Becky and Cait were having quite the celebration after Cait's unexpected victory over the larger male.
Ben, not unexpectedly made excuses. The group quickly let him now that such braying was unacceptable unless he was capable of backing it up. Poor Ben; he would have been the man I thought least capable of handling a defeat at the hands (literally of a woman). And that the woman beating him would also be quite attractive -- well, I expected Ben to do exactly what he did -- sulk and drink. He was very good at both.
Cait's victory had catalyzed the teens into a similar competition and young Julia was now quite willing to let her physical superiority show. My son, Dan, went down to defeat and reacted by laughing. (I was proud that he took the defeat like a man and did not react like Ben.)
Finally, Becky approached me and pulled me into the competition. I am not one that would normally partake. Please, do not take this as a signal of anything more than a distaste for public displays of physicality, if that is a word. I am neither weak (I am 6ft and weigh 175 pounds) or cowardice. I like women, and typically consort with attractive women, but I will admit to being attracted to female athletes. I do not see women as the weaker sex. I had learned that lesson at the age of about 12 (indeed, that is the subject of another story).
As I told you earlier, Becky is a coach - my vocation and avocation. She is very fit and a natural athlete. She is good at every sport she tries and in most will devote time and study to perfecting her performance.
She looked much stronger than my sister Cait. While Ben is not an athlete, he is not weak and I am sure he is stronger than 85% of the men his size - a class to which I belong. I would guess but do not know that I am stronger than Ben. Of course, I would have bet that Ben was stronger than Cait. He may be. It is possible that technique and other factors played a role in Cait's victory. I do know that Ben would not have let Cait win and I was sure that I would need to give my best effort to beat Becky even though I had a considerable size advantage.
As I sat down across from her she smiled brightly. This was clearly fun for her. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered a saying that "if a woman challenges you to armwrestle, she probably knows she will win." Whoever said that had Becky in mind. She radiated confidence.
As I locked hands with her, her grip told me that I was in for a fight. I had doffed by shirt and sat there in a sleeveless T-Shirt. My own arms were respectable; Becky's were cut. She was, as young Julia was kind enough to point out, "ripped." That means rippling muscle and she had it.
Muscles were visible from her shoulders across her impressive chest and down the length of her arms. She had biceps that though smaller than mine were hard and defined by a ridge separating a neat cap from the base. Her triceps divided neatly into sections. Her forearms buldged and as she gripped my hand expanded to a size superior to mine.
She twisted in her seat and hunched forward causing her breasts to swell over the top of her low cut top. My eyes took this in quickly but no so quickly to escape the notice of my opponent who gave me a flirtatious wink as she licked her pink lips.
"Ready?" she asked as I tried to squeeze her hand. I must have grunted my response because she quickly counted "1-2-3 GO!" and twisted at me hard and quick. Her first move was to twist my right hand and pull it toward her as she pushed her torso forward. I resisted naturally but not very effectively. I did not underestimate her power as much as her speed and perhaps her determination.
Now some describe a match against a superior opponent as a heavy weight or a wall. Armwrestling with this woman was more like pulling against a piston engine. Her power started low and steady and then increased. I guess I was stronger than she expected because she gained a slight advantage and I held her for a few seconds. "You're pretty good," she said to me tossing her hair back and taking in air.
I would have responded but I did not have the wind to spare and I wasn't sure what to say because I did not feel "good" or strong. I felt overmatched.
My mind flashed quickly to losing a match to the girl of my dreams as a kid. I looked at her and she look composed, determined and very sexy. That was a problem and I looked down at our hands willing myself to concentgrate and pull. All of that took place in a fraction of the time it will take you to read it for as soon as she got her breath she resumed her efforts. And, like a piston engine, moved into a higher gear. Her forearm rippled as she manipulated my wrist to be parallel to the table.
I strained will all I had and felt my wrist bend back. I knew this was the end. She now had all the leverage. If I had the strength to pull until my wrist broke I could not lift her arm which was now centered under her shoulders and head. She bore down and took me firmly to the table.
I was exhausted and thoroughly defeated. She didn't whoop or cheer but extended her hand and said simply "good match."