Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

catch hold of, and drag unwilling to her lousy and pox-eaten touch-hole. She had long been L..s’ bit of fish, and now shared him with H...s. But they frigged most of the time, for the stench of S...y’s cabbage was too niffy even for the nose of L..s, and their roots were hardly capable of a decent stand. Such specimens of worms I never hope to see or smell again, and I trust that you will forgive my polluting your ears, journalist though you are, with such noisome stuff. (I can vouch for the faith- fulness of this description, for I know the swine well enough, and in no other than a book of filth would I have introduced any one of the three. Ed.) my artis- tic studies progressed but slowly, for much of my time was occupied with a liaison I had formed with Stephen Jimson, to whom the Ode (infra) is ad- dressed. This youth had the peculiar facility of spotting sodomites in the most unlikely places. He would in a short walk along the boulevard recog- nize as confreres in homosexual vice some ninety- five percent of the passers by. He was not happy unless he felt that he had an arsehole into which he could run for shelter from the cold world at a moment’s notice. He wanted to feel that he had but to crook his middle finger and nine-inch knockers would come running up by the thousands to grope their little Stevie’s brown crack. I loved his coarse-skinned handsome face ; I sucked with considerable élan his fine but over- worked sugar-stick ; I pumped the rare but treacly semen from his gland ; I wallowed in the inkstand of his arse. I mixed my prolific spunk with his not less abundant shit : in brief, we loved. The happy days fled all too fast in mutual mas- turbation, in pure buggery, in all the arts of the successful sodomite. I thrill at this very hour with the sweet memory of those happy careless days. My prickle, my jolly little pizzle, my dainty Davy, my vimmy little Ox in [54]