Lara Loves Kickboxing

I walked to Lara’s kickboxing gym.

It was south of Market Street in an old brick warehouse. A sign over the entrance read MUAY THAI KICKBOXING, and in smaller letters, NATIONAL SPORT OF THAILAND. I went in.

The humid air reeked of sweat. Kickboxing bags dangled from the ceiling. Weightlifting equipment crowded the floor. I headed for the center of the warehouse, passing bags and equipment until I found the boxing ring.

In the ring was Lara – a lot more of Lara than I’d ever seen before. She parried and ducked, then fired a barrage of kicks, punches, and elbows into a canvas bag her trainer was struggling to hold out in front of him.

He was six feet tall and thick, but Lara had him winded – each strike knocked him backward, powered by her white equine thighs that were barely contained by her silver kickboxing shorts. Her cut-off tank-top revealed a washboard stomach rippling with sweat as she dodged and spun, breasts tight like fists heaving under the cotton of her sports bra as she got the punches out, quick hands hands hands and then WHAM, she laid into the bag with her shin like a cleaver and her trainer stumbled four feet back.

I took a seat. Lara’s trainer was exhausted but he came back for more, slowing, breathing hard, face flushed, knees wobbly. Lara’s knuckles were taped, but from where I sat they looked a little bloody as she threw a blur of set-up jabs and then WHAM, he trainer went down.

I felt the beginnings of an erection coming on.

The trainer got back up with the bag as Lara padded back and forth in her bare feet like a tiger, her real speed just getting started now, her hair pulled back and swishing like a tail, her shins burning red but holding and her thick, hard ass, it was invincible, such quick hands and a knee to his balls in a nice variation, then a push-back and WHAM, he was down and clutching his stomach, the canvas bag resting beside him like a knocked-out appendage.

I looked down. My dick raged in my pants.

Lara put her hands on her hips and waited for the trainer. She bounced her rear foot playfully on the mat a few times, thump thump thump, toes spread wide, hamstrings and calves dancing lightly with each bounce, muscles rippling and vanishing, all of her a hearty mix of round and hard and curved. She flicked a finger at the trainer to get his butt off the ground.

He couldn’t.

“Wimp,” she muttered.

I eyed her arms, her stomach. She was an animal, pure instinct, all muscular curve . . . I’d had no idea bodies like hers existed. I wiped my forehead. I’d worked myself into a frenzy.

Lara spotted me. She smiled and walked to the ropes, slowly unwinding helical coils of bloody gauze from her hands. “Hey,” she said, breathing hard. “I’m glad you showed up. I’ll meet you outside.”

I went outside to wait.

She emerged after a minute with a gym bag slung across her back. She wore a short green dress and clunky black boots. Her shins glowed bright red from the kicking.

“So, what’d you think?” she asked, bouncing up and down and socking me on the arm.

“You pummeled him!” I gasped. “I . . . I want you to kick my damned head off!”

Lara laughed, then flicked her eyes down and saw the bulge in my pants. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.

I coughed, turned, and tried to adjust the lump. “Oh, I . . . it’s nothing . . . I . . . these pants are starched and they–”

“Starched?”

“Yeah, sometimes they poke out in front . . . they’re like cardboard . . .”

“You should try softener—it’d fix them right up.”

“Oh, right, good idea. I’ll try it.”

Lara started walking up the street. I followed. “You’re ferocious in the ring,” I said.

“I’m training for the lightweight division Muay Thai Kickboxing Championship world title,” said Lara. She pulled out a yellow flyer advertising the fight and handed it to me.

“Will you only be fighting women?” I asked.

“As far as I know,” said Lara. She suddenly stopped walking. “Do you think it matters that I’ll only be fighting women?”

She put her face right up to mine and continued, “You don’t think I could beat a man?” She arched a brow and her sharp eyes waited, daring me to reply. I could feel her breath on my face. I swallowed. “You’d better be careful,” she said, throwing a knee to my groin.

She stopped just short of contact, but it was enough to activate my cremasteric reflex and make my tender gonads retract, bending me at the waist as if I’d been hit, chin forward, my body tensed and waiting for the gnawing testicular pain to begin, though it didn’t.

I was lucky.

My right testicle could feel the warmth of her knee. Her precision was stunning.

“You could’ve crushed my balls,” I coughed out.

“See?” she giggled. “Softener fixes that stiffness every time.” I laughed while nonchalantly trying to protectively angle my family jewels away from her.

She scribbled her phone number on the back of her flyer and handed it to me. “Call me sometime,” she said, then she turned and jogged off down the street, her calves and thighs flexing, her bosom heaving.

I stood and watched her go. When she reached the corner, she stopped and looked back. I gave her a wave. She flipped me the bird, then skipped off around the corner.

It was the most beautiful gesture I’d ever seen.

I walked back to the Tenderloin. When I was halfway home, it occurred to me that Lara could prove seriously dangerous to my reproductive health if I managed to piss her off. I needed protection. I took out my wallet. I had ten bucks. It was enough.

I ducked into a sporting goods store and bought myself a groin cup.