Mixed Fights
by MBP MWFAN318@aol.com
After a night at the fights, Jane and I mix it up.


I've been dating Jane for several weeks. She's great: pretty, intelligent,
athletic. Jane also enjoys life. So many women I know, including my mother,
spend so much time and effort being miserable. It is great to be with a happy
person. I love Jane, and I expect to marry her.

After rushing to the arena, we no sooner sit down when the first fight is
called. I listen expectantly, as the ring announcer introduces the combatants.

"In the corner to my left, standing 5'6" and weighing 119 pounds, is Heather,
the California blonde."

A pretty woman with long blonde hair steps forward in the ring. She is wearing
a white bikini, a golden tan, and nothing else. I hear wolf whistles from the
men in the crowd, and I turn to Jane, confused. She is staring intently at the
ring so I turn back for the rest of the introduction.

"And in the corner to my right, standing 6'4" and weighing a massive 260
pounds, is Joe, the Texas brawler."

Wearing a wrestling singlet, Joe poses and receives a mix of catcalls and
cheers. I stare at the ring in utter amazement, and turn to Jane.

"What's going on?" I ask my girlfriend. "I thought we got tickets to one of
those Toughman contests."

Jane says, "This is another type of Toughman: mixed fights."

"What do you mean mixed fights?"

Jane laughs at my ignorance. "Mixed fights. You know, fights between men and
women."

"Those two are going to fight?" I query amazedly. "No way. He'll kill her."

"No he won't. I'll tell you what. I'll bet you 10 bucks the girl wins."

"That Barbie doll? You're on."

The bell rings, starting the fight. Heather and Joe move around the ring like
a couple of professional wrestlers. The lady wrestler moves like a cat, smooth
and quick. Joe is ponderous and slow as he stalks, but it only seems a matter
of time before he overpowers Heather. He finally makes a move. The pretty girl
steps aside, grabs his head, and flips the big man to the mat. The applause is
thunderous as Heather poses for the crowd.

Joe gets up, unhurt, and continues stalking his prey. Heather moves just
within range and the man grabs her shoulder. Heather spins while grabbing his
hand with both of hers, and Joe goes flying again. Still holding his arm when
Joe lands, Heather attempts to bring his arm up his back. Joe simply shrugs
her off. Heather backs off and waits for Joe to get to his feet.

I watch the cat-and-mouse game. It's obvious to me Joe is far stronger than
the girl, but he needs to get a hold of Heather to use his strength. She is
more skilled and much quicker of foot and has been able to hold Joe at bay.
The match continues.

Joe lunges at Heather a couple of times, but she easily avoids him. He lunges
again. This time, Heather grabs his hand and using his momentum, flings him
into the ropes. Joe bounces off the ropes, unable to steady himself. Joe's
movement assists Heather as she ducks under him and hoists the huge man onto
her slim shoulders. There is a collective gasp from the audience as Heather
begins to spin. After a few rotations, Heather drops the dizzy Joe hard onto
the canvas. She casually grabs his legs and pulls them back over his head, in
some form of a Boston crab. Joe's legs aren't meant to bend that way; he
screams his submission.

Heather releases Joe and bows to the roaring crowd. Astonished, I can't even
applaud. I just stare at the ring as Heather puts a pretty foot on Joe and
flashes a biceps pose. She has nicely-defined arms. Heather dons her robe and
jogs to the dressing room. It will be a little while before Joe can do the
same. I feel my girlfriend poking me.

"Pay up," Jane says, laughing. "That will be 10 smackers."

I reach for my wallet and hand her a 10 spot. I say, unconvincingly, "That has
to be fake."

"No way," Jane declares pointedly, looking at me like I can't see straight.
"Look at the way she picked him up. She won fair and square."

Jane is definitely right. Heather is quicker and better and strong enough to
airplane spin a man 140 pounds heavier than her. So why do I have this
nauseating feeling in the pit of my stomach? I excuse myself and go to the
bathroom.

When I get back, the second fight is about to start. I miss the introductions,
but I can see the competitors clearly enough. Both are wearing boxing gear:
red gloves and head protection gear. He is wearing shorts and would look just
like an amateur boxer, except he is not wearing shoes. He appears to be about
my height - I'm 5'10" - but thicker and more muscled.

His opponent is a petite brunette with a dark complexion. She could be
Hispanic or Arabic or Israeli, from that part of the world. She is barely 5
feet tall, and slender. The woman is wearing bicycle pants and some kind of
protective gear on her breasts. She is also barefoot. The two meet at the
center of the ring and touch gloves. It looks as if a man is about to fight a
small child.

The bell sounds, and as in the previous contest, the fighters dance around the
ring. The man is much quicker than Joe, but still appears slow compared to the
lithe girl. The man throws the first punches, but nothing lands. The little
brunette flits in and lands three shots to the guy's torso. Her blows appear
light and have no immediate effect on her opponent. The first round follows
the same pattern and it's easy to spot. The girl is skilled and quick and good
on defense. The guy hits her a couple of times, but the blows are glancing,
and she blocks or avoids the others. It he could connect solidly just once,
the fight would end. Meanwhile, the woman easily overcomes the man's clumsy
defensive efforts and peppers him with several light punches at a time. She
never stays close long enough for him to retaliate. She moves swiftly around
the ring, up on her toes, never getting tired. The man is also in good shape,
however, and is not slow. He just cannot match the smaller girl's quickness.
The bell dings with to signal the end of the first round. Both fighters are
still breathing easily.

The second round is more of the same. I'm curious as to how the fight will
end. There are no judges; the referee is there to separate the fighters and
enforce the rules. The woman is well ahead on points, but no one is scoring
the fight. Only a knockout or a submission will end it. The man chases after
her, trying to land a knockout blow. The girl continues her assault. She
appears to be trying to tire her opponent. Watching her, I'm reminded of a
lumberjack with a small ax trying to cut down a redwood tree. It looks
ridiculous, but given enough time, the tree will fall. The second round ends
with both fighters standing. The woman gives her opponent a teasing look as he
returns to his corner, frustrated, and a little tired.

Early in the third round, I see the big man wince as the girl hits him in the
ribs for the umpteenth time. His face is no longer unmarked. He is not
bleeding, but sporting black- and-blue bruises from her onslaught. He is
covering up more, not throwing as many punches. I think he is better off if he
keeps punching, as the fight will continue until one of them cannot.
Therefore, he can't be saved by the last round. I'm not in the ring, however,
as obviously her punches are not so light and he is starting to hurt badly.

About halfway through the round, the woman hits him a couple of body shots,
and then a light blow to the jaw. The man gets a strange look on his face,
then collapses, face first, on the canvas. The redwood is down; the lumberjack
- actually a lumberjill - accepts the appreciation of the crowd. She leaves to
the tumultuous ovation; it's a couple of minutes before the man awakens and
exits to sympathetic applause.

I'm sitting in an aisle seat. The victorious woman passes by me. She is tiny,
probably no bigger than a 13-year-old girl, although she is an adult. I stare
wide-eyed as she passes me, and feel Jane jabbing me in the ribs. I turn to
her.

She says, "What do you think now?"

I don't know what to think. I flash her a fake smile, which she accepts as my
acquiescence that I'm having a good time. Actually, I'm not, but I'm not
really sure why. The next fight is announced, and Jane and I settle back to
watch.

The rest of the fights are presented. Some of the women are big, but all are
dwarfed by their male counterparts. The event is not exactly like what I
understand of the Toughman competition. Unlike the Toughman, there is no
championship, just a series of individual fights. The Toughman contests are
all hard-fought boxing contests. Here, it varies. We see some wrestling
matches, some boxing matches, one martial-arts contest, and a couple of
"anything goes" events. The women win all but two of the many fights ( I lost
count). One man won easily; the other got lucky as the woman dominates but
slips which allows the guy to get control. I watch the crowd (and Jane). The
women are all whooping and hollering, quite understandably, but most of the
men follow suit. There appears to be just a few guys, including yours truly,
who are upset by the results.

The fights end and the crowd exits. Jane is all aglow and doesn't seem to
notice my reticence. The audience is replete with females teasing their dates
and male friends. The guys mostly don't mind and play along.

In the car, Jane finally notices my mood.

"What's the matter, honey?" she asks.

"I'm not sure."

Jane looks carefully at me. Her look changes. "You're shocked by the results,"
she states, annoyed. "I never figured you for a male chauvinist."

"I'm not," I respond. "At least I think I'm not."

"Then what's going on?"

"You know, Jane," I start, considering my thoughts. "I'm not a male
chauvinist. I believe in equal rights, equal pay for equal work. I believe a
woman should not be limited by anything, should be able to get any job for
which she is qualified, and I want the glass ceiling to be cracked. It's just
that..."

"Go on," she prodded.

"It's just that, biologically, men are generally bigger, stronger and faster
then women. I know there are women out there that belie that fact, but to
watch an entire series of women clobber a bunch of bigger men, well, I just
feel like I was let down by the guys who were fighting. My gender let me down
and I feel as though I was beaten myself."

Jane responds, "It's not that the guys were weaker. The women were just better
fighters. They were more skillful. You have to respect that."

"I guess I do. It's just hard to believe so many girls can beat up guys. Did
you see that second fight? That little brunette couldn't have been more than
90 pounds and she knocked out that guy who was bigger than me. It's not
right."

"So you don't think it's right? What if I could beat you up? Would this be a
problem."

I laugh, which is stupid. "C'mon, Jane, you're athletic, but I can take you in
a second."

"Oh, yeah," Jane retorted. "I think we will see about that. And we'll see how
you'll deal with it. I thought you were marriage material, but perhaps I'm
wrong."

Her mentioning marriage makes me feel good. "I love you, too, Jane," I say for
the first time. And I add, teasingly, "But I wear the pants in this family."

She didn't take it as well as I hoped. "Stop by the sporting goods store and
pick up some stuff. Now take me home. I don't want to see your face until
tomorrow."

My night shot to hell, I drop her off and head to my apartment. I fall asleep
wondering about tomorrow, and dream of the little brunette knocking me down.

I stop at Jane's house and ring her bell. I see her. Jane looks fantastic in
the bicycle shorts, her shapely butt absolutely perfect. She is wearing a
bikini top, but I'm not sure if she will fight in that. I'm wearing shorts and
my muscle tank top. I'm carrying two pairs of 16-ounce boxing gloves, and head
gear. Jane sees it and smiles (but not at me) and invites me in.

There is a makeshift canvas on the living room floor made of several smaller
mats Jane uses for exercising. There is carpet underneath the mats anyway,
just in case. Around the mats furniture is placed to make a boxing "ring."
Jane puts on the gloves and the head gear. I kick off my sandals and don the
boxing paraphernalia. Neither of us says a word. I pause to take stock.

Jane is 5'4" and 115 pounds. I weigh around 170, giving me 6 inches and 55
pounds in size. She is a terrific athlete. I can throw a ball around with her
just as I would with one of the guys, be it football or softball. She can
probably outrun me. I'm certainly stronger than her. I glance over. She wears
that look of determination when she is competing. I suddenly feel this will be
tough, despite my size and strength advantage. This is not what I am
expecting.

Jane is the first to clear her throat.

"Here are the rules. It's an "anything goes" match, with the following
exceptions. There will be no kicking. I'll stay away from your balls, and you
stay away from my tits. We can only hit with the gloves on. If the boxing
gloves are off, then no hitting. Is this acceptable?"

God, she is so cold and official. "Yes," I say simply. I consider tossing in a
tease, but it is not a good time.

Now ready, the two of us dance around the makeshift ring. Jane moves to me and
throws a couple of hard punches. One hits, but not flush, and I move away. I
step in a try a couple of left jabs and I catch Jane with one of them. She is
not bothered and swarms on me throwing rights and lefts. I cover up and move
away. Strangely, I think, Jane is the brawler. She comes after me, pelting me
with punches.

I can tell Jane has no boxing experience; neither do I. She is attacking me
aggressively and I'm not sure what to do. I finally throw punches back at her.
We flail away at one another, more like a hockey fight than a scientific
boxing match. I have to be hurting her. I feel my fists connecting with her
solid midsection; feel my punches banging into her face. But Jane keeps
throwing and something finally happens: I fall down.

I don't know why I fell. It was more like sitting down then falling. I wasn't
hurt. It is the accumulation of punches and the loss of the battle of wills.
Jane moves away from me as I sit on a mat, stunned by the turn of events. I
look up at her. She is bleeding lightly from the mouth, but a triumphant smile
is there also.

"You're going to beat me in a second, right? That's what you said. Well, I
knocked you flat on your butt. What do you think about that?"

I don't know what to think. But I don't stay sitting long. I spring at Jane,
knocking her over with a classic football tackle. I try to remove my gloves;
it's not easy. Jane uses the time to recover and she socks me in the jaw. I
work through it and finally get the gloves off. I tackle her again, and grab
her arms. I'm all over her, trying for control, but it is difficult. Jane
fights like a wildcat. No matter how hard I hold them, she manages to free her
arms and then rains punches at me. She's stronger than I expect, certainly
stronger than I'd expect 115 pounds of beautiful woman to be. I use my legs
and body and manage to trap her right arm. I rip the boxing glove from her
hand, figuring that by our rules Jane won't be able to hit me. She responds by
pulling the other glove from her left hand, frees herself, then tackles me. We
roll around on the mats and carpet, fighting for an advantage.

I wrap myself around her, my right arm around Jane's waist, my left arm has
hers under some semblance of control. We're positioned as pairs ice skaters
would be, if they were lying down. Looking at Jane's left arm trying to free
itself, I'm struck by the relative size difference between my thicker, more
heavily muscled arm, and her lean one. It should be easier for me to control
my slim girlfriend, but I'm hanging on for dear life.

I say to her, through clenched teeth, "Do you give up?"

Jane snorts, then chortles, two unpleasant sounds filled with derision. "You
got to be kidding," she says. Pulling her legs up behind her, Jane gets them
between by stomach and her body. She pushes hard as I struggle to maintain the
current position. Her legs are too strong, however, and we separate. I quickly
move to my feet only to find Jane standing also. Both of us are breathing
heavily; we silently agree on a short break.

I look at Jane. Her hair is a mess and she's still bleeding from her mouth but
she looks - what's the best way to put it - alive. I don't want to think about
how I look. I'm still astounded, despite all I've seen and been through, that
Jane is my fighting equal (at least). If anything, she has gotten the better
of the fight. I steel myself for what's to come - I know Jane is not going to
quit - and we clash in the center of the ring.

I try to take her down but her balance is rock solid and I fail. She attempts
the same but also doesn't succeed. We grapple, arms locked around each other's
heads, both knowing it is a pivotal moment in our match. Jane drags me off
balance just a little and thrusts her hip into me; I feel one of my feet lift
off the ground. I fight hard, using my strength and my weight to remain
anchored, but Jane is unrelenting. She succeeds in completely lifting me off
the ground. Pausing with me in the air on her hip, Jane grins wildly at me,
then pounds me to the mat. She doesn't bother to follow up on her advantage. I
rise more slowly and turn to face her. Jane's grin says she's already won,
even through we're still technically on even terms.

Jane may be overconfident now. I try to take advantage, wobbling a little as
we come together. Then I spring into action and try to sweep her legs with
mine, but Jane is ready for this. My maneuver fails and takes me somewhat off
balance. Jane takes advantage, pulls me more off balance, then pivots and hip
tosses me again. I land heavily despite the soft surface. Jane pounces, lands
hard on my chest, and attempts to pin me. I try to fight back, but both of us
know I don't have much fight left. She secures her position on my chest, knees
wrapping around my shoulders, feet near my armpits pressing against my side.
She doesn't have control of my arms yet, but it is a matter of time.

Jane says to me, "Do you give?"

"No," I exclaim loudly, putting on a show of defiance. I push and pull and
shake, trying to dislodge Jane. She rides it out, stays in control and smiles
at me the entire time. My energy wanes; I stop fighting. Jane accepts this as
a submission. Although Jane's pin is not a submission hold per se, she knows I
surrender mentally.

Jane sits calmly on me and removes her bikini top. Her firm, full breasts are
spectacularly in view. I know it is just another symbol, as if I do not have
enough of them, of the fact it is a woman who has beaten me.

She says, "Tell me how you feel. Do it honestly. Don't lie, because I'll
know."

I think about it. "First of all, no matter what else I say, I feel humiliated
that my girlfriend beat me up. There is still, and may always be, that part of
me that expects me to win a fight against a girl. That being said, it's not as
bad as I expected. I try equating it with losing to you at tennis, which I
already have. I tried my best, both at tennis, and at fighting, and lost. I
couldn't do better, couldn't try harder and lost anyway to a superior
opponent. It shouldn't matter that my opponent is female."

I pause here to look at Jane. She is smiling: not the obnoxious smile of the
pin, but the warm smile she reserves just for me. All of a sudden, I feel a
lot better. Jane and I are OK.

I am about to begin speaking again when Jane rises suddenly. I start to get
up, but Jane doesn't want me to.

"Just stay there. I'll be back in five minutes."

I just nod as I watch Jane exit to the bedroom. A few minutes go by alone with
my thoughts. I think about my loss and it begins to nauseate me, but then I
think about my gain, about being with Jane, and I feel much better.

Jane returns and I look over to her. She has combed her hair. She is still
topless, but is wearing the sexy skirt she wore on our first date: black and
mid-length, with slits on the sides. She is also wearing pantyhose. Jane stops
near me and poses. She is so sexy I get an erection. Concurrently, I have the
thought that this sexy girl can physically overpower me. It's a strange
feeling.

Jane helps me to my feet and kisses me passionately. I bend to kiss her
breasts but Jane ducks under me and lifts me onto her smooth shoulders. It
doesn't surprise me that Jane can do this. I think any reasonably athletic
girl can do this to an average-sized man. But it feels surprisingly good.

"You stink and you're full of sweat," Jane says, as she carries me to the
bathroom. "First we're going to take a shower and you're going to tell me how
much you love me, and then we're going to bed and you're going to show me."

I sigh happily.