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[personal profile] leatherdykeuk


Burning.

It always feels like burning when the muscles scream. The fingers first. Grips on the gi are excruciating and she doesn't want you on there. She wants your grips OFF. NOW. And hers on, of course. If she's not confidant with her throws she'll pull guard. That forces you to recover posture and reassess while you work out the best method to pass. All while she's fighting to sweep. To regain position, to slip her fingers into your collar and pull you down into closed guard, maybe into a cross-choke.

If you're unlucky – or like me your posture was rubbish – she'll switch positions and go for the mount. This is where you get an eyeful of the pirate patch teddy bear on her rashguard, while droplets of drool rain down from her mouth protector. Man, those things are ugly, but not as ugly as having no front teeth.

Two minutes and a dozen escape attempts later and you're ready to throw in the towel but you hear her trainer from the sideline “Come on, Tracy, forty five seconds left. You're up on points.” Forty five seconds? About time you did something then.

You pull in your knees, place them on her hips, grab her ankles and topple her like a council sycamore. It gives you enough momentum to scoot round and take side mount. You go for a baseball choke but there isn't enough time. There's never enough time. The buzzer goes. Was that only five minutes?

April 2017

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