At the Tastee-Freez, Coach goes to the bathroom and leaves his baseball cap on the table. I can't resist picking it up and sniffing it, running my nose along the sweatband. While I do, a guy smoking on the confectionery steps catches my eye and holds it: a standoff, through the plate glass window.
🧢

I didn't have anything to do, so I went into St. George's, to warm up. There was another homeless guy in there; we had the place to ourselves. I sucked him off in a pew. He stank to high heaven—his greasy, overgrown pubes and chewable headcheese—but I fought back my nausea to taste his (young) jizz!

I love loitering downtown on gloomy days. I'm out of work and I don't care. What I care about are COCKS, preferably big black hairy ones, reminiscent of horse cocks—dark and long, thick like those—OBSCENE like those.
Hoping to encounter a friendly black guy who'll piss in my mouth, in an alleyway...

Coach has been a long time in the men's room; he must be taking a (tough? messy? stinky?!) shit.
There's a guy outside, smoking on the confectionery steps, I've seen before: at the old, abandoned textile mills, smoking there, too.
He's so COOL! I wish he would be my boyfriend! (Would Coach approve?)

When I saw how beautiful this guy was, how young and cold, arrogant-, pitiless-looking, I wanted him to kill me. To be done with it all, finally, this "constant craving." To die for Beauty.
So, I pulled a knife on him.
He didn't expect me to go down without a fight, did he, the little bastard?!
💔🗡️🍆🗡️

One of the guys' neighbours (a bum?) sees my buns through the window, and likes them. He knocks on the door and I (Snow White, dumbly?) let him in.
He sits at the kitchen table, watching me work. He doesn't do anything; just sits there, in his baggy pants, smoking a cigarette and eyeing my buns!
🥐🚬🥐

But, apparently, you can still get them at Halloween!