It is a ring of fire. Flames reach knee-high. They flick and twitch like laughing devils. Spectators line the ring - beautiful women in evening dresses and sparkling jewelry and gentlemen in tuxedos smoking cigars. Naked, bloody men grin lecherously after their victories. Between each match, hands exchange money and women stand on their tiptoes to kiss the winner's cheek. I am a fighter in this ring. My name is Diego.
My father immigrated to America from Spain many years ago. He carried me along with him, but my mother remained behind. As a child, I remember my mother cradling me to her breast and rocking me in a worn rocking chair; then one morning my father and I left, and my mother no longer held me. I missed her and cried to my father, but he slapped me; and I never cried again. Even when the Steel Warrior destroyed me, bashing every tooth from my mouth, I did not cry.
I miss my mother, I miss my ear pressed against the soft flesh of her breast, I miss the tenderness, but I find alternatives, other ways to feel cared for, to feel touched. My trainer, Serga, tapes my fists, whispers to me about strength, about endurance and courage, and I see my mother in his caring and concerned eyes.
He rubs my shoulders as I walk to the ring. The crowd parts for my entrance. Women gaze down at my nakedness; their tongues wet their glossy lips. I feel the pulse of lust engorge my penis. I smell the women's perfume; I see their cleavage - supple and serene. I see the declivity of their crotch, their pubis-bones pressed against their slinky dresses, and I yearn to put myself inside them, to stroke myself back into the womb.
As I walk to the ring, I imagine droplets of blood seeping from wounds: a busted lip, a sliced eyebrow, and a smashed nose. Droplets flow down my face and drip from my chin, splashing onto her chest and finding the hollow between her breasts. Her back arches upward; my blood paints her face; she licks her lips; her eyes sear into mine. In my dreams, that elusive female is always yearning, always reaching for me, for more.
When I step into the ring, I do battle with another man, who is always as big and as strong as I - if not bigger, if not stronger. The punches sedate me, take me away from life's idleness, and I dream of a world in which nothing but pain and pleasure exist, where there is an absence of mendacity. The punch-drunk stupor floats me away like a drug, like a drink, like a suicide-slice across the wrist at 4am - drip, drip, dripping into eternity.
I walk bare-footed through the flames, I raise my fists heavenward, and the spectators chant for me. The crowd parts for my opponent. He struts toward the ring - punching, bobbing, weaving.
His face is scarred: a deep chin-wound, a gash along his left eyebrow, and a slice down his right cheek. He is gaunt - his cheeks sunken inward - deep crevices frame his mouth. His nose has been broken several times. His body is a scroll, and his story is etched in blood across his slate. His eyes peer into mine; a fight is coming.
There are no rules in this ring of fire, except one: if you step into the ring, you fight. The ring is not a place for the meek or merry. No one seems to remember when the ring began, who created it, or what events led to its formation, but the ring is alive and it thrives with the blood of men, with the money of tycoons, and with the sexual energy of insatiable women.
Naked fighters enter the ring: muscled, fast, and furious. Massive blows are exchanged, blood is spilled, languid cocks hang, and the eyes of women follow the pendulous, swinging dicks.
My opponent reaches the edge of the flames. He gazes into the ring, muscles flexed; he turns his back to me, facing the crowd. He points to a beautiful redhead, then bends and extends his muscled index finger - come here, come here now, he is saying.
The black dress moves with her body, as if it is her skin - catlike. Her full breasts seem to shift like the rising-tide when she leans into him; he whispers into her ear. She smiles and nods and bends to her knees in front of him. Muffled gasps can be heard from the crowd.
She grasps his penis with both hands, and then opens her mouth in submission, taking his full length. He places his hands on her head, flexes and relaxes his ass as he pushes himself inside, flexes and relaxes again, and then he withdraws himself from her.
She rises to her feet, smiling at his stiff cock, at her handy-work. He turns to face me, erect penis thrust forward like a masthead; he intends to intimidate me. He steps through the flames, hands raised for battle.
We rush to meet each other; I drop to my knees with both fists extended to my sides. I swing my fists simultaneously; they meet in the middle, my opponent's erect penis between them. A loud pop reverberates, and blood spews from the glans.
This is a perfect example of why Serga hires a prostitute for me before every fight. She gives me a hand-job or a blowjob, depending on Serga's financial status. "This prevents the Dick Hammered," Serga says in his wise, Scandinavian way.
I walk out of the ring and Serga follows. I stop by the redhead, "Thank you," I say. She is astonished, speechless. Afterward, when I see myself in the locker-room mirror, I understand the redhead's dismay.
The same blood she beckoned to my opponent's member, the same blood that pulsed just beneath her tongue, is now smeared across my face. She had stood, facing me; she must have seen steam rise from the boiling blood on my face. The thought brings my erection.
I walk into the bathroom, close the stall door behind me, and I begin to stroke myself. I see the redhead's face below my cock. Her tongue flicks beneath the cock-head like the split tongue of a she-devil.
Her eyes become a bright glowing red, with yellow, cat-like pupils. She opens her mouth wide and fire surges from her throat; my cock feels the heat. I hear the popping sound as my flesh ignites, like cold kindling when it first catches flame.
I feel the surge of relief coming, a flood that will quell both our fires. I aim the hose toward her open mouth. A prickly pear makes its way through me; it accelerates as it descends deeper and deeper into the black hole of my pleasure. Then, it reaches the event-horizon, where it holds for an ever-so-painful split-second before it explodes into being, spewing a thick, white juice like great gushes of oil shooting skyward, then raining back down to cover everyone with a rich thickness; it slows movement, as if everyone were swimming.
Serga bangs on the door. "Hey, Diego, okay?"
