Uncle Empire

Submitted by Maxine T.

When she first moved to the city, Maxine T. did not anticipate using her background in Jiu-Jitsu and boxing as a means of supplemental income – until she found a club where rich guys pay exorbitant sums to have girls beat the crap out of them. She's been throwing down ever since.



















Among purveyors of recreational violence (such as m'self), a "Lift-and-Carry" session is one in which the client pays for a girl (usually a rather Amazonian girl, for obvious reasons) to lift him up and carry him around the mats for an hour. Sometimes the girl will sling said guy over her shoulder, potato-sack style; sometimes it's more of a piggyback thing; and sometimes – if she's strong enough – she'll pick him up crosswise in her arms, like a groom carrying a bride over the threshold. Lift-and-carries are limited only by the client's imagination and the girl's physical ability to carry out his requests. Being that I'm somewhat...burly...anytime a client called up my club for an "L&C," I got the gig. It's really fuckin' hard – like doing nothing but squats and lunges in the gym for an hour with 185 to 200 pounds on your back. But the money is very attractive.

One bizarre – okay, one MORE bizarre – wrinkle to this whole thing is that 95 percent of L&C clients are Indian, Pakistani, or Bangladeshi. I have no idea why this is, but the cultural implications are intriguing, to say the least.

A couple years ago, I booked an L&C gig with a dude named Roop. He was a short, dumpy little guy from Mumbai who lived in Jersey and did IT work for some bank. He had teeny little narrow shoulders, a knobby sternum, gangly limbs, and a potbelly that made him look like a toddler with a milk-gut. He also had thick glasses and the fluffy, blown sideways, local newsman haircut his countrymen seem so fond of. Roop was unusual (which believe me, is a relative term here) in that he wanted to mix some actual wrestling in with the lifts and carries. So we started from kneeling – which is typical, since take-downs and throws from standing tend to result in injuries – and I bum rush Roop's show, as it were. Turns out, he has no desire whatsoever to fight back – he just wants to get thrown around and twisted up like a little curried pretzel. This sucks for me, because it's very hard work and also very boring when a client gives me nothing to work with. So I get Roop in some joint-locks, and squeeze his guts with some leg-scissors (a particularly nasty specialty of mine), and all the while, he's saying stuff like, "Oh my heawens, you are so veddy strong!" and "Truly, you are hafing your vay vith me!" in his bubbly post-Colonial accent and kind of gingerly trying to feel my biceps and shit, which would've been flattering coming from anybody else, but from Roop was just sort of furtive and unsavory. I didn't encourage him verbally – I threw out a "Yep" or "Sure looks like it" every so often, but that was it. I'm usually way chattier with clients, but the man was too geeky to bear.

Finally, I got fed up with the whole scene and got Roop in what we Jiu-Jitsu kids refer to as a rear-naked choke. Very effective – your elbow wedged under the opponent's chin, bicep on one side of his neck, forearm on the other, gripping your own opposite shoulder for leverage to constrict the carotid arteries like a nutcracker and get a quick submission. Of course, I wasn't trying to choke Roop out – annoying and creepy as he was, that wouldn't have been sporting. I just thought giving him a little squeeze might shut him up for five seconds. Instead, Roop gasps with joy and says, like it's Christmas fuckin' morning, "Oh my goodness gosh, I am your bitch, am I not?" At which point I just burst out laughing like a hyena and was like, "That you are, Roop. That you are."

I only saw Roop a couple of times after that, but the line, "I am your bitch, am I not?" was immediately incorporated into my friends' social lexicon, where we use it to this day.

Next Up: I'm torn between the Hasidic gentleman with the Nazi interrogation fetish, or the guy with advanced MS who swore up and down that the only thing that eased his symptoms was to have his head crushed in a vicious leg-scissor for 45 minutes twice a week. Stay tuned.