Tales From the Gay Bar – “Give and Ye Shall Receive” or “The Punch”

Posted: June 8, 2014 in TFTGB
Tags: , , ,

I see the punch coming before she even knows she’s gonna throw it. I might not be able to read body-language, but I’ve been in enough fights to recognize what’s happening. I can tell from the jerky way her upper-body moves, from the pitch of her voice, from the cornered look in her eyes. She feels the situation slipping out of her control, her instinct is moving in, ready to pounce, ready to take over.

I know I can take the hit. She’s scrawny. A full head shorter than me, she won’t have much power and she won’t know how to throw her weight behind the punch. She’s inexperienced. She’s used to people backing down when she lets her anger out. She’s never been up against someone like me, she’ll never have experienced anger like mine.

I look at her. Size her up. Little dyke from the good part of town, what does she know about anger? What does she know about respect. The REAL kind of respect! The kind you earn with your fists. The kind you receive with blood on your hands and the dirt of the gutter on your clothes. She’s gonna learn.

Her fist is flying at me. I feel the deep red burn in my jaw before she even connects. I fucking love that burn! It makes me feel so young again, so alive. I remember the good old days, they come back in flashes. I see familiar faces, gritted teeth and all.

 I could still move. Let her hand slip by me, grab her elbow, turn to the left, pull her forward, sink my fist into her gut, tap my foot behind her knee and force her down on the floor.

I take the hit. My neck twists painfully to the left once her fist connects with my jaw. I don’t utter a sound, I don’t clasp my face and I don’t show any surprise or pain. I stand fast, look her straight in the face, I search for her eyes and I hold them. I see a mixture of triumph and fear.

Southpaw.  The information shoots through my head, lets me know what to do and expect. I shake it off. It doesn’t matter either way, I can’t hit her back. My right fist is clenched tight, my elbow half-cocked, my shoulder puling back before I regain control. It takes every single grain of willpower I can muster.

My whole body is screaming at my brain. “Carte blanche! She hit you, return the favour!” Hit her, hit her, hit her. HIT HER! Make her pay, make her regret it! Make her wish she’d never set foot here. Make her never want to show her face again. Make her feel what anger can do. Make her taste it!”

3 years ago I would have. I would have used the stunned second of “Damn I never hit nobody before” she’s experiencing right now to my advantage. I’d have let my right hand fly as a fist at her nose. Or flat at her ear. Left foot stomping her right. Left fist pumped in her solar plexus. Knee to the face when she buckled over. A slight push to make her lose balance and fall. Done

I see it. It plays out in my mind clear as day. Like graceful dance-moves I see her body reacting to the hits. A shudder here, a twist there. Muscles flexing and blood flowing. Bones breaking. God that *snap*, it’s such a definite sound. It’s the sound of no return.

But no! I can’t. I musn’t. My whole life has taught me, that in situations like these, violence is most definitely the answer. But violence is no longer an answer I’m allowed to give. I am uprooted. I am a fish out of water. A brawler no longer in the streets.

I do the only thing I can do. I aim for awe. I take the punch, I don’t betray any pain, I hold myself back and I just look at her. Daring her to do it again. No words necessary, we speak beyond mouths and bodies now. I beg her to go for another punch, I plead with her. “Just one more, please! Cos I know I won’t be able to stop myself twice, so come on! HIT ME!”

She bows her head. It’s all over. A bouncer takes her away and I curse everything around me. I know I won’t feel the hit until tomorrow, but the adrenaline will be with me all night. The only way is sleeping it off or fucking it out. Looks like I’m sleeping it off. Fuck this shit!

  1. Paul says:

    TIL Neomety is secretly the protagonist of Fight Club post novel. Heh, I guess I owe Jim $5


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