The old bullfighter’s sword buckles on bone and
whistles into the heart of the Espontaneo, pins his unconsummate valor to the stands.

“So this elegant faggot comes to New York from Cunt Lick, Texas, and he is the most piss elegant fag of them all. He is taken up by old women of the type batten on young fags, toothless old predators too weak and too slow to run down other prey. Old motheaten tigress shit sure turn into a fag eater. . . . So this citizen, being an arty and crafty fag, begins making costume jewelry and jewelry sets. Every rich old gash in Greater New York wants he should do her sets, and he is making money, 21, El Morocco, Stork, but no time for sex, and all the time worrying about his rep. . . . He begins playing the horses, supposed to be something manly about gambling God knows why, and he figures it will build him up to be seen at the track. Not many fags play the horses, and those that play lose more than the others, they are lousy gamblers plunge in a losing streak and hedge when they win . . . which being the pattern of
their lives. . . . Now every child knows there is one law | of gambling: winning and losing come in streaks. Plunge when you win, fold when you lose. ( I once knew a fag
dip into the till—not the whole two thousand at once on the nose win or Sing Sing. Not our Gertie . . . Oh no a deuce at a time . ..)
“So he loses and loses and lose some more. One day  he is about to put a rock in a set when the obvious occur. ‘Of course, I’ll replace it later Famous last words.
So all that winter, one after the other, the diamonds, emeralds, pearls, rubies and star sapphires of the haut