CINDI'S GUIDE TO JUNIOR VARSITY WRESTLING

by Cindi Barton, B.S. with help from her colleague, Holly Rennick, B.A.

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Okay, maybe I don't know a lot about varsity sports, so feel free to help Holly with a re-write.  I'm more into the more popular kind of wrestling.  Holly, on the other hand, doesn't get pinned too often, but she's Googling the subject.

Googled fact: "The lowering of shoulder straps while on the mat is considered an act of unsportsmanlike conduct."  Unsportswomenlike girls such as Jessica Thomas who teaches PE at our school regularly lower their straps before getting on the mattress.

CINDI'S GUIDE TO JUNIOR VARSITY WRESTLING

I thought it great when Tom made the junior varsity squad at 119 pounds.  I'd never seen as a negative that he wasn't as big as his father, but maybe that's because I'm his father's sister.  As we know from science, DNA comes from two directions -- it's a double helix, after all -- and my sister-in-law's a size 6.  There actually aren't that many Toms these days -- at least where I teach, anyway -- but the name's in the family and my brother's big on tradition.

As I'd not been to a match for decades, my obliging nephew agreed to remind me how wrestling works.  He'd not want his Aunt Cindi yelling something like, "Run, Tom, run!" from the bleachers, like what you might say if it were football.

"But you gotta' try the moves, Aunt Cindi.  If I just tell you, you'll miss how."

"Me?  I'm a girl!"

"I'll let you win sometimes."

"Should I wear a hair band?"

At 119 -- that's what the coach decided anyway, but they fudge downward -- Tom had no weight advantage over me, though I was working on it.  Nutra Slim doesn't do it by itself, however.  Height-wise, pretty even.  As for muscles, well, we females just have a different mix of tissues, according to Dr. Janie on PBS.  Dr. Janie doesn't have any adipose tissue, though.

Anyway, I wasn't planning to wrestle JV.  On the other hand, I wasn't about to forfeit, even if he was my relative.  I'd not be a pushover if for no other reason than -- as Dr. Janie pointed out just before the pledge break -- that we females can maximize our multifold capabilities.

My friend Holly who teaches English pledged $60 and got Dr. Janie's "Sister, Sister, Claim Your Worth!" DVD featuring a spectrum of intent women nodding to such wisdom as, "Listen to your inner self."  Dr. Janie's "Dr." is an Ed.D.  And yes, she said "multifold."

"If I'm going to learn how," I noted to my coach-to-be, "I can't wear this," referring my Coldwater Creek outfit.  They'd had a sale and I'd decided to go with greens for their mix-and-match possibilities.

It's not that I couldn't wrestle in natural cottons, I suppose, but I didn't care to look like a wrestler.  I'd no idea if Tom noticed my new blouse, but maybe he did, even though I was related.

"That's okay, Aunt Cindi," eying my neckline as I tidied up the coffee table.

"No, I'm serious.  Maybe one of those singulars," casually dropping a name I'd picked up by listening.  Dr. Janie says that listening's one of our strengths.  Maybe, I decided, I should restack the magazines by size.  It would look nicer.

"You mean singlets?"

"Right.  Do you wear anything underneath?"

He looked at me oddly.  "Well, maybe a..." uncomfortable with how to finish.

Everybody can see your penises, I could have told him, even with a jock strap.  Wrestling's sort of a straight-ahead sport, one might say.  Or angled to the side, sometimes.

"I think the Greeks wrestled naked," I volunteered.  Aunts can be outrageous and at Tom's age, he'd never tell his folks.

As he was still taken by the openness of my collar, I restacked the magazines by date of publication.

The Takedown

The playroom was the best place for the lesson, we figured.  Not as much to break.

I'd found my tennis shorts and he had a pair of gym ones.  He should wear his singulars, I told him, to get ready for tournaments.

"Singlets, Aunt Cindi.  Maybe not, I guess," probably thinking that aunts are a bit old fashioned about penises.  I'm sure we were, I'd have told him, in old fashioned times.

A sports bra would have concealed what it's supposed to conceal, but then again, it would have concealed everything I have.  With my Led Zeppelin t-shirt -- never actually saw them, but once had their records -- a regular bra would be better.  I doubt he'd even heard of the band, but didn't want to look old.

Like Led Zeppelin plus a bra, Tom's gym shorts plus undershorts didn't totally disguise their contents.  Maybe more than singulars -- or whatever they're called -- of course, but I'd get to see him wearing those at real matches.  Not that I noticed, of course, him being my nephew and all, but at the same time, it wasn't as if he were still my baby nephew.

And anyway, I'd seen him naked a million times when he was little and this wasn't naked.

He had me stand on the middle of the rug -- it wasn't a real mat, of course, but it beat the linoleum -- to begin my lesson.

"We kinda' circle around to start, Aunt Cindi," showing me how.  "Shake yourself down to stay loose," showing me that as well.

"Kind of loosey-goosey?" I suggested, but he missed it.  Kids these days don't think ahead like they did when I was a girl.

"So here's a 'takedown,' because that's what you do, take the other person down."

"I see."

"It's worth two points."

"That's not very many."

"Well it's what you get.  Points only matter if nobody gets pinned."

That I could remember.

"So take me down, Hulk Hogan," not the type of challenge I regularly make, but this was for practice.  Tom might be impressed that his ancient aunt knows the name of a famous wrestler.

The next thing I knew, however, I was tumbling backwards, my elbows on the rug, my left leg I knew not where.

"Called a 'single leg sweep,'" boasted Tom the Sweeper.  "It's easy, once you know how."

"You should have warned me."

"Coach says that if you get the first takedown, the odds are 85 percent that you'll get the pin," somewhat smugly, considering that I was his elder.

"We'll see."

"Or there's the 'fireman's carry,'" proposed the now-fireman.  "Go stand in the middle."

"Fire!  Fire!  Oh, save me!" I contributed, something you'd say in a melodrama.  It's easy to joke around with a nephew because you pretty-much know each other.

He turned me sideways and managed to hoist me across his shoulders like a fireman bearing a swooned damsel.  Thus the name.  He wasn't as good with this so-called takedown (which to me seemed more like a take-up) but he did manage to spin me around.

Significant from a girl's perspective, your breast is all over his shoulder.  Not that there's anything wrong with your breast, of course, but it's an instance in which you might want your sports bra.  With Tom, though, the breast thing hardly mattered, as we'd roughhoused in the leaf pile when he raked my lawn in November.  A nephew-and-aunt sort of roughhousing, the kind you can keep doing because you've always done it.

Also from a girl's perspective, in this type of takedown he holds the inside of your thigh.  Tom seemed careful not to hold too far up, but it's a good thing we were related.

"Want another spin, Aunt Cindi?" his grasp no more than three inches from my cuff.

"Better not drop me!"

"Okay," now an inch and a half.

"I'm slipping!"

"Is this better?" now zero.

"Fire!  Fire!  Save me!  Save me!"  Given that tennis shorts aren't designed for gymnastics exhibitions, thank goodness I'd worn straight-leg panties.

The Escape

"So, Aunt Cindi, what you do is get like this," parking himself on all fours.  "The referee's position."

"I'm the referee?"

"No.  You try to escape."

"From what?"

"From me.  I'm sort of like this," kneeling beside me, one hand on my elbow, the other around my ribs.  "If you do, you get a point."

"Like this?" scooting sideways unimpeded.

"Perfect."

"Don't you try to stop me?"

"I'd sort of have to start more underneath."

"Like how?"

"Sort of like this, I guess," reaching far enough around to touch my stomach.

I promptly sucked in; just because I'm an aunt doesn't mean I'm out of shape.  My escape turned out to be as easy as before.

"You're supposed to stop me."

This time he leaned a bit more over my back, his hand edging a little higher on Led Zeppelin.

"Go!"

I again got away, but not without additional twisting, a full moment of which his wrist went yet higher.  Escaping isn't easy.

"I'm a Raven," I announced, the mascot of his school's rival.  "Chirp.  Chirp."

Once more I slipped free, but not without him going over my cup.

"How'm I doing?" my pulse internally audible.

"Pretty good for a girl."

"I'm a woman, thank you."

"Sorry."

"This girl's getting lots of points, right?"

This time, he perched above me with his palm firmly on the underside of my breast.

You want your sports bra when he's firemanning you, but when you're hands and knees in the referee's position, you hardly need one of any type.

"Do you get any points for stopping me?" not moving a muscle.

"Not when I'm already in control."

"Doesn't seem fair," waiting him out.

"It's the rule," minutely bettering his control.

Out of sight, out of mind, but I doubted it.  "How come?"

"It's how it works," underhandedly advancing to the seam where the lace begins.

"You sure?  If I were the coach, I'd..." babbling onward as would a clueless older relative.

A fingertip crossed the boundary.

"You're trying to tell when I'm getting ready to escape, right?"

"Exactly," junior varsity chicanery.  "Coach says wrestling's half mental."

"No problem, then," I agreed.  "I'm wearing a bra," as if he didn't know.  I'd of course blown his covertness, but it seemed a risk worth taking.  He'd probably never before heard me say the word, "bra," as aunts don't generally mention that sort of thing.  Dr. Janie says we can take risks.

"I wasn't..." drawing away even as he spoke.

"So what's this move called again?" inviting him back to his instructor role.  "Who says, 'Go?'" waiting for him to again reach the lace.

"I will," this time not so furtive with his hand.

"Okay," feeling him at last find my nipple.

The rule, as I understood it, is that you can't grab your opponent's clothing.  If you couldn't rub against it, however, the sport wouldn't work.

"Ready, Aunt Cindi?" sizing me up like a fruit inspector might judge a pear.

"Ready as I can be," a self-assessment.

"Go!"

Escapes require lots of practice.  Each time while the voice above me spoke of strategy, the hand underneath would claim its spot.

"Is this what they call 'free style?'" an honest question, as his reach seemed to have that nature.

"Free style isn't how it sounds; it just has different rules," free styling enough to reach my other cup.

He'd no athletic trainer's license, of course, but he did seem to have a knack for massage.

Rules, rules.  If your shirt pulls up a little, he can hold your stomach, but can't reach upward.  Not that Tom explained it, of course, but he seemed careful in complying.  Maybe it was just a JV rule or maybe it was a rule for aunts.  It seemed silly to me -- okay on your shirt's outside, but not on its inside -- but I suppose that if the latter were allowed, then they'd need a rule about inside your bra.  At least the referee can see his hands.

"You want to say, 'Go' this time, Aunt Cindi?" his knuckle measuring the distance between nipple and edge of bra.  The breasts may be just Aunt Cindi's, I could hear him thinking, but Aunt Cindi's so easy to fool.  Just like in the leaf pile.

"I think maybe it's your turn," I decided.  No way was he going to pop me out, not from tugging on the outside, anyway.

"Ready?"

"You bet!"  No way was he going to pop me out, but that's not to say he couldn't have eased me out if he'd first worked my bra strap over my shoulder.  It could have almost seemed accidental.

Afterwards we exchanged positions and he demonstrated such techniques as a "sit-out turn-in" and "sit-out turn-out" and I don't know what.  I think he liked how I climbed over him for each start.  Another type of escape was called a "stand-up," but I didn't plan on doing that.

An escape requires subterfuge -- him being clandestine and you assisting with the cover-up.  It's an ability most of us develop at about Tom's age.  Dr. Janie says to leave dangerous situations, but she also says to take charge.

The Reversal

"What you really want to do when you're down, Aunt Cindi," advised my coach-of-the-day, "is pull a switch-a-roo.  Bingo!  Two match points."

"Gotcha," I agreed.  All of us like to switch-a-roo, a tit for tat, so to speak, if he's the tat, 

"Hop up," returning himself to all fours, me on top.  "Now watch this."

Wham-o! as he pulled my arm underneath, rocked on his elbow -- or something along that line, too fast to tell -- and spun me over his back.  From on top to spread-eagled under him in not a second!

If he were older, one might think we'd assumed the missionary position.

"Two points, huh?" I managed, concerned that he might wonder why I was heel-hooking his calves.

"Two big ones," in no hurry to relinquish his missionary superiority.  As he was staring downward at Led Zeppelin, though, I'm not sure to what he was referring.

"Ever hear of 'Stairway to Heaven?'" I asked as we both gazed.  When it's obvious that your bra's not a sports one is a good time for chit-chat.

"Stairway to what?"

"A song they did.  I'll bet you know it," trying to hum a few bars, but I'm not that musical.

We rested for a few moments, neither of us initiating further missionary activity, but then again, neither of us initiating a missionary pullback.

"What if we just roll over and over?" I wondered.

"Wanna' try?"

I wasn't clear if we each kept earning two points or they cancelled as we tumbled one over the other to the edge of the rug, back to the other side and then back to the center.  The odd thing was how roll after roll we always managed to end up a missionaries.

"If we keep meeting like this," I told him, breathing heavily, "I should bring a pillow."

He didn't get it, but then again, I'm his aunt.

As our rolls left him winded as well, we paused in place to re-cooperate, but even then I could feel an outcome of our reversals pressing my shorts.

"I could get you one, though," he offered, though I suspected only in deference to my age.

"After the buzzer," I agreed, unhooking my heels, but letting him linger a bit longer on the two big ones, and for that matter, letting him linger a bit longer against my lower part.

"It kind of gets your pulse going, though" I reported after his dismount.  "Think mine's too fast?"

He took my wrist, probably worrying his elderly aunt was going to have a heart attack.

"My ticker's here," I corrected, drawing his hand to my breastbone.  "You count the beats and I'll watch the clock."

It's more accurate to go 30 seconds and multiply by 2 than to go 15 seconds and multiply by 4.  "Seems high," after I did the calculation.  "Better do it for longer," moving his hand a bit to the left.

The scientific fact that when you measure something, you change it, applies to your pulse as well.  After reversing over and over with your nephew, anyway.

"They were super famous," I said of the band, as that's where I'd indicated he could count.

The Near Fall

This one was more complicated -- two or three match points depending on how long he does it to you.  Come to think of it, extra points for longer duration applies elsewhere.

What's important in wrestling, though, is that a "fall" actually means a pin.

"You for sure fall," the way Tom explained it, "but you only get nearly pinned."

"Got it."

What's interesting here is the use of the word "fall."  My friend Holly who teaches English says there's a story behind each and every word.

So let's take this four-letter f one.  The Fall (capital F) caused by Eve eating the apple was why the world's population's now more than two.  "Don't eat that apple, Eve, or you'll learn about sex!"  I may be a Catholic, but I still think the point's screwy.  My nephew, however, wouldn't be interested in biblical literature.

Then, of course, it was that same word, "fall," when we'd buried one another in the leaf pile and I'd pretended not to recognize the hand hidden within the foliage.  Such stealth, that boy!  Old Aunt Cindi's just going to think it's an oak leaf that's copping a quick feel.

It took some time afterwards to brush myself free of the leaf crumbs, but our situation being more public, I thought it unwise to ask his help.  In ridding myself of the remnants, however, I lifted the bottom of my blouse enough to show my stomach.

Last fall, I wasn't supposed to know what he was getting away with.  Now I'm supposed to think it's just an aspect of wrestling.  Nothing personal, of course, just what a nephew does to an aunt as part of the lesson.

But back to "near falls," the wrestling topic.  A "cradle" isn't really a cradle; it's more of what I'd call a "fold-up."  When you're nearly folded is another time you're glad for straight-leg panties.  Eyeballs are fast.

We'd always gotten along super -- aunts are spared the role of disciplinarian, especially in leaf piles, -- so it wasn't that I needed to be shy about my legs.

Besides, they were nice panties.

"Sorry," he apologized after a particularly contortional cradle.

"No hard feelings," the total truth.

As the cradle had indeed been rather Karma Sutra-like, however, his glance down his waist suggested another interpretation.  I acted dumb as he fluffed out his shirt to mask any evidence.

"Bridging" means using your neck to hold up your back and thus accentuate your nipples.

"Keep bridging, Aunt Cindi," as he reached under to secretly attack my bra strap.  Out-of-sight, out-of mind, maybe his theory.  Not that I'd have let him undo it, but if he succeeded, I'd still have my shirt.

   "Equipment malfunction," I'd protest as the cups slipped upward.

   "Wrestle on," Tom would rule as referee, lifting my feet until Led Zeppelin tumbled to my shoulders.

No success, though, as he apparently didn't know how to squeeze with just one hand.

Legal Holds

There's no way I didn't catch every time he snuck a feel.  Probably all legitimate holds, I suppose, but so noticeable.  Maybe he figured I'd agreed to it -- much as football players can't complain about getting knocked down.  I hadn't agreed to it, of course, just not disagreed.

   "Don't worry, Aunt Cindi," I imagined him justifying as he teased out my nipple.  "I'm not paying attention."

   "No problem, Tom," I'd respond as I lay back.  "We're team members."

   No, not just that!  My bra strap would have opportunely come undone.

   "Can't have you injured by a loose hook," I'd volunteer, "so let's just ditch the thing.  Promise not to peek at your old auntie, though."

   "Oh, Aunt Cindi!  You're not old at all."

But again back to reality.  Below the belt -- though of course we didn't have belts -- he'd been more cautious.  Not cautious with my backside, of course, but with my backside's backside.

It was rarely more than the heel of a hand or a swipe of a wrist.  Nothing that persisted.  Nothing you'd call a full goose.  Nothing that pinched.  Brushes, not rakes.  Touches, not pokes.  Sometimes lower below the waist or higher inside the thigh than what I'd allow early on a first date, but nothing an aunt can't allow a nephew.  It's a scientific fact that we're touchy-feely in that particular place.

"Try kicking back," he suggested at one time.

"Like this?" aware of how my lap would slide across his palm.

"Not bad," releasing me after a moment of close palming.

"What say we switch?"

"No need," perhaps realizing the equivalent cost to him.  "You've got it pat."

"Once more, then, just to nail it."

When I was inverted - when gravity was working against the legs of my shorts, that is -- I could have updated my comment about my bra to, "No problem, Tom.  I'm wearing panties," but saw no need to announce the obvious.

I could have even added, "And they're white," to make him wonder why his aunt's telling him this.  A confused male is easier to out-fox.  Dr. Janie didn't say it exactly this way on PBS, but we know that's what she means.

The fact was that he good-and-well knew the color and cut of my panties.  Probably just as well I didn't know what else he'd noted, but it wasn't my fault.

There was no way he didn't sense my fondles in return.  A male's corresponding part is likewise touchy-feely, another scientific fact.  Maybe he thought some of my holds accidental or some of their whereabouts unrecognized, but he surely realized that some were otherwise, especially those increasingly less disguised.

My ventures, quick and light like a smart recipe from "Working Woman", made me think "burrito," which goes to show how multicultural we've become.  A generation ago, we'd have thought "sausage."  Someday maybe we'll think "spring roll."  Aunts sometimes have surprising thoughts.

Given the contact, you'd grope your opponent even if you weren't trying.  I'd bet that wrestlers in the locker room talk a lot about girls.  If you act gay, nobody would practice with you and a gay wrestler wins even when he loses.

But back to Tom, not gay, though there's nothing wrong with being gay.

"Uncle!" he laughed, struggling a bit for form's sake, but not enough to escape my knee.

"No, you have to say 'Aunt,'" I insisted, wiggling to encourage the bulge in his shorts.  Earlier I mentioned the physics law about how measuring something changes that very something.  So does wiggling.

"Hormiga," he offered.  "That's 'ant' in Spanish," the bulge nuzzling the juncture of my legs.  Our symmetry may have been roughed out by how my knees now bracketed him, but it took the both of us to fine tune our precise alignment.

"Wrong kind of aunt, buster," I corrected, all the time keeping myself on target.  I'd studied the language in my own schooldays and somehow remembered that it's "Tia."  Why we carried on this banter when our minds were surely elsewhere, I've no idea other than chatting provides a bit of cover-up.

"Just call me, 'Tia Cindita,'" deciding it might be best for him to cease thinking of me as a family member.

For a lot more seconds than it takes to achieve a real pin we worked on points, tennis shorts scoring downward and gym shorts scoring upward.

"Want a pillow?" I whispered in reference to an earlier exchange.  Sort of a joke, sort of not.  Whispering when unnecessary is a good way to guide conversation.

"We're wrestling, right?" arching to meet me in search of an easy score, but likewise dropping his voice.

"You betcha'," deriving a few points myself from his move.

"Maybe, though..." in what seemed a suddenly-hesitant tone.

"Can matches sometimes have overtimes?" I interrupted, an honest question from an aunt who didn't know, but understands the rewards of lasting.

"I don't think...  Well, maybe," again competitively lifting.

"Can we share points?"  Some things are better shared, especially things that require two people.  Tom hadn't mentioned anything about earning points together, but it seemed so silly not to work together.  Dr. Janie talks lots about mutuality, so the co-operative approach to wrestling made sense to me.

"In practice, I guess," catching my logic and allowing me a down-and-up slide.

There'd be no points for escapes, however.

The Pin

I'd pancaked him and slapped the rug twice to make the pin official.  It was true that he'd let me, but it was fair.

The tell-tale sign -- my interpretation, anyway -- was that Tom never said my holds were illegal.  One may do unkind things on an actual mat, but they must be legal unkind things.  On the playroom rug, however, one tries to do friendly things.  Even when I slid my forefinger up the center of his gym shorts, he kept arching.

Well, maybe he even arched higher, but he resumed evasion after I'd finished.  If I'd have been penalized some points -- or if I'd earned them, for that matter -- he didn't say how many.

What he also didn't say was, "No problem, Aunt Cindi.  I'm wearing underwear."  Nephews aren't going to say as much to aunts as aunts can say to nephews.  That's how extended families work.  Dr. Janie says that we're all one family, if that helps.

It must be so unsettling for a junior varsity wrestler when his aunt draws her finger along the length of his penis.  He can pretend like she's not there, he can act like it's accidental, he can wonder if it's his fault, but all the time he's getting harder and all the time he knows she's feeling the development.

Dr. Janie says that managing our time is managing our lives, so maybe now was the time for Aunt Cindi to promote her little nephew to varsity.

Dr. Janie speaks of seizing opportunities and those gym shorts were never going to be easier to access.

Go for it! I told myself.

He gave a start when I slipped under the elastic.  I'd probably violated some JV rule, but not everything gets enforced.

"Ten points," I ruled, caution to the wind.  I didn't want to do anything he didn't want, but at the same time, I wanted whatever I'd be allowed.

It took him a few seconds to decide.  "Five."

I knew him better than that.  I could have said twenty.

"Secret points," I promised in my best whisper.

It actually took a while to get him the way I wanted, but I preferred not to hasten the count.  Wrestling's also about endurance.

While the referee's supposed to raise the arm of the winner, in our case, it was the loser and it wasn't his arm.   Being but junior varsity, I'm not even sure if he knew what I had in mind until I pushed down his shorts and took off mine.

Because he was the one who got pinned, I fucked him from on top.

Wrestling Record

Many of the moves Tom taught me were the same as those his father taught me twenty-odd years ago.  As my brother was a heavyweight, however, for our first pin I'd been flat on my back.

THE END

For varsity wrestlers, here are some Karma Sutra pins where the male's pinned.

   Hansabandha (the Swan) -- "She sits upright upon you, her head thrown back like a rearing mare, bringing her feet together on the bed to one side of your body."

   Hansa-lila (Swan Sport) -- "She strides you, facing your feet, brings both her feet up to your thighs, and works her hips frantically."

   Upavitika (the Sacred Thread) -- "The woman has one foot on your heart and the other on the bed.  Bold, saucy women adore this posture."

   Lilasana (Seat of Sport) -- "Enthroned on your penis, she places both hands on the bed and makes love, while you press your two hands to her thudding heart."

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server.  My problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers.  As literary errors (or just lame word usages) are made known, I'll repair that which is salvageable on http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick.  If you take the time to read me, don't wade through an early version.

You can contact me via the site's message form.

Holly
