I’m really into boxing lately. I love watching it, reading about it, and attempting to learn how to do it. The one thing I haven’t done is actually fight, because I am afraid—not of black eyes and fat lips, but of being fed through a tube and crapping in a bag. Which is why, when my trainer told me it was time for me to actually fight, I challenged the top-ranked heavyweight boxer in the world. Her name’s Martha Salazar, and we had a three-round match. Here are the pictures.
STORY BY MORGAN MURPHY
PHOTOS BY DAN MONICK
STYLING BY IVY JARRIN
We fought at the Broadway Boxing Gym, this cinematically run-down place in South Central Los Angeles. On the way there my trainer, who has one eye permanently shut from getting punched in the face so much, pointed out the place under the freeway where he used to sleep. (By the way, this is the only photo where I look like I have a chance in hell.)
This is Martha Salazar. She only started boxing in 2000, but when she hits her hardest, she can knock out a male boxer—even a Samoan. That, at least, is what her trainer said. Why he singled out Samoans, I don’t know. In addition to being fucking huge, she is also really, really fast. They call her “The Shadow.”
I call her “The Woman Who Gave Me a Free Abortion.”
This is my trainer “Canada.” It was his idea to box in dresses.
This is Danovis Pooler, Martha’s trainer. He’s a boxer too, and Martha can and does kick his ass.
Here we go…
Before we started, Martha’s trainer was pumping her up, whispering to her in low tones and generally being an exceptionally cool and relaxing person. Canada has his own way. He told me some story about a car fire and when the bell dinged, he said, “You’re a fucking idiot.”
With that in mind, I got punched really hard in the face. (That’s Steve Jenkins, the ref in the background there. Canada made him iron his shirt.)
Even though I expected to lose, it was pretty weird getting pummeled this way. I was totally disoriented and making these weird breathy panting sounds. (Look, she’s trying not to laugh in this one. [Really.])
Keeping my hands down and not protecting myself at all is a tactic I learned from babies. My hair was in my face so I couldn’t see what was going on most of the time. I could still keep track of what was happening though: I got punched in the face a lot.
I don’t know why she bothered blocking. I didn’t land one punch.
If you’re going to get punched in the lungs, it’s better if it’s a surprise.
Just because I didn’t “hit” her, that doesn’t make me a bad boxer.
I’m wailing on her arm.
Between rounds I spat in a bucket.
Round Two: My very first knockdown. That’s the technical term for when you are punched so hard you fall over. I prefer to call it a trip, but that’s not a technical boxing term.
Also not a technical boxing term: “The Titty Stare.”
The second time I got knocked down was not fun in any way whatsoever. I heard my neck crack and felt my face hit the mat. I was kind of bummed out.
When it was almost over, I tried to give Martha a knockdown by jumping at her. It didn’t work. (Jesus, look at the ref’s expression.)
Martha carried me effortlessly until the bell rang, and then she threw me on the ground just for kicks.
That’s the end of that.
I lost the fight, friends. I was defeated wholeheartedly by a 240-pound woman who gave me far less than everything she had.
Even though I knew I was going to lose, losing sucks. I felt like shit in this picture.
Fat cunt. Next time you will not get off so easy. I will fight you any day, anytime, and in any place. You are going down. By the way, nice dress. You piece of shit.