By Joshua Ryan
Chapter 9: Bunks, Chairs, and Other Furnishings
8363 . . . . the guy in Bunk 14. I found myself maneuvering to get beside him in the shower, just for a few seconds to look at his plump, well muscled ass. I tried to get the seat next to him at chow, just to feel his arm touching my arm through our uniforms. In the factory I spent every extra second I could spare from my needle looking up the line of backs bent over their machines to watch his back moving rhythmically beneath its stripes. At night I lay next to him, feet to head, and thought about what it would be like if I caressed his naked head with my naked toes and he wriggled across the few inches of bunk-frame and climbed in with me. In dreams I told him, “You are about to be fucked! Assume the position!”
Dreams vs. realities . . . . If we were on the Outside, I’d do the usual: take him to Bleue, invite him to my place for drinks, become insistent if he noted that the hour was late . . . . But in prison, I was no better than he was; I couldn’t impress him with my bald head, my convict uniform, or my criminal record. And he evaded all my cues. He saw how hot I was for him, but he treated it as a fact he didn’t need to do anything about–a fact of life, like the walls and bars.
