Dog fighting. Raising pit bulls for the express purpose of putting them into an enclosed area to tear each other apart. The man is a millionaire, and his tastes are at that level? To think that someone with that much money, that much celebrity would stoop to the level of dog fighting. All that time and effort to raise, of all things, pit bulls?
Is there a glut of cock-fighting, Michael? Both myself and the significant "other" were appalled.
Obviously nouveau-riche. Certainly, no one in the circles I belong would be a part of that world.
Especially when the true blood sport of kings is bear-baiting. Why, Queen Elizabeth I once had 13 bears perform for her during a single event alone!
For centuries, this entertainment was provided weekly, on Sundays after church. Naturally the Puritans hated it, but we all know how much fun that crowd was. Oh, to go openly to the bear garden, watching as a blinded bear or bull was chained to a pole to limit its movements while 2 or three mastiffs were released to do battle. It must have been nice.
But of course, the no-fun crowd killed the sport all over the British empire in 1835. Now only Pakistan holds bear-baiting events openly. For the rest of us, it is a private affair.
That's not to say that modern baiting doesn't have it's charms. Since it is private, clothing is optional. Consumable fluids/solids run the gamut. And there is nothing like working together on an illegal activity to bond people. Why, just the invitation to one of our events drives our friends closer to us, since they know that we are allowing them into a corner of our lives that might result in (ha-ha) prison, or a large fine.
That doesn't even take into consideration the closeness that grew between the significant "other" and myself. Nothing says "master" more than watching someone dig a bear pit, and try to run a bobcat in a tight latex cat suit and stilletto heels. Delicious. I may have even allowed the "other" to sleep on the carpeted floor that night (a rare treat, indeed!), rather than the box at the foot of my bed.
The garden itself? A rather simple affair: a round pit, 10 feet deep with a 30 foot diameter. A 10-foot steel fence post is cemented in the center of the pit, and a gated chain-link fence surrounds the pit, so that no one is hit by a flying mastiff (sometimes the bear really connects with one of them, and we also bait-bulls).
I'll grant you, it's not cheap; but then what worthy thing is? Between bribing rangers for renegade bears, purchasing mastiffs (a good, feisty bear/bull can go through 9 of those suckers) and upkeep of cages you are looking at several thousand dollars an event. And that's only the entertainment; that doesn't include food/drink/other consumables, various seating configurations for our rather particular guests, and various other tools for after-baiting activities.
A rich tradition, a sense of comaraderie between afficionados that you won't find in other sports, and the sheer eroticism of spilled blood: bear-baiting has it all. Keep your fox hunts.
And Michael, stop playing in the minor leagues.
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