Cock Fight

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?"

I gasp, and then hold my breath in an attempt to control my breathing. "Yeah. . . yeah." I answer.

"Match two time."

The tournament always had eight fighters and adhered to single elimination. A fighter advanced to the next round of competition by defeating his opponent. And, at the end of the line, the champion of the tournament met the Steel Warrior.

One man, if he won every fight, would find himself against the Steel Warrior by fight four. Then, if the challenger defeated the Steel Warrior, he went home with one million American dollars.

I fought the Steel Warrior once, a year ago today. This is my first day back in the ring after he defeated me. I came here to repay him, to beat him into total submission, into death if possible.

But, the Warrior's unblemished record - 64 wins and 0 losses - might lead one to believe my goal will go unrealized. His physical stature - 6'4" and 230 pounds - may also give one pause. His body armor - lustrous, hard, and strapped across his vulnerable spots - may make one shake their head in disbelief. I can only respond one way: we will see.

One year ago today, the Steel Warrior invented the Dick Hammer maneuver. And, my dick, the inaugural dick to suffer the consequences of the maneuver, has yet to recover. Since then, each orgasm pushed through the shaft has been a concoction of pleasure and pain, an involuntary, masochistic experience.

I reach down and touch my penis as I walk to the ring for the second match. Its scars and deformities remind me of my mission - kill, Kill, KILL. I step through the flames and into the ring. My opponent stands across from me, just outside the flames.

He inhales and exhales like a wild boar; his nostrils flare and relax, flare and relax. His gaze pierces me as if I block his view of a far away oasis. The redhead stands behind his right shoulder; I see her staring at me.

She grabs my opponent and wheels him around, both her hands go to his cock and she strokes him violently, flinching with effort. He reaches out to her, surprised. Clumsily, he grabs her dress-strap and rips it away; her right breast is exposed; the nipple is red, inflamed, taut with excitement. Her firm breast bounces slightly with each down-stroke of her arms.

His back arches and his arms dangle backward as he pushes his face heavenwards, she is milking his lust. I can hear his grunts and groans, and her pants of exertion. His explosion is massive. He screams as if in agony. She shudders as if sprayed with shrapnel.

As he backs away, I can see his lust draped across her abdomen, soaking into her black dress. She smiles at me, covering her naked breast with the tattered evening dress. He jumps through the flames, cock flaccid.

"Bitch." I mouth to her, while I raise my hands for battle. Her fingers flutter a wave, and then she slips the tip of her index finger into her mouth, tasting the remnants of my opponent. His first punch impacts against my left temple, ripping open the skin above my ear.

Fights are much different than the American movie scenes; they rarely last longer than a few minutes, and they typically end without the grand productions of victory. The second punch lands against my ribcage, robbing me of air. Then, my opponent drops to his knees, lands a Herculean blow to my right inner-thigh, and smashes an uppercut into my groin. I crumple to the floor like dirty laundry from a hamper. I feel the heat, emanating from the fire, against my head.

"Get up or you die now." I hear Serga scream. I see my opponent walk over toward the redhead, smiling, showing her my blood, which is streaked across his knuckles. She looks pleased. I bolt low and hard, driving my shoulder into the rear of my opponent's knee-joints. His weight buckles backward, falling over me like bucketfuls of water.

I continue to drive forward, and the momentum shifts; his weight begins to spill forward. He crashes down, smothering the flames with his chest, and then rolling over, the torment of the burning on his face. I struggle to stand as I watch him writhe; the demons have him now. I flutter my fingers at the redhead, mocking her gesture as I depart.

"Stop the fucking with the redhead," Serga says once we are back in the locker room. "You fight, no fuck." I point to my right inner-thigh, and Serga starts, with penetrating hands, to massage. I lay back on the table: my eyes droop, my muscles sigh, my heart slows. In my ears, I hear my blood swoosh as it rushes through my veins. "One more fight, and then Mr. Steel," I hear Serga's voice from a reality away.

The Steel Warrior flashes through my brain; I see his punches crashing into my body, cracking my teeth, breaking my bones, lacerating my skin. I feel my back against the mat, the heat of the flames against my face; I see the redhead's beauty part the flames as she walks into the ring.

Her hair undulates as the heat rushes skyward. I see her voluptuous breasts squeezed into the black dress, her nipples rigid and visible through the silky fabric. Her toenails are painted red; her calves are linear, perfect - like a mathematical equation, like God.

BOOM - BOOM - BOOM. "You're up, Diego," the voice pierces the dream as its owner pounds the door. Inside the locker room, Serga says, "Fight three." My head feels like an engorged penis, throbbing with each heartbeat. As we enter the arena, the crowd's attention is diverted; they are circled and cheering, watching an area left of the ring. "Your redhead friend," Serga calls.

I see her head resting on my third opponent's shoulder; his back is toward me. Her forehead is furrowed, her mouth opened, circular, as if she has lost her breath. She stands, legs astraddle, her crotch resting on my opponent's muscular hand, his middle-two fingers penetrating her. He withdraws his fingers slightly, and then hammers them back in; her head, rattled with each thrust, jerks with pleasure. The veins on his forearms bulge like ropes, crisscrossing muscles as rigid as stone.

Each time he drives into her, the crowd grunts and moans its pleasure. Her chin is nestled into his shoulder; her nails dig into his back. She strokes his cock, slow and steady, as his hand bucks into her like an eager stallion. He eases his other hand behind the redhead; her eyes widen as she gasps like a startled child. The crowd becomes audacious, lewd. The redhead bites her bottom lip, and then I see her smile.

As I stand watching, a woman from the crowd grasps my cock. "He gets his pleasure, you should get yours," she says with a hungry grin. I see a wedding band on her finger. She looks at me, concerned. "He is watching her," she says. She leads me to a corner behind the crowd. I see the outline of her thong panties through her blue gown; her blonde hair falls to the middle of her back.

Her ass seems tiny, fragile. She backs me into a corner. The cinderblock is cold against my back; it makes me shiver. It smells musty, dark. Her eyes are ravenous, as if her tear ducts are filled with desire, as if she could weep the blood of a virgin.

She playfully sucks her ring finger into her mouth, and I see her slide the wedding band off with her teeth. She descends to her knees, opens her mouth, and shows me her tongue; the wedding band encircles its tip. I feel the wetness of her mouth surround my glans; the wedding band massages beneath the head. She milks the prickly pear into her mouth: squeezing, twisting, stroking.

A roar reverberates from the circle surrounding the redhead. Men lean forward to the point of falling; their faces drip sin like drool from a baby's mouth. The blonde swallows, and I can hear it, like she is swallowing something large, something hard to take. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand as she stands. Then she gently yanks the fullness of my manhood, intending to garner my attention. "Win," she says, before she turns, exiting my life stage left.

I walk back to the ring. The third opponent is waiting, cock limp. I see the redhead behind him, straightening her dress. My opponent's lust drapes the redhead's breasts, viscous and white.

I step through the flames, and he rushes, fists swinging. Calmly, I wait, step to the side, and land a vicious kick, downward, onto the outside of his right knee joint. His knee buckles easily, like water stomped out of a shallow puddle. A gasp rises from the crowd. They will like me no longer; joint shots are the most unpopular - no one wants to imagine suffering one.

He swings a haphazard punch backward, toward me. I catch his fist, and push his forearm down, across my knee; his bones crunch like twigs. The crowd takes particular offense to this parting blow; they fathom it a cheap shot, and they want my blood.

I catch the scent of salt-water as Serga rushes into the ring. "We go now. They calm down before you come again," Serga says as he ushers me away.

But, I smell the salt-water; the waves, as their lips crash down into the green ocean, creating white, turbulent foam. I imagine myself just beneath the lip, in the trough of the wave, watching the clear wall of water descend upon me, the salt ripping at me like sand-paper, like the hands of a lustful woman. I cascade through the white-wash as the wave tumbles onward, casting me onto the beach exhausted and weary, like Jonah vomited from the belly of the whale.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. "Final fight." The voice pierces my dream again. Serga gives me that look, that glance from a worried mother, and for a moment I feel my head against my mother's breast once again, I feel the comfort of being rocked, gently. "I will be okay, Serga," I say, patting him on the back. "Serga knows this. Serga knows," he says, wanting all things to be left unsaid.

He leads me to the ring, and gives me a final glance of reassurance before stepping to the side. I enter. The redhead stands just across the way. I see her through the flames. She looks tussled. Her eyes drop below my waist; she stares without acknowledgment. The lights dim, and a low, ominous bass drum booms throughout the arena. The redhead is unscathed.

Spotlights illuminate a corner. A brilliant gleam momentarily blinds me, and then, one slow step at a time, I see the Steel Warrior walking to the ring. His metallic footsteps reverberate like a cowboy approaching a shootout.

The redhead steps into his path. He smiles, displaying silver teeth beneath his frosty-white lips. She kneels before him; the crowd is hushed with reverence. She raises his massive appendage from between his legs and places it into her palm. It rests there, like a snake in the palm of Cleopatra's hand. Its base lies just past her fingers; its glans just below her wrist.

The redhead blows on the appendage from tip to base. It shivers slightly. She smiles and repeats the procedure. Then she wraps her fingers around the appendage and strokes. It stiffens immediately and appears to be aimed, with anger, at the redhead's face. She takes the glans into her mouth, and her cheeks swell to accommodate the candy-apple.

The Steel Warrior clutches her by the hair-of-the-head; red ringlets surround his silver fingers. The Warrior arches his back, pushing himself further into her, bearing his silver teeth.

But the redhead spits the appendage out of her mouth before the Steel Warrior climaxes. She glances at me as she saunters away and gives me a conspiratorial wink.

The Steel Warrior steps into the ring and addresses me. With swiftness, I drop to my knees, fists to my side. I swing them both inward, the Steel Warrior's erect penis my target.

But before impact, at a point where an immediate stop is not possible, the steel sheath that covers a majority of the Steel Warrior's appendage, blossoms spikes. They pierce my hands, nailing them to the Warrior's cock. He pitches his head backwards, laughing like Satan. The crowd erupts; I can hear them chanting for my death. I see the redhead, her mouth agape.

The spikes retract, and my hands fall to the mat, useless. "Leave ring now, Diego," I hear Serga cry. I perform a sweeping kick that strikes the Warrior's right ankle, felling him like a Redwood. I roll toward the warrior and slam an elbow into his windpipe; he begins to wheeze. It sounds like an asthmatic trying to breathe through a broken straw. I land another elbow to his neck, striking his jugular vein.

The Warrior tries to stand. I find my feet and crush another elbow into his left temple. He falls to his knees. Then his face strikes the mat with a bloody bounce. The crowd is silent.

The blonde in the blue gown, standing beside her husband, begins to clap. A man close to her follows suit. Soon, the arena is filled with applause. The ring of fire dims, and then the flames are extinguished. I walk away. The Steel Warrior is defeated.

"She follows you," Serga says. I turn. The redhead trails behind. "A minute, Serga," I say as the redhead and I go into the locker room. She presses herself against me, melding her mouth into mine. I feel the wet spots on her dress, the lust of defeated opponents reminding me that nothing is unknown. The metallic smell of desire simmers between her breasts. She steps away from me, unlatches her dress, and lets it fall to the ground.

The galaxy's center is revealed: civilization, treasure, hope. She beckons me forward. I fall to my knees, drinking her. She gasps and massages my scalp with her hands. She opens herself to me, and I penetrate the center of her earth, because all men, explorers or no, desire to understand the unfathomable, to grasp the most obscure point, to touch the depths of the unknown, making it known, to bring something of themselves into a place where selves do not yet exist.