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S ilas usually tried to stand at the front whenever he watched Ezra fight, but that night, a Saturday evening in November 1875, he had arrived late at the ring in New Cross. He had to fight for a place, wedged in among smoking, cheering, bowler-hat-wearing men.

Around him, men bet on the outcome of the six-round spars and the main event. The man next to him drank deeply from a hip flask then asked, “Who d’you figure for the last spar?”

That was an easy answer. “My money’s on Curiel,” Silas said. “He hasn’t lost a bout in the last three weeks.”

“I bet on him often,” the man said, smiling. “I consider him my lucky talisman. Unfortunately he has gained such a reputation that the odds always seem to favor him, and there is little money to be made when he wins.”

“He’s in fine form this week,” Silas said. “I saw him practicing yesterday. He’s getting his sleep, eating well. I wouldn’t waste money on a bet against him.”

The man turned to look at Silas. He was a dark-haired fellow a bit shorter than Silas himself, and Silas was no giant. “You know him well, then?”

Silas shrugged. “I’m a follower.” There was no way he could tell this stranger how close his relationship with Ezra was, how it had developed over the last few weeks.

“Nathan Walpert,” the man said, sticking out his hand.

“Silas Warner. I’ve seen you here before. You follow any other boxer in particular?”

“Whoever I think I can make a few quid on.” Nathan waved over the boy who took bets for Benny Greenbaum, one of the most notorious of the London bookmakers. “I’ll take your advice,” he said to Silas. He handed a bill to the boy. “Put this on the Hammering Hebrew.”

The boy scribbled out a chit and handed it to Nathan, then followed the hail of another man.

Most of the boxers in the early spars practiced what Silas had learned was called “catch as catch can,” which meant a combination of Irish, Scottish, and other regional styles of boxing, including jabs, footwork, and wrestling moves. Though he’d been drawn originally purely to see muscular, sweaty men grappling with each other, Ezra had begun training Silas to recognize specific moves and their effect on the eventual outcome of the fight.

“What about you?” Nathan asked. “You don’t bet?”

Silas shook his head. “My pocketbook is too empty to risk anything. I just like watching the men.”

Something in Nathan’s eyes said he did the same, despite his talk about betting. He offered Silas a swig from his flask, and Silas took it, relishing the taste the man’s lips had left on it. He would have said something risqué—but he was meeting Ezra after the match and saving his spend to spurt over the boxer later that evening.

It was unusual for him, he had to admit, that he had fixed on one man for so long. But there was something about Ezra’s muscular physique and his thick, fat cock that kept Silas coming back for more. And each new man he met could not compare.

Silas was grateful for the use of gloves in the ring, as he savored the touch of Ezra’s hands, which were already bruised and calloused after years of bare-knuckle sparring. He was also worried about Ezra’s future—fighters who survived past forty had limited opportunities ahead of them. Ezra knew many stories of fighters who turned to training or used their strength in back-breaking labors. Still others had become hired muscle for criminal operations.

Though Ezra had gained some renown and was often the subject of much betting, he was relegated to the last of the spars. That placement gave his many fans, and an equal number of detractors, the opportunity to enter many bets for and against him.

Silas waited through the first five rounds, suffering to watch boxers who could not match Ezra’s physique or technique, though he did find himself hardening when one fighter’s shorts accidentally slipped below his waist, exposing a fair bit of cheek and the top of his arse crack.

“Will you bet on the final match?” Silas asked Nathan. “After Curiel?”

It was to bring together a black African fighter who had not lost a fight in two years and a hulking pugilist recently released from a spell in prison, after punching not only his female romantic interest but a pair of bobbies who tried to arrest him as well.

“If my bet on my fellow comes through,” Nathan said.

Silas was surprised. Why would this bettor in his business suit call Ezra ‘my fellow.’ Had he been partaking of Ezra’s cock as Silas had?

“I call him a fellow only because I’ve seen him at synagogue once or twice,” Nathan said. He hesitated and then added, “A fellow Jew.”

They were still preparing the ring, and Nathan’s whiskey had gone to his head a bit, so Silas dared ask, “Is it true that all Jews have had their cocks cut off at the tip?”

“It is a tradition among our people,” Nathan said. “At eight days after birth. Said to reduce the chance of sickness.”

Nathan took another swig of his whiskey, and Silas felt his cock hardening as he watched the man’s lips form an O around the spout of the flask. “I take it you haven’t been – cut,” Nathan said.

“I haven’t.”

“Does it make a difference?” Nathan asked. “Most of the fellows I know are in the same situation I am, and I’ve never known a chap outside my religion I could ask.”

Silas didn’t know what to say. Until meeting Ezra, and discovering the difference in his cock, he’d never heard of the rite called circumcision. All the other cocks he’d sucked had come with foreskin. He did notice that his own was particularly sensitive, particularly on the rare occasions when he penetrated another man.

But how much to reveal to this stranger. “From what I’ve heard it’s an extra bit of pleasure,” he finally said. “To the man. I can’t speak for the woman’s part.”

He was relieved when Ezra walked out, his hands raised and his fists clenched, and he and Nathan both turned their attention to the ring. Silas cheered himself hoarse at the sight of Ezra, shirtless in yellow knee-length pantaloons and white socks that reached up to meet them. His opponent, Lawrence Fulham, was barely out of his teens, a hefty bull of a fellow in similar attire. It appeared to Silas that he was more fleshy than muscular.

The bell rang and they faced each other. As he had learned from his compatriot Daniel Mendoza, another Sephardic Jew who had boxed in those rings a few decades earlier, Ezra fought with his knees bent and his arms guarding his face.

He danced around Fullham, landing a few punches to the bigger man’s face. It quickly became clear that while Fullham’s hands packed a powerful wallop, he was slow on his feet. Within the first minutes, Ezra knocked his opponent to the ground, and a moment after he rose to his feet, the younger man suddenly fainted.

“Swooning like a lady,” one man called, and others took up the chant with “Lady Man! Lady Man!”

Silas shivered to think how they would react to know that they had a real ‘lady-man’ in the audience among them. It frightened him.

The men booed and money began to change hands. Nathan clapped Silas on the shoulder. “The odds weren’t great, but I won,” he crowed. “For a change!”

Silas congratulated him and then fought his way through the crowd to the exit. He turned the corner and lingered in the dark alley outside the boxing ring.

He wondered how Nathan would have reacted if Silas had suggested a quick suck in that alley while he waited for Ezra. He remembered how Nathan’s mouth had formed that sweet O while drinking his whiskey and wondered if the man would have been willing to suck him.

Probably not, he thought. Nathan had been wearing a gold ring, which meant he was married, and he would have expected Silas to do what his wife wouldn’t.

Not that he would have minded. It might have been fun to suck another Jewish cock to compare to Ezra’s. But Ezra was strong and jealous, and it wouldn’t do to get caught by him. Not that Ezra had ever hurt him—he reserved his anger for those who oppressed him because of his religion, or who blocked his further ascent in the boxing world. He relished the use of his body in all areas, including fucking. It was a marvel to watch the muscles and tendons in his arms and legs move as he posed for Silas, or thrust himself into Silas’s arse.

He came out of the back door a few minutes later, while Silas was still fully aroused by the thought of sucking Nathan’s cock. Seeing no one around, he pressed himself against Ezra. “I love watching you move about the ring,” he said, desperate to shift his brain away from Ezra’s fellow Hebrew.

“And you will see me move even more when I take you to bed,” Ezra said. He grabbed Silas by the waist and pressed their bodies together, and Silas worried that he might spend right there. But then Ezra pushed him back and laughed.

“Fullham clearly hasn’t mastered the sweet science,” Silas said. It was a term he’d learned from Ezra, originally coined by a journalist to describe the use of tactics and strategies to win a match.

“He’s young. He’ll learn,” Ezra said. “Though I had a fright when he fainted. Worried I’d damaged something inside.”

“Well, he got up, and he’ll live to fight another day,” Silas said.

The air was particularly fetid that night, and after spending so much time in the smoky arena Silas began to cough. Wary of attracting attention, Ezra hailed a carriage to take them to Silas’s rooms.

“You spoil me, you know,” Silas said, as they got out of the carriage.

“And I intend to spoil you even further when we reach your bed.” Ezra gave Silas’s buttocks a slap, and Silas jerked forward an inch and felt his cock begin to unfurl in his pants.

Once again, Ezra surveyed the street before leaving the carriage. He knew the dangers of being caught with a man like Silas, but something pushed him forward.

They hurried upstairs. “I save up my energy before a fight, as you know,” Ezra said, once inside the door. He began stripping his clothes quickly. “And because Fullham went down so quickly, I have all that energy bursting to get out.”

Silas was quick to shuck his clothes, tossing them over a nearby chair, so that when he and Ezra faced each other, both were naked. “I shall never tire of seeing your body revealed to me,” Silas said. “You are the most perfect Adonis.”

Ezra’s body was not perfect to most eyes. The knuckles on his right hand were red and scraped from his bare-knuckle practice that afternoon. He had a long scar like a snake on the right side of his chest, and other smaller ones on his arms and legs. He held his right arm at a slight angle, the result of tendon injuries. But in Silas’s eyes his bulging muscles and his meaty cock made up for all that.

“And as Adonis was a Greek god, you should worship me as a French one,” Ezra said, planting his feet on the carpet and putting his hands on his hips. His erect cock stood out from his body like a slanted flagpole, the foreskin noticeably absent.

Silas needed no further direction. He dropped to his knees and put his right hand beneath Ezra’s bollocks, positioning the man’s cock for entry into his mouth. He swallowed it whole, and Ezra groaned.

“Such velvet,” he said.

As he knew Ezra liked, Silas squeezed the man’s bollocks as he sucked, coaxing the spend to rise. “Oh, my pretty, pretty boy,” Ezra said. He dipped his fingers into Silas’s blond curls and massaged his skull.

Both of them were so worked up that Ezra spent very quickly, and Silas swallowed all but a few drops, which dribbled from his lips. He stood, his cock stiff, and they kissed deeply.

“I love to taste myself on your tongue,” Ezra said. He grabbed Silas by the buttocks and pressed him forward, so that Silas’s cock was up against his lover’s skin.

Ezra began a slow, sensuous dance, and his sweat and the clear fluid that came out of Silas’s cock lubricated them, skin on skin, as they frotted. Ezra was so strong he had Silas off his feet, those muscular hands gripping Silas’s buttocks, as they swayed together, faster and faster until Silas felt his blood rise. He gasped for breath as the orgasm overtook him and he spilled against Ezra’s groin.

Ezra did not release his grip until Silas’s orgasm had subsided and he could breathe normally. Then he set Silas down carefully. “My feet have nearly fallen asleep,” Silas said. He leaned against Ezra and shook one leg out, and then the other. “A small price to pay for such a great pleasure.”

“And more to come,” Ezra said. “I have been saving my loads for you.” He laughed. “It is not as if Rebecca wants them, or I want to give them to her.”

Silas ignored the reference to Ezra’s wife, as he preferred to do. He wet a washcloth from the ewer on the bureau and cleaned them both up, and then they reclined together on the bed, under the canopy of colorful scarves that brightened the otherwise dark and dismal room.

“How has your work been this week?” Ezra asked.

“As I have said, one must have a wide range of skills to be a barrister’s clerk, and I have been improving those since my first position in Birmingham, where I did little more than run errands and copy documents. But I observed everything that went on around me and made myself useful.”

“As you have been useful for me,” Ezra said.

“Though in a different realm,” Silas said. He reached over and pinched Ezra’s right nipple, which he knew his lover fancied. “I aspire to becoming Barrister Pemberton’s senior clerk someday. That position requires commercial acumen, legal knowledge, and strong communication skills.”

He turned on his side. “Cyril Alderton is responsible for negotiating rates, attending client meetings, and forging relationships with solicitors, who are in a position to refer their criminal cases.”

“And this Mr. Alderton. He is an elderly fellow, soon to depart this mortal coil?”

Silas shook his head. “No, he is barely in his forties, so unless he finds a better position I will be a junior clerk for quite some time. He has, however, been sickly of late, leading to worry on Pemberton’s part.”

They chatted for a while, back and forth about boxing and the law and the affairs of the day, until Ezra began running his index finger along Silas’s chest, tickling through the scant blond hairs there.

“Ding, ding,” Silas said, imitating the bell at the boxing ring. “Ready for the next match?”

With quick agility, Ezra hopped over so that he was straddling Silas. He grabbed Silas’s hands with his own and stretched them up toward the bedposts. “Stay like that, mon cher,” he said.

He jumped off the bed and walked over to Silas’s bureau, where he extracted a pair of blue and green paisley scarves from the bottom drawer, along with a bottle of oil. He quickly tied Silas’s wrists to the bedpost. Then he lifted Silas’s legs and scooted under them, resting Silas’s calves on his broad shoulders.

He sat on his knees and used his right fist to oil his cock, which by then had come back to full stature. Using the fingers of that same hand, he began lubricating Silas’s arsehole, with first one finger, then two, then three, until it relaxed and opened like a blossom in spring.

He scooted up close to Silas and positioned his cock at the entrance, and began to gently push his way in. “More,” Silas panted. “I want all of you inside me.”

“My pleasure, mon cher,” Ezra said, and began to use his powerful hips to thrust farther and farther into Silas, until Silas felt that this was the way he always wanted to be, holding close to the most delicate part of his lover, feeling his insides expanding to envelop him.

Ezra’s earlier need to spend had been taken care of, so now he was slow and strong and persistent. Sweat dripped from his forehead and from beneath his arms as he held his position and moved in and out, determined to make this last. And last it did, until after Silas had spontaneously spent, accompanied by high-pitched whines and animal noises. Silas looked deep into his lover’s eyes then, and could almost pinpoint the moment when Ezra’s orgasm overcame him, and he spilled into Silas’s chute.

The journalist Pierce Egan may have called boxing the sweet science, Silas thought then. But lovemaking was surely as sweet.