One day in May 1980 I received a telephone call from Morocco. She asked if I'd seen that month's issue with her fight. I told her that I had. Silence. "It was a mistake," she told me. "Cynthia caught me on a bad day," she said. The match had been fought earlier that year. Because of Cynthia's loss to an aging, but sexy first time grappler she was having difficulty getting matches in the higher echelons of the sport. Nobody wanted a loser. She wanted a rematch to prove that she still had the same fire and that she could still compete at the highest levels of the sport. I told that I'd do what I could. After a few days of research I recalled Aria's loss to another newcomer, a Scot named Cherish, back in April 1979.
Aria had been a celebrated woman in those days, but since Cherish's victory over her I'd heard nothing from or about her. Let's face it, when you spend the kind of money that the AHW crowd did on their stables of wrestlers you sometimes need to cut your losses if you want to keep winning and maintain your staus within the inner circle. After checking with Dave, I began searching for Aria. We'd put out the word that it was to a match for redemption, with two hungry, lush grapplers going it with all their energy to return to the select few who graced Moll's penthouse apartment. It didn't take too long to track down Aria. After her loss the year before she'd taken time off, not necessarily her choice, and trained like a woman possessed. She was hungry, and she agreed to take on Morocco that summer.
I made the arrangements. It was, like all the other matches, to be a no-holds-barred fight. The winner would claim her due following the match. Because of the high stakes it promised to be a great fight. Moll's circle of friends was abuzz with excitement when it heard the news.
The evening of the fight each woman was chauffeured to Moll's penthouse. They came up in separate elevators, but entered together. Conversation stopped. Both women were applauded. The attention restored something of their old self-confidence as well as the kind of haughtiness that champions like these exude. Neither woman acknowledged her opponent. I escorted them to their rooms. Morocco changed into a new bikini that she'd purchased specially for this bout. As she disrobed she carefully hung her clothes in the closet and on the bed. The brunette shook out her thick mane of black hair as she held up the tiny, but sturdy suit for a last examination. It was beautiful and would accent her lush body, her full hips, her ripe breasts, and her sumptuous ass. First Morocco slid one leg and then other into the bikini. It fit low on her hips. She admired its cut and the way it fit and felt so snugly against her pussy. She could see the faint outlines of her labia, and she liked it. Morocco was the kind of woman who wanted the audience's attention, every bit of it. Made of a turquoise material, it had a liquid metal finish that gathered and reflected the light to her advantage. She tied the strings behind her back and then behind her neck. Morocco's breasts were like firm melons supplely held back by two thin, cloth triangles. The room temperature was such that her nipples grew long and hard, as if trying to poke their way through their restraints. She was ready.
