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Rated: ASR · Other · Other · #1903822
Use in your poem or story: a kickboxer, a lawyer, forbidden, café restaurants, jailtime
I'll admit I've fantasized about being a professional Muay Thai kickboxer. I have succumbed to the fad of Mixed Martial Arts, or MMA to those of us in the know. But then again I’ve always enjoyed combat sports and using my legs. It’s the best of two worlds, exercise and kickass protection.

Regrettably, growing up in a single parent household did not allow me to pursue this lifelong dream at a proper young age. Nope, instead I grew up with the usual aspirations of being a doctor or a lawyer and ended up becoming the fairly successful owner of a modest chain of café restaurants in the greater Cincinnati area.

It was on one of these modest days, a Wednesday in fact. I had just polished off one of Carlo’s Forbidden Desserts of Decadence (his words, not mine) when all of a sudden Bob Franklin sauntered in. Now keep in mind, as MMA greats go, he’s not exactly top of the pole, I’m not even sure he classifies as a local celebrity even though his gym is only 30 minutes up the road. But still, a real life UFC fighter in MY restaurant. Of course I put it upon myself to personally serve this Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu brown belt and maybe pick his brain a bit.

As I smiled pleasantly, welcomed him to the restaurant (he told me it was his first time, I tried not to make it obvious that I definitely knew how many times he had walked through my doors, and took his drink order. I tried not to notice the way he assessed my physique appraisingly. His smile widened on his journey from my business heels back to my face.

Oddly enough, while you would think this evaluation by a combat great would make me feel warm and tingly all over, it just made my skin crawl. I heaved a heavy inward sigh. I wanted to believe that he was down to earth, but no, he was probably a creep. I tried not to cement that idea in my head as I brought him and his male associate their lunchtime vodka tonics. I was mentally preparing to deliver my first round of questions when it happened.

Mr. Southpaw slid his UFC seasoned hands ever so smoothly up my leg and proceeded to cop a healthy feel of my derriere. I lost it. I only had six months of karate classes growing up and countless hours of Tae Bo tapes under my belt, but it was enough. I expertly grabbed his wrist with my left hand, swooped around and cupped the back of his neck with my right and slammed the jerk's head into the shiny table top.

I didn’t bother to stay around and address the aftermath of the situation. I knew my busboys would take care of the rest. As I tried not to contemplate the possibility of jailtime in my imminent future, I did ponder a change of fantasy career. Forget Muay Thai, from now on I’m only striving to be a professional bad ass.

Words: 510


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