Raw (Round 1)

By Lee Quail

Get ready to rumble with Rawson Curisco, an amateur boxer who's not quite out of the closet. He's the kind of guy who gets his kicks in cruise bars and nightclubs, and he's not exactly known for his long-term relationships. But all that changes when he meets the smoking hot ex-boxer, Edward Canton.

Raw's world revolves around his father's boxing gym, and when Edward walks through the doors, everything changes faster than a knockout punch. Suddenly, Raw's more interested in boxing with Edward than playing around in the club scene.

But it's not all sunshine and rainbows for these two fighters. When the gym starts to struggle financially, they team up to save it from going under. With their boxing skills and determination, they just might be able to pull it off - if they can stop bickering long enough to work together.

Unfortunately, things get even more complicated when Edward's tragic past comes back to haunt him. It's an incident so devastating that he refuses to talk about it, and Raw is left wondering if he'll ever be able to help his new partner move on.

So get ready for a knockdown, drag-out tale of love, boxing and secrets. These two fighters are in for the fight of their lives, and it's going to take everything they've got to come out on top. Their secrets are heavy burdens, but what are they worth when the only difference between winning and losing is when the purse holds your heart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Quail
• Release date: Mar 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215212202

Lee Quail

Writer,Cover artist.Horticulturist.Married.South Africa.Proudly Gay

Book preview

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Boxing is one of the many sports where there still exists a certain stigma attached to being gay. Only a handful of professional boxers have come out but most prefer to live their gay lives secretly for fear of discrimination. Those who have conquered that stigma include Al Brown, Freddie Mills and Welterweight champion Emile Griffith, who won six world titles and also killed a man in the ring.

I keep thinking how strange it is; I kill a man and most people understand and forgive me. However, I love a man and many say this makes me an evil person. – Emile Griffith

Boxing is, as one commentator put it, a man’s sport. There exists the very real and tragic threat of dying in the ring, or permanent brain damage. More than 230 boxers died in the 1920s and 103 in the 2000s.

In Memoriam:

Michael Norgrove The Zambesi Hitman (British) 6 April, 2013

Frankie Leal The Little Soldier (Mexico) 23 October 2013

Davie Brown (Australia) 14 September 2015

Scott Westgarth (British) February 2018

Roman Simakov (Russian) 8 December 2011

Magomed Abdulsalanov (Russian) is still in a coma after his fight in Madison Square Gardens in November 2013.

DISCLAIMER

The author has claimed his right to use the Oxford University Style Guide during the writing of this story. Spelling and comma placement will be different to the Chicago Manual of Style.

DEDICATION

For

Dawid and Ruben at Windpomp.

Thank you for everything you do

for the gay community.

PART ONE

RAW

Exhausted and bloodied, Raw staggered towards his corner where he frantically removed his mouth-guard. Someone slipped a bottle of water with a straw into his mouth and shouted, Drink. The voice echoed through his brain and his vision blurred like the background on a photograph.

Vaseline! Vaseline! Where’s my goddamn cutman!

In an instant, the team’s cutman appeared, cleaned the blood from the wound above Raw’s eye and lips then quickly applied petroleum jelly mixed with a coagulant to stop the bleeding. He gently rubbed the mixture to the boxer’s nose, eyebrows, jawbone and cheeks.

Finally, Raw’s vision came into sharp focus. His father, Roberto Curisco, on his knees in front of him, wide-eyed and anxious, shouted above the noise of the crowd, You can do this, Rawson! Get onto your feet and wait for the right moment. You’ll see the moment in his eyes. Use what I taught you. Get rid of him!

He hated the name Rawson.  Someone shoved another bottle of water into Raw’s trembling hands and he tipped the water over his head. Exhausted and battered, adrenaline raced through his body, blocking the pain to the cuts on his face and the wear on his cardiovascular system, not to mention the concussive blows to his head.

Left hook punch to the jaw! Curisco spat the words out. You had one year to perfect it. The moment he lets you in blast him out like I showed you. You got this! Do it!

The left hook.

Unnatural.

Deadly.

Raw had practiced it during shadowboxing; used it on hand pads, heavy bags, and double-end bags.

It was now, in this round, or never.

Curisco got to his feet. One more round, big man. One more round and you’ll have this in your pocket.

The bell rang.

Round 4! A sexy, suave woman in a bikini paraded around the ring, holding the Round 4 sign high above her head.

Raw danced around his opponent waiting for the opportunity. Like a fearless weapon of destruction, his opponent rushed in, pounding his fists into Raw’s stomach until they clinched.

Break! The referee separated them with a stern warning.

Fight!

Raw should have taken advantage right there and then.

Instead, he hesitated.

Every now and then, a punch lands with the sound of a car crash, and makes one legitimately hope the other guy gets up in one piece.

With over a minute gone in round four, Raw’s opponent connected with a left hand to his jaw, landing with one of the more sickening thuds one will hear inside a boxing ring.

Raw crumpled to the mat in such a lifeless and disturbing manner, everyone watching held their breath in the hopes he would be okay.

***

Raw woke up in the hospital with a sweet perfume attacking his senses from the bouquet of yellow roses on the cabinet beside his bed. His father, by his side, held his hand, staring at his bruised and swollen face.

Sorry, Raw whispered.

Curisco shook his head. Sorry? What you sorry for? He said in a fluent English/Italian accent. You cannot win all the time. We’ll have to change our endgame. Next time, we’ll win.

I feel totally pounded.

Raw’s words caught Curisco completely off guard. I’ve never heard you say such a thing. What do you mean?

I’m tired.

On the odd occasion, Raw had lost fights but he always came back eager to go into battle again. In another place and time he loved the ring. Somewhere along the line he had lost his passion for boxing. He shook his head as if mourning the loss of a loved one. I’ve had enough, Dad. I can’t anymore. I’m tired.

You don’t talk like that, you hear. Don’t talk like that. No such thing as can’t. We’ll talk about this when you’re better and thinking like a boxer.

Raw didn’t have the energy to argue about how he felt inside, or the frequent headaches rendering him helpless and disoriented. His soul wanted to fight on, but his heart had other plans. It would take time to explain.

He nodded weakly. Sure thing. And closed his eyes.

***

Curisco taught him self-defense, including karate, judo, Tai Kwando, and kickboxing, but boxing was his Zen. He made any excuse to watch his dad box. As a teenager, his passion for boxing grew, and Curisco taught him to plan every jab, hook, uppercut, and knockout. All controlled, even the adrenaline.

Romance was not on his agenda, and he had many wet dreams, not bothered by the sticky wetness but by the fact that he was always with another man. He kept this secret to himself and focused on perfecting his body. By the age of 21, he developed a perfect masculine physique but paid a hefty price with broken nose and abs that took a beating in every fight. With 13 winning fights behind him, he thought it was time to call it a day, but what were his options without a college degree?

He could become a boxing coach or a motivational speaker, helping students and businessmen make a success of their dreams. He could do it. In a world where men lived by their choices, he had other options.

Raw didn’t see or hear Angelica Freeman, his visitor, until she touched his hand. Are you awake?

He opened his eyes, startled by her touch. Angie?

She leaned across the bed and kissed him lightly on the forehead. Hell of a fight.

Beside her stood a man Raw had never seen. Who are you? he asked.

The man had a tall and muscular build with an angular face and a short, well-kept, five-day shadow. He wore a white t-shirt and a pair of loose, faded denims, with a silver Rhino horn on his belt buckle. A yellow rose tattoo protruded from his shirt up his neck, and his arms were a gallery of impeccably designed tattoos. He carried a bunch of white chrysanthemums wrapped in newspaper and gazed directly into Raw’s bruised, hazel-brown eyes.

Edward Canton. Howzit. A husky quality percolated in Edward’s voice with a gentle, breathy quality. He stepped forward and extended a hand, but Raw refrained, his body far too painful to reciprocate. Embarrassed, Edward withdrew and stood behind Angie.

Edward used to fight, Angie said.

I watched the fight. Edward came out from behind her. You have a mean punch.

I’m not asking for your opinion, Raw said, his voice abrupt.

With Raw, one never knew when the bitch would out. Even if Edward looked like a god, smelled like grass after rain, or even had a pregnant bank account, Raw would never show his vulnerability. Not to a stranger and least of all to such a good-looking stranger.

Angie saved the moment. Oh, Edward darling, won’t you be a star and ask one of the nurses for a glass or jug of water for those flowers.

Edward nodded and backed out of the room, shoulders hunched.

Did you see the buckle on his belt? Raw said, eyes wide.

Edward’s dress sense is impeccable. He collects and wears vintage male clothes from the 1920s, 1930s and 1940s, she whispered.

And he’s into boxing? Raw rolled his eyes.

He’s into a lot of things. Clothes, landscaping, fine music. What do you think?

Of what? Raw said.

Of Edward, silly. Do you like him? Angelica believed in instalove and expected people to fall all over each other within minutes of meeting.

He looks okay. Indifference played out like a thief robbing him of his true feelings. Of course Raw had noticed Edward’s sparkling blue, warm searching eyes, as though everything Edward gazed upon had a story to tell. The chiseled face. The golden hair combed back and puffed up in the front like James Dean.

Raw had noticed but kept it all to his vulnerable self.

A sweet catch, darling, Angie said, pouting her lips. You should get to know him."

Stop! Angie. Stop! Stop trying to pair me up with people, especially ones I don’t know.

Angie’s face turned serious. No, darling. You stop.  I hate that you’re alone.  I told you before and I’m telling you now, if you ever do find someone, it would be the happiest day of my life.  It’s about time you focused on your love life. You’ve managed to lose two fights in a row. You get more and more depressed with each passing day. It’s high time you found a man and if you don’t, I’ll find one for you.

You should stick to knitting instead of interfering in my love life.

Oh, that’s nasty, Raw. Just nasty.

Edward returned carrying a jug with each flower perfectly arranged. He placed it on the table at the foot of Raw’s bed. Sorry I took so long, he said. First, they had to find a jug and then nature called. I may have arranged the flowers a little…

Angie took Edward’s hand and led him to the door. We were just leaving, Edward. Think about what I said, Raw. Phone me to pick you up when you’re done here.

Edward turned and coyly waved a snappy goodbye, but Raw ignored him, instead, he stared out the window into the garden courtyard. One thing Angie said echoed through Raw’s mind like a shout echoing across mountain peaks: Focus on your love life…losing fights…depression…

EDWARD

Romance.

The only thing Edward lacked in his busy life. In fact, he tried too damned hard and maybe that was the problem.

Date Your Man, an online gay dating agency, had become his best friend. Over the last few months, he’d dated a hairstylist, a doctor, a professor, and a car salesman. All landed up in the air. Nowhere. The professor and the hairstylist were honest; they played the field and were not the marrying kind.

Two months ago he met Peter.

A guy with the voice of an angel and a looker too. Peter absolutely and positively had the same aspirations as himself; marriage, lots of sex, and adopt two kids at the right time. Edward had planned tonight’s dinner for over a month and tonight he’d tell Peter how he felt, ask him to be his boyfriend and confidant. Tonight he planned to have sex; a long time overdue.

17.00

Edward: Looking forward to tonight. Can’t wait to see you.

Peter: See you in two and a half hours.

Edward: You into vegetarian?

Peter: Depends on the company. LOL.

17.30

Edward: Can’t wait to see you.

Peter: Me too.

19.00

Edward: The door downstairs is open. Walk on in.

No reply.

Edward: You there?

No reply.

Edward: I’ll be on the balcony.

19.30

Edward: Where are you? Miss you already.

No reply.

19.45

Edward: I’m waiting. Dinner is cold. Are you okay?

No reply

21.00

Edward: Guess you’re not coming. We can work this out. Please answer. Talk to me, please.

No reply.

If there had been an accident, surely someone would have called. If Peter had changed his mind about the dinner, he could have called or texted. Night turned to morning and the smell of dinner still lingered in the air, faint, but there, dangling like a deflated balloon from a string.

On his balcony overlooking Zoo Lake, Edward had set up a lonely table with two tall wine glasses throwing a kaleidoscope across the white tablecloth, and yellow roses in a glass vase about ready to wilt, personifying the agony of waiting. Of not knowing the reason. Of the tears at the end of the world. It felt like the lights going down in a theatre; not knowing what to expect.

Darkness filled Edward’s mind; as if his entire bank of self-worth had gone south.  He had no immediate support structure to reassure him things would be all right. The old grandfather clock in the hallway struck eight in the morning as a struggling winter sun streamed through the large picture windows of the apartment.

He read the messages he’d sent to Peter dozens of times: still, he scrolled with one finger through each of them.

Suddenly, his phone pinged.

The vibration in his hand caught him off-guard and the phone slipped but he caught it in time. Peter.

Edward opened the message immediately, and his heart sank.

Peter: Sorry about last night. Truth is I lied. I’m married. Best you move on. Peter.

Edward shook his head in disbelief.

He’d wasted two months on this lowlife.

Two months of rendering naked his soul.

Of showing him erotic images of himself.

Texting sweet nothings. Of giving him time.

Edward returned a text.  Why didn’t you say something?

No Reply.

He texted again, expecting immediate gratification. But that was it.  Peter became forever silent.

Edward cleared the table; packed away the candles and dumped the wilting rose in the trashcan in the kitchen when his phone rang.

Hi, Angie.

Did he sleep over? She asked.

Nope.

What do you mean?

He didn’t come.

What happened?

He’s married.

The bastard!

He sent me apologies a few minutes ago. Edward’s voice carried the strain of the night, cracking with emotion as if his life had gone up in smoke.

Darling, don’t take this too hard.

It’s me, Angie. I’m wired all wrong. People don’t want commitment. When they see my body looking like an art gallery all they want is a fuck. I’m so tired of it all. Searching for Mr. Right. Trying to find someone to share my life. I’ve had it.

Don’t be silly. Your problem is that you haven’t the faintest idea about choosing the right boys. Right now, there’s someone out there whose destiny it is to be with you. You’ll see, it’s going to happen sooner than you think, she said as if she knew something that Edward had yet to find out.

Not the way things are going right now, Edward hung his head in dismay; closed his eyes and wept. Angie listened to the sound his tears made and her heart broke for him.

I should pack up and leave all this behind. There’s no sense in having all this with no one to share it, he said.

You mean leave this all behind and go to your place in the Berg?

The people there care about me.  They don’t give a flying fuck about my tats and I’ll have my horses and fresh air and peace.

Listen to me, darling. It’s not you or your tattoos. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in a few minutes.

His voice broke again with emotion. I’d like that.

Never again, Edward thought. No more online dates. He’d be better off at Canton’s Cottage, far away from the cold, unrelenting bruise of city life. In his view, online dating, like a beautiful old car with a sick engine, had passed its sell-by date.

***

Angie’s pleated, silver-white hair swept off her brow in a long wisp to the side of her temple. Her ankle length, blue sarong, hid the cumbersome bulk of her body. Her green eyes swooped over Edward’s emotional transparency.

My, my – you look handsome as always - and this suit is amazing. You didn’t sleep, did you? You wore this for your date last night? She touched the fabric. He’d chosen an ivory sack suit, made popular in the early 1900s. The plaid jacket, long, plain, and loose, had wide lapels. A silver plated fob watch hung from his trousers’ small pocket.

She touched his face and gazed deeply into his swollen blue eyes. He resembled a lonely tree getting ready for winter.

Don’t let this get to you, Ed. There are plenty of fish in the sea.

Not like Peter. Damn! He turned and looked away, punching his frustration into the air.

That’s it. Let the anger out, Angie said, rubbing his back.

I thought this was going somewhere. Clearly, it wasn’t, Edward said, wiping away the tears.

This Peter guy, he’s not worth your tears, she said.

I feel so empty, Angie. Like there’s something wrong with me. I feel bloodless. Ready to explode because something always happens with my dates. Maybe I’m not good-looking enough. And this body of mine looks like a Michelangelo shithouse.

Bullshit, Angie exclaimed, grabbing his elbow and ushering him to the tall mirror in the hallway. Look at yourself. Despite the tears you’re an incredibly good looking man. In my younger days, if half the guys I dated had rock hard pecs, and half of these beautiful tattoos, I’d die. Every tattoo on your body tells a beautiful story of who you are. That red rose dedicated to your mom on your neck. This small cross above your thumb. Look at this face, full of character with a beautiful five-day shadow, golden like the sun, and those eyes, good lord. You’re one in a million.

Edward didn’t