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“There are some kids who cry because they can’t fight,” he says. The trainer carries him out of the ring and his brother offers a swig of water. They unwrap the bandages covering his hands in the hallway. Inside a gray four-story building in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the paid members, staff, and faculty of NSFW – part private sex club for millenials, part digital brand marketing agency – have gathered to drink, smoke and screw in between workshops about sex, cannabis and wellness.
Nevertheless, the setup leaves room for exploitation. In the basement, next to a king-size bed with a mirrored headboard, mistresses are dominating their submissive male partners, teasingly stroking their penises, squeezing their testicles and pinching their nipples.
Participants in matches have to sign waivers indemnifying the organizers from any medical costs, so a serious injury could bring financial ruin on a family. A recent study in Thailand found child boxers had lower IQ, correlating with the length of time spent boxing, as well as abnormalities in brain structure, including tears. After a few minutes, Phoe La Pyae walks up to the ring, bows down to pray, and hops in. Phoe La Pyae flies at his opponent with a flurry of punches. Upstairs, there’s a breakfast bar with glittering digital turntables, while about ten half-naked men and women partake in varying degrees of petting on mattresses laid out on the floor.
When asked how he treats injured children, Daung Thel Ni whips out a pungent brown paste. A fit, shirtless dude smokes a joint and observes that the NSFW parties here at the Clubhouse are “a great place to be free.” Later in the night, he’ll be scampering about in boxers, and a little while after that he’ll be buck-naked.
He beckons to his prodigy: Shwe Hnin Si Luu Mike, or “Golden Rose Gangster.” The fighter is shy and sullen, dressed in a black baseball cap and t-shirt bearing the name of a local brewery.
On his lower left arm, beneath the image of a clenched fist with a raised middle finger, is tattooed the word Fuck. ” The older boy pulls back the hair on his forehead to reveal a scar from an opponent’s elbow.
Shwe Hnin Si Luu Mike has fought in more than a dozen Lethwei matches for crowds of paying spectators. His scarred limbs are spindly, showing little more than a hint of muscle. He needed three stitches, but says he felt nothing at the time.
Daung Thel Ni himself left after elementary school. “You know in sport there are only two things: win or lose,” says Thet Oo.
“My teachers used to see the scars on my face and they didn’t want me to fight, but they told me: ‘Will you keep studying or will you keep fighting? “I left all my books behind and left school that day.” He says he couldn’t stop the boys from doing Lethwei even if he wanted to. “He will win the other matches.” aturday has shimmered into Sunday at the Clubhouse.
Bloodied competitors mill around in between bouts in the hallway beside Tin Oo, a bald, boisterous man who works for the Lethwei Association, the sport’s governing body.