Certain pictures-the ones of him naked but for his shorts, covered in sweat, his blond hair so plastered with his own wetness that it was almost brown, those blue eyes puffy and swollen-would get me so hot that I would place my thumb on the special place between my legs, squeeze my thighs tightly together, and rock back and forth until that warm, liquid feeling engulfed my body. I taped his fights, waited until I was alone in the house, and played them back, touching myself as I gazed at his body. I was transfixed by his brute strength, his lumbering grace.

I was sixteen the first time I went to see him fight. I was so excited that I dressed as though I was going on a first date: I shaved my legs, had my bikini line waxed for the first time, wore matching underwear, washed and blow-dried my hair. It was ridiculous. I didn't expect to meet him or anything-it was enough just to see him in the flesh-but I still felt that I had to look my best. My parents glanced at each other indulgently as we took our places in the second row, content to humor this teenage crush that they thought I would grow out of one day. But that night remains one of the most memorable experiences of my life. When his coach doused him with water at the end of the second round, droplets from the bottle actually flew onto my face. Tasting water that had been in a bottle pressed to his mouth, sucking my lower lip, I convinced myself that this was the next best thing to sucking the man himself.

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.