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.