| |||
|
Arts & Entertainment Books Comics Media Mothers Who Think News People Politics2000 Technology - Free Software Project Travel & Food ![]() Columnists
- - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - Search Salon - - - - - - - - - - - - Recently in Salon Health & Body
Urge Column
Complete archives for Health & Body - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Health Search
|
- - - - - - - - - - - -
May 25, 1999 |
But even when we got there, it was as if there were a scrim over all we saw.
This was our fantasy job, after all. We would let no ugly realities get in
the way. "We want honest fights," spat Tiger Lilly's proprietor, Edwina, a
well-groomed pit bull of a woman, tapping her clipboard and stalking the
mats. "Absolutely no biting, you hear me? Twenty-five dollars extra for
hair-pulling and scratching." Ellie and I giggled appreciatively at her sense of humor. The other
women stared at us pebble-eyed, failing to get the joke. We pulled at
the edges of our cotton leotards and adjusted our little dance belts and
glanced over our competition. I guessed that most of the other women had
just been released from prison. They too must have been drawn to the easy
money but, poor things, they obviously didn't have the skills we had to
offer. Their giant bangs, set aflame into glossy cocoons with hair spray
and cheap dye, leaped off their foreheads like animals trying to escape.
Their eye liner curled wet around their eyes and their vaguely dilated
pupils had the fierce indifference of malnourished hyenas. They were
tough, raw young women who looked like they'd seen their share of street
fighting. I remember feeling concern for them flash across my mind: These
young women didn't look sufficiently groomed for a career in entertainment.
How on earth would they know how to perform for the camera? We signed waivers promising we would not sue Tiger Lilly under any
circumstances. Then we approached Edwina about our expertise. "We have a routine perfectly worked out," I began. "Good girl -- the camera will love you. We don't want nothin' fake, get
it? This is real athleticism. Can you give me real?" "Our routine is very real," said Ellie, beaming. We'd recently taken a
fight choreography class and learned hair-pulling, stomping on stomachs and
face slaps. Edwina began pairing the group off according to weight and height. Ellie
and I were nearly identical in size but Edwina ignored this, punching her
clipboard in our direction. "Friends don't wrestle," she explained. She
matched Ellie with a 6-foot redhead named Grace. I was paired with Venus, a sculpted blond with forearms like pork
rounds. She was beautiful as only a serious female bodybuilder can be:
carved from stone and tanned to a medium toast, with glinting feral eyes
and a quick feminine flutter of a smile. She seemed quite nice, different
from the other women. We introduced ourselves, both confessing that this
was our first time. But before we could really talk, Edwina called out, "No
talking to your opponent. I don't want any fixes. Winners get $225 -- $25 for
the loser." The lights from the video cameras made our skin glisten. Between grunts
and gropings I could see the black impenetrable eye of the lens swooping in
like a snake mouth to swallow us whole. Edwina, the producer, encircled us
like a yipping dog, bending over unnecessarily to offer the camera
close-ups on her black and white referee hot-panted ass. Venus was a
gracious opponent, though I don't know if she would have gone so far as to
make a deal. But each time she slammed me to the ground, she whispered an
apology in my ear. After one or two such apologies, it occurred to me that aside from the
blue mats and the shrieking whistle, this "wrestling" bore little
resemblance to the sport favored by Bulgarian Olympians and thick-necked
high school boys. In addition to the hair-pulling and scratching, which
Venus thankfully never resorted to, choke holds were fair game, as were
"scissors" and a host of other illegal moves. And though it was primarily
made "for gentlemen's entuhtainment," as Edwina put it, it was not a staged
athletic spectacle like professional wrestling or roller derby. It was real
fighting -- not sport, not theater. Think cock fighting with women instead
of roosters. Whoever wanted to watch this wanted to see blood, pain, a
real struggle for dominance. The other young female wrestlers sat by, staring gloomily. Gradually, it
dawned on me that they were regulars and, unlike me, they were prepared.
They knew this easy money was nothing to giggle or preen over.
| ||
Arts & Entertainment | Books | Comics | Life | News | People
Politics | Sex | Tech & Business | Audio
The Free Software Project | The Movie Page
Letters | Columnists | Salon Plus
Copyright © 2000 Salon.com All rights reserved.