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e: Sat, 09 Dec 2000 14:48:58 From: John Smith <pervitron@hotmail.com> Subject: Fight Night (mm,Mm,interracial,humiliation) WARNING: The following story contains graphic descrip- tions of a sexual nature. It is intended for mature persons only. Any persons not old enough to legally receive adult materials or who are offended by them should read no farther. Further distribution of this story--and all others of this nature by this author--is permissible only to appropriate persons and only if the contents and author credit are unchanged. NOTES: 1. Copyright (c) December 2000. 2. The persons and situations depicted in this story are entirely fictitious. Any similarities to actual persons or situations are completely unintentional and coincidental. 3. Reader comments and feedback are always encouraged; send to Pervitron@Hotmail.com http://www.asstr.org/~Pervitron 4. This story may be copied for free distribution, provided the author credit is retained. 5. This is a FANTASY. I'm nothing like the people in my stories -- I'm really a nice person. Fight Night by Pervitron I was a child until the early spring of my thirteenth year. It was March of 1975, and the world seemed to have left its orbit. The communists were humiliating us in Vietnam. We had hounded Nixon from office, and now we had a President who needed the Secret Service to help him to his feet after falling down the stairs. Patty Hearst was robbing banks and recording TV messages for her black kidnappers, the Symbionese ...

... Liberation Army. And New York City, the financial capital of the world was sinking into bankruptcy -- the streets beneath our sixth floor apartment were ruled now by drug dealers and street gangs. Dad had been unemployed for more a year. Mom took off with her black lover in January, and the two of us sat alone in our apartment that late winter and early spring, getting on each other's nerves. "You know you look like a girl," he said for the millionth time. He sat in his recliner, his face buried in the Daily News. I wanted to tell him what he looked like. Sitting there in his Gold's Gym tank top, showing off his sagging shoulders and his spreading waist. You shouldn't wear a shirt like that unless you actually went to a gym - and he hadn't seen the inside of a gym for years. I stared at the TV. I was watching the Jeffersons. No, I wasn't getting a haircut -- I liked the way I looked, the way my blond hair fell around my ears. It was another act of sullen, wordless defiance on my part - part of my arsenal of things he found offensive. When I really wanted to get him I wore my black Kiss T-shit, the sight of Gene Simmons in makeup and high heels made him speechless. "I'm sick of listening to this crap." He raised the remote and switched the channel, cutting off the end of one of George Jefferson's cutting remarks. "C'mon Dad - I was watching that!" He got me -- I reacted. I even spoke to him. Looking back, I feel sorry I was such a pain in the ass. Now that I'm middle aged, I ...