Cocks and Leisure, a peek into my personal diaries

From the personal diaries of Irving J. Silvertoad

February 17^th, 1908

It is true that while the active movement of the body is something I generally avoid (the languid pose I strike while lying about in an opium haze is a tremendously seductive one) there are times when sport is with such allure that it is impossible to resist its lusty musk. I have come forward to tell of my favorite pastime of the last two weeks. Cock fighting. I have a fine cock named Alistair. He is a tremendous looking fellow with long plumage and a beak so sharp it seems to have been honed by angels. He has a gait with a remarkably long stride for a cock, his proud wrinkled feet jutting out with each step. He is also unbelievably strong! I put a silken ribbon around his neck for our walks over my grounds and he can pull me around as if I weigh no more than an orphan.

How thrilled I am to begin his training for the ring! To see my cock running roughshod over some other man’s cock is almost all I can think about. I am as excited as a schoolgirl thinking about all these cocks in one cock ring together.

February 19^th, 1908

Alistair is surely the finest cock anywhere in the world. I have found a special masseuse for him who knows precisely how to touch and fondle him to help him reach his fullest potential. He is an Oriental who has touched fighters around the world and his services do not come cheap. He has rubbed him with oils and liniments and salves designed to stimulate him and enhance his growth.I have been hand feeding Alistair with a golden spoon filled with millet and amaranth flavored with the blood of other fighters. While this may seem brutish and primitive, it must be noted that this sport is one with ancient ties and our forebears were sometimes brutish when life called for such. I have a great uncle who my family seldom speaks of who used to insist on driving his own carriage horses while driving. He was a coarse man who blazed his own trail and brushed his own teeth. I wonder more and more all the time if this was, indeed, how life was meant to be lived. I feel free! Alive! I want to run and jump and sing! Sing, at least. I find running and jumping unbelievably vulgar but writing them felt good.

February 21^st, 1908

After much investigating and pleading, a friend of mine named a man who knows how to enter my own cock into a proper contest. Alistair himself seems somehow aware of the brewing excitement and there is a flicker in his eye, which reminds me of some sort of wild jungle beast. A tiger, perhaps. I have not ever personally attended one of these matches but have heard many, many things. I asked the Oriental if we need to begin training Alistair in some other way I have not been told. I even offered to commission some custom built gloves of some kind but could not figure out where they would strap onto. And when I tried to extend Alistair’s arm myself he turned and bit me. I wanted only to measure his hand but the whole exchange was so brief I could not even find his hand at the end of his wing!

While my feelings were greatly hurt, I did my best to be soothed in the knowledge that he is a fighter and not a man (I mean creature! Look at me! I am giddy!) used to such preening. My friend gave me an address on a slip of paper and told me what time to be there with Alistair. So excited! I cannot wait to show my cock to all these men, men just as inclined as I to appreciate so splendid a thing!

February 24^th, 1908

I don’t even know if I can write today. I am exhausted and need to collect my thoughts. I need to try and be objective while relaying all of this. Back to bed.

February 28^th, 1908

I will set the scene. It was disgusting down there. Filthy and hot and loud. That is not to say it is without allure. There is something remarkable in the feeling. Men everywhere, leering and eager to see two cocks going at it. I was just as eager but nervous. I looked down to see my hands shaking, my cane tapping quietly but feverishly on the floor which was dirt, a small cloud rising up around my feet. There must have been a hundred men in there, maybe more. I recognized two members of Parliament and their footmen, a few other men prominent for this and that. We slyly nodded to one another. So, we each seemed to be signifying, you like this, too.

My man carried Alistair’s pen for me and jostled through the crowd to the edge of the ring. It was strewn with blood and feathers. I was appalled. What had I gotten myself and my little fellow into?

With despair creeping in, I turned to my Oriental who arrived a couple minutes after me because I made him walk the last few blocks so no one would see us in the same carriage
together.

“I don’t know about this. I’m worried.” It felt odd to so nakedly confess my feelings to another man, much less one so far below my class and breeding. He gently placed a work-hardened palm on my shoulder and whispered that everything would be okay. And I believed him. I did feel comforted and safer. I was worried about how my cock would perform, sure. But also felt like it would be enough.

The Oriental (I’ve never mastered his name and won’t have need for it again after these events) opened up Alistair’s cage and laid him down in the cock ring. He shook out his wings and tapped at the ground with his beak, scratched up the dust with a couple of kicks. Everywhere around me men began shouting and demanding to pit their cocks against mine. They could tell, I know now, that I had never done this before and they could sense, too, how scared I was. They all seemed desperate for a chance with someone as chaste as myself. These coarse, whiskery, braying fellows with alcohol on their breath and the smell of cheap tobacco smoke wafting from their cheap coats. I had on my person a silk handkerchief dabbed with rosewater and lavender as I always do when traveling to this side of the city and I pressed it to my nose then, breathing deeply in the smell of flowers and civilization but the silk transported my mind back to the present as I ruminated on the silkworms crawling obscenely over one another in an opium haze somewhere deep in the recesses of the British Empire, some wild Mandarin province.

One man finally won out the honors and laid down his entire cage into the ring. His cock emerged from its confines, with a collar and leash tied around its neck. It was a beast of a thing. With large spots of feathers missing completely, scars crisscrossing its skin. One eye had been gouged out. His one-eyed monster glared at mine, which was so smooth and untouched. It seemed to smile and wink.

I turned to my Oriental and he looked at me with worry in his eyes. He had told me that we needed to get various props and tools for Alistair but I was aghast at such suggestions. I thought it should be a fair match. That the less accoutrements the better. But I saw the other man tying all these things to his cock. Some kind of metal collar around his girth. Long, gleaming spurs to his feet. I wanted to shout and scream but the terror paralyzed me and I could only watch.

The other man loosed his cock and it shrieked as it leapt into the air toward my little fellow. Alistair stood his ground bravely and then took to the air himself, both feet out in front of him and the two met above the cock ring, clashing not like two lowly birds belonging to two men in a dank pit but like the cocks of two gods walking the earth and I felt wonderful. Enormous. I swelled until I was certain I would burst. Our cocks met and banged together and Alistair, I thought was holding up terrifically. The other man’s kept kicking and pecking, but seemed slowed by his various appliances while Alistair, quick and fresh and young, stepped agilely to one side and the other, thrusting mightily at the one eyed beast with sharp jabs and then drew first blood, one of his talons swooping fiercely down the other cock’s center and a thin line of red emerged. The crowd shouted and I nearly swooned like a young girl, so feverish was I at sight of this action, the cocks meeting and parting and meeting again, each time punctuated by the bursts and yells of so many men watching us in this dance which felt so intimate and so brutish at once. I began to feel better, all doubts I once had evaporating like sweat from a day laborer’s brow in the scorching sun of August. My Oriental turned to me and nodded, my man looked at me but he seemed less cheered than I. But I didn’t worry. I was resurgent with confidence and brio. I shouted out Go Alistair, Go! and he did seem much encouraged. Then my biggest regret.

I don’t know if most men name their cocks. I had named mine for many reasons. I liked being able to speak of him, I liked being able to speak to him, and I liked thinking about him. I liked discussing my cock with others and his name seemed to suit him very well. I liked calling out to him and I called out to him there at precisely the wrong moment. I was never certain if he knew his name and I knew in a wonderful moment that spoiled like milk in the sun. Go Alistair, Go! He turned to look at me and the other man’s cock took his advantage, the long razored spur slashing across Alistair’s soft underside, guts and blood spilling out. Another crazed backward kick and Alistair’s throat opened and a jet of crimson struck me. My cock shot out its precious life fluids and immediately began to shrink and subside, all life flowing out of his once perfect and smooth form. The men around me all cheered and screamed. Their lust for action momentarily sated. I felt like a failure. Time began to swim and fall away. I have scant memories of being shown back into my carriage, of them picking up Alistair’s lifeless body and throwing it onto a pile of carcasses that dogs and rats picked through. They put me to bed, I know only because I awakened there the next day an hour past my usual wake up time of two in the afternoon. I have been in a wretched fog for days. The world seems without hope or light. The sun shines but all I see is rain. Friends and visitors come to the estate and want to discuss all kinds of things. They ask about my cock and I can’t bear to tell them. I send them away. But my last visitor has assured me he knows just what will cheer me and lift my spirits. He is one of the few I had confided in and he said he knew just what will take my mind off of my cock (in my nightmares I can see him, limp, being tossed around by strangers) and put me back into a good state of mind. Cock fighting, he says, is not for civilized men. He is leery of anything from the Far East. But Bear Baiting, he says is the sport for real gentleman. He first learned of it in Russia, a land of kings and plenty where hunger is unknown and great literature is their number one export, a great ally to the British crown. He has also told me that afterward he and his friends take tremendous steam baths together in places known as “bath houses.” They sound like just what I need. A great steamy bath with gentlemen and the sport of Czars. Or Tsars. I’m not really sure.