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Do you believe in love at first sight? No? Well, what about lust? Okay, so what happens when you fall madly in love with someone who you've never even met? Does that count? Can it be real? I would have said a definite no before I heard Carrie's story. You probably won't know who Carrie is, but you will know the man she loved from afar for years. A champion boxer, a household name, she had known he was the man for her from the minute she saw him on television. But would meeting him in the flesh live up to her expectations? Yes. Oh, yes… The first time I saw him I felt like someone had reached a hand deep inside me and pulled all my organs in toward the bottom of my pelvis. Funny little hot and cold pangs I'd never experienced before manifested themselves between my legs. I was only fourteen. I didn't know who he was or what he did. I had no interest in sports of any kind when I saw this beautiful, rugged man in a suit on a sports program that my dad was watching one Sunday night many years ago. There he was, this man whose body, voice, and very presence on the screen made me feel so strange I almost fainted. There was something about him I couldn't explain. Of course, I now know that what I was feeling was my first thunderbolt of pure lust, that all I wanted was to feel his erect cock inside me. But back then, all I could have told you was that there was something special about this man who was fifteen years my senior, a world-famous athlete, and a perfect stranger. I felt a connection to him. I reckon anyone else watching that night just saw a tough guy, 200 pounds of solid muscle, a nose that had been broken a dozen times, and short, dark blond hair. But I saw something different. I saw vulnerability behind the tough-guy body language, softness beneath the scars.

They say you can't love someone you haven't met, but I knew differently. Overnight, he became my obsession, my focus in life. I, who had never been interested in any sport before, sought out his name and his entire career history. In short, I became an expert on boxing. I read the sports section of my dad's newspaper and spent hours in the library searching the archives for every one of his past fights. Sometimes, when I looked at pictures of him that had been taken in the ring, I'd find that my hand had slipped down the neckline of my top or was between my legs and that I'd been touching myself without even realizing it. Certain pictures-the ones of him naked but for his shorts, covered in sweat, his blond hair so plastered with his own wetness that it was almost brown, those blue eyes puffy and swollen-would get me so hot that I would place my thumb on the special place between my legs, squeeze my thighs tightly together, and rock back and forth until that warm, liquid feeling engulfed my body. I taped his fights, waited until I was alone in the house, and played them back, touching myself as I gazed at his body. I was transfixed by his brute strength, his lumbering grace.

I was sixteen the first time I went to see him fight. I was so excited that I dressed as though I was going on a first date: I shaved my legs, had my bikini line waxed for the first time, wore matching underwear, washed and blow-dried my hair. It was ridiculous. I didn't expect to meet him or anything-it was enough just to see him in the flesh-but I still felt that I had to look my best. My parents glanced at each other indulgently as we took our places in the second row, content to humor this teenage crush that they thought I would grow out of one day. But that night remains one of the most memorable experiences of my life. When his coach doused him with water at the end of the second round, droplets from the bottle actually flew onto my face. Tasting water that had been in a bottle pressed to his mouth, sucking my lower lip, I convinced myself that this was the next best thing to sucking the man himself.

I never got over this teenage crush. I finished school, left home, and entered the work world, but I still followed his career and attended every fight I could. I always sat in one of the front few rows, no matter how much it cost me. And I always looked my best for him. Sometimes I'd close my eyes and silently will him to win. Other times I'd get to my feet and cheer him on with an enthusiasm that bordered on sexual hysteria. During the mundane moments of my life, I could always imagine his gloved hands held aloft in victory at the end of the match, and I'd quiver and fantasize that he was waiting for me at home.

By the time I was in my early twenties, I noticed that he wasn't winning as often as he used to. Something was wrong. From my seat in the front row, I could see a few wrinkles in that craggy, broken face, flecks of gray in his once-blond hair. He was still by far the most masculine and powerful man I'd ever set eyes on, but the cracks were starting to show. His new scars took longer to heal. I wanted to take him to bed and slowly, tenderly, heal ingly make love to him.