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  • "If the cow shit gets between your toes, it's a bitch."

    That's the advice the queen of the gay rodeo tells me as we walk toward the arena. She's wearing pantyhose with sandals so I believe her.

    Someone whistles and shouts, "Looking good, mama." She serves up a shimmy and squeezes her faux boobs.

    Any other Saturday night, she'd be performing at the drag show where there is air-conditioning and fewer flies, she tells me. The only tip she's getting here is fashion advice.

    She's really not a fan of rodeos. Or horses. Or cows. Or dirt.

    So why is she out here on a day when the August sun melts the makeup right off your face no matter how much powder you pack on?

    "I do it for all the ones we lose," she says and follows the riderless horse into the dusty arena.
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