by Dan Seymour
Promiscuous Pam dabbed at the dotted beads of sweat sneaking through her pores, at least the ones exposed by her bright, red, skimpy bikini. She coughed through the thick clouds of manly cigar smoke that even after six months she still hadn't gotten used to. She liked it here, though, really, despite everything. If nothing else, it was an ego trip.
A deafening chorus of shouts and boos reverberated throughout the tiny arena as one of the boxers fell to the canvas with a clumsy thud. He was slow to get up, but he continued fighting.
He was cute, Promiscuous Pam thought, chewing away at her chewing gum, twirling her long, blonde, curly hair in her fingers and staring at the young boxer dreamily. The young boxer had just been knocked down and appeared to be on his way to a pretty thorough thrashing at the hands of Sadistic Sanderson, the man widely acknowledged as the best boxer in Detroit, at least for now.
The crowd excitedly rose to its feet and let out primal and bestial ear-splitting shouts as Sadistic Sanderson unleashed a ferocious volley of jabs and hooks, left and right. Promiscuous Pam's heart leapt for joy as the young boxer she was starting to like more and more was saved by the bell, just in time. Walking back to his corner, she got a real good look at his face and his well-toned body and decided that after he lost this match, which he most certainly would, she would offer him a rather generous consolation prize. In the six months that she had been there, this was far from rare.
But for now, she had work to do. She grabbed a sign that read: "Round 3" and stepped into the ring. She wore a cunning and naughty grin as she hoisted the sign above her head and strutted about the ring, shaking her hips suggestively and letting her breasts bounce up and down.
The crowd responded with bawdy whistling and catcalls, which was always easily her favorite part of the job. As she took her last lap around the ring, she looked into the eyes of the young boxer, whose eye was swollen shut and nose was bloody, but, she thought, that made him look even better. When their eyes met, she winked at him.
And that was that. She stepped out of the ring as the bell rang, and presently the whistling and catcalling ceased and was replaced by rabid calls for blood.
Promiscuous Pam sat down, coughed, and wiped away the drops of sweat on her slender, voluptuous body. She crossed her long, sleek legs and put a new stick of chewing gum in her mouth as Sadistic Sanderson pummeled into the young boxer mercilessly, viciously, sadistically. He knocked him down again with a beast of a right hook, and amazingly the young boxer stood up and kept fighting. The young boxer continued to take a horrible beating, but incredibly was still standing as the bell rang at the end of the third round.
Turning to the owner of the boxing arena, Sleazy Sam, Promiscuous Pam, through the incessant snapping of her chewing gum, said, "The kid's got heart." Her voice was coarse and tired. In truth, she was a good ten years older than she looked in the ring from the seat of a boxing arena.
Sleazy Sam nodded impatiently. "You'd better get up there," he said.
Promiscuous Pam hurriedly grabbed the sign that read, "Round 4" and hopped under the ropes and into the ring.
She held up the sign above her head and put on her beckoning, naughty grin that she'd perfected after about four hours in front of the mirror one night. She took the first steps around the ring and once again reveled in the raunchy whistling and mating calls that never got old to her ears. Those lusty sounds, however, quickly poured into laughter, cynical, mean-hearted laughter. This was strange, thought Promiscuous Pam. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.
She looked down to see if perhaps a piece of her bikini had slipped down. No, it was intact. She continued strutting about in her high heels. She looked into the crowd and saw nothing but ridicule, a horrific sea of jeering laughter, cruel-hearted and brutal laughter by the hundreds. The wailing sounds of laughter pervaded the entire arena, and Promiscuous Pam became more and more confused and upset. What could be so funny? Were they laughing at her?
She heard Sadistic Sanderson laughing from his corner, as he sat on his stool and had his shoulders rubbed by his trainers. She hated Sadistic Sanderson, straight to the core. He had made several rude and ungentlemanly passes at her in the past, some more violent and forceful than others. After spitting into a bucket, Sadistic Sanderson cackled cruelly and loudly, piercing her with his animalistic stare. She looked at his opponent, the man she wanted so badly to impress. Through barely opened eyes and a blood-soaked face, even he was managing a laugh, through his many swellings and cuts and bruises, through intense pain, through his mouthpiece, it became louder and louder and louder.
She was only in the ring for less than a minute, but it seemed like hours. She was so disoriented and confused, she felt like crying. She hurried out of the ring as the laughing echoed like sirens throughout the seedy, dirty, dark, smoke-filled arena.
She took her seat next to Sleazy Sam and threw down the Round 4 sign on the pile angrily. The fight had resumed, but the laughter kept on going, heartless and unapologetic. Teary-eyed, she watched as Sadistic Sanderson wasted no time tearing heartlessly into the young boxer she so coveted.
She turned to Sleazy Sam, who was laughing at her unabashedly. Hysterical and ready to break into tears, she cried out: "What's everyone laughing at?"
Sleazy Sam barely heard her over the roar. Wiping away tears of laughter, he finally found his composure. "The Round 4 sign," he said, pointing to the pile that lay by her feet. "You were holding it upside down."
"Oh!" said Promiscuous Pam, relieved. She giggled ditzily, chewing away at her chewing gum, twirling her curly blond hair in her fingers and staring at the young boxer dreamily.
Drowned out by a thunderous sea of laughter, he had just been KO'd.
Dan Seymour was born in New York and currently resides in New Jersey. He enjoys nothing. Believe it or not, he owns a douche bag.
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