Take a Seat

By hughgee

“Ladies and gentlemen, my next guest is the current champion of the World Wrestling Alliance for both men AND women--”

A catcall, loud and shrill, soaring down from some jackball in the audience.

“Her new book is out, called Kickin’ Butt, Takin’ Names, and is selling quite well, I understand. Folks, let’s welcome…Asia!”

She came out from behind the towering teal talk show curtain in a prim black business blouse affair and if thoughts could be read aloud, the sheen of bulging gray leotards beneath were what beheld the eyes of the entire live studio audience, men and women alike. The most famous female wrestler on the planet, at least for the past 15 Warholian minutes, strutted her stuff on over to the plush seat beside the desk and the old-style mike and the wire running down the side of the desk and all that; the host of the show, Mr. Mike McDougal himself, stood clapping in a pinstriped gray jacket, clapping so hard you’d think the obvious toupee might come flying off any second; aside the desk and scooting one seat down, the previous guest of the hour, the warm-up guest, some up-and-coming comedian who just had a CD come out, well he stood clapping as well, and smiling ear-to-ear too for he got to sit next to this ultra-hourglass beast for the next hour.

She sat down between the two men who sat following her. A couple more catcalls, getting things in order, going through the perfunctory introductions between guest and host, the interview began.

It was typical, trite, talk show affair, so we won’t go into that. We’ll skip a bit.

This comedian guy—well, host Mike McDougal introduced the topic of wrestler Asia’s thighs, made some vague innuendo in passing—and this comedian guy jumped on it, parlaying the reference into a way to worm his way into the conversation.

“Can you cross your legs with those things?” he joked.

Asia looked back across her right at the other guest. For a second she wasn’t sure how to respond. She glared a bit crossly at him. A moment of uneasy silence, a few in the audience going, “Whoooaaa.”

“No, I mean, uh, well,” the comedian fumbled, comically making like he didn’t want to piss the giant gal off. “It’s just that—I’m serious—it looks like it’d be a bit uncomfortable crossing your legs when they’re that big.”

“Uncomfortable,” Asia mused, pensively resting her chin on two fingers, wonder whether to indulge this or not.

The comic continued with his exaggerated show of caution, glancing nervously at the audience, shrugging his shoulders, smirking.

“No, not uncomfortable at all,” Asia coolly replied at last. “How ‘bout you? Can you cross your legs?”

The comic made a joke about it, something about “last time I checked,” etc, etc. He had succeeded in getting the focus of show back on him. And he gave proof of it, that yes, after all, he could in fact cross his legs. He put his foot up over his knee with his calf splayed horizontal, knee pointing off to the side like a man in relaxation is want to do.

“No, not like that,” began Asia. “Like this.” Asia wrapped her right leg over the other, mashing both thighs tightly together, appearing routinely ladylike except for the incongruity of bovine-sized thigh muscles, the tall pump of her black boot bouncing in the air over the one calf still grounded.

An inane, meaningless clap of approval from the audience.

“Well, uh--" began the comedian. “You ladies are taught that, right? Too, um…” He looked over and down at the hips, the wide, distended leotards, then vaguely lasciviously up to the crowd and back at her, then at host Mike, who was playing along in mock chagrin at turn in conversation. “You gals have to do that. You’ve gotta cover up your skirt and whatnot.”

“So?” said Asia.

“So you’re, uh--" another comic, lurid grin up at the audience, “so, you’re trained to do that.”

“That wasn’t the point,” said Asia, a bit peeved. “You asked me if I could do it. Now let’s see you.”

A roar from the crowd, a nervous laugh from the male comic. He followed with dismissive wave of his hands, saying, “I just did.”

“No, you didn’t,” she corrected. “You put your foot up on your knee. Can you do like this?” She bounced the big-heeled boot more vigorously off the other calf, she roiled her muscular wide-load bottom in the chair; the top huge thigh rolled over and ground into its crossed-over counterpart beneath.

The host let it go. He looked helplessly at the audience at where this was headed. The comic looked sheepishly up at the audience to a chorus of idiotic whistles and Ohhhhhs. He’s bitten off more than he could chew and was just feeling it.

“Well,” insisted the lady wrestler, “do it. Let’s see you.”

A nervous pause. He said he would. Another pause. The jackball drummer in the studio band started up with an impromptu drum roll.

The comedian threw one leg over the other, crossing at the pelvis, same as her. He kind of half-groaned, half-sighed when he did it. A more vigorous than ordinary exhale, to be sure. He looked tired, less than comfortable.

“There. Not so bad, is it?” kidded Asia, resuming the bouncing of her boot once more in the air.

“Umm, sure. No problem,” said the comic, the smirk returning.

“Now do this,” she instructed, and began to roll and mash her thighs together with impunity, a touch of muscular force mixed with the graceful motions of a lady merely readjusting herself in her seat.

The comic tried it for a second, and then all trace of the smirk was gone. He stopped; eyes grew a bit wider in true apprehension. He couldn’t do it. Not without an indecorous effort and perhaps if he’d readjusted himself down there first.

“What’s-a-matter, Bob? Can’tcha do this?” Asia continued teasing, bouncing, rolling and mashing her thighs. “What—balls get in the way?”

A roar, then laughter and clapping.

Mike McDougal hid his hand in his face, partly out of laughter, partly out of shame. Would it get past the censors? he thought.

“Uhh—umm—yeah,” admitted the red-faced comic, slightly shakily. Still, he hadn’t given up just yet: his thighs still uncomfortably crossed over in his chair at the hips. He was doing his best “anything you can do, I can do better” routine.

Asia raised her voice, doing her darndest to emulate a ring announcer’s. “Well, don’t go asking stupid questions, ‘less you know what’cher talkin’ about!” At that, she forcefully slapped the top thigh of the comedian.

“DOOOOOOOHHHhhhh!” said the man. Sounded like the Skipper from Gilligan’s Island whenever he’d get hit in the gut.

The man undid his legs and hunched over in his seat, a human armadillo before a live studio audience. What just happened was obvious to all; the audience was falling out of their chairs in laughter and noise.

Mike McDougal howled and turned redder than ever, control of the show momentarily lost.

In the uproar, Asia turned back to him, saying matter-of-factly, “How ‘bout you, Mike? Can you cross your legs? Hm?”

“And let’s go to a commercial!” Mike stood up and shouted. He wasn’t sure how he was ever going to continue this one. Shit, shit, he thought. We got a live one.

When the show returned from the break, the comedian on the left was gone. For those of you at home, he was helped off the set by a couple of crew members. As for Mike, he was about as polite to this lady wrestler as ever he was to any guest, and don't think she didn't notice.