Jiu Jitsu Porn?

I woke up this morning next to a warm and willing body. Husband nudged closer and wrapped his arm around me, pulling himself on top. He painted my lips with gentle, luscious kisses, the kind that arrive in the morning when, after a night’s repose, everything feels intimate and tempting, the bed and bedclothes a cocoon of velvet. Husband’s body was a study in contrasts— supple yet taught against mine, soft but unyielding, tender and aggressive.

            I was caressing his rough, morning-bestubbled cheeks when it happened. It was like a violation. An attack at the most vulnerable of times. His hand crept around and I tensed up, drawing my elbows in. He tried to embrace me lovingly, moving his hands underneath my shoulder, but he couldn’t; he was blocked. He stopped, regrouped, then tried again. A second time he was blocked. He looked at me quizzically, his expression saying, Am I doing something wrong? Why are you refusing my touch? My elbows drew tighter to me, and I laughed, realizing that my body was acting of its own accord.

            “Were you trying to get the underhook?” I asked.

            “What?” asked my jiu jitsu-clueless Husband.

            “Cause you can’t have the underhook.” I said matter-of-factly.

            And I pummeled my arm under his, gaining control of his left shoulder.

            ‘Okay,” he said, and relaxed his arm over mine, unaware of the advantage he was giving me, returning my words with his beautiful, pliant kisses.

Jumping on the Cup Wagon . . .

Georgette, our favorite Female-Over-Forty blogger is tackling the issue of men wearing cups.

G. and her readers are discussing the technical advantages of cup-wearing. There is also a healthy debate about whether men should or should not roll with them and why. You can read it all here. I thought I would add my two cents on Cup Culture, among other things.

 

Insert junk here.

I’ve never thought much about the technical “advantages" or "disadvantages" of my male partners wearing a cup. I’ve also never been hurt by a cup sparring, though it seems many people have, including the wearers it was meant to protect. Usually, I do not think about my male partner's junk at all while grappling. I like to pretend they are Ken dolls. Neutered. As far as I’m concerned, they have no junk and I’d like not to be reminded otherwise.

Most of the time I am successful in ignoring my male partners’ genitalia. But there are several times when Shark Girl is oh-so unfortunately reminded that she is not sparring with the anatomically censored. And by Jesus, it really fucks with my concentration.

When I feel the cup, all of a sudden my little, private, no-gonads reverie is smashed. My partner is not a eunuch, and what is more, now I have to decide if he is a creep. Because the first thing Shark Girl thinks when she feels something hard down there is, “WTF? This dude better be wearing a cup!” I do not know whether to avoid the crotch region lest I contribute to this “excitement” or to do some recon into the area to make sure it is indeed a cup. All of this decision-making wastes precious time. In addition to thinking about grappling, now I have to decide whether my partner is “rolling for pleasure” and that butt grab was really NOT an accident, or whether he is just over-protective of his balls. Then I have to figure out what course of action will make me most comfortable in finishing this roll. My partner? He is just thinking about grappling. He has the advantage.

Dear Reader, this next section is not for prudes. If you continue reading, you were forewarned!

There is another thing that distracts me in the same way as the cup. Let me describe a recent scenario:

I was rolling with a male partner. We were having a splendid, technical time. I moved lithely around his body to maintain position, and my face happened to end up near his nether regions. On the next inhale, what did I smell? Semen. Yep. So, either this dude is pre-ejaculating to my fancy jitsu moves (I can’t be that good!), or he had a grand old time before class and forgot to wipe the sex off. I sincerely hope it was the latter. But, color me distracted. Instead of thinking about how to finish my move, my mind was going back and forth between creep alerts and visions of my partner in some afternoon delight:

Okay, this original is even funnier than the Anchorman clip. Watch for: the air guitar from the female lead, extra-large corsages, a prairie skirt, and two ladies singing to the smarmy 70s dude. I dare you to watch and not laugh.

I imagine that these things distract both men and women alike, providing a distinct technical advantage to the cup wearer or the pre-class sexy-timer. And there are hundreds of other little distractors that give advantages, like a period or a fast-food smell.

Yes, I want fries with that!

Or, maybe I just have ADD. . . .

Age is Catching Up With Shark Girl!

I am feeling old. It’s not my high cholesterol or failing eyesight. It’s not my kidneyberg and all that’s put me through. It’s not that even now, two years after my LCL tear, every once in a while my knee tweaks and I have to take a break from jiu jitsu. It’s not the milestone birthday—45—precipitously approaching. It’s not even my training partner at the gym calling me “Old Bag.” Nope. None of those things. Dear Reader, what has pushed me over the edge of realization this past six months is . . . fat knees.

 

Why don't mine look this cute?

Yes, you read right. Shark Girl has fat knees. Not phat knees. That would be okay, welcome, actually. No, fat-with-an-eff knees.

This is where you all go, “Shark Girl. You are crazy. I’ve seen your profile pic and you are about as fat as Meghan Trainor is ‘All About That Bass.’”

At least she's got all the right junk in all the right places!

If you look at me—or my profile pic—it is hard to miss that I am small. Tiny. Minuscule, really. So tiny that third graders feel compelled to comment on my stature.

“Your mom is really small!” A friend of my 8-Year-Old Son commented to him. Great. I thought that when I left elementary school I would stop getting picked on by elementary school children. Apparently that was not in the cards for me.

But however small I may be, the other day when I was in downward dog, I noticed some skin draping gently down from my thigh and cascading over my kneecap. It was like my knee had a muffin top. I touched it. It was jiggly. It felt like whale blubber. I lifted it up. It fell back down. What the fuck! 

I’ve always had meaty thighs. It’s part of the Mediterranean childbearing curse. But my thighs are strong and muscular and nothing has ever drooped on them before. Now, apparently, they have mud flaps.

“Honey,” I lamented to Husband.

“What is it now?” He replied.

<sigh> “I’ve got fat knees.”

“No, you don’t”

“Yes I do.”

“Show me.”

“Here.” And I pointed to my little puffs of flesh.

“Hmmmpff,” he commented, putting on his reading glasses to get a better look.

“See?”

“That’s nothing,” he replied, putting his glasses away.

“And look at this cellulite!” I added, because clearly he wasn’t giving me the reaction I wanted. (Does he know better, or has he learned from experience?)

“Honey, that’s always been there.” (Nope. Nothing learned from 18 years together.)

“Well, what the hell am I going to do about my fat knees?”

I don’t think there is anything non-surgical I can do about my fat knees, and that is why I feel old. I am not fat. I am not out of shape. I am old. My skin is stretching and sagging and forming new shapes. I am not sure what this means for my bikini bod, but it can’t be good news. Thankfully, gis cover the knees.

Where Have All the Small Dudes Gone?

My gym has had an influx of new people coming in to try out BJJ. This is always an exciting time—new people to test our skills!

It’s not that I don’t like the old, regulars, but as my skills improve, so do theirs and sometimes it feels like I am standing still. You know, like when you are driving alongside another car that is going the same speed and if you look out quickly and don’t see the trees whizzing by, it looks like no one is moving at all. It’s like that.

So when the fresh meat comes in, I get excited. ‘Cept for one thing. I swear, every person to walk through my gym’s doors in the past month or two has been HUGE. I mean MONSTROUS. GARGANTUAN. Like, picture that skyscraper in Dubai:

now add some girth, maybe to equal the width of , oh, I don’t know, the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man? 

Strap a gi on him and he looks just like our new guys!

                                 

Shark Girl is petite. Think of the smallest person you know. Now shrink that person down about half size, and add extra-large calf muscles and some child-bearing hips, and, if I’ve been neglectful in my waxing, a little Mediterranean fuzz on my upper lip. Now, close your eyes and put the two images of me and The New Guy side by side. *sigh* Here we go again.

I love new people. I just wish some of them were smaller, so I could actually practice a damn sweep. Or roll with them and not worry about cracking a rib or breaking something important. Big Dudes take so goddamned long to train, and it’s not a given that I will ever be able to train safely with them, to trust myself to them as a training partner. And if I do train them well (‘cause it’s usually my responsibility) then I always wonder, What am I really capable of? Am I getting an unfair advantage? I know it is silly, but if you read my last post about being a zealot, you understand that it is not enough for Shark Girl to be a bad-ass jitser (which I am definitely not, but I can dream, can’t I?), but I have to be bad-ass against the biggest, toughest, most fearsome foes that walk the mat, and not get hurt. See? I may not have the typical female issues, but mine are almost as impossible as looking like those girls in the magazines with their airbrushed facial lines and their plumped up, oiled body parts and their digitally-whittled waists. 

Wait 'til Paper Magazine gets a load of my sick Jiu Jitsu moves! Imagine the centerfold they will do of Shark Girl!

I was sparring with a man on the larger side the other day. Someone who has been working hard to train well with me and I am grateful for that. He had a worrisome look on his face.

     “Hey, what’s up?” I said.

     “Not much,” he replied.

      (Tap of Friendship)

      He sighed, looking me up and down, not sure where to start.

     “You know,” he said, “you are the hardest person here.”

For those big guys who really try to spar well with us little people, I understand it is difficult to suppress their God-given muscle and strength. And I want all you big guys who try to know that I, Shark Girl, appreciate your efforts immensely. Thank you, Big Dudes who really try to roll well with the wee folk, thank you.

However, I still hope when I see a new car in the parking lot, it’s owner will be under 175 pounds. And I am looking forward to the return of some good (small) friends who left the gym a few months ago for financial reasons and have promised to return in the new year.

Modern Zealot of Exercise?

Back in October, I read Why Are Americans So Fascinated with Extreme Fitness? It wonders why people do extreme sports and calls those involved in them “modern zealots of exercise,” claiming they feel that

 It’s not enough to look good and feel good if you’re not prepared to lift a Mini Cooper off an injured stranger.

It got me thinking: Am I a modern zealot of exercise? What the fuck am I doing, doing Brazilian jiu jitsu? Does a middle-aged Mom really need to know how to break someone’s arm and choke the breath out of them? Really? I mean, I understand it is a useful tool in case I were physically threatened. And it does give me confidence. But sometimes I wonder if this confidence is misplaced: What could I really do if a huge dude attacked me? Not much. 

Tauriel may rock as a fictional fighter, but in real life, her arms would have been broken so many times in this scene. Trust me.

Now, if Mr. Furley from Three’s Company tried something, I’m pretty sure I could do some damage.

Let’s face it, besides exercise, I basically use jiu jitsu to intimidate Husband when he tries to get frisky. Oh, really, are you sure you want to put one arm in, one out, Love? You know what that leads to, and it is NOT a smile on your face!

So, why the hell do I do it? Let’s see, when I did aerobics, I worked out two hours a day (back in the 80s, pre-kids, pre-job, and nothing else to do). As a runner, I started doing marathons and half marathons. Yep. That pretty much sounds like extremism. Of course I would be drawn to the martial art that pits me mano a mano against everyone in the world, no matter what their size, shape, or sex.

  The article goes on to imply that sated and safe humans are looking for ways to recreate the thrill of the wild. That’s kind of my take on amusement parks—why would anyone want to pretend they are free falling from a 20-story building? How is that fun?

It's not fun. She's terrified!

For Shark Girl, I am not recreating primal urges or satisfying an ancient calling for the exhilaration of the hunt. Dear Readers, it is about power. As someone who stands under 5 feet tall, who has always been the smallest everywhere, whom people, in their “charming” way, patronizingly measure their children against to check growth: “Oh, Six-Year Old, stand next to Shark Girl. Wow! You are almost as tall as she is!” (Yes, I, an adult woman, am constantly asked to measure myself against very young children to show that they have surpassed my stature. *sigh*)

For SG, running marathons and training jiu jitsu are about having the power that in the larger society I feel I lack because I am a small female. I may be tiny but I can run a marathon. I may be a full-grown adult who is smaller than your elementary school child but don’t mistake that for weakness.

And of course, the person I am trying to convince most is myself.

Everyone gets on the mat for different reasons. When I realized what mine were, it helped me lighten up about my training, become less hard on myself, and enjoy it more. It gave me the power I was looking for--power over myself and my choices.

Happy New Year, and Happy Training. May you all find what you are looking for in your extreme practice!

Not Your Mama's Soccer Mom

Note: All of the events you are about to read are real. They really happened. I am THAT bad.

Son of Shark Girl plays soccer. Son #2, 8-Year-Old to be exact. 

Husband usually takes on the soccer responsibilities, toting Sonto practices during the week and games on Saturdays. Whew! He loads up the car with a chair, water bottle, Son’s ball, etc., before each practice and game. Husband knows all the moms and families, knows the name of every kid on the team. He is good like that. 

I, however, am not. And it is glaringly obvious on those days when husband can’t do a game or practice. Like last weekend. Husband had some churchy event to attend, so I, Shark Girl, was on soccer mom duty.

I suck at being a soccer mom.

Luckily, 12-Year-Old Son is old enough to stay home by himself, so I didn’t have to deal with him during the practice. One problem solved. 

“Honey, I put Soccer Son’s soccer ball in the car for you!” Husband shouted on the way out. Check. Problem two, remembering to bring the soccer ball, solved.

“Mom, can you help me?” Soccer Son yelled from his room. “Oh, crap. What now?” With 8-Year Old, it could be anything, really anything . . . from a renegade spider cornering him in his room to a poop in an unexpected place. 

“I can’t get my socks on.” Oh, I got this. I put on so many tights for dance class in my day. I can do this. Bull shit. These soccer socks are like Chinese finger traps.

Asian finger traps? What's the PC term for these dang things?

“You just roll them up like this . . .”

“Like this?”

“No, like this. Then you pull them on . . . No, with your thumbs outside. Don’t turn them inside out. No, not like that. Wait, let me show you again.”

“I can’t doooooo thiiiiiisssssss!” Screamed Son.

 “Sure, you got it.”

“But I can’t pull them up. Now they’re on backwards!” Off came the socks again. Back to square one.

“Let me me do them,” I said, pulling them over Son’s feet.

“Ow! You’re hurting me!”

This went for a good seven minutes until I was sure we would be late for the game.

Running out the door, I made sure I had my cell phone for Oldest Son to call if he needed me, my purse in case the cops stopped me (you never know what will happen on the mean streets of suburbia), a book to read (cause that's the kind of soccer mom I am . . . one that doesn’t really watch the game. I know you are all booing me right now. But, I do Jiu Jitsu, for chrissake. If I’m gonna watch something, chokes better be involved.)

I shepherded Son to the car, which was not as easy as it sounds, because 8-Year-Old is like a moth, easily distracted by any stimulus along the way.

I congratulated myself on remembering to bring a chair to sit down on, and drove off across town. We made it! We will be on time . . . if I can find the field.

Shark Girl parked the car. “Where is your field, honey?”

“I think it’s there.”

“Do you recognize any of the kids?”

“I think so. No wait, over there.”

“Are they wearing your shirt? Is that your coach?” Because Bad Soccer Mom does not know who the coach is.

“Yeah. That’s them.” 8-Year-Old runs onto the field. I follow slowly behind, dragging my chair and my 1200 page book with me. 

I surveyed the landscape as I moved toward the field. Do I know anyone here? I saw groups of soccer moms, clinging together, knowing each other either from the community or from soccer practices gone by. I eyed one group, the one closest to me at the edge of the parking lot. I couldn’t tell what they were talking about, but the woman on the left had a sneer on her face and her eyes were darting back and forth. Her tone was spiteful and superior, and the other mom was nodding in approval, a scowl on her face as well. 

“Ugh,” I thought. No wonder I never talk to anyone at the things. They are probably complaining about their son’s teacher, or describing how difficult it is to get the cleaning woman get all the cobwebs from the corners. “Double ugh. I’m gonna sit and read my book and be antisocial. If I don’t make eye contact, maybe I can get away with it.”

I positioned my chair a comfortable distance from all interlopers and sat down. I scanned the field every minute or so to see if Soccer Son was playing. Nope? Back to the book.

Wait . . . is that a Jiu Jitsu sweatshirt I see? Why yes, it is! Right in front of me was a soccer dad wearing a Jiu Jitsu sweatshirt. 

I got up and said “Excuse me. Do you practice Jiu Jitsu? So do I.”

And there ensued a long conversation about where, when, how long, we each practiced. Favorite techniques and name dropping. We knew lots of the same people in the Jiu Jitsu community, it seemed.

Well, maybe I do belong here, I thought. Maybe a Jiu Jitsu Diva can be a soccer mom, too. Maybe this is my niche.

My confidence in my soccermomdom was growing. I puffed out my chest like I was victorious, or like I was rear-naked choking someone . . . really what’s the difference? I belong! I crowed silently to myself. I belong!

Then I saw Son running toward me around the perimeter of the field. He was just subbed out. He ran up to me, red-faced and breathing heavy.

“Water?” He held out his hand.

“Water?” Oh shit, water! And at that moment I knew I could never belong here. I had forgotten the most important job of the soccer mom—to bring the water bottle.

“Oh, honey. I forgot it,” I said sheepishly. “ Can you make it?”

“You forgot it?” Son said, his voice tinged with disappointment. Husband never forgot the water bottle.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, okay,” Son chuffed, then ran back to his team.

Then my cell phone rang. It was Son #1. “When ya coming home? I thought you’d be home by now.”

“Nope. Another half hour at least.”

“Can’t you come home?”

“What, you bored with video games already?”

“Just come home.”

“When your father gets here.” And believe me, he couldn’t get there soon enough.

I turned back to my new Jiu Jitsu friend and we talked about guards and submissions and techniques—things I could relate to—until Husband showed up at the field.

Goodbye, soccer field! I said with relief. Perhaps next time the water bottle will not elude me! 

Post Script: With the change of seasons, Soccer Son has transformed into Basketball Son. Last night was his first practice, and guess who forgot the water bottle? Yep. I suck at being a Basketball Mom, too!

Why Saulo is My Jiu Jitsu Boyfriend

Someone sent me this video of Saulo Ribeiro and it reminded me of why Saulo and I are secretly dating in my head. 

You can watch it for yourself, but I will give you Shark Girl’s highlights below, because, hey, isn’t that why you are reading my blog?

Saulo makes these points in the first few minutes:

Champions are those who get up and try to be better everyday.

It doesn’t matter how good you are; it matters what you are trying to do to get better. I believe this not only physically, but also for our mental and spiritual selves, in our jobs and in our relationships.

When we all put the gi on, what makes us different is our personalities.

My Secret Boyfriend goes on to say [around 2:02],

“ Today you can hide yourself behind money, you can hide yourself behind clothes, behind cars . . . but who you really are I’m gonna see as soon as I start to choke you, you know.”

It's talk like that that makes my heart skip a beat!!

 

I’ll be honest, Shark Girl’s mind starts to wander about half way through the interview. But that’s okay. Then I just concentrate on Saulo’s soothing voice. No need for yoga today!

Finally, I love the way Saulo talks about his competition. [6:30] He displays such profound respect. None of this low-brow trash-talking.

Given Saulo’s philosophy, it’s no wonder I see lots of women on his mat. Saulo is not pushing ego-trippin’ bro-culture. He is pushing discipline and respect. Those are things the ladies can get behind.