Boxing Autobiography Story, part 1

Boxing has always been a passion of mine. The idea of a half-naked sweaty man standing over his battered foe causes great excitement in me that continually increased through my school years. I had my share of schoolyard fights but they had no effect in lessening my mental zeal for one day entering the ring and pounding leather against another impassioned soul. Since my parents were against boxing and fighting in general, I had to live out my childhood desires in my fantasies. In those fantasies I would always win the boxing match�usually by KO�but even so, the action would be toe-to-toe with the pummeling received and delivered fairly evenly. A jarring right cross smashed against my nose would be countered by a solid hook to the jaw that banged out his mouthpiece. One moment my bruised opponent would have the upper hand by connecting with an uppercut that was felt down to my boxing shoes, the next moment the advantage would be mine as a solid left hook to the liver (my best punch) would blow the air right out of his lungs. Both fighters� faces would slowly be rearranged in red with puffy eyes that would transform into black orbs the next morning revealing the fight�s intensity. The knockout would come when my opponent had tired and was receiving a pounding on the ropes as he desperately attempted to prevent from becoming a kill. Suddenly a right hook would nail his head and the resulting thud would resonate through the hall. The glassy-eyed fighter would start helplessly bending at the waist, the top of his head brushing against my chest, then my torso, and finally resting on the exposed ridge of my groin cup. A final blood-splattering uppercut into his flaccid broken nose would buckle his legs toppling him onto the canvas. The fighter�s concussed brain either left him knocked out for minutes or he struggled vainly to gain his footing before ten was reached. On the rare occasion that he actually made it up at nine, then the true punishment would begin. I would lessen the power behind the punches so as to build up the hurt without actually ending the fight. Maximum damage was the goal. The action would turn into slow motion, the best blows causing half the guy�s face to crumple against the glove, followed immediately by the opposite cheek blowing out and the facial muscles contorting into a visual diorama of the neural carnage that was happening inside his head; there the brain was slamming against the skull causing the fighter to experience a flash of light followed by dark numbness as his brain froze over. Finally the ref would jump in between us repeating "that�s enough" as he cradled his arms around my battered foe. I would then raise my gloves with the rush of total domination pulsing through me.

My folks moved the family across the country between my junior and senior years of high school. Leaving my friends behind was hard; trying to form new friends in one�s senior year was fairly impossible. One day in the Fall I took it out a tee shirt that had a stencil of a boxing glove on the front tied over the shoulder to another glove stenciled on the back. The plan was to change into it right before the lunch period at school. Since I wasn�t making any friends at school I thought I might as well strut with a boxing shirt on. As I walked to the quad for lunch a few people gave me funny looks, but no one said anything. The shirt did not have the impact I thought it would. Nobody really seemed to care. However, near the end of the period as I was sitting by myself Barry Smith passed by and stopped.

"You box?" he asked abruptly. Barry was on the football team, almost 6�2", and was one of the most handsome seniors in school, with strong legs and a well proportioned upper body. At the beginning of the season he had refused to buzz cut his short length brown hair the way the other football team members had, yet he was still the most popular person amongst his teammates. Barry Smith seemed intimidating right then staring straight down on me, but if this were a challenge I wouldn�t back down. Hell, having something interesting and unknown happen was the reason I had worn the shirt.

"Yeah a little," I replied as I stood up, "do you?"

Barry didn�t answer as he looked up and down my 6�1" frame. I still felt a little uneasy since he had an inch height advantage and looked tough, but because I worked out daily and had a 31-inch waist with decent shoulders and arms I felt I was no patsy. If he were going to show attitude then I would start showing it first. Clamping my teeth, I stared right at him and stuck my chin out an inch.

"How much you weigh?" he finally said.

"180. How about you?" I was readying for some bad intentions.

"185 to 190 depending on the sports season. So we�re both cruiserweights, huh?" he grinned.

Before I continue let me fill you in on a few details. First, Barry Smith had never really talked to me in the past. We shared first period civics together and sat on opposite sides of the room. Being early in the morning I did not have the inclination for small talk before class. Thank God that most of the other kids felt the same way. Second, Barry was that kind of All-American kid who knew that guys admired him and gals wanted him. So why was Mr. Perfect Popular talking to East Coast Accent Stranger Boy? Lastly, during this interchange I was startled by Barry�s smile, something I had not noticed before. It was not the cocky leering smile jocks usually display to show how tough and cool they are as they constantly tell dirty jokes or razz on some one. And it was not the All American smile that show all the pearly whites that says �do you realize how bright my future is?� Barry�s smile was actually a little shy with his chin tucked in a bit like a little kid�s talking to an adult he does not know very well. It was a smile very similar to Prince William�s that people say reminds them of his mother. The smile was totally incongruous with the body and reputation, and it was actually quite endearing.

"Your nose doesn�t look like a boxer�s," Barry continued.

I wondered where he was going with this and replied, "I�ve only done it informally. I studied the diagrams from the World Book Encyclopedia and a Better Boxing book from the library".

All the cliques were staring at us but nobody tried to divert Barry. I kept myself on alert from him setting me up for a big embarrassment. Jocks love to razz people and I was not going to be the day�s geek du jour. As the conversation went on for a while without rancor or challenge from Barry, I became more at ease that he wasn�t setting me up. But why then was he talking to me? Could he possibly be passionate about the manly art as I was? Pretty soon my hormones replaced my initial apprehension and I was trying to separate my body stirrings from my brain so that a bulge wouldn�t start appearing in my pants. We talked about our favorite boxers, most brutal matches we had seen, how it must feel to knock someone out, and so on. The bell rang for sixth period before I knew it.

"I�d like to continue this conversation," Barry said as we gathered up our books. "Are you on a sports team?"

"Water polo" I replied.

"I�m on the football." I pretended that I didn�t know that. "Maybe after our practices we can meet up and talk some more on our way home."

I couldn�t believe my ears. "I�d appreciate the lift in your car, thanks." Not the greatest overture but I didn�t want to sound over eager. I then realized that he never mentioned his car and that I had probably just blown my cover.

"Great." Barry looked bemused. Yep, cover blown. "First person done waits in front of the locker room for the other, okay?" Then he made a fist and punched me lightly on the shoulder. "See ya." And he joined his other friends to go to class

The clock seemed to go into slow motion the rest of the day, and I really could not concentrate on my classes or water polo practice, but eventually my coach blew the final whistle and my teammates exited to the locker room. I soon discovered that the football team had not come in yet, so after showering and dressing I waited on the curb in front. Twenty minutes later the football team approached from the stadium across the street. It was a hot day and most of the players were shirtless. Barry was waving to me from a hundred yards away. As he approached with his teammates my breath was taken away. His body was a golden tan down to a white line an inch below his navel. Sweat glistened off his 44-inch chest and 16� arms and he looked like a hunky version of Michalangelo�s David with hairy legs and a trail of hair descending from his navel. A small patch of hair between his pecs completed the picture. He had that funny type of heel to toe walk that comes from wearing cleats on cement and his body swayed in perfect coordination, which accentuated his grace

" Sorry practice went late. I hope you weren�t waiting too long."

Had I waited five hours in the rain I wouldn�t have minded if this vision were at the end of the wait. Even with my cover possible blown I was concentrating on sounding nonchalant but friendly. Actually I was visualizing pouncing on him and wrapping my arms around his slender waist.

"No, practice got out just a few minutes ago," I lied.

"Good. It will just take me a minute to change."

I was tempted to go in the locker room and sneak a peak at Barry taking a shower. But nakedness was not that huge of an attraction to me�shirtless men in boxing or jogging shorts were. Besides it was not worth the risk of him discovering me looking at him. Two minutes after our conversation I felt a tapping on my shoulder.

"Ready?" he asked as I looked up.

"Boy that was quick."

"I didn�t shower, just changed clothes."

"Jeez you must stink."

Barry shrugged and that smile came back.

"Probably," he sighed. "I thought maybe we could do a little friendly sparring before I took you home. I have some training gloves at my house and I thought we would drop in there for a snack too. That okay?"

On the way to his house we told each other about our lives, a lot of it any ways. Barry�s father died when he was fourteen and had spent a lot of time teaching his son boxing since he had been a top rank amateur in college before going on to medical school. Barry was an only child and his mother worked as a law partner in a prestigious firm in town. Mother and son were pretty close, especially since the death, but his mom gave Barry a lot of teenage space. As we pulled into the driveway Barry explained that his Mom did not come home from work until seven but that anything in the fridge was fair game. I called my folks to say I would be home a little late. After the snack we went out into his garage where several pairs of gloves were stored in a cabinet.

"How many pairs of gloves do you have?" I said in amazement.

" About six sets, an 8 oz set of fight gloves, a 10 oz set, and a few training gloves. I told you my father was serious about boxing. The other cabinet has all his boxing gear and trophies. Some time I�ll show them to you but for now take off your shirt and I�ll lace the training gloves on you."

When I am fighting I don�t get too sexually aroused. So while Barry stood a foot away from me lacing my gloves with his open shirt I didn�t worry too much about things growing in my jeans. The contest was too imminent. It was pretty sexy having him this close though. As he looked downward to concentrate on lacing up the 14 ounce gloves I surveyed his head from up close. His light brown hair was still a little sun bleached from the summer, and he had to shave daily since at this hour some stubble was showing. Since he hadn�t showered after practice his scent was salty, but the perfume scent of Irish Spring soap from a morning shower still got through. After my gloves were tied tight Barry took off his shirt and turned around to pick up his lace-less gloves. At the locker room I hadn�t noticed how defined his back muscles were or how pronounced the line between the latissimus dorsa and his obliques were. He had the perfect boxer�s physique: strong neck to absorb head shots, a fairly long reach, and legs that were strong but not bulky as some football players are. Would he be a boxer or a puncher? His body did not reveal the answer, only that it was fight-ready. Only his stomach showed a little weakness. While there was no belly, where the rest of Barry�s body was hard with muscle definition, the waist was slim and flat and had the appearance of still water. Barry slipped on his gloves and I was facing a God with boxing gloves. We walked out to the rather spacious lawn where we faced each other and took our boxing stances.

"Just easy okay. I don�t want to be knocked out in the first minute," Barry instructed. He pounded his gloves together and I could tell he was psyching himself up for a fight even if it were just light sparring, "Ding," he said.

We exchanged jabs and moved cautiously around each other. I threw a jab-cross-hook combination that Barry easily deflected. "Not bad," he said. Barry moved beautifully on the grass, usually moving to my right but ducking and constantly moving his head so I never knew for certain where he would be next. Most of my jabs were parried or slipped. By the time I tried throwing a second punch he was either countering or moving away. Obviously Barry was testing my offense, and since we were not in a ring we traveled around the whole lawn. We stopped after another of Barry�s "dings."

"You won that round," he said as we rested. "Hey you�re not bad."

"You�re not bad yourself," I returned the compliment, "but I know you are just concentrating on your defense."

"We�ll see," he retorted. While we rested I tried to imagine him in black Everlast boxing trunks wearing 10" boxing boots and small red Reyes fight gloves while clamping down on a mouthpiece. God that would be a hot sight.


Barry pounded his gloves together and came right for me. Last round he was a boxer; this round he became a puncher. Every time he threw a punch he would snort or grunt to put extra power into it. I�m pretty good at defense and without a roped square I could dance around a lot, which is precisely what I did. Barry realized what I was doing and finally said, "okay now toe-to-toe."

We stood flat-footed and I threw a left hook to the liver. Barry grunted and nodded in acknowledgement of a good shot. We both started throwing flurries while our feet were planted mere inches from each other, but with the big training gloves most of the punches were deflected by the opponent�s gloves. Some punches got through and the score was fairly even. I was getting just a tad tired and decided to clinch. His warm sweat felt good against my chest and my arms could feel the aggressiveness and grace in his hardened body. It was kind of exciting holding onto a body that was trying to hurt me.

"Awwww, clinching is for woosies," Barry exclaimed. "Break on three."

When we broke I noticed a streak of red on his shoulder. Since he was not bleeding the blood must be from me--my nose I guessed. During schoolyard fights I would inevitably get a nosebleed after the first good shot. Barry look confirmed it as I swiped my glove under my nostrils.

"Do you want to stop?" he asked.

"No it�s just a nose bleed. And don�t worry I am not positive or anything."

Barry looked surprised. "I wasn�t even thinking about that but thanks for letting me know. Have you been tested or something?"

"No," I answered, "I�ve just never done anything that would have put me even remotely at risk." And at that I shot a jab that put him off balance, and then I followed through with a right and then an uppercut-hook-uppercut combination that had Barry clinching.

"I thought you said clinching was for woosies." I said a little breathlessly.

"I was paying more attention to the conversation than to your hands. It won�t happen again believe me." Before he put his gloves up to resume however, I pulled the same trick again and quickly threw a right that landed smack on his jaw. For the first time ever in my life I experienced the pleasure that comes from delivering pain to someone who is trying to do the same to you. After your opponent has been hammered everything becomes simple: he is hurt and you are momentarily safe. Seeing Barry wobble brought out a killer instinct I never knew I had. I wanted to see this guy bleed, stagger, and fall. Poom..boy that felt good. Bang!�hurt Barry again before he can recover. Poom.poom�he�s vulnerable. Poom..knock him out. forever� Slam! Stars flashed. My father was smiling from the adjacent swimming pool. "Dad, what are you doing here? The pool sure looks inviting��.."

"I�m sorry, I�m really sorry. Are you okay?" My back felt the coolness of the grass and I realized that Barry was hovering over me.

"What happened?" I said attempting to shake the cobwebs from my head.

"It just happened. After your flurry, you were moving away and I threw a hook. I thought you would bring your guard back up but you didn�t. In fact you changed directions and walked right into it. I�m really sorry. I didn�t mean to throw it that hard, but I was responding to your hard punches. We kind of lost it and went to war there."

"My neck tingles," was my only response through the dull haze. My brain was ringing somewhat like the sound of the sea when listening to a seashell.

"It�s going to be really sore tomorrow," he added.

"So you knocked me out?"

"No, you were still standing but I made you lie down. Don�t you remember?"

No, I really didn�t. As the haze was clearing I noticed that at some point Barry had taken off his gloves and that he was cradling my head with his hands. This certainly was a day of firsts.

"You want to continue sparring?" I asked automatically

"No, not today," he answered. I think Barry was genually freaked. We couldn�t leave it like this for if we did it would be the first and last time we would have don the gloves together. If Barry were afraid that he could hurt me bad he would be never want to spar with me again. Besides I hadn�t worked his body as I wanted to and test those abs. How was I going to prove my strength since sparring was now out for the day?

"Well if you�re worried about my noggin then let�s do some gut punching,"

"Gut punching?" Barry seemed confused

"Yeah, let�s test to see who is tougher. We each take turns letting the other guy hit our gut, anywhere from the solar plexus down to two inches below the navel. First guy to drop loses"

"Do we do it with gloves or bare-fisted?" Bare-fisted might be too much for him.

"Well actually you can do either, but why don�t we put on those eight ounce gloves in the garage. Bare fisted usually leaves bruises that are hard to explain." Actually this was a little duplicitous. I had worn eight-ounce gloves only once before and liked the feel of them. The minute I saw those gloves in the cabinet I wanted to try them on. While training gloves feel big and somewhat like pillows surrounding your hand, eight-ounce fight gloves feel like a natural extension of your fist, they are weapons of war designed merely for protection of the hand and not to soften the blows to the opponent�s body of face. If anything, fight gloves hurt an opponent more than a bare fist since the attacker is not fearful that his hand might break if he throws a blow at full force. While training gloves say, "let�s box," eight-ounce gloves say, "let�s fight."

As Barry asked me more questions I could tell his reluctance was dissipating. More importantly, he completely forgot how freaked out he was with the recent TKO. My head was hurting but the thought of pounding Barry�s abs was a great pain reliever. I started to do ab warm-ups as if we had already agreed to the match. Barry copied me. This is an old sales technique: when you want to close the deal just automatically start the motions of the purchase and act like the sale is a foregone conclusion. If the buyer is not sold he/she will stop you. Barry also followed my lead when I took off my belt and unbuckled the top three buttons on my jeans fly.

"This is so we can punch below the navel," I said in case Barry thought there were other intentions. His line of hair descended from his navel to underneath his white cotton brief band. Briefs? I thought all jocks at school wore boxers! Another jock stereotype that Barry did not fall under. We awkwardly laced the fight gloves, which isn�t easy when you have at least one boxing glove already on. The gloves were old Everlast gloves, not quite the snugness of Reyes, but brutal weapons nonetheless. The action was pretty hot. One of us would throw a punch apiece as the other placed his hands behind his back, the we would reverse roles. Barry was at first tentative with his punches, but as I continued to slam him he started to return the favor. I never felt so close to someone before in my life. It�s strange to think that inflicting pain would be so intimate, but we were actually supporting each other, encouraging the defender to withstand the pain, to reach his limits and then go beyond. Sinking my fist into his body, feeling the crunch and hence the hurt, rooting for him to succeed while knowing he would be doing the same for me momentarily--I quickly developed a brotherly love. When he punched me, just knowing that he was within inches watching while I went from the depths of my physical self to come back�it felt so personal and I was grateful he was right there.

God we were tough. My 300 sit-ups and 1000 crunches a day were paying off. Barry�s abs were in better shape than they looked, but still it was clear that I was weathering the storm a tad better than him. I think Barry was truly impressed by my stamina. After about twenty reps we decided that each person would get three punches in a row before switching. After a few more reps I pulled an old gut punching trick. Simultaneously I threw a left hook to the liver and a right hook to the spleen followed immediately with a crunching stomach shot. The first two punches force the abs to reflexively relax hence the third punch goes straight through to the back bone causing excruciating gut pain. Barry went immediately down into a fetal position and grabbed his stomach.

"Where the hell did you learn that??" he stammered while grimacing.

"I read about it somewhere. You okay?"

"Yeah," he answered breathlessly. He started getting up. "I�m never letting you do that again. So now we are even, one knock down apiece."

"Thanks Barry." He was standing with his hands on his knees. It felt good being able to knockdown a jock and the consequential respect he gave me built up my confidence. "I had fun."

"Did you really?" Barry looked surprised and encouraged. "Would you like to spar again?"

Mission accomplished.

" Sure when?"

Barry gave me the strangest look and his voice lowered. "You know, I noticed you the first day in civics and I saw how evenly matched we were. I wondered how a real fight between the two of us would turn out."

"Well I think you now know," I responded to the confession, " you gave me a bloody nose and practically knocked me out. My gut punch knockdown was just a trick."

"No, we were too occupied with talking while we sparred. We didn�t know each other so we played it cool mostly. It wasn�t a real fight in a ring with mouthpieces. Besides you have proved that your abs are a lot stronger than mine are. Inside the ring you�d first go to my body and probably weaken me the first few rounds before I could hurt you too bad. You would be the slow destroyer. Believe me, with a little training on your part it would be a fairly even fight."

Talk about a confidence booster. My brain did a mental strut for days after that.

Barry paused. I could tell he was building up the courage to say whatever was coming next. "So what do you say we train for a real ring fight against each other. Eight ounce Reyes gloves," [did I believe my ears???], "foul protector, mouthpiece, no headgear, no tank top, three minute rounds to knockout."

"Everlast trunks, the old short style?" I asked. As long as he was describing my fantasy I might as well have it all the way."

Barry nodded yes. I think he knew he had me. "My father�s old trunks�he has a white pair and black pair. You know I have always wanted to do this, to have a real hard core match. We could even build it up like a real rumble and have classmates pay admission to watch. We could give the money to the Senior Class Fund. What about it?" I was beginning to see Barry�s fantasy. It wasn�t mine to the tee since mine did not include a ringside audience, but still our visions were pretty darn close.

"Wouldn�t you rather have someone who is well known at school fight you? It might peak more interest. I�m the new kid no one really knows or cares about."

Barry laughed. "Nah, first of all everyone knows my father was a champion boxer and nobody wants to square up to me. When ever I playfully put up my fists all the guys back away or ignore it. Besides, like you said, people don�t know you yet. We can pull the charade of bad guy/good guy. You and I can have a mock argument at school in front of everyone in the quad and then we�ll put on fake intense grudge attitudes toward each other so that people get riled up for the match. A WWF kind of thing."

"So the whole thing would be staged?" I asked, realizing that I might get the chance to see Barry attired in real life what I fantasized between rounds when sparring.

"Only the build up. The fight would be for real. I plan on messing you up pretty bad in the ring." I must be part masochistic because that last statement really excited me.

"Good luck homey," I was feeling my oats and excited at what was going to turn out to be an interesting senior year. "I�m going to break your ribs and the mess up that pretty face of yours." WHAT WAS I SAYING?

Barry just grinned and nodded. This was happening a bit fast but what the hell, I was young and a senior, and feeling like a pretty hot damn senior at that. I�d worry about my parents later. We shook hands cementing the deal.

"If you�re not too busy why don�t you come over this weekend and we will plan it out. Don�t tell anybody about any of this okay?"

"No problem" I reassured.

As we entered the garage to put away the equipment Barry mentioned, "Oh, by the way, there is one more thing. It�s winner take all."

"I thought you said the admission goes to the senior fund?"

"I�m not talking about money. After the fight the winner takes the losers soul," Barry put one hand on my shoulder and placed his other palm flat against my pubic bone just above my manhood. "The loser becomes the winner�s slave."

I laughed nervously. "Doesn�t that seem just a little gay?" I questioned. Barry�s body tensed as he clenched his fists and looked at me with a concentration I don�t think I had ever seen on a person before.

"No," he said slowly, "not when you have to fight for it."

(To be continued...)

Thanks for reading the story. Comments appreciated.

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