behind to the seat behind me in the 
private theater.
	"This was when Marilyn was getting ready to make a 
comeback after a nervous breakdown.  She had something to 
prove to people."
	Back in the film:  Everyone’s head turned as if 
someone announced something important.  Marilyn looked 
worried, then stood up and walked where the crowd of men 
and women had gathered.
	In the center of crowd was Stella Stellar.
	Her boobs were nearly bursting of her black bikini.  
The young blonde thrust her hands on her hips, waiting for 
Marilyn to walk into the clearing.  As soon as the big M 
stepped inside, Stella walked over to the movie legend, 
staring hatred into the blonde’s blue eyes.
	Stella’s breasts bounced up against Marilyn’s, pushing 
the sex symbol back.
	I could see Dino Martini yell:  "Go get ‘em, 
sweetcakes!"  
	The singer laughed as Marilyn pushed Stella back.
	Stella got angry, hooked her arm around Marilyn’s 
neck, and threw the sex symbol to the ground.  Stella 
pounced on top of Marilyn and the two began testing their 
strength, hands locked together.  Stella had the big M flat 
on the ground, until Marilyn used her legs to flip Stella over 
her head.
	The fight lasted ten minutes, with Marilyn gaining the 
upper hand in the first part of the wrestling match.  But the 
big M was older, tired, and out of condition.  Stella kept at it 
and slowly wore the superstar down.
	As I watched Stella execute a boston crab maneuver 
(Marliyn’s chest on the grass, legs bent backward over her 
spine, arms thumping on the ground, eyes crying in pain), I 
lost my fear as a rush of warmth spread over my body.  It 
came magically, starting in my toes, rushing up through my 
calves, along my thighs...into my pussy:  my first catlust.  
	Watching the fight had made me horny.
	It was a rollercoster ride of emotions, as I watched 
what happened after the match.
	Dino kissed Stella and grabbed her ass after she won.  
Marilyn stayed on the ground, crying, until her agent picked 
her up. The most powerful men in Hollywood laughed as Stella 
grabbed the big M’s ear and dragged the sex symbol through 
the backyard, stumbling on her bare feet.  The camera 
followed them inside the house, into a bedroom, where Stella 
threw the big M onto a bed, and began stripping off Marilyn’s 
polka dot number.
	"Noooooo!"  Marilyn cried,   "I’ll be good!"  I could see 
the words mouthed without any sound.
	"You bet you will, bitch!"  Stella replied, taking off 
her own bikini.
	The camera moved in close, as Stella leapt naked on 
top of Marilyn, their boobs smashing together.  Stella kissed 
the big M’s mouth.  She locked her hands around Marilyn’s 
wrists, holding the sex star down flat on the bed.  Stella 
started kissing Marilyn’s breasts.
	You could see the big M relax a bit, sighs instead of 
tears now, as Stella’s tongue licked her nipples.
Then a shock of pain...as Stella must have bitten down 
hard on Marilyn.
	The camera shifted view to a mirror, where you could 
see Dino Martini standing behind the bed, totally nude, his 
penis erect.
	He said something like, "Come to papa!"  And plunged 
his dick into Stella’s cunt from behind, while she gave Marilyn 
lessons in pleasure and pain.
	I was horrified and disgusted, but still turned on.   
Being a young woman of twenty-four, I had never seen a 
porno movie in those days.  I wasn’t a virgin, but I had only 
had sex with men, mostly boring and un-climactic sex.  I had 
some vague sexual fantasies about sleeping with different 
women...fantasies that I became aware of wanting to explore 
in real life...thanks to Angie and this cheap, black and white, 
home made movie.
	The film spun out through the projector wheel, 
clicking and clacking, as Angie turned on the lights.  She 
walked over to me nude in her high heels, not an inch of fat 
on her body, and I suddenly had fantasies of wrestling her, 
paying her back for her earlier attack.
	"Welcome to Hollywood, baby,"  Angie said, stripping 
the tape off my mouth.  "Marilyn not only never fought again, 
but she never really acted again, either.  Fox gave her 
another shot in a movie.  But her co-star was Martini.  Every 
scene she had with Dino shook up Marilyn terribly.  She must 
have kept remembering that night, thinking of his dick, of 
what Stella had done to her."
	Angie reached below my thighs, under the seat, and 
whipped out a kitchen knife.  She ran the blade down my 
chest.  
	I wasn’t scared.  I knew she was bluffing.  
	She eventually rubbed the blade against the ropes 
and cut me free.
	"I’m not put off,"  I gasped, rubbing my arms for 
circulation.  "If that’s the price to join the Catfire Club, I’ll 
do it."
	"Wealll, that’s real sweet, honey-bun,"  Angie said, 
cupping my chin in her hand.
	I slapped her arm away.  "Stop calling my honey!"
	She suddenly grabbed my hair and forced my head 
back against the chair.
	"Listen up, baby!"  Angie shouted, her gritty green 
eyes staring into me.  Her knee pressed against my crotch.  
"The Catfire Club don’t have a one-shot price for gals like you 
and me!  It’s a tax that Hollywood makes ya pay to get the 
best roles, sleep with the best men, get the most money!  
Taxes don’t go away, honey, and ya gotta keep on payin’, for 
the rest of your life, until a younger, stronger, meaner bitch 
comes along to take it all away!"
	She released my hair and walked across the aisle to a 
chair, where she picked up her black bikini and put it on.
	"We coulda done this the easy way, honey,"  she said, 
stepping into the bikini bottom.  "Ya coulda been my slave, 
and I coulda taught ya the ropes.  Now I am gonna have to 
show ya the hard way."
	Angie picked up a leopard skin bikini and threw it in 
my lap.
	"Put this on and get yer butt outside so I can whip 
ya!"  The light of the sunset erupted through the theater as 
Angie walked into the backyard.
	I put on the bikini, excited, ready to fight her, 
thinking that I could do better against her than before.  
	I knew the score.  
	I had wrestled my brothers on the carpet of the 
living room back in high school.  
	I was prepared.
	I was so young and naïve.


My boyfriend-agent Stan and I had come to the Prickerson’s 
Garden Party that evening with one purpose in mind:  to join 
the Catfire Club.
	Stan told me years later that he knew exactly what 
went on at the Club, but he was afraid to tell me.  I had some 
minor TV roles, modeling jobs, and commercials at that point, 
after having lived in tinseltown for more than a year.  I was 
frustrated.  Like every other young actress, I wanted to 
crack into motion pictures right away.  The famous casting 
couch never seemed to help much.
	Stan said that the Catfire Club was where the big 
deals really got made and unknown actresses became 
overnight sensations.  All he could tell me about the Club was 
the following:
	- The Catfire Club was made up of Hollywood’s 
	richest and most powerful men.
	- It met irregularly, hosted by each of the Club’s 
	officers at different venues, and sometimes, in 
	different cities.
	- Even the most famous Hollywood actresses and 
	sex symbols had to pay their dues at the club.
	- Kinky sex and drugs were rumored to be part of 
the Club’s activities.
	I had assumed it would be marijuana and wife 
swapping.  I was fully prepared to flirt, to preen, to show off 
my young, tanned body and full breasts, to allow them to 
pinch my butt, and to accept a proposition into bed with a big 
studio fish.
	We arrived at the party at 7pm on a hot June day.  
Stan introduced me to Art Prickerson, who walked us 
around and introduced us to the big shots.
	Dino Martini:  "A new filly for the Club!  You’ll make 
it, darlin’, don’t worry."
	Peter Lawford:  "Smashing!  Terrific!"
	Hugh Hefner:  "Give me your number and we’ll talk 
about a layout."
	I thought I had finally arrived in Hollywood.
Art asked me if I knew what the big entertainment 
at the Club was.
	"An orgy?"  I responded.
	Art laughed and introduced me to his wife.  "Angie, 
tell Rocky here what the initiation ceremony is like."
	"C’mon, honey, and I’ll ya about the difference 
between kitties and cats."  Angie put her arm around my 
waist and led me towards the theater.
	After the door had closed, she knocked me to the 
floor and raked the dress off my body with her nails.
I was too stunned to fight back.  By the time I had 
recovered from my shock, the blonde had me tied to the 
theater chair.
	Watching the movie was like a epiphany for me.  
Perhaps my past lives were floating just underneath my 
consciousness.  The lifetime of a Catalan aristocrat lay in my 
soul, waiting to be tapped.  As soon as I saw the women 
fighting each other, I knew I lusted for that experience.  
The sex in the bed should have been so disgusting...but it 
turned me on.
	I would do anything to fight Angie, and make her my 
slave in bed.
	I wet with desire as I put on the bikini.


As soon as I walked into the backyard, wearing the leopard 
skin bikini, Dino wolf whistled at me.
	"Well, hello there, darlin’, you’re lookin’ might fine!"  
He put his arm around my waist and pinched my butt.  
"Welcome to the club!"
	He had been chatting with Stella Stellar, who was 
decked out in a polka dot bikini, similar to the one that 
Marilyn had worn in the movie.  She saw Dino’s reaction to me 
and instantly recognized me for what I was:  competition.
	"She hasn’t made it yet,"  Stella said firmly, taking a 
drag off her cigarette.  Her heels clacked disapprovingly of 
me on the ground.
	I had enough experience with these Hollywood types: 
you couldn’t act like a pushover, or they would walk all over 
you.
	"Says who?"  I bellowed at Stella, and walked over to 
her, butting her chest with my breasts, pushing her back a 
step.
	"You little hussy!"  Stella hissed back.  She threw 
away the cigarette and butted her boobs against mine.  "Who 
do you think you are?"
	I liked the feeling.  A chill of excitement raced down 
my spine.
	I pushed Stella’s shoulders hard, and she came back 
and yanked my hair hard.
	The crowd looked over at us.  Peter Lawford shouted 
from across the pool:  "Don’t take any shit from Stella, 
Rocky!"  Everyone chuckled.
	Art Prickerson raced over and pulled Stella away 
from me.  "Save yourself for Margaret-Ann, Stella!  I can’t 
lose you to that studio.  I need you in that Elvis picture."
	"Next time, honey!"  Stella pointed her finger at me.  
"You’re mine!"
	"Go get a drink,"  Art commanded.
	The blonde walked off in a fury.
	"Whoa!  The fur is flyin’ now, son!"  Dino laughed.  He 
obviously enjoyed watching Stella and I taunt each other.  He 
put his hand on my shoulder and said:  "We better get this 
kitty some action."
	"I see you know what the Club is all about,"  Art 
said, taking my hand.  "Come to the litterbox, my dear."
	He walked me around the pool, showing me off to the 
crowd.  Everyone was oogling my body, watching my chest, 
pinching my ass.  
	I saw Stan in the crowd, near a bunch of producers.  
He looked stoned as he whispered:  "Go get her."
	We walked to a new garden arena that Art had built 
since the Marilyn fight:  a square pit, six feet deep, thirty 
feet wide.  At the bottom of the pit was soft beach sand.
The hair on my neck stood up.   My mind was suddenly 
flooded with unbidden images and sounds...


I am standing in an open marble arena, straight 
out of Spartucus.  The sun is on my back and I feel cool 
metal beads resting on my chest.  I see a blonde femizon 
warrior, clad in a chain-mail bikini, warily circling me.  
Our Empress sits on a raised platform above the arena.  
She signals her command to let the fight begin. The 
audience of 5,000 females roar in unison as I lock hands 
with the blonde in a test of strength.  I see the hatred 
in my enemy’s eyes as her lips curl back in a vicious smile, 
and she whispers:  "Dorian made me such a fine slave 
until she died."


Angie’s words snapped me back to the reality of 
1964: :   "Let’s get on with the show, honey!"
	The blonde stood at one corner of the sand pit, hands 
on her hips.  She grinned at Art, kicked off her high heels 
and leapt into the pit.
	I told myself it was only a silly dream, as I followed 
Angie into the pit.  The crowd lined up around the corners of 
the arena, their cocks and cunts both hard and moist with 
anticipation.


To be continued in Hollywood Catpack, Chapter 1, Part II...