FIGHTING FOR A VALENTINE - short story

"Two girls fight, pulling each others' hair"

From the tomb of Menna

Superintendent of the estates of the King and Amun,

Scribe of the estates in the North and the South

(mid 18th Dynasty)

In this age when only IRS agents and mothers can always tell fact from fiction, the following disclaimer seems in order. This story is roughly, very roughly, based on a real life experience. Some facts have been fictionalized to, with luck, make it a better story. Names and such have been changed to protect me, the writer. Everyone else mentioned in the story is more than capable of taking care of themselves.

By the way, it wasn't easy finding some semi-appropriate image that was neither fuzzy nor porn. Those wanting to find out more about old Menna and his cohorts should check out: "Egypt: Land of Eternity" at, http://members.tripod.com/~ib205/book.html

Bayou Bill

==

Fighting for a Valentine
by Bill Fullerton


It was a real hair-pulling, clothes tearing, head knocking, rolling in the dirt, screaming and hollering catfight between two high school girls. At issue was which one would get to be the, uh, let’s just say, the Valentine of a guy by the name of Sonny Barnhill.

At least it’s what they thought. That’s why, even as I enjoyed the show from my front row seat, I kept worrying about what might happen afterward.

Now some of you may be wondering what in the name of Tom T. Hall was a card-carrying Boy Scout, former youth revival pastor at the Rock of Ages Baptist Church, and lowly tenth grade dweeb like me doing at such a unique, rowdy, some might even say, risqué event. A few might like to know why I was worrying. But for most folks, the important question is how I managed to get that front row seat.

Well, let me tell you, it was like this. That year, I rode to school with seniors Billy Ray Jenkins, who drove, and his twin sister. That would be Brenda Jenkins. She always sat beside him because, as she explained to me in a whisper, he was prone to epileptic seizures. There were no seats in the back of Billy Ray’s station wagon, so I sat next to Brenda.

Except for the part about Billy Ray possibly throwing a fit, he never did, most of that info is important. You see, the fight took place right after school and the same Brenda I sat beside twice a day constituted one-half of the main event.

Riding with them was a very interesting experience—even before the fight. Billy Ray was the big, well-muscled, quiet, blue-eyed, blond Aryan type. So was Brenda, except for the big, well-muscled and quiet part. There was nothing special about her looks. She was a dishwater blond, neither tall nor short, with a big smile, a nice enough figure, and eyes that might have been pretty except the dark plastic frames of her glasses hid them.

Still, she enjoyed a high--in fact, very high--level of popularity, at least among guys. For Brenda was the area’s free spirit, love child years before that came into fashion. In short, she was easy.

More than that, she was a relatively happy lay. While I can’t personally testify to this, by all accounts, Brenda enjoyed sex. Whether involved in a one-on-one encounter or a many-on-one gangbang, she liked being the one. Maybe it was an act, but having a “reputation” didn’t seem to faze her. That could have been because she planned on leaving our rural outpost the moment she graduated.

Before you ask, I’m not sure why my parents, make that my mother, agreed to my being in the same car with Brenda twice a day, five days a week. Perhaps she could find no better way to get me to school. It was outside my home district and there was no bus service. Whatever her reason, I’ve always had a hunch she knew I’d never have the nerve to try anything with an “older woman” like Brenda. It’s a wise mother who knows her own son.

Brenda and her reputation had no trouble sexually intimidating me. The quiet, looming presence of Billy Ray, the twin brother with all the muscles, added more than enough physical intimidation to keep my normally riotous hormones cowering in abject passivity.

Waiting for Brenda on that unseasonably warm afternoon was the formidable Erlene Warmack. While not unattractive, she was built along more robust lines than the shorter and slimmer Brenda. Seeing her brought to mind images of hearty, female Russian shot-putters. Erlene also possessed a deadpan expression and a glare that caused brave men to remember other things they had to do while mere male mortals just fainted dead away.

To make Brenda’s situation even worse, Erlene had managed to acquire home court advantage. The fight would take place at a clear patch of ground along the one paved road in her rural community. Since everyone out there was related, one way or another, it meant she’d have the crowd on her side. It also meant she got to go home first and change from school clothes into a form-fitting, short-sleeved shift that she wore like a suit of armor.

So Brenda, wearing a blouse and skirt, would be facing a bigger, stronger and, judging by appearances, meaner opponent dressed in fighting togs, and doing so on that person’s home turf. A logical question would seem to be, why? The illogical answer, at least to me, was Sonny Barnhill.

Sonny was the school “outlaw.” At least he dressed the part. Tight T-shirts and faded blue jeans were his ensemble of choice. The thing is, Sonny didn’t act like a tough guy. With his build, he didn’t have to. In fact, he usually went around laughing and joking like he didn’t care if gravy went up to a dollar a sop. But he wore his dark hair in what was politely referred to as a “duck tail.” He also smoked, chased women, drove at drag races, and hunted out of season.

With the prelims over. Brenda and Erlene prepared to meet on Erlene’s home field in a toe-to-toe, mano-a-mano, no hold’s barred, after school fight for the right to be Sonny Barnhill’s Valentine. And since I rode to and from school with Brenda and her brother, I would be there.

When we arrived at the field of honor, Erlene was waiting, hands on hips, glower on face. Like a perfect southern gentleman, I got out and held the door while Brenda emerged to face her foe, Then, like a perfect sophomore wimp, I hustled back inside and closed the door, placing several inches of solid Detroit steel, plus Bondo, a cracked side window, and several layers of chipped paint between myself and the impending combat.

While a fight involving women can differ in some ways from those involving men, there are similarities. Both start with a session of circling and glaring. What’s now called “trash talking” is optional. The crowd watched in silence. Most of them were young kids who kept at a safe distance. No grown-ups were in evidence.

This pre-combat period marked the high point of the fight for Brenda. She had shoulder-length hair, which put her at a distinct disadvantage versus the shorthaired Erlene when the hair-pulling began. Being near-sighted, she was at an even greater disadvantage after having her glasses knocked off by a solid slap to the face. Moments later, a violent tug had her staggering across the field of honor with a totally de-buttoned blouse (her bra was white).

By some wordless, mutual agreement, the two combatants now paused. As the unscratched Erlene stood nearby, glowering as always, and barely breathing hard, Brenda appeared to be evaluating her situation. She had lost her glasses, one shoe, and all the buttons on her blouse. She was, therefore, standing slightly off-balance with her bra on public display while licking at a busted lip and squinting toward the fuzzy outline of her untouched opponent.

As I’ve mentioned before, Brenda was, at least by reputation, a good-time girl who had reportedly sampled the charms of many men. No doubt calling upon that experience, she seemed to decide that all tomcats were about the same shade of gray in the dark, so to speak, and that if Erlene wanted Sonny that bad, she was welcome to him. So Brenda retired from the field scratched, exposed and a bit bloody, but only slightly bowed.

The catfight was over. To the victor go the spoils, right? Erlene got to be Sonny’s Valentine and all that implied, right? And all my worries were over, right?

Wrong.

It seems neither Erlene nor Brenda had thought to consult with anyone, including Sonny, about his status as a post-fight prize. That was a mistake. The weekend before, at the local hangout, The Wisteria Café, Motel and Truck Stop, I’d introduced Sonny to Francis Brown. She was an old friend who went to the school I attended until my mother got into a fight with the principal.

The possible fall-out from that introduction is what I worried about during and after the fight. How would the winner react if they learned what I’d done? In the unlikely event it was Brenda, I didn’t think she’d sic Billy Ray on me. But she might not let me back in the car. If so, how would I get to school? Of course, Erlene won. But I did my best to avoid thinking about what she might do.

Either of them would have had good reason to be provoked. After all, Francis was serious competition. While beauty is in the eye of the beholder, with her big blue-eyes, dark wavy hair, and a mouth-watering bosom, Francis had a lot to behold. She also smoked, liked guys chasing her, loved drag races, and was a crack shot. That made her a perfect match for Sonny. By Valentine’s Day, they were going steady. That summer, I took pictures at their wedding.

Erlene and Brenda graduated in the spring without having inflicted any pain and suffering on me or taken part in any more catfights. Both were no-shows at the wedding. I was relieved. But sometimes tells me many members of the congregation were a bit disappointed. After all, it could have made for one very interesting reception.