Word to Teddy Atlas: My Boxer Needs Roids

A lot of guys nickname their cocks.  Funny little handles for the thing they handle, like Woody.  I’ve never done that.  When girls asked me this question, I usually just say Rocky, though I’ve never heard the word used, in any form or fashion, during sex.  So I’d never dubbed my poker- until this morning.  Now my penis has a tag and its nickname is Whitney Houston (and not because I’ll put it on that crack).  My penis is a diva.  It wasn’t always this way.

I remember the first time I really got to know him.  I stayed home sick one day in high school.  He and I sat in the living room.  We talked and got to know each other.  Our friendship blossomed.  A few months later he proved his loyalty.  We went to a party at some girls house.  She pushed up on me, but I didn’t know what to do.   I was still shy.  He was the best wing man.  He broke the ice, so willing to be the third leg, I mean wheel, as he kept the night bubbly with racy conversation.  When she started a petty fight with me for no reason, he stepped in to calm her down.

From that night on, he was always by my side.  I was in his corner, literally.  He was a heavyweight slugger, throwing haymakers, bobbing, and weaving as I shouted directions his way.  Left. Right. Jab. Hook.  Uppercut. Work the middle and the head will fall.  Even when we were down and I thought it was over, he never let me throw in the towel.  He was always willing to take the fall for me and never afraid to go down for the honeypot.  More than all these things, he never burned me for gambling on his fights, even when I assbetted those chili circuit bouts down south.

Thing changed.  He isn’t throwing them like he used to.  His technique is lethargic.  He’s fighting soft and taking too many blows to his head.  I don’t know how many more licks he can take.  He used to walk around with a chip on his shoulder, always acting hard, ready to step to the first bitch looking at me.  Now he hides in the darkness of his den watching and withering, mad at the next contender.  As well as I, the cutman, who never let him bleed.

Boxings Longest Winning Streak- 93 in a Row!

I blame myself.  I never believed in him.  I never thought he could be a contender.  Maybe it was because I was a runt myself back then.  What did I do?  I worked him too hard too fast.  I made him sweat in the gym.  I made him gimme everything he had.  The kid kept coming for more.  He had endurance.  I don’t mean Sugar Shane Mosely going 12 rounds endurance.  I mean Sugar Ray Robinson, 25 rounds for 93 wins in a row kind of endurance.  He had the makings to be a legend.  I saw it right away.  He had the gift.  It was a thing of beauty to see him knock those pussies to the canvas.  He made the new guys bleed like they never bled before and he left the old guys looking flabby and sick, ready to retire.

"Hey baby, I was wondering...well, you're a knockout. Do you have a cutman?"

No matter how many fighters he put down, they never gave us the title shot.  That big baby of a payday all the fighters are here for, ya know.  He never let it get to him.  But it got to me.  I couldn’t take it.  We worked too damn hard at it.  I walked away from the game.  I wasted too much time with the sport of boxing.  He begged me to reconsider.  He wiped tears from his eye as he begged me to stay.  But I was selfish.  He said he wouldn’t fight without me, but I thought he was being bullish.  To the dismay of the boxing world, he did retire.

Things didn’t go to well for me.  I tried to stay away from the game.  I didn’t even watch fight tapes anymore.  Thought I’d found the one for me.  But things didn’t work out.  She left me lonely.  I needed something to fill my heart up again.  Naturally I turned to boxing.

I won’t lie.  He and I didn’t quite see eye to eye when I knocked on his door on New Years Day.  He threw a shot at me within a minute of seeing me.  I took it to the chest like a G, got off the ground, and dusted myself off.  We had a beer and things seemed okay.  I felt better than I’d felt in months.  So I called the promoter and got us booked for our comeback fight.  We had only been training for two weeks but he hadn’t lost a bit of endurance or power.  He had a little more finesse to his street brawling style.  He was ready.  I expected a knockout.

So here we go, Main Event Friday Night, only it was yesterday.  We have a pretty good weigh in.  The prefight meal, Taco’s, are fucking delicious.  We get a good nap before the fight.  We are ready to rumble.  This is the moment we have all been waiting on.  Lights are low.  Music takes total control.  I give him a pregame pep talk in the locker room.  He looked like he was ignoring me.  He looked distracted, like something was missing.  The energy wasn’t there anymore.  I knew we were in trouble when he slid between the ropes.  We came out the gates like grease lightning.  He looked better than he’d ever looked in his 10+ years of prizefighting.  The other guy barely survived the round.  But I couldn’t shake that look in his eyes.

Whats going on in their I screamed at him.  He just ignored me.  The bell rang and round two began.  The other guy swallows him on the inside and is working him from the outside.  Boom. He hits the ground.  He’s been here before.  We’ve been here before.  He gets to his feet as the count goes to 8.  A little slower than usual, but his chin hadn’t been tested yet.  The bell rang and round two ended.  Again he came to corner and stonewalled me.  Again he stepped in the ring to get knocked out.  He barely made it through round 4.  He was saved by the bell.  At the start of round 5, his legs are barely under him.  Hes taking licks to the head like a kid with a tootsie pop.  Instead of fighting back, he kept looking to the ref for help, at one point stopping the fight to beg the judges for a low blow call, which I’ve never seen happen before.  I saw enough.  For the first time ever, I threw in the towel.  I wanted to save whatever was left of him.  He didn’t like my lack of faith.  He took off the glove and started pounded the shit out of the other guy, beating his lips swollen.  The ref tried to step in, but realized it wasn’t worth getting hit.  I rushed in to pull him away but didn’t reach him until he stood hulking over his victim, spitting on his stiff body. I won’t lie to you- I loved to see it in him.  I dragged him away from the ring and struggled to get him to his feet.  He shook me off and sulked away into the alley behind the gym, then disappeared.  I’m sure I’ll see him again.  Not sure how that’s gonna go.  Comebacks fade with early losses.  Gonna be hard to point fingers of blame on this one.  Really just want to tell him I love him and miss him.  Give us a few months and we’ll be championship caliber again.  I guarantee that! If they even let him back after that night, he’ll be back.  Wouldn’t be the same without him.  Good ol’ Rocky. Whitney Rocky Houston.

—– Ryan Mega

{Ed. note:  This is a fictional story.  I know nothing of boxing.  If you think this story is about a gay boxer, you’re wrong, although I am currently writing a magnificent script near this topic (think Brokeback Mountain meets Bloodsport).  If you think this story is about some old guy looking for love, you’re just as wrong as the gay boxer theory.  If you think this poem is another of my personal odes to my penis, you might have some good fighter.}


2 thoughts on “Word to Teddy Atlas: My Boxer Needs Roids

  1. Pingback: Tough Sex: My Worst Sexual Experiences Shared « How To Be A Gangster

  2. Pingback: Tough Sex: My Worst Sexual Experiences Shared « SexDrugsMoney

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