Irina wanted to pick me up at the airport. I remembered her as beautiful, but my memory hadn’t done her justice. Her features had softened in the year or so since we’d last seen each other, and her movements had grown more graceful. You could tell she was clearly thrilled to see me again, to show me the car she’d managed to buy with her first savings. She was stringing together odd jobs as a conference hostess, a model for clothing catalogs, or a cashier at fast-food franchises. Strands of her messy platinum hair fell across her face when she gestured, making her look a little cross-eyed. When I saw her in the arrivals hall, she was wearing a very tight turtleneck sweater and bell-bottom jeans. She opened her arms and hopped up and down to get my attention. I set down my luggage and kissed her soft cheeks twice. More effusively, she squeezed me like her favorite stuffed toy. Nestled in her warm lap, I wondered how I could have missed Irina’s comfortable embrace for so long.

Her hands were now sporting several rings.

"Do you like them?" she asked, stretching out her long, white fingers. "I get them free from the catalogs," she added, perhaps to put me at ease.

Actually, the reason for my trip wasn’t to see Irina, but to meet with a producer named Salvat who knew my record with HRP and wanted to negotiate a possible contract. But Bruno had given me the number of the most attractive girl in all of Poland—a country with no shortage of hot bodies—and one of my nights off I texted her. I hadn’t heard from her in a year, but the next morning she called me. We talked for about an hour—mostly me—until she, a bit sheepishly, reminded me that she was out and that this was going to cost her a pretty penny. She was working at a KFC in Barcelona, so I asked Bruno about media contacts in that city and sent out my resume. The others didn’t reply, but Salvat wanted to meet me in person. The thing was, he produced shows for mainstream TV during prime time, and my credentials were tied to the porn industry. Anyway, now that I’d lost touch with Betty, this gave me an unexpected chance to reconnect with the other half of my bed-mates duo from my Manna days. The more delightful one, by the way.

Salvat had booked me a hotel room and two tickets to a private show the day before our interview. The show was being held at a venue downtown, and Irina explained that we wouldn’t be able to drive there. It took no fewer than five maneuvers for her to wedge her brand-new compact car into a spot in a massive underground parking garage. We left my luggage in the car and walked arm in arm. With her boots on, she was almost a head taller than me. We ate standing up at a French fry stand where she was known. While they chatted in Polish, I called the hotel to confirm and checked my text messages. There were two from Mom. Since I’d moved out on my own, I’d been in touch with her more than when I lived at home. It was already too late for her first message, which advised me to bring warm clothes. In the second, she asked me to buy her chocolates at the airport. Salvat had replied with a brief “OK” to my arrival notice, the airline announced that check-in was open for the return flight, and that was all.

We made our way through the pedestrian streets and spotted a group of well-dressed people who stood out against the grime and dim lighting of the old city.

"Watch your purse," Irina warned me, squeezing my arm even tighter.

We passed through security and accessed a long hall through graceful doors decorated in a modernist style; its walls were paneled to waist height with wood carved with floral motives, and slender mirrors extended to the ceiling. What looked like a casino dance floor was dotted with small round tables, and along one side stretched a bar counter with a multicolored bottle rack behind it.

I noticed that many of the patrons already seated at the tables were counting cash and arranging the bills into stacks.

At the far end from the entrance was a small raised stage, where one could imagine a grand piano or a jazz orchestra. But it was completely empty except for a one-meter-high metal table roughly bolted to the floor. Its garish colors and aggressively shiny chrome contrasted with the elegant dark tones of the rest of the wooden furniture. On its surface, the table had two cushions, one blue and one red, and a metal peg on each side. 

"Do you know what that is?" Irina asked.

"A regulation arm-wrestling table, I believe."

My answer seemed to put her at ease, even though I didn’t know the nature of the show myself. The tickets simply said: “The Queen of the Hill at the Velvet Club,” and the time the doors opened.

"Knowing you, I was expecting something else. And honestly, Jimi, today I felt like being alone with you."

Still holding onto me, her left hand squeezed my bicep. She was the most beautiful woman in the place, and we strolled all the way over to a small table in the front, drawing admiring glances from the select crowd. I’d say that if beauty could be weighed, Irina alone would outweigh all the other ladies in the room combined. As for the men, they were cursing their luck for not being in my place.

A particularly elegant gentleman with silver hair gestured to me from the head table.

"Salvat?" I asked as I caught up with him.

Without getting up, he shook my hand and gave Irina an intense look. "Make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the show put on by my protégée. They’ll pick you up at the hotel around 10 tomorrow."

And as if an explanation that no one had asked were needed, scowling and waving his hand in the air, he added, "I hate early mornings!"

A woman in her forties, wearing vintage clothes, high-heel boots, and a beret, stood up from Salvat’s table and addressed the audience in a resolute voice.

"Good evening, friends," she greeted them. “For those of you who don’t know me yet, my name is Julia, and I have two jobs: I work as a nurse by day and as the manager of the Velvet club by night. In other words, I never sleep!”

A few regulars shouted words of encouragement, which she acknowledged with a gesture. She moved with ease and spoke without a microphone, which helped create a cozy atmosphere.

"I hope everyone has found a table and has their favorite drinks at hand. Welcome to another evening at our mixed arm-wrestling club, starring our resident champion, La Reina."

The attendees, who, like us, were first-time visitors, craned their necks and scanned the room, trying in vain to spot the woman in question. At Julia’s table sat a burly man whose boxing robe couldn’t hide his imposing bearing. None of the women present, however, either at her table or at the others around, wore similar outfit or had an athletic build.

"As always, I want to thank our benefactor, Mr. Salvat, for making this event possible. As all of us here know, he has that natural gift for finding what will touch us most deeply and relieve us of our daily miseries. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Albert."

The man in question slowly raised his glass and traced a semicircle with it.

"And to all of you, I remind you that you can place your bets at any time during the fight either at the bar or with our bartender James—James, please, say hello to the audience, ha-ha-ha.” Changing her tone, she added, “And I’d like to remind you once again that side bets are strictly prohibited.”

This time James didn’t smile, and the security men puffed themselves up like toads.

"And now let’s move on to the introductions. Tonight we have the pleasure of welcoming the biggest opponent our Queen has ever faced. Standing 6 feet 1 inch tall and weighing 207 pounds… from Cordoba, our challenger… Abel ‘El Toro’ Ximenez!"

The fifty or so privileged spectators who had managed to get a ticket gave the challenger a discreet round of applause. His bulky figure, half-hidden in his robe, slowly straightened up, and he raised a hand on which some fingers bandaged together at the first joint. Slightly hunched, he climbed onto the platform to take his place at one side of the metal table. A beam of cold light struck his square-jawed face, thick black eyebrows, and narrow forehead, yet he didn’t even blink.

"He’s here with us these days because he’s attending the national Greco-Roman wrestling championship, which, as you know, is being held this weekend at Sports Olimpia. We’d like to encourage you to attend this magnificent event."

Irina touched my thigh under the table. She’d ordered a fresh juice, and I’d ordered a vodka in her honor, letting her the chance to choose the brand.

"They won’t stop staring at me. Do you think they’re mistaking me for that Queen?"

"I don’t think that’s it, honey; it’s just that you deserve to be admired, believe me."

I poured a splash of vodka into her juice, and we toasted. For a moment, the rest of the world vanished, and we were accompanied only by our most intimate desire.

"And now," continued the woman in the beret, bursting our bubble, "let’s give a warm welcome to our resident champion, who, with four consecutive wins, remains undefeated in our mixed arm-wrestling club." Towering at 5’10” and, for the first time yesterday, hitting 180 pounds on the scale —you better chill with the gym, honey, or you’re gonna bust my bed, ha-ha-ha-ha—the invincible, the undefeated, the reigning champion… Karen… Karina… Castillo… 'La Reina'!"

Infected by the rest of the crowd, we jumped to our feet and erupted in cheers and applause. Irina elbowed me in the ribs and shouted to be heard over the roar of the ovation.

"Castillo! Imagine you two are relatives… can you believe it?"

Out of the darkness in the background emerged an imposing female figure. Living up to her nickname, everything about La Reina was superlative. She was a remarkably young girl, with broad shoulders and a large bust. She wore platform boots and had her robe open, revealing a thin, skin-tight bodysuit beneath—like the singlets used in wrestling—except that two crosswise straps reinforced the chest area. Despite the reinforcement, when she raised her arms, her voluptuous body spilled out of the bodysuit. She sported a fresh, even naive smile, large eyes, a prominent nose, and a curly brown mane, almost Afro-style. She wore large hoops in her ears and didn’t blink either when her spotlight flashed, reflecting off her perfect teeth.

Patting her chest loudly, she narrowed her eyes and greeted us excitedly.

As we clapped, Irina and I both raised our eyebrows in the same surprised gesture. Realizing our synchronicity, we burst out laughing, also at the very same time, and finally sat down and held our hands. Seeing James pass by, I motioned to him and pulled out my wallet.

"Who should we bet on, honey?"

"Karen’s up 60-40,” James informed us.

"I don’t think she can take on that beast," my sweetheart replied, frowning. “Bet on him, Ji. Plus, he’s hot!"

"You don’t need to make me jealous. I haven’t forgotten a thing about what we did to each other at Betty’s apartment," I ventured, not daring to look up.

James collected my 100 euros and handed me a betting slip with the amount wagered.

"This bet is closed," the waiter informed diligently, perhaps seeing that we were newbies, "but you can place a new bet at any time before the end, based on the odds shown on the board. Just raise your hand."

Meanwhile, a third person had appeared on the stage, and Julia continued her speech.

"The match is a right-hand, best-of-five contest and will be refereed by Mister T, a referee from the Global Gun-Wars Federation."

A fat guy with a shaved head, wearing the typical vertical-striped shirt, took the boos in stride. It was the perfect anticlimax to the ovation La Reina had received. Every detail had been carefully planned. I didn’t know it yet, but attendees had paid 500 euros for a ticket with a drink included, and prices for subsequent drinks were exorbitant.

The opponents stood face to face and shed their robes, fully revealing their well-toned physiques. Reina’s shoulders were slightly broader, but she couldn’t compete with him in terms of arm or neck thickness. The thick soles of Reina’s boots, however, made them appear to be the same height. Both wore the club’s tiny official singlet, as Julia had discovered that revealing attire was a key ingredient for successful evenings. Reina always wore a yellow one that highlighted her tan, and the challenger a red one. Karen had added some accessories of her own. On his left arm, she wore a leather strap just above the bicep, and both thighs were cinched with buckled belts, somewhat in the style of weightlifters. The magnesium she rubbed on her palms and the thick triple-buckle belt she fastened with a pin to the edge of the table contributed to the weightlifter look. Julia clambered onto the stage in her clacking heels and planted a kiss on her girlfriend’s mouth. That, too, was part of the show.

This Mister T guy called the wrestlers over and recited the match rules according to the GGWF regulations, but they seemed to ignore him, locked in a defiant stare.

Then he clasped their palms together, interlocking the thumbs and wrapping the other fingers around the opponent’s hand, and shouted.

"Ready…. Go!"

At the jump, La Reina gave her opponent’s arm a lightning-fast tug to wrench it under her chin, and in the same motion she charged with her shoulder, slamming him into the pad with a loud thud. The crowd erupted in joy, and the referee awarded the point to Karen, who roared like a panther, baring her teeth at her opponent.

The second round was completely different. As she jumped, he was already prepared and used his biceps, hard and bouncy as a billiard ball, to prevent her from repeating the maneuver. Then he hooked La Reina’s wrist and began to bend her down, squeezing every ounce of strength from his imposing muscles.

With her gaze lost on the ceiling, veins and tendons ridging her neck, Reina tensed until she began to tremble, halting her opponent’s advance. Upon succeeding, she groaned like a lioness in heat.

"God, Jimi, what a pair of beasts," Irina remarked, visibly impressed. "They’re so strained it looks like they’re going to burst."

"Do you still think she can’t handle him?" I asked, trying to hide my excitement.

"Ugh, I don’t know what to tell you anymore; the guy seems even more of a brute than she is… and he’s so handsome…"

Rocking back and forth to find the best leverage, Reina pushed back until she reached the halfway point. But 'El Toro' had saved up a reserve of energy and unleashed it all at once, driving his whole body into the thrust and sinking Reina’s fist into the pad. “Shoulder!” shouted the referee, disallowing the pin.

The big man stared at the referee in disbelief, but the referee shook his head vigorously. Then he looked at Karen, whose face had lost the fierce expression she’d shown during the fight.

They broke apart. As they huffed and puffed, trying to regain their strength, they kept glancing at each other, as if sizing up just how exhausted their opponent was.

"Go, Reina, rip his fuckin’ arm off!" shouted an overexcited spectator from his table.

As they locked up again, Reina gave Mister T a real run for his money; he had to literally pry her grip off her opponent’s fist several times, threat her with a warning, and realign her fingers one by one. Finally satisfied, he wrapped both fists in his hands and roared.

"Ready…"

Reina made a premature start and got her second warning. Another would make her lose a point.

"Take it easy, honey, take it easy—you can handle him," Julia cheered from the front row.

At the jump, both contenders tilted their bulky bodies in opposite directions, but their clenched fists didn’t budge. Reina jutted her chin at her opponent and, baring her lower teeth, her eyes wide and bulging like white spheres about to pop from their sockets, began to groan and shake like a pressure cooker. Suddenly she gave a tug, and then another, and yet another. Each wrench followed by a fierce guttural roar. She barely gained any ground, but the sudden wrenches seemed to unsettle her opponent, whose stance was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and precarious.

"Go for it, hunky!" Irina shouted without meaning to. She was so tense that her bulky buttocks were hovering off the chair. When she heard herself, she looked at me as if apologizing.

Fatigue taking its toll, the strongman decided to attack with another hook, this time keeping his shoulders in a legal position. The attack bent Reina 45 degrees, but she shook her head and held her ground, leaning back to add her weight to the struggle and catch her breath.

"Get up," Julia instructed, tapping her own chin. "Head up, Karina, head up… Twist his wrist."

Taking advantage of her reach, Reina dropped back, using her body to lever her opponent’s fist upward and return to the starting position. The maneuver succeeded, and the crowd roared in delight.

"You’re the strongest, Reina!" some shouted.

"You got this shit. Break his elbow!" yelled the overexcited fan.

But then he caught her off guard with another hook, this time sending her just two centimeters from the pad. Reina seemed to weigh the effort it would take to come back, and she gave up, nodding in good sportsmanship to acknowledge her opponent’s victory.

Irina squealed with joy. With two hundred euros crumpled in her hand, she looked at me questioningly. I shrugged. All I wanted was for one of the fighters to get knocked out so we could go to her place.

As the third round began, both wrestlers leaped at once, and in their wild struggle to wrench each other's arm, they collided head-on. A sharp thud echoed to the back of the arena, like a sledgehammer splitting a block of stone.

"Unintentional!" the referee shouted.

Karen recovered faster and, with a shoulder thrust, gained a substantial edge. Using sheer brute force, 'El Toro' reconquered ground bit by bit, but as soon as he reached the starting position, Karen repeated her maneuver. The third time was too much, and the big man faltered and collapsed like a bag of cement. Karen, without wasting a single ounce of energy on celebration, simply adjusted her singlet where it had slipped over her generous anatomy during the battle.

Drenched in sweat, they both agreed to take an extended 10-minute break. Julia climbed onto the platform in her high-heeled boots, placed Karen’s wrist on her shoulder, and, using two fingers of each hand, began to release the tension in the muscles of her pupil’s arm.

"One more, honey," she whispered, “one more and you’ll send a 200 lb. macho man home."

Gasping for breath, Reina shot back, "Looks easy to you, huh? Just sitting there with your drink.

"Come on, girl, use that spirit to take him down. One more and we’ve got him."

"We... yeah," she nodded with some sarcasm.

By the fourth round, he opted to play defense. Abel was a quick learner. With every move the Queen made, he applied just enough force to hold her back. This seemed to frustrate the champion, who finally conceded the tie. Julia made a move to get up, but, interlacing her fingers behind her neck, she stopped her with a gesture. She was bigger than ever, but would it be enough to take down that formidable strongman who weighed nearly forty pounds more than she did? On the betting board, they had written in chalk for the decider, and she was down 40:60. Keeping her hands behind her neck, she walked to the edge of the stage and addressed the crowd.

"Guys," she said, flaunting her steamy physique in her prime. "Who do you think is tougher? This dude or The Queen?"

The silver-haired gentleman at the VIP table ran his tongue over his thin upper lip. That girl was a real gem.

Irina, clutching her crumpled 200 euros in her hand and making a move toward James, was frozen in place. On stage, while the referee worked on the wrestlers' grip, Reina, her eyes bulging as she stared at her imposing opponent, howled.

“I’m gonna wear you down, muscle-head. Reina's the strongest.”

“You think so?” her massive opponent replied in a calm voice. “You don’t look too fresh. Haven’t you seen yourself?”

He was expecting the roars and the wild look, but Karen’s reply was cool, almost sassy.

“You’re gonna lose your balls from straining so hard. And now…”

“Ready,” shouted the referee, satisfied with the grip.

" …a girl's about to take you down."

"Go!"

" 'Cause…" Irina stood up from her chair.

"…Reina… " I stood up from my chair too.

"…ish stronger… " Everyone around us had fallen silent.

"…than you!"

For quite a while, the thunderous bang of the fists against the table rumbled through the room.

Standing up, we gave La Reina the ovation she had earned. Irina, James, the referee—even 'Toro' Abel, glistening with sweat—joined in the applause. That girl was pure dynamite; she had overpowered a 200 lb. man in the test of strength.

Seeing the strongman’s hand trapped beneath hers, unable to break free, she felt the delicate skin on her neck tighten, squeezing out a sweet fluid that spread across her body, swelling her breasts until they were as hard as rocks, and seeping warmly down her belly until it bathed her most intimate parts.

With the Queen’s fierce look wiped from her face, sweet Karen pounded her chest, sincerely moved, and greeted the audience with a deep bow that tested the elasticity of her yellow singlet.

As the audience left the room, Irina took my hand and dragged me over to the head table, where Karen and Julia were chatting with Salvat's closest guests.

“C'mon, let’s go say hi and meet La Reina.”

Security had arranged a line for the fans who wanted to get close to Karen. They allowed them to take a picture with her idol but then promptly and unceremoniously ushered them toward the exit. Irina cut in line and climbed onto the stage, wrapping her long, white hand around the metal bar that La Reina had just gripped. Her large, light-colored eyes widened like a cloudless sky.

“Wow, Ji, it’s hella hot!”

Her exclamation caught La Reina’s attention, who strode up onto the platform in a swift leap. The floorboards creaked under her weight. Irina, frozen in place, seemed to have her hand glued to the metal bar.

"One day Julia calculated the watts generated by one of my arm-wrestling matches and it turned out the figure could light up the place and power the appliances…" And putting a finger to her lips, she whispered. "Don’t give the old man with the UV-lamp tan any ideas; my fights are demanding enough!"

Standing in front of Irina, she pointed out the position of her shoulders and body, so that she could imitate her.

"Spread your legs a little and bend your knees, or a small child could knock you off balance with a sudden tug. You’ll see what I mean."

Karen wasn’t putting any effort into it, while Irina was, but she felt like she was trying to move an arm made of concrete.

“Nice to meet you,” I cut in, holding out my hand. Since she ignored me, I repeated the greeting.

“Don’t you see my hands are full, buddy? Wait, you come in handy because Julia is looking for opening acts for my show, and maybe we can arrange a kids’ segment.”

Salvat’s group burst out laughing. Irina did something even worse—she pressed her lips together to hold it in.

I said goodbye to Salvat until the next day and left. Irina shrugged at Karen and followed me out.

We walked toward the parking lot, with me two meters ahead of her.

“Slow down a bit, Ji, don’t be such a kid. You know what you should have done? Told her: ‘You’ll be really tired tonight, but how about we meet up tomorrow to see who can last longer in bed?’”

I turned around, regretting my selfishness.

Irina hoisted me up with her bare hands, slammed me against a solid wooden gate, and squeezed me so hard it felt like my joints were dislocating. I remembered the milky taste in her lips, sweet in her silky neck, tingling on her earlobe…

Her hands clenched every hard and soft part of my body until we teased the sweet pain that comes when you can’t take it anymore. Her tongue traced tingling paths across my skin until she stopped my heartbeat at her will, as if to show me she could finish me right there but preferred to do it on the narrow bed in her place.