Soccer moms fight club

"You want me to do what?!" I asked, my voice louder than I intended. I couldn't grasp what my mom had just asked me.

She looked at Mrs. Johnson for help. "I know it sounds weird," said the petite woman, trying her best to be understanding.

"You're damn right it's weird!" I interrupted. "You want me to beat all of you up? That's just crazy!"

"No! Not at all!" said Mrs. Johnson. "We want to wrestle you, to fight you, not to have you beat us up!"

I looked around my living room at the four women there. In addition to my mom and Mrs. Johnson, there were Mrs. Strickland, a curvy neighbor who had once been my Sunday School teacher, and Mrs. O'Rourke, the elegant mother of one of my best friends. The four women, all in their forties, fit the stereotypical soccer mom profile: attractive, feminine, affluent, and suburban.

I shook my head in disbelief. "So you want me to wrestle you, or whatever, but not to beat you up? I just don't get it."

Mrs. O'Rourke, a tall woman with a regal bearing, tried to explain. "You see, Mark," she began, pausing to lick her lipsticked lips, "we have a wrestling club. The four of us, we like to wrestle each other. We've gotten pretty good at it, too. And now we're looking for, well, more of a challenge. We need a man to wrestle with, or a boy." There was a faint hint of a smirk on her face, and I felt anger rising at her insult, but she continued. "Perhaps you will win, at least at first. We wouldn't see that as `beating us up.' We want the matches to be competitive."

"Do you understand, honey?" my mom asked. "We think you'd be a good match for us. We think you would help us get better. It's like you always say about tennis, that you have to play better players to improve. We want you to help us improve."

I tried to process this idea. It was hard enough to imagine them wrestling each other, wrestling at all. To imagine them thinking they could wrestle against me truly stretched the limits of my credulity. I assessed each of them in turn: Marilyn O'Rourke was possibly my height, 5'10", though she probably weighed ten or twenty pounds less then my 160. Cassie Johnson probably didn't break 100 pounds and couldn't have been more than 5'1". Beth Strickland's big hips and chest might have put her in my weight class, but I was at least half a foot taller. And my mom was only 5'6" and 125 pounds. None of them ever struck me as overly athletic, while I played tennis and various other sports. Not to mention that I was 23, at least twenty years younger than all of them.

My mom spoke again. "We know it's a lot to think about, and we know it's a big favor we're asking, honey. But we'll try to make it worth your while. We'll pay you $25 for every match, and an extra $25 if you win."

"We thought it would be good to give you an incentive to win, so you wouldn't hold back," added Mrs. Johnson.

"So you'll pay me $50 a match?" I asked? Although I was teaching tennis lessons at the country club, extra money definitely wouldn't hurt.

"Don't assume you'll win every match," giggled Mrs. Johnson.

There was silence for a few moments. "So which one of you is the best?" I finally asked.

The women all smiled, taking my question to be an implicit agreement to join their club. I suppose it was.

"That's a matter of some dispute," answered my mom.

"Marilyn was the champion, but in the past few weeks Cassie has been undefeated." Mrs. Johnson smiled smugly while Mrs. O'Rourke glared at her. Clearly this little club was quite competitive. "Beth and I have our moments," said mom, "but we can rarely take Cassie or Marilyn."

"But you're so small," I said to Mrs. Johnson.

She smiled and licked her lips. Pointing a polished fingernail in my face, she said, "You'll find out that size isn't everything, big boy. We drew straws, and I'm going to be your first opponent!"

"You need to take this seriously, honey," my mom said. We were sitting in folding chairs at one corner of a large wrestling mat spread out in the finished basement of Mrs. Strickland's house. Mrs. Johnson sat in a chair opposite me, staring at me amiably as my mom gave me advice which I ignored.

Frankly, I had mixed feelings about the situation. On the one hand, I was excited about all the money I was about to make. I was going to wrestle all four of the women in a row, so that meant I'd win $200. Well, I would at least get $100 just for wrestling, and I'd earn the full amount if I won. Like there was any doubt.

It wasn't the question of winning or losing that bothered me; it was the situation itself. Here I was, wearing a tight green pair of lycra bicycle shorts that my mom had bought me, and nothing else, in a room with four middle-aged women who wore matching pink leotards. I wasn't embarrassed of my body, and I wasn't a stranger to women's bodies, but I simply wasn't comfortable being in this level of undress with my mother and her friends…especially with the idea of wrestling them. And of course I had had crushes on the women at various points in my childhood. This was going to be tricky.

I was amused by the enthusiasm of the women. It turns out they had made quite a deal out of their weekly wrestling matches. In addition to having bought matching outfits, they had all painted their nails a matching shade just for the event. Just like women to use any excuse to by new clothes or new nail polish. Mrs. Strickland, as the host, had made a platter of finger sandwiches and had several different beverages arranged on a table in the corner.

 
Suddenly it was time to wrestle. My mom took her place on the leather sofa next to Mrs. O'Rourke and Mrs. Strickland and I walked to the center of the mats to face my opponent. The scenario was so bizarre that I actually laughed; Mrs. Johnson was barely more than half my size! In her leotard she was quite attractive for a woman her age, but she was extremely slim.

"Get him, Cassie!" yelled Mrs. Strickland. "You go, girl," yelled my mom. I glanced to the side, annoyed that my mother would be cheering on my opponent, and in the instant I took my eyes off her Mrs. Johnson lunged forward and tackled me, wrapping both her arms around my knees and driving me backward. We collapsed in a heap.

Mrs. Johnson tried to pin me immediately, scrambling up my torso and grasping for my wrists. It was unnerving having such close body contact with a woman in a leotard, but I realized that I couldn't waste any time. In a matter of seconds I had seized her arms and rolled her over, so that now I straddled her stomach. She twisted and bucked like a wild animal, but I was clearly much too big and strong for her. My mom kneeled beside us and began counting. "One…two…three!" And just like that, I had won the first fall.

I stood up and let Mrs. Johnson spring to her feet. She was smiling slightly, but I could tell she was angry at having lost so quickly. My strength seemed to have surprised her, though I don't know why; I suppose she was just so used to wrestling other women that she wasn't prepared for a man.

"Don't worry, Cassie, you'll get him in the next fall," yelled Mrs. O'Rourke.

"That's right, Cass," said my mom, patting her on the back. "Just do what you know how to do. You still have the experience on him."

This was going to be an easy $200, I thought as Mrs. Johnson and I prepared for the next fall. All I will have to do is avoid hurting any of them. These thoughts were knocked out of me when the next fall began and Mrs. Johnson tackled me again. This time, though, she secured a headlock on me and wrapped her thin legs around one of my thighs. I tried to push her off but succeeded only in twisting myself so that her wiry bicep was digging into my throat. Although my hands were free, I couldn't pry myself free of Mrs. Johnson's octopus-like clutches. I laughed at the silliness of it, even while my mom and Mrs. Strickland shouted encouragement to their friend. But then I began to have trouble breathing, and soon my position became decidedly uncomfortable. Mrs. Johnson managed to tighten her arm around my throat even more, and I felt like I was being garroted. Suddenly my mom was on her knees, looking into my eyes: "Mark, do you give up?" I found myself nodding my head, almost imperceptibly, on the edge of panic.

She had beaten me! I had let ninety-something pound woman in her forties force me to submit. As this realization sank in, and as I lay on the mat massaging my throat and trying to breathe, I saw Mrs. Johnson's small feet in front of me, joined by three other pairs of female feet, their toenails all painted the same color, as the women all hugged their victorious comrade.

 
"I knew you could do it, Cassie!" yelled Mrs. Strickland.

"Our first win over a man," said Mrs. O'Rourke.

"Great job, Cass," giggled my mom, hugging her friend and glancing down at me, bemused.

Their excitement at my expense caused my adrenaline to kick into high gear. I bounced to my feet. "Nice job, Mrs. Johnson," I said curtly. "I'm ready for the third fall."

Once again the petite blonde and I faced off. This time I was the aggressor, and I lunged forward. Mrs. Johnson tried to sidestep me, but I managed to take her down. Quickly I secured her wrists but this time she squirmed so much I couldn't straddle her. We struggled wildly; even though I was stronger, her determination and limberness kept me from holding her still enough to pin. While I was clearly dominating the action, I couldn't pin her. The other women were cheering their friend on as we rolled across the mats, which began to grow slippery with our sweat. Eventually, after five minutes of awkward but intense wrestling, my size and strength wore down Mrs. Johnson enough that I was able to straddle her stomach. I held her wrists above her head. My mom kneeled down to count out the pin. However, for what seemed like an eternity, Mrs. Johnson raised one of her shoulders, then the other, preventing my victory. The look of determination in her eyes actually scared me a little bit; it was a little bit like trying to pin down a wild fox or coyote, in that I was scared of her wildness despite my superior size. In the end, I was simply too much, and with my sweat dripping down onto her face she accepted defeat and my mother counted out the pin.

Twenty minutes after the match had begun, I won. Fifty dollars for me. Just three matches to go.

My mom gave me a quick hug and whispered "good job" to me while Mrs. O'Rourke and Mrs. Strickland consoled Mrs. Johnson. "You did great! It was your fist match against a man, and you won a fall! That's awesome, girlfriend!"

I moved to the food table for a snack and some water between matches. My mother followed me. "You're going to wrestle Beth next. She's not as aggressive or athletic as Cassie, but she's a lot bigger. If she gets a good grip on you, she'll probably win." 

"I'm not worried, Mom," I said.

"Look, honey, I'm just trying to help. Cassie could have knocked you out with that choke hold."

"Oh, please, Mom," I snapped.

My mother stared at me for a moment. "I can't wait until it's my turn, honey," she said. "I'm going to teach you a lesson." She walked back to join her friends.

Five minutes later I was back on the mats, facing Beth Strickland. She giggled nervously, a trait of hers. She was a very pleasant woman with, I observed now, very big hips and very large breasts. Her leotard barely contained them. Mrs. Strickland was not nearly as sure of herself as Mrs. Johnson, and I took advantage of her indecision by striking first. I pulled her right leg out from under her and pounced on her fleshy stomach just as I had Mrs. Johnson. Mrs. Strickland was considerably stronger than my last opponent, but I still managed to force her wrists to the mat. My mom appeared and counted out the pin. In less than a minute I had won the first fall. I gave my mom an "I told you so" look as she and the other women helped Mrs. Strickland to her feet and offered her encouragement. 

When she was ready, we began the second fall. I didn't want to hurt or humiliate her, so I decided not to be quite so aggressive. This proved to be a poor decision on my part. Somehow Mrs. Strickland and I wound up in a double bearhug, but my arms were inside hers. We jockeyed for position, and I realized the advantage of a low center of gravity when she suddenly toppled me to the mat, landing on top of me. Before I could recover, she had wrapped her arms around my head and I found my face wrapped in the considerable flesh of her breasts. Somewhere I heard her giggling. I kicked my legs and flailed my arms but I was very much trapped. I heard a slap on the mat next to me and ealized my mom was counting out my pin. In desperation I found the strength to roll us to the side and avoid losing the fall. "You've got him, Beth!" I heard someone yell. Again, I could hear Mrs. Strickland laughing. Furious, I managed to roll my busty opponent to her back and, with a concerted effort, jerked my head free from her chesty grasp.

 
"Look how red his face is!" yelled Mrs. Johnson.

I was dazed, and Mrs. Strickland tried to capitalize by grabbing me again in the same hold. I crawled backward and avoided her. Having had a little success, she became more aggressive and was now chasing me around the mats. "You've got him on the run!" shouted Mrs. O'Rourke. "He's afraid of you," said my mom.

 
Soon, though, my head cleared and I stopped my defensive strategy. Mrs. Strickland and I locked up in the middle of the mats on our knees. As I began to get the other hand, she spun around to prevent me from forcing her to her back. She tried to crawl away, but I secured a full nelson. Mrs. Strickland squirmed, but I locked it in deep and forced her chin to her chest. She was sitting on her bottom, her legs spread in front of her, her arms waving helplessly in the air. I poured on the pressure even while noting how good her hair smelled. Unlike Mrs. Johnson who fought with every ounce of strength she possessed, Mrs. Strickland seemed to give up the fight. My mom kneeled down and looked in her face. "Beth, do you give up?"

 
"Yes, yes, make him stop!" she begged. I immediately released the hold and the other women all huddled around their friend.

Fortunately I hadn't injured her, and within a few moments she was laughing and joking again. So now I was 2-0 and $100 richer.

I went for another drink of water. Mom came over and congratulated me on my win. "But your next match won't be so easy," she said, suppressing a grin. 

"You?" I asked.

"No, Marilyn," she said. "I get you last, honey."

"So Mrs. O'Rourke is pretty good?" I asked, ignoring the implications of her smile.

"She's as aggressive as Cassie, but a lot bigger and stronger. Don't let her hurt you, OK?"

"Hurt me?" I said. "I don't think so."

"Just don't underestimate her."

Staring at her across the mat five minutes later, I was not underestimating Mrs. O'Rourke. I did, however, remember why I had a crush on her a few years ago. She had long, shapely legs, a gorgeous tan, and sensual lips. And here she was, wearing a pink leotard and holding out her hands toward me, offering to begin with a test of strength.

As I intertwined my fingers with hers, I marveled at how long and elegant her fingers were. Her long nails (natural, not press-ons) were perfectly shaped. A second later, I marveled at the strength of her hands and the sharpness of her nails; we were locked in a stalemate as we both poured on the pressure, try to drive the other backward. Her pink nails cut into the back of my hands. I knew she worked out regularly at a local fitness club, and she was nearly my size, and yet I was nevertheless amazed that a woman her age could be nearly as strong as I was.

Even so, I slowly began to force her wrists backward. Just when I felt I was gaining a real advantage, Mrs. O'Rourke quickly reversed our hands so they were at our waist level and our fingers were toward the floor. Then, in the blink of an eye, she twisted them back again, so they were at head height. This quick maneuvering back and forth allowed her to gain an advantage. My wrists were now bent slightly backward, giving her leverage. Inexorably she forced my hands further and further back. I couldn't believe it! I sank to my knees to relieve some of the pain, a move which of course only increased her advantage. Her nails had released small rivulets of blood on the backs of my hands, but that pain was less than what she was causing with the grip of her fingers themselves, bending my own painfully backward. Tears welled up in my eyes as she stepped forward, increasing the angle, forcing me backward. On my knees, I was staring at the pink leotard covering her crotch, and at her lean, middle-aged stomach. I looked up and saw her breasts, sagging but still proud, and then her beautiful face. She stared down at me, a look of contempt and victory on her face. I noticed her lipstick matched the fingernails and leotard.

At that point if my mom had asked if I submitted, I would have done so without hesitation. But Mom didn't ask, so Mrs. O'Rourke kept up the torture. Then she pushed me even further back so that I fell onto the mat. Without releasing my hands, Mrs. O'Rourke straddled my body and wrapped her long legs around mine. Hooking her feet inside my calves, she suddenly tightened her legs and jerked mine apart. I screamed at the pain in my knees and hips. At the same time, Mrs. O'Rourke stretched my arms above my head as far as she could, so that it seemed like she would pull them out of my shoulder sockets. I was helpless beneath her. A woman in her late forties was holding me on my back, spread-eagled, and it felt like she was going to rip all four limbs off my body. I was completely at her mercy. 

Strangely, Mom didn't ask for my submission, or count me out, even though I was pinned. And I was in too much pain to think clearly enough to give up. So Mrs. O'Rourke just continued applying the pressure. Her elegant face was inches above mine, and in the midst of my suffering I noticed the perfection of her makeup—her eyeliner and lipstick unsmudged by the wrestling match.

 
Finally my mother appeared at our side. "Had enough, honey?" she asked, giggling. I nodded my head. "He gives up, Marilyn." Mrs. O'Rourke released me and I rolled to my side, massaging my hands and shoulders.

"You made it look easy, Marilyn," I heard Mrs. Johnson say.

"I don't think he was expecting that," said Mrs. Strickland.

I couldn't believe it. I hadn't simply lost a fall to Mrs. O'Rourke. I had been helpless! She had completely dominated me. And this from a woman I had known for years, a woman about whom I'd had many adolescent fantasies…albeit much different from the reality I had just lived out. Once again I felt an adrenaline surge. She wouldn't beat me again. 

She stared at me at the beginning of the second fall with a predatory expression on her beautiful face. Refusing to be intimidated, I lunged forward and tried to capture one of her legs. But Mrs. O'Rourke was too quick; she sprawled backward and her leg slipped from my grasp. Now her body was on top of mine, and I was face down on the mat. Before I could extricate myself, she locked her strong thighs around my head, and from her knees she squeezed ferociously. I pried at her legs desperately. Just when it seemed I was going to be able to slide my head free, Mrs. O'Rourke dropped her full weight down and drove my head face-first into the mat. I lay there, stunned, as she circled me like a runway model. 

The women hooted and hollered, offering suggestions for what she could do to me. I wasn't ready to just roll over and quit, though. As Mrs. O'Rourke approached for the kill, I lunged again, and this time I caught her unaware. Knocking her to the mat, I pounced on her stomach and tried to secure her arms. She grabbed my hair and threw me to the side. For several minutes we grappled evenly on the mats, rolling from one side to the other, each gaining an advantage and then losing it. I was determined to gain revenge.

Unfortunately, though, I let Mrs. O'Rourke get behind me. Before I could react, she had locked her long legs around my midsection and crossed her ankles. Like a python, she drove the air from my body. I pried at her legs, and she in turn tried to pull my arms away. We were positioned directly in front of the sofa and I saw my mother, Mrs. Strickland, and Mrs. Johnson all cheering my tormentress on. Their enthusiasm fueled my anger but didn't help me escape. Mrs. O'Rourke tightened her hold on my body and I gasped in pain. 

I found myself reclining backward almost involuntarily, so that my head lay on her chest. She giggled. "You're not getting away from me, little Markie," she cooed in my ear. I struggled to sit up but she pulled me back, wrapping her left arm over my own left arm and grabbing my right elbow, pulling my right arm across my body. In doing so she held both my arms immobile. At the same time she wrapped the long fingers of her right hand over my mouth, pinching my nose shut with her thumb and forefinger, and jerked my head to my right. Her fingernails dug into my cheek. Mrs. O'Rourke was now holding me completely still, like a mother swaddling a baby. I kicked with my legs until she unhooked her ankles and put her feet inside my thighs and forced my legs painfully to the sides. Once again, I was completely at her mercy.

Her slim, strong hand had completely cut off my breathing, and before long the edges of my vision began to darken. The last thing I remember was my mother sitting on the sofa, blowing me a kiss, while I heard Mrs. O'Rourke wish me sweet dreams. 

I awoke, probably only seconds later, spread-eagled on the mat. All four women were standing over me, celebrating in Mrs. O'Rourke's victory. "I knew one of us could beat a man!" exclaimed Mrs. Johnson as she hugged Mrs. O'Rourke. "Let's hear it for the Soccer Mom's Fight Club!"

"Don't forget that Amanda hasn't wrestled yet," said Mrs. O'Rourke. "I wouldn't be surprised if she beat her son, too!"

I was getting to my feet as she spoke these words, and my mother bent down to help me up. "You better drink something, honey, and get something to eat. Are you going to be able to wrestle me? Or do think you should forfeit?"

I jerked away and stalked toward the refreshment table. "Don't worry, Mom," I snapped. "I'll be ready."

The women all giggled at my bad attitude and went back to their celebratory discussion while I tried to clear my head. How had this happened? How had this woman beaten me, two falls in a row? She had actually knocked me out! And now I had to face my mother in a wrestling match.

I took a long drink of water and tried to calm myself. For one thing, I had already beaten two women. For another thing, Mom wasn't as big or strong as Mrs. O'Rourke. And I had probably underestimated Mrs. O'Rourke. Maybe I let my guard down because I used to have a crush on her? 

Ten minutes later, I found myself ready for my fourth match. I had already earned $125; not the $150 I should have earned, but still not bad. All I had to do now was beat my forty-seven-year-old mother in two falls of wrestling, and I'd win $50 more. And as she stood there, fifteen feet away, and I saw her wide hips, flabby triceps, and swaying breasts, I didn't see any possible way that I could lose. I put my last match behind me and strode forward confidently. As I reached her, Mom suddenly giggled sadistically and reached out toward my stomach with her long, pink fingernails. She didn't appear to be punching me, and I hesitated for a moment. Too late! When I was a young boy she used to tickle me in the mornings to wake me up. And now she was resurrecting this bittersweet torture. Instead of fighting back or grabbing her wrists, I immediately reverted to my boyhood and doubled over. Mom reaching behind my ankle with one foot and tripped me. Now I was on my back, my knees pulled toward my chest, trying in vain to protect my exposed belly and chest as my mother kneeled over me and tickled any bare skin she could find with her sharp fingernails. I laughed madly in spite of myself. 

Soon the silliness of this situation began to fade and I began to feel more pain than giggles as she continued the onslaught. I managed to grasp both of Mom's wrists and force them away from my tender stomach, but not before she straddled me with her legs. She sat on my belly and we struggled for control. 

My size and strength prevailed and I rolled her to the side. Her legs still entwined my torso, though, and now she locked her ankles and began to squeeze. I grunted and gasped. Nevertheless, I continued on the offensive and forced her arms to the mat beside her head. Even though she flexed her legs and crushed my weakened ribs, I held her down until Mrs. O'Rourke finally counted out a three second pin. 

I released Mom, but she didn't immediately relax her legs. "Let go!" I shouted.

"A little touchy, aren't we, honey?" she smirked as she finally unlocked her ankles and allowed the air to fill my lungs again. I had won the first fall of this last match, and yet it seemed as though my mother was the victor. I lay on my back, gasping for breath, and she was bouncing around on her corner of the mat, talking merrily about strategy with her friends. They began whispering, and then I heard a lot of laughing. Clearly they were brewing up something I wasn't going to like. 

As the next fall began, I knew I had to try to win quickly as my strength was waning and I wouldn't last much longer. But my plan to attack quickly was thwarted when Mom shot toward me like a lioness and tackled me before I could respond. I found myself on my back with Mom perched on my chest trying to force my wrists to the mat. I bucked her off, but she jumped to her feet, and while I was trying to sit up Mom grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head between her thighs. I was caught in a standing head scissors. Her fleshy thighs covered my ears, so I couldn't hear, but I could see the laughter on the other women's faces as the gawked at my predicament. At first I tried to claw at my mother's legs and pry them apart, but she was able to grasp my wrists and, using her leverage from standing over me, twist both my arms into hammerlocks. I was completely helpless! Mom squeezed my head so tightly and twisted my arms so violently that I didn't even have the presence of mind to yell my submission. 

When Mom released me I collapsed to the mat, completely beaten. It wasn't until she pulled me to a sitting position, again by my hair, that I realized the match was still going on. Dazed and confused, I heard the women talking as if in the distance, and I heard them laughing. Suddenly Mom bent my head backward. She stood behind me, and she forced me to stare straight up at her from my position sitting on my butt on the mat. She bent down and buried my face in her armpit as she wrapped her arm around my head in a sort of reverse headlock. My eyes could see the back of her shoulder, while my nose and mouth were completely covered by her sweaty armpit. I tried to push her off, but she managed to trap one of my arms with her leg and hold it captive, and my one arm was not enough to pry her deadly headlock loose. This left Mom a free hand, with which she began to torture my exposed stomach and chest. I would have screamed in agony as she twisted my nipples with her fingernails and scratched my sides but my mouth was covered, and all I could do was kick my legs vainly. Mercifully, the lack of oxygen soon caused my vision to fade, and I woke up a few seconds later flat on my back.

 
"Want to give up now, honey?" Mom asked as she stared down at me. Her hands were on her wide hips and she wore an amused expression on her face. I could hear the other women chatting joyfully from behind me.

 
"No way," I moaned as I tried to stand up. But it was useless. Mom began the final fall immediately by kicking me back to the mat with one of her slim feet.

Sitting on my chest, she easily forced my arms over my head and then placed her knees on my biceps. "Ow!" I yelped, only to receive a light slap from my mother.

"Stop whining, honey," she said. Mrs. O'Rourke counted out the pin while I struggled pathetically, completely humiliating that I was so weakened that I couldn't dislodge my own mother from my chest.

"Let's take your picture in a victory pose!" said Mrs. Johnson.

"That's a great idea!" said Mom, adjusting her breasts in the pink leotard. "Can you hand me my purse? I want to freshen up my lipstick first." I squirmed frantically, but ineffectively, as my mother sat on me and calmly reapplied her lipstick, looking at herself in her compact. "Stop moving!" she chastised me. 

I resisted, so she held my face still, digging her nails into my cheeks, and wrote something on my forehead with her lipstick while the other women all giggled and cheered her on.

"What are you writing? Tell me!" I demanded, tears now running down my face, as I was utterly humiliated by my mother's complete dominance over me.

Mrs. Strickland leaned over me and planted a wet kiss on my cheek. "It's OK. She just wrote `Wimp' on your forehead."

The women ended up using the camera's self-timer so they could all be in the photograph, posing with me as their thoroughly beaten opponent.