She wasn’t born under the sign of the jaguar. She became it—scratched it into the mat, bloodied and beautiful, clawing her way up in a world that never made room for teenage girls to wreck shop in Tokyo under blinding lights. Before the world learned to pronounce “joshi” with reverence, there was Rimi Yokota: a fifteen-year-old assassin with a ponytail and a grudge, who stepped through the ropes and redefined what brutality wrapped in grace looked like. They called her Jaguar Yokota, and if you stood across the ring from her, you didn’t forget it—not after the kicks, not after the armbars, and definitely not after you woke up backstage wondering what year it was.
From Idol Dreams to Elbow-Driven Nightmares
In 1977, while most teenage girls were practicing peace signs in front of mirrors and swooning over pop stars, Yokota was training with the singular obsession of dismantling human anatomy. She wasn’t supposed to be there. Fifteen years old, baby-faced, and wide-eyed, she looked like someone who should be asking for autographs, not snapping collarbones.
But then again, Jaguar Yokota never asked for anything. She took.
Trained under the watchful eyes of All Japan Women’s Pro-Wrestling, she debuted against Mayumi Takahashi. From that moment, you could practically smell the gunpowder in the air. By 1980, she was the AJW Junior Champion. By 1981, she was pinning her hero Jackie Sato for the WWWA World Single Championship—and making it look like Sato owed her lunch money.
The Murder Ballet of the 1980s
Yokota was art. A hurricane in high-tops. A kung fu movie set to the sound of bones cracking and Japanese announcers screaming “Yokota!” like it was a goddamn exorcism. She wasn’t just ahead of her time; she was an anachronism in boots—fluid like Sayaka in Swan Lake, violent like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas.
Her run in the 1980s was the kind of thing you show to people when they say wrestling’s fake. Watch her German suplex La Galáctica into a different zip code. Watch her chain wrestle Devil Masami into a modern art sculpture of pain. There were no soft landings. No performance hiccups. Just precision. Just the relentless march of a woman who had the psychology of Bret Hart and the athleticism of Shawn Michaels—before either of those names meant anything.
And it wasn’t just style. It was substance. It was screaming into the abyss with every flying knee and saying, “This is what women’s wrestling looks like, you cowards.”
The First Retirement: “This Ain’t a Hobby”
In 1986, Yokota’s body finally screamed louder than her opponents. Shoulder injury. Out. Done. She vacated her belt, and a generation of wrestlers wept—or pretended to, until they realized she’d be haunting their dreams anyway. Yokota didn’t go out with fanfare. She went out like a samurai—quietly, with honor, and leaving behind a legacy that looked like a crater in the middle of women’s wrestling.
But the ring doesn’t let you go that easy.
The Resurrection and Jd’: Queen of Her Own Damn Castle
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Tokyo Dome. Big Egg Wrestling Universe. Jaguar returned and reminded everyone that she still had enough venom in her to paralyze the women’s division. The pop she got was less “nostalgia” and more “God’s angry daughter is back.” That match lit a fire under her, and in 1995, she did what every badass eventually does—she made her own promotion: Jd’.
If AJW was a crucible, Jd’ was a war camp. Jaguar wasn’t just wrestling again; she was breeding killers. Her stable was part boot camp, part cult, and full murder dojo. Devil Masami, her old rival, came back for a match that nearly tore the ring apart. On December 26, 1998, Jaguar “retired” again—but no one believed it this time. Not really.
Trainer of Champions, Destroyer of Dreams
If her in-ring career was legendary, her post-ring contributions were biblical. Jaguar Yokota trained a generation that would shatter glass ceilings with elbow drops.
Manami Toyota. Aja Kong. Akira Hokuto. KAORU. Etsuko Mita. Mariko Yoshida. Megumi Kudo. Kyoko Inoue. Mima Shimoda. Sumie Sakai. Bison Kimura. Takako Inoue. The list reads like a hall of fame yearbook written in blood. If you ever saw a joshi match that made you scream, “HOLY SHIT,” chances are Jaguar trained someone involved.
She turned rookies into legends. Gave out bruises instead of praise. Ran drills like a drill sergeant with a grudge. She didn’t teach respect. She beat it into you.
Still Biting, Still Growling
Fast forward to today: Jaguar Yokota is pushing 60 and still lacing up boots for World Woman Pro-Wrestling Diana, where she leads the CRYSIS stable like a war general refusing to retire. Her presence in the ring today isn’t nostalgic—it’s intimidating. Her strikes are still crisp. Her ring IQ still higher than most locker rooms. She doesn’t look like someone clinging to past glory. She looks like someone who never lost it.
Legacy? Try Mythology
Yokota didn’t just lay the groundwork for women’s wrestling in Japan. She poured concrete over it, beat it with a chair, and told every rookie since: You want to be great? Earn it.
You don’t talk about wrestling gods without whispering her name. Not because she’s dead—but because she might hear you and come kick your head off. She’s a living contradiction: elegant and lethal, graceful and merciless. She took a scene dominated by idols and turned it into a bloodsport with poetry in its footwork.
So the next time someone calls modern wrestling “revolutionary,” show them a match from 1984. Show them Jaguar suplexing the past into the future.
And remind them: before there was Charlotte, before there was Asuka, before there was any hope of equality in the ring…
There was a girl named Rimi Yokota who became Jaguar, and she didn’t wait for respect.
She took it.
