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I really must get around to reply, as if an infinite fold to infinity, about past mails. But this from crazyfish quote seems a worth it cut and paste; gayauthors.org. http://www.gayauthors.org/story/crazyfish/AParadisefortheDamned/1 A cramp raced up Claude's left side. Halting, he stifled an urge to yelp. No, he was not a speared goat or Christ wounded on his side. He had recognized Benoit---the stupid one---among the youths. His face looked like mangled dough and sported a prominent chin and forehead, and a dimple for a nose. God had punched his face in before he was born. What more, Claude owed him five sous---a gambling debt from a tennis game, which had promised the lucky chance of "mammon and victuals." /Whatever did that mean./ No God-raped sissy would catch him this time, for Claude whirled away southward towards to the Garonne. But barely had he lifted his right foot to dash away when his side cramped again. There in the twilight view upon the cobbled streets, Bearitz Alecon cowered before a trio of maidens bound in an unrequited love for Isarn. It was familiar occurrence for the daughter of a seamstress. The maidens yanked at her auburn hair and poked flinty fingers at her kerchief shielding her humble bosom. But Bearitz stood mute and pale, like Mary Magdalene before her accusers. "You dare lift your haggish countenance on our Isarn again." "Your sallow color isn't fit for our Isarn." "Cheeks like maggots and you dare bewitch our Isarn." Isarn, Isarn, Isarn, the words dammed in Claude's mind. Bearitz's piteous face had him shuffling elbows and twisting gazes and scratching his lice-ridden testicles in his pose of rabid contemplation. Isarn, he thought, a rakehell of broad shoulders and tawny lovelocks, a thief of his good peace, who rammed his ears with love conquests. And this grand show of passivity---Claude fisted a hand to his lips---silliness from wenches who should kiss more and swoon less. Those maidens now were imperiously smacking Bearitz's shoulders. "Isarn desires no lame sow," another screech scrawled on his peace. Fight back, you coxcomb wench, Claude thought maddeningly. But this was no time for intervention, not with Benoit and friends approaching closer from behind. He swallowed hard. Flittering nervous gazes, he determined, Bearitz would have to learn of mettle all by herself. To his left, right by an ass nuzzling its head against the supporting beam of a stall, a cart rolled away from the entrance of sparse-looking alley. Claude bounded one step to freedom, only to view a magnificent slap upon Bearitz's face. Her lips rippled in a tremolo of umbrage and tears, thrusting him into a fluster of fury. "Thou rump-fed toadstools!" he cried. "Why you demonesses slap her for?" The women upturned their venomous gazes onto him, and so did attentions of the three men. "Marry, is that the sissy who owes me five sous?" "/For Certes!"/ The students' blades brandished their annoyance, the wild metallic whine slicing through the barbarous air. The evening crowd scarcely gasped or shrugged as the clatter of hard boots charged for Claude. In the moment it took to sigh at his fate and huff an athletic breath, Claude sprinted and traversed through the row of the Isarn-addled wenches, grabbing Bearitz as his prize.