By Joshua Ryan
I was dressed now in full prison garb, and I had nothing to do but watch the other convicts putting on their new identity — pulling their shorts over their butts, jamming their legs into their pants, lacing their feet into their boots, shouldering their coats onto their backs. The last one to start was a pretty little guy, 19 or 20. Maybe I should say that he probably used to be a pretty little guy, before they shipped him to prison. There was still enough of his prettiness to make me follow the lines of his plump little butt and his pert little dick as he stuffed them into his stiff prison pants. His dick was hard, going into his trousers. I thought I might be getting hard myself. I even remembered why I was there — to get my head and my dick in proper order and write that great and wonderful book about prison. How would I describe that guy? What words would I use…?
A door slammed; a muscular voice bellowed through the room.
“All right! Form up for the fish parade!”
So much for the convict bosses — an officer had appeared. He was a 40-year-old with a Marine Corps face. The tag on his crisp gray shirt said SGT GIDEON.