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S ilas Warner was immediately taken by the look of the dark-skinned man across the bar. He had coal-black hair and skin that looked as smooth as silk, as well as a wiry mustache and beard. His dark blue jacket had brass buttons, but had seen better days, as had his white shirt, which was frayed around the collar.

He picked up his glass of ale and worked his way across the crowded room. He was surprised that the handsome man was by himself in this bar where men came to meet others of similar outlook.

Silas had to deflect overtures from two different men on his way. If the fellows were so eager, what kept them away from the object of his interest? Was it the darkness of his skin? He was clearly from India, and had the look of a sailor about him, from his roughened hands to his stiff posture.

Silas had no prejudices. He loved cock, and variety of cock even more. The sailor intrigued him, and as he got closer his interest grew, stiffening his stand. He smiled as he caught the sailor’s eye, and was rewarded with a smile in return.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Silas said. It was a weak opening, he knew, but it was the best he could come up with after a full glass of ale.

“I arrived only yesterday on the Maharana,” he said. “A merchant ship out of Bombay, with a load of Indian silks and crates of tea from the highlands.”

“Bombay,” Silas said with a breath. “Is it as beautiful as they say?”

“It is,” the Indian said. “Elegant domed temples built of yellow basalt, palatial homes with hidden gardens full of beautiful scented flowers.”

“Do you miss it?”

“It is my heart and my home,” the man said. “But there is little work for me there, so I sail the seas to earn my keep and return when I can.”

He nodded to Silas. “And what of you? Where are you from?”

“Originally from Sheffield, in the north,” he said. “But when my father discovered my nature, he drove me away. Now I have a room a few blocks from here.”

The man nodded. “It was necessary for me to leave my home as well.” He held out his hand. “I am Raj.”

“Silas,” he said. The man’s hand was rough but strong,

“I have been to London several times,” Raj said. “I have seen all the major sights. But I haven’t seen your room. Would you like to show it to me?”

Silas laughed. He drained his glass and tugged on Raj’s hand. “Follow me.”

The bar’s main advantage, to Silas at least, was its proximity to his room on Bryanston Mews West. He laughed as they exited the bar, excited by the thought of a new conquest, and an exotic one at that.

“Are you always so forward with the men you meet?” Silas asked as they hurried down the pavement.

“As you saw in the bar, I am not to everyone’s taste,” Raj said. “So when I find a man I like, who likes me, why waste time?”

“Why, indeed!” They reached the boarding house and Silas unlocked the front door and led Raj upstairs.

“I like the colors of your room,” Raj said, when they walked into Silas’s bedroom. He had hung brightly colored scarves, some silk and bedazzled with tiny stones, over his bed. “I feel right at home.”

They undressed quickly and Silas was happy to see Raj’s strong muscles, the result of long labor on board ship. His cock, while not particularly thick, was long and curved at the end and somewhat darker than the rest of his body. His muscular thighs and calves were hairless, and Silas kept rubbing his hands over Raj’s smooth back.

With difficulty, he pulled his mouth off Raj’s and started kissing his neck and his shoulders. Raj groaned softly as Silas bit lightly at his nipples. Silas licked at his armpits, and then with his tongue he made a trail down Raj’s chest.

“You must stop for a moment,” Raj said.

Silas pulled back and looked at him. “We must be clean for each other,” Raj said. He left Silas’s side and crossed the room to where the ewer of water sat on the table. He wet a cloth thoroughly and washed himself—under his arms, along his long cock, then his bollocks. He bent forward slightly and Silas caught his breath as Raj wrapped a slim finger in the worn cloth and worked it up his crack.

It was an unexpectedly erotic vision, made even more so when Raj flipped the cloth over and performed the same service on Silas.

They made love then, slowly and then rapidly, and both of them spent at nearly the same time. Then Raj pulled a watch on a gold chain from his pocket. “Good, we still have time to catch the fights at New Cross.”

Silas turned on his side to stare at the naked Indian. “You don’t want to stay here?”

“I have many things to do in London and only a few days,” he said. “You will come with me?”

“I’m not much for boxing,” Silas said. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “But you go if you like.”

“Have you ever been?”

Silas shook his head.

“You should not dismiss something you have not experienced,” Raj said. “Come, let us get dressed and go. Together.” He smiled. “If you like seeing strong men sweating and grappling each other, you will enjoy this.”

Silas smiled. “Well, if there will be strong, sweaty men.”

Raj treated them to a carriage which took them across the Thames to New Cross. There was already a crowd of men clambering to get in and Silas found he was excited.

The first round did not disappoint him. The opponents were both young, strapping, and blond, farm boys come to the city to make their fortunes. Raj pointed out their inexperience in missed moves and failed punches, and Silas began to understand what he was watching.

The men of the second round were not so attractive, both of them older and more beaten down, though there was a point when they were in a clinch and Silas felt himself getting hard.

He looked around. Did the other men react the same way? He doubted it. They were cheering and yelling instructions at the boxers, waving betting tickets in the air.

It took until the third round for Silas to truly become addicted to the fights. “Now entering the ring, Ezra Curiel, the Hammering Hebrew!” the announcer called, and Silas gasped.

The man before him was almost an Adonis, with finely sculpted muscles, traces of black hair on his arms and legs, and a thick, luxurious pelt on his back. Silas couldn’t help staring as he raised his right fist in the air and did a slow circle of the ring. Then their eyes locked, and Curiel smiled.

Silas was sure the smile was directed at him. He watched, dry-mouthed, as Curiel’s opponent was brought into the ring. He was tall and gawky, his only advantages seemingly long legs and long arms. The two touched gloves, and then began to spar.

Silas had forgotten all about Raj by then, so intent was he on Ezra Curiel. To his inexperienced eyes, the man was a masterful boxer, darting back and forth, evading blows from his opponent, who was a hulking lunk in comparison. He couldn’t help but feel that Curiel was putting on a show, that he could have despatched the other boxer quickly, but he was entertaining the audience with his elaborate footwork and his glee whenever a punch hit its mark.

The crowd loved him, cheering boisterously. Silas yelled himself hoarse until Curiel delivered the final blow and his opponent fell to the ground.

His chest was matted with sweat and his face dripped, but he hoisted his gloved hands victoriously. And then, before he left the ring, he looked directly at Silas again.

“Are you glad I brought you here?” Raj asked, as the hands prepared the ring for the next bout.

“I am,” Silas said. “I never knew there was so much pleasure to be had in such an environment.”

“I must leave you here,” Raj said. “I have to return to my ship. Will you be able to get back to your room?”

“I am a Londoner now,” Silas said. “Don’t worry about me.”

They exchanged smiles and then Raj disappeared into the crowd.

Silas felt bereft. He’d already witnessed the best boxer he could imagine, so without Raj there was no reason to stay. But still he lingered, finally making his way outside. The air was fetid and muggy but a small cluster of men waited outside the rear door of the arena.

“What are you waiting for?” Silas asked one of the men.

“The boxers come out this way and we cheer for them,” the man said. “They’ll usually autograph programs if you ask.”

Silas looked down at the crumpled program in his hand. Had he realized he might want Curiel’s autograph he would have been more careful with it. Then the door opened, and Curiel and two other victors stepped out. The crowd cheered, and clustered around, but Silas waited in the background until all programs had been signed and the audience had disappeared. Curiel was the last left, and Silas walked up to him uncertainly.

Then the boxer smiled. “I was hoping you’d stay around,” he said.