I never got over this teenage crush. I finished school, left home, and entered the work world, but I still followed his career and attended every fight I could. I always sat in one of the front few rows, no matter how much it cost me. And I always looked my best for him. Sometimes I'd close my eyes and silently will him to win. Other times I'd get to my feet and cheer him on with an enthusiasm that bordered on sexual hysteria. During the mundane moments of my life, I could always imagine his gloved hands held aloft in victory at the end of the match, and I'd quiver and fantasize that he was waiting for me at home.
By the time I was in my early twenties, I noticed that he wasn't winning as often as he used to. Something was wrong. From my seat in the front row, I could see a few wrinkles in that craggy, broken face, flecks of gray in his once-blond hair. He was still by far the most masculine and powerful man I'd ever set eyes on, but the cracks were starting to show. His new scars took longer to heal. I wanted to take him to bed and slowly, tenderly, heal ingly make love to him.
I took lovers in the meantime, of course. Some of them teased me about my scrapbooks of newspaper cuttings and the pictures I kept on my walls. But none of them ever guessed that every time we fucked I would close my eyes and think of my strong boxer pressing deep inside me. I found that fantasizing about him was the only way I could climax.
On the night of his worst defeat I was there as usual, dressed to the nines, hoping that the more dazzling I looked, the stronger he would be. I was twenty-five, and he was nearly forty. I had been in love with him for eleven years. It was irrational, but this obsession was now beyond any logic. I was in my usual front-row seat. I had become such a regular fixture over the years that the other die-hard fans, managers, agents, and journalists would spot me, and we nodded our recognition to each other. I was on the edge of my seat as he made his big entrance, rock music blaring through the speakers. His body was bulky and ripped in red silk shorts, his solid thighs tapering into strong calves in boxing boots, and then there was that torso that had suffered a thousand punches. I had made love to every inch of that body in my dreams and fantasies.
He fought a boxer almost half his age, and I watched as my baby took blow after blow after blow. His dignity moved me almost to tears as his glistening body struggled to meet his opponent. My fighter was strong, but he wasn't as fast or agile as he'd once been. He managed to plant a few killer blows that had me leaping to my feet and cheering him on, but they were not enough. He just didn't see the young man's punches coming.
The fight was over in less than three minutes. I saw him take a blow to the cheek and sway for a few seconds before collapsing to the floor. It was heartbreaking, like watching a weathered oak tree felled by a spring gale. Blood and saliva flew through the air and landed on the mat. I leaped to my feet, silently willing him to wake up, be strong, fight again, but he stayed where he was, not coming to for eleven seconds. When he opened his blue eyes they were glassy and unfocused. He blinked as the photographers' flashbulbs popped around his face. For a split second we made eye contact, and I thought I understood his unspoken message: it's time for all this attention, this painful madness to end. To finally hold his gaze sent a sensation down my spine and directly to my clitoris, my desire only slightly diminished by the fact that my heart was breaking for him.
That gaze was quickly broken as men in suits clambered through the ropes, wrapped him in a red silk robe, and spirited him away from me. Heartbroken I sat down in my seat, listening to reporters and fans all around me saying that it was over, that his career was finished. The journalists seemed to be thinking up witty headlines as they traipsed out to the victor's press conference while I simmered with rage at their lack of respect. Any normal fan would accept that defeat came with the territory, but I wasn't capable of such objectivity, since normal boxing fans aren't sexually obsessed with the boxer.
I was in no mood to press myself against all those bodies and endure the crush as the stadium emptied, still less to wait for hours in my car to exit, so I sat in my seat until the auditorium was empty, staring at the deserted boxing ring. When I was sure I had the place to myself, I crept up to the ropes and saw that my darling's towel lay on the mat in a crumpled heap. I reached in and picked it up, held it to my nose, and shook with excitement to know that I was breathing in his actual essence for the first time. It smelled meaty and masculine and made my pussy swell alarmingly quickly. God, I was definitely taking this as a souvenir. In the privacy of my car I could part my legs and rub this towel frantically between my thighs until the friction on my clit brought me to orgasm and relieved the tension. It would be the closest we would ever come to actually making love, to fucking. Or so I thought.
His agent, looking downcast, wandered over to me.
"Hello you," he said. We weren't on first-name terms, but he'd seen me often enough to recognize me. "What are you still doing here? Waiting for someone?" How could I tell him there was only one someone for me and that person was his client?
"Just feeling a bit low after the fight," I said. "I thought I'd give the crowds a while to clear out before I went home."
"He's a broken man," admitted his agent. "This was his big fight. Between you and me, don't be surprised if he retires soon."
All the blood in my body immediately rushed away from my clit and started pounding in my chest. He couldn't retire. Where would I go to see him? What would I do? I slumped back in my seat again, the towel wrapped around my neck.
"Maybe you could cheer him up," suggested the agent.
"Me?" I said, not quite believing what I had heard.
"Yeah. He's in despair back there. I can't get through to him. Maybe his number one fan could reassure him."
I shook with desire and anticipation as I followed the agent down a series of cinderblock corridors. My heels echoed on the vinyl floor as we walked under stark strip lighting, past fire exits and security doors. Not a romantic atmosphere to most, but it was to me; these were the corridors and tunnels that he would walk on his way to and from a fight. Finally we stopped at a red door, the same color as his shorts. I felt panic flutter in my rib cage and desire pluck at my pussy. Maybe it was a mistake to meet him. What if my fantasy man, my broken boxer, let me down in reality? But it was too late now.
"Someone to see you," the agent said, rapping on the door.
"Another journalist come to get the exclusive on my big failure?" snapped a gruff voice from inside.
"No, no," said the agent. "I'll let her introduce herself." Then he turned to me. "I'm going to the press conference. Be back in an hour or so."
I put my fingers on the door handle and opened the door. He was alone, slumped on a chair in the corner of his dressing room, with his hands covered in the bandages that boxers wear under their gloves, and still in his shorts, robe, and boots. There was dried blood on his craggy cheek, which was fast turning a rainbow of yellow and violet. The sharp tang of fresh sweat, imbued with his personal aroma, filled the room. Now that I was so close to him, I didn't have a clue what to say. I was unprepared for the way my body would react when it met him in the flesh. Now that I was near enough to touch him and smell his rugged masculine aroma, years of sexual fantasy and obsession were suddenly pulsing through my flesh, lifting me up, making my head swim and my pussy pump like a piston.
"It's you!" he said, looking surprised.
"You know who I am?" I replied, stunned.
"I've noticed you. I always assumed you were someone's wife or girlfriend. Women as beautiful as you are only at matches on the arm of their rich husbands. It's unusual for a woman to come and see a fight on her own."