Oscar Wilde's Sodomite

Queensbury has already lost one son. There is no damn way he's losing a second. A roar brings him back to the fight. One of the boxers has slipped with a hard left-hand hook. Queensbury watches as he staggers backwards, blood curdling on his brow. The smell of salt and iron in the air. Then he's caught a second time. He rises to collect his winnings. As he stands, he overhears the trainer of the winning boxer. You stuck to the game plan, didn't get lulled into his strengths. Conserved your energy, suck him out his place of comfort. And he thinks he knows how. Later that