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.