You don’t know me, but my name is Ashley.  I’m an English major at the local community college.  I love essay contests; I promised myself I would enter every one I could.

                Essay contests are frequently posted on the bulletin board of my community college for all of us English majors to read.  When I first saw Seaking’s Femfight writer’s competition, I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I’m always looking for something to put on my resume, and here was a chance to put something on my resume.  I thought I could write a quick essay, submit it, and wait for the prizes to start rolling in.

                Then I noticed what the essay had to be about – a fight.  I had never fought in my life.  How could I write about fighting if I had never done it?  That’s when I knew that I needed to find myself a fight.

                I had always wanted to fight, but I never had.  I had almost always managed to control my temper when in public.  The one time that I did not control it – when Ellen Welbert poured a Coke on my head after I had kissed her former boyfriend in front of her at the football game in junior high – a crowd of people held me back.

                “Where can I find a fight?” I asked my roommate Tina.  I had thought about challenging Tina, but Tina was a small girl of 5’4” and was way too petite for me to fight.

                “Tom’s probably going to bust Tim at The Joint tonight,” she offered, not getting my point.  “Come after ten and you’ll probably catch the action.”

                “No.  I mean, for me.  I want to fight.”

                “Why?”

                “I just do.”

                “People get hurt fighting.”

                She was always Captain Obvious.  When you get right down to it, that’s the whole purpose of a fight – to hurt someone worse than they can hurt you.

                Chrissy, my other roommate, looked up from her bed where she was reading the latest letter from her boyfriend in Florida.  “Just walk up and ask somebody,” Chrissy said.  I looked at her puzzled.  “Hey, the most they can say is no.  If you’re a stranger, you’ve never met them before and you aren’t likely to meet them again, so what do you care what they think of you?”

                She had a point.  The next night was a Friday, and none of us had dates.  Therefore, we decided we would troll the library looking for an opponent for me.  The first person we came upon who wasn’t surrounded by her friends was a blonde.  As my friends looked on from a table across the room, I walked across the library to where the blonde sat by herself studying.  “I want to fight you,” I said, towering over her.

                “You what?” the blonde asked, looking up from her homework.  She had money written all over her, from the fuzzy white sweater that covered her DD-boobs to the designer jeans that covered her tight ass.  She had manicured nails and a styled-haircut; I doubted if she had ever been in a fight in her life.

                “I want to fight you,” I repeated, the self-assurance no longer present in my voice.

                “Fight?” the blonde questioned, looking up from her work. 

                “Yeah.  You know, throw fists.”

                “Why would I want to fight you?” she asked innocently, laying her glasses on her history book.

                “To see who’s the better woman.”

                “Do you always walk up to strangers and try to pick a fight?” she asked, rising to look me in the eyes.  She was clearly sizing me up, determining if she thought she could take me.  I couldn’t believe that she was actually thinking about fighting me.

                I was a 5’10” brunette junior.  She was a 5’9” blonde sophomore.  I was a C-cup, but she was a DD.  I had never fought before and I doubted if she had.  I’m normally a peace-loving person, but I wanted to enter the “My best fight ever” essay competition, and, if I was going to be able to write about it, I figured I had better learn how to do it.

                I had seen the blonde several times in the library, and I felt she was a good choice to challenge.  She was about my size, so I doubted if she would refuse the challenge, but I thought I could take her.  I had seen her in the library many times.  Typically, she and her sorority sisters would gather around a table.  She was the studious one of the sorority, though, and while her friends enjoyed fraternity parties – like they had done tonight, she would come to the library to study – like she’d done tonight..  From what I could tell, her friends really didn’t like her, but she obviously had money, and her friends wanted access to what her family had to offer.

                I’m a bookworm myself.  A good Christian girl, I had never fought in my life.  Well, okay, I hit my baby brother a few times to keep him in line.  That really wasn’t a fight though, because, as a kid, after one blow he would be crying.  As he got older – and stronger – I just stayed out of his way.  I wouldn’t call those scuffles we had when we were kids “fights” – there was no blood, no black eyes, etc.

                “Scared?” I asked, looking back into her eyes.

                “No,” she retorted, and continued to stare at me.  When I unintentionally averted my eyes, she sat down.

                “I’m serious.  I want to kick your ass,” I said, pulling up a chair across from her.

                “Why?”

                “I’ve never fought before, and I want to see what it feels like.  I’m entering an essay contest in which I’m supposed to describe my best fight ever, and, to be perfectly honest, I have never fought.”

                “Ditto,” the blonde confessed, “although I’ve often dreamed of doing it.”

                “I want to be able to describe the feelings one gets as one sinks a punch into somebody’s tit; what it sounds like as the air escapes from a girl’s body when the stomach is pulverized by a fist, and the joy of making somebody cry,” I stated, and then, thinking I might be too aggressive, I added, “I also want to feel what it feels like to have somebody pull my hair, to have blood come out of my nose, and to lay on the ground completely helpless while someone gloats over me.”

                Actually, I did and I didn’t want to experience all of that.  I wanted to experience it for the sake of experience itself, but a bloody nose sounded painful and gross, and I had no real desire to have one.  I also had no desire to lose.  If I was going to fight, I was going to win.

                “I’ve been pampered all of my life,” the blonde confessed.  “I’ve not had to work a day of my life.  When I was in grade school I always wanted to get in a fight, just to prove that I was tough.  I didn’t dare do it, though, because my parents would have grounded me and taken away my allowance.”

                “So you want to fight?” I prodded, amazed I had actually found someone so easily.

                “What did you have in mind?” she asked, avoiding the question.  “Boxing gloves?”

                “Bare fists.”

                “Where and when?”

                “Let’s go to the band field and settle it right now,” I stated boldly.

                “The band field?”

                “Afraid of getting dirty?” I taunted.

                She ignored the jab.  “Do you want to get arrested?  There will be cops swarming the place in a matter of minutes.  We need to go somewhere that we can’t be interrupted.”  A smirk crossed her face.  She then whispered, “I wouldn’t want anyone to stop the beating I’m going to give you.”

                “How about my dorm room?”

                “Too many people to hear you scream.  We need a place where you can yell and no one hear you.”

                My mind raced back to a place on a nearby farm a frat boy had taken me to once.  It was a lush green meadow.  People partied there a lot at night, but no one came to it during the day.  I described it to her.

                “Too far,” she said.

                “You’re just scared,” I retorted.  “Let’s do it in that field!”

                “I’ve got a better idea.  One of my sorority sisters lives in town.  She and her parents are going to be out of town this week.  I bet I can get a key to their place Friday night.  It’s the house right beside that big Catholic Church.”

                “I’m game,” I said hesitantly.

                “Just you and me?” she whispered, watching my friends out of the corner of her eye.

                “No witnesses,” I agreed, feeling myself tremble inside with anticipation. 

                I wasn’t opposed to witnesses per se.  In fact, I would have liked to have had someone video tape the event.  However, I didn’t want her sorority sisters to jump in if she started to lose.  Even if we each brought two seconds, Tina and Chrissy couldn’t hold their own if a fight of seconds broke out.

                I also thought that having my boyfriend present might be a good idea.  He’s get horny watching me fight.  Too, he could keep her off me if she refused to respect my “give”.  However, like my girl friends, my boyfriend wasn’t exactly a he-man, and he would likely lose to her boyfriend if the boys started fighting.  I was leery of going by myself – would she actually come by herself – but I felt it was in the best interests of my friends if I did.

                “No ref?” she probed.

                “Just you and me,” I confirmed.  “Got a problem with that?”

                “There’s a problem with that.”

                “Oh?”

                “Your eyes are going to be so swollen, you won’t be able to see to drive home.”

                “I appreciate your concern,” I mocked.  “Let’s each bring a cell phone and preprogram it to call a friend.  When the fight is over, the loser can call for help if she needs it.”

                “Oh, you’ll need it.”

                “You’re friends do know how to use a cell phone, don’t they?”

                “It doesn’t matter if they do or not.  I’m not the one who is going to have her eyes swollen shut.”

                I could picture her with two black eyes and a puffy face, and I marveled that my fists could make that a reality.  In one way, it was a horrendous sight; in another way, it was beautiful.

                “What else do we need to discuss?” she asked.

                I thought for a moment.  “Attire?”

                “Jeans and a tank top?”

                “Barefoot?”

                “Sure.”

                “Sounds fine to me.”  She was beginning to sound too cocky for my liking.  To soften her attitude, I popped my right fist into my left hand and added, “Just make sure it is something you can get blood on.”

                “Yeah, you’re going to bleed all over me.”

                I had to admit that she was quick on her comeback, and I have to admit, I wondered if I had gotten myself into something I was going to regret.  I had butterflies in my stomach as I drove to the address she’d given me.  I was looking forward to the fight, but I was nervous.  I had seen several girl fights, and I figured that fighting would come naturally to me once we started, but I had to admit that I barely knew how to make a fist.

                I worried too about serious injuries – not just to me, but to her too.  What if I broke her nose; I knew nothing of first aid and I certainly didn’t want her to die from the fight.  What if she lost badly, and then decided to go to the police, claiming I mugged her?

                Of course I was worried about myself too.  What if she messed up my face so badly that my employer decided to fire me?  What if she made me cry uncontrollably, and then laughed at me?  What if she knocked out one of my teeth; what would I tell my friends?  What if she pulled off my pants in the scuffle; would I have the guts to fight naked?

                I made a vow to myself that she wasn’t going to get to do any of that.  A good offense is the best defense, I told myself, and I planned to pummel her so hard she’d be covering up rather than throwing punches of her own.

                She was waiting for me in her red Corvette in the driveway when I pulled up in my six-year-old hand-me-down Ford to the front of the house.    Seeing that I was indeed coming, she got out of her car, went to the front door, and unlocked it.  She slipped into the house as I pulled into the driveway.

                She’s beautiful, I thought, admiring the blue jean shorts she was wearing and the white t-shirt against her tan skin.  I’m not great with Greek letters, but, whatever sorority she was a part of, she had the Greek letters on her chest and on her buttocks, drawing attention to both areas.   I’m not gay; I’m not lesbian, but I recognize a good-looking girl when I see one, and she was good-looking.

                That actually pleased me.  I’m glad I was fighting a pretty girl instead of an ugly one.  With my fists, I planned to make her ugly.  Nature had beat me to it with an ugly girl.

                She was wearing a white t-shirt, but she might as well have been topless, for I could see right through it.  Her breasts were perky; they looked like two punching bags strapped to her chest.  She had a slight pooch to her stomach, and, when she raised her arms, her shirt rose to expose this roll of fat.

                I knocked and walked into the house.  The living room was huge and spacious.  She had pulled one coffee table to the side; otherwise, no furniture need to be moved.  The sofa, television, and other pieces of furniture were already out of the way.

                I had worn my jeans and a white Bud-Lite t-shirt.  I wanted her to see my ass; I wanted to grind my ass into her face.  As I said before, I am not gay, but I admit I pondered whether I would toss off my pants to do this or not, and, if I did sit on her face in the buff, if I would make her lick my crotch.

                My mind then pictured her sitting on my face butt naked – not a pretty sight – asking me to lick.  I could almost smell her twat.  I wondered if she was a natural blonde or if her pubic hair would reveal another color.  I even wondered if she had public hair or if she was one of those kinky girls who shaved it all off.

                It would be interesting to pull her pubic hair, I thought.  I hope she didn’t shave it.  I’d make her yelp in pain and literally pull out a handful.  I could even picture me putting one of her hairs in my scrapbook to remind me forever of my first fist fight.

                She took a phone out of her purse and set it on the table by the door.  She then stepped away to let me do the same.  As I set my phone down, she kicked off her shoes.  She had a sexy silver chain on her leg; she unclasped it and set it on an end table.  Her toe nails were painted blood red – painting them was the only way she was going to get that color on them, I vowed.

                My own toes were painted pink.  I kicked off my sandals to expose them better.  The carpet was lush, and it felt good on my toes.  The white on the carpet went well with my Caucasion skin and pink-painted toes.  I wish my boyfriend could have seen me.

                She smiled.  She was actually enjoying this.  She was as excited as I was.  We were both filled with anxiety, but we were both anticipating sweet victory.

                “It’s not too late to change your mind,” I said, stepping away from the table and kicking off my shoes.

                “I’m not changing anything – except for the way your face looks,” she said, getting within three feet of me.  “Are you ready for your beating?”

                “Bring it on,” I urged, fully expecting her to dance around me and throw a few punches into the air.  Instead, she lurched at me and knocked me to the ground.

                I was surprised at her aggressiveness, but I was able to roll over and pin her.  Within seconds, I was sitting on her chest, throwing punches at her face.  To my amazement, she started to cry.

                She squirmed and managed to roll over, but she was still underneath me, just on her stomach now protecting her head like a turtle hides in its shell.  I grabbed a handful of blonde hair, wrapped it around my hand, and pulled, yanking her face skyward.  My other hand connected with her suddenly-exposed face, resulting in a loud pop.

                I had never pulled hair before, and, to be honest, I was thoroughly enjoying myself.  Based on her screams, though, I don’t think the feeling was mutual.

                Gosh, she was loud.  I never heard a girl yell so loud in a fight.  I was glad we hadn’t fought in my dorm room; my RA (resident assistant, the person in charge of monitoring the dorm floor) would have heard us and broken us up.

                “No one can hear you,” I hissed, pulling her hair even tighter. 

                I never dreamed that I could pull out a wad of hair, but that’s exactly what I did.  I quickly dropped the tangled clump on the floor and resumed smacking her, first with my left fist and then with my right fist.

                She sat there and took it, sobbing.  She didn’t beg for mercy, though.

I rose to my feet.  “Get up,” I ordered as she curled into a ball on the floor.  “We came here to fight.”

                She made no effort, so I kicked her as hard as I could.  I caught her mouth with my foot, and I actually raised her whole body.  That caused her to apparently bite her lip, for blood started to flow from her mouth.  She started sobbing even harder, and drops of blood fell onto the snow-white carpet..

                “Oh, come on,” I encouraged.  “Get mad.  Hit me.”

                I slapped her face a couple of times.

                “Is this all that I’m going to have to write about?  Do you think I’ll win an essay contest with this?”  I was getting frustrated.

                She obviously didn’t care whether I won or not.  She just pulled her hands over her head.

                “You’re going to go down in history as a loser.  I’m going to post my essay on the web for all to see.  Are you sure you want them to read about a sniffling sorority girl who gave up after one minute.  What will your sorority sisters think?”

                She mumbled a “f- you” as she spit blood.  She showed no intention, though, of rising from the floor.

                “Get mad,” I insisted, jerking off her shirt.  Her tits were erect from the excitement of the fight.

                I could see the anger in her eyes as I waved the blood-speckled shirt above me head.  She obviously felt outclassed, though, and she made no effort to get her shirt back.

                In a way, I wish I was her.  I would have liked to have experienced what it would feel like to have my tits exposed to the open breeze and to have the taste of blood in my mouth.  On the whole, though, I was glad that I was winning.  It was fun to be in control.

                “Let’s hear you say Ashley kicked my butt,” I taunted.

                She didn’t say a thing; she just lay there sobbing.

                “Say it,” I insisted, taking a step towards her.

                She flinched. 

                I wish I could tell you how wonderful that felt.  I have never had anybody who was scared of me.  Watching that look of panic cross her face was pricelsss.

                “Ashley kicked me butt,” she said hurriedly as I drew my hand back to slap her cheek.

                “You’re a pathetic little loser,” I sighed, tossing her shirt to her.

I had now won my first fight.  Whether I can win my first essay contest is up to you.  I hope, dear judges, that you think highly of my essay and of my encounter.  I regret that it isn’t more graphic and violent, but reality is not fiction, and I can’t just make up details if I’m to keep this a true story.

                I’m looking for my next fight.  I have a girl in mind, a barmaid down at the local college hangout.  I’ve seen her temper, but I think I can take her.  I’m thinking about calling her out in front of the bar so everyone in the bar can come out and watch.  I think having an audience will be fun.

                Who knows, I might even call you out.  You can’t ever tell when I might walk up to you and see if you have the nerve to fight.  You obviously enjoy reading about fighting, but reading and doing are two different things.  If you’re a female and are interested in more than just reading about fighting, let me know.  I want to kick somebody’s ass for real – it might as well be yours.

                                                                                                -Ashley