By Joshua Ryan

On the train that night, I noticed a billboard beside the track, just before my stop. I’d never looked at it before. It showed a guy’s butt and the lower part of his back. The guy was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and his wrists were cuffed together behind his butt. There was a tough-looking hand gripping one of his arms. The billboard said: “COMMIT A CRIME, DO PRISON TIME. LOTS OF TIME.” I think it had been there for a while, but like I say, I’d never noticed it. I liked the guy in the jeans, though.

As soon as I got home, I went on the net. I knew there would be a Department of Corrections website. Every state agency has a website. I wanted to find out more about the Durant Unit. And I did.

The DOC home page had a “Mission Statement,” which I didn’t read, and a picture of “Anthony B. Michaelis, Director,” which looked pretty dorky, and a long rap about Mr. Michaelis’s “Recent Activities.” I didn’t read much of that, either. The activities consisted mainly of opening new correctional units “due to the enormous success of the Turn Em In Program, and the Universal Penal Reform Act of 2014.” There were links to “The Program” and “The Act and Its Aftermath,” but those pages looked really boring, and I went back to the rap on the home page. Near the end, it mentioned the Director’s success in “facilitating the rehabilitation of superannuated units,” which apparently meant reopening old prisons. The last one mentioned was “the Southern Regional Longterm Correctional Facility (SRLCF), formerly Durant State Penitentiary.” There was a link, and I clicked on it.

Unfortunately, the SRLCF page offered only two small pictures and four short paragraphs. One picture showed a line of prison bars, with a pair of hands sticking out of it. The other one showed a field with some brown things squatting in it, far away from the camera.

The paragraphs ran as follows:

“The Southern Regional Longterm Correctional Facility, the primary recipient of Southern District longterm offenders, opened in 2016 in the facilities of the former Durant State Penitentiary. The historic building, erected in 1896, was closed between 2009 and 2015 and has now reinitiated services in accordance with the provisions of the Universal Penal Reform Act.

“Housing units: One multi-tier unit, 1200 inside cells. Capacity: 2400. Average daily population, last 5 years: 0 (2013), 0 (2014), 0 (2015), 452 (2016), 1229 (2017). Today’s count (101218): 2103.

“Work Programs: Agricultural and Industrial Service, Contract Labor Opportunities

“Features: Infirmary, motor pool, food processing plant, outdoor labor service program, special disciplinary facilities.”

At the bottom of the page was a link to “SRLCF Rehab.” I thought there might be some pictures of inmates undergoing rehabilitation or something, but what I got was all text, and pretty dry text, too. The rehabilitation wasn’t about inmates; it was about the building; and the text was an article from the Prison Architecture Forum. There was all sorts of stuff about cost estimates and roofing and industrial ventilation and so on. I felt like I was back in my cube at Freer, analyzing data. But there was one section that was sort of interesting, if you were a nerd like me.

“Thought was given to a complete remodeling of the office unit, including refenestration for more efficient circulation of air and more cheerful working environment. Expense, however, proved prohibitive in view of the large cost overruns involved in the rewiring and replumbing of the central building, the installation of a modern heating system, and the necessity of erecting new buildings for the motor pool, canning factory, and officers’ gymnasium. Fortunately, the main building required no structural upgrades or large-scale refurnishing. The installation of new computer equipment and contemporary steel security doors constituted the major expenditures in the administrative unit. Although an old and, according to some expert opinion, obsolete structure, the cellhouse was found to combine maximum population control with a minimum of redundant space. By concentrating the total population in one living unit, very large savings had been effected. The cellhouse, occupying 350′ of the 600′ – long Main Building, contains two parallel blocks of inside cells, each block consisting of two ranges of cells, deployed back to back. Each range provides 300 cells on six tiers. The tiers are identical. Each tier houses 50 all-steel cells of approximate dimensions 5′ 6″ W, 7′ 6″ H, 9′ D, fronted on the upper tiers by a gallery 4′ W. The four ranges, ABCD, are separated by first-floor open space as follows: oABoCDo. The advantage of this plan over the typical cellular arrangement, in which each cell house contains a single block of inside cells, so that oABo would occupy a separate building from oCDo, is the elimination of two exterior walls and one inter-structural air space, together with a reduction in the number of interior open spaces from four to three. The cellhouse is 104′ W, in strong contrast to a likely two-building width of 132′ (air space included), indicating a reduction of 21% in the building’s footprint. More to the point, the interior dimensions of the cellhouse, and accompanying heating costs, are reduced by approximately 11 percent. The current cellular arrangement permits division of the population into three de facto living units, A, BC, D, observed from a common entrance hall (levels 1-3) and guard posts (levels 4-6), from which the whole of the cellhouse can be kept in prospect and controlled by electric doors. The overall reduction in volume . . . . ”

It was hard to picture, but I had never really thought about what a prison was like before. I’d never seen one, and of course I’d never been inside one. Apparently, there was a lot of science to designing a prison. That wasn’t what I was after, though. I hadn’t found anything that would tell me about convicts. I clicked on the home page again, hunting for something that looked like a site index.. It must be easier to get sent to prison than to get to the interior of the prison site . . . I knew that I didn’t want “Financial Reports, 2016-2017.” I didn’t want “DOC Farm Products, Fresh to Your Store.” I certainly didn’t want “Job Openings in the DOC.” I hunted through the page, clicking on a bunch of dull links that I expected to mention the Durant Unit, and didn’t. Then, in an obscure corner, I saw “Offender Information.” I thought it was going to be another table of statistics — how many blacks, how many whites, how many murderers, how many rapists, how many shoplifters . . . whatever. . .   But there wasn’t very much left to choose. I clicked on it.

There weren’t any statistics. There was another set of options: “Last Name,” “First Name,” “Convict Identification Number (CIN).” Well! It didn’t take me long to type in 351699.

Bingo.

The picture of a convict flashed on the screen. Head shot, frontal: shoulders and face.

I leaned back in my chair, nursing my beer.

You saw a set of vertical lines, numbered the way you always see them in mugshots on TV–5’9″, 5′ 10″, 5′ 11″, 6′, 6′ 1″ — and a head in front of them with a board hanging from its neck, a black board with white words on it — DURANT UNIT 351699. It was my convict, all right. The same long, pretty face, the same high cheekbones, the same square little chin — and above the face, nothing but a tall bald dome. Oh man! They’d shaved him bald! Convicts were still getting their hair cut off! I sat and stared at that head. It was like an earthling’s forehead, with a Martian’s cranium grafted on top. So that’s what was hiding under his cap.

His picture was on the left side of the page; his stats were on the right:

 

Offender Number 351699

Name: Cleveland, Jacob Victor

Alias: Jake, Jay, J-Man

Status: INCARCERATED; CLASS A FELONY

Race: White

Gender: Male

DOB 11-01-98

DOA 11-23-16

Offense: Sale of Prohibited Substance, Kidnaping

Offense dates: 11-15-16, 11-18-16

Sentence: LIFE AT HARD LABOR, W/O PAROLE

Sentenced: 11-22-16

County: Forrester

H 5’10”

W 145

Hair: Blond

Eyes: Blue

Identifying marks: Surg scar (appendectomy), R abdom; ear prcing (R, L)

Custody: Close

Work assignment: Agr Labor

 

Life without parole! Imagine — getting life in prison when you were only . . . how old? Barely 18! He didn’t look like a kidnaper. But he didn’t weigh any 145 pounds, either — not now, anyway. Maybe that’s what he weighed when they first put him into the cookie jar. There was a number under the picture: “092218.” Could be a date. If so, that picture was taken only about three weeks ago. That was when I first started noticing the convicts. Then I saw another little number: “1/21.” One out of twenty-one . . . And that number was clickable. Boom! Another picture came up.

It was a side shot. The same face. The same board dangling from the neck. The same bald dome, looking even more like a Martian’s head, or a monkey’s, when you saw it from the side. My heart was racing. I wanted to see the other 19 shots.

No. 3. Oh man! There was Cleveland, Jacob, but this time he still owned his hair. He wouldn’t own it for long, though. The date was “112316″ — his Date of Arrival. God! Look at that hair! At DOA, this convict was sporting long, thick, wavy, beautiful hair. It wasn’t stylish, that’s for sure; and neither was the cheap blue polo shirt where the ends of the hair came to rest, but it was luscious honey-gold hair, flowing down over the ears with their two gold earrings, framing the neck like a work of art, then curling lazily onto the shoulders.. . .   It must have been an incredible sight, when they took off that hair. And man, he looked scared in that picture — he looked like he’d just seen the razor. He also looked thin, really thin. Was this the convict I’d met, this thin, scared 18-year-old, a kid with tears brimming out of his eyes? It was him all right, Convict No. 351699, male, white, 5′ 10″ tall. But God! That face. He looked way too young to take being a convict. Even his ears looked young. And he looked even worse in No. 4, which was the sideshot. A pale, worried face, hiding behind a curtain of yellow hair . . . . The guy looked like he was about to break down, or pass out, or die . . .

The next pictures were also labeled “112316” — but these were the After shots, the shots they took after they’d taken his hair. Nos. 5 and 6: head shots, front and side: the same guy, bald as a doorknob, peering out at the camera in a state of disbelief. Nos. 7 and 8 (head shot, left, head shot, right; closeups of ears) documented the fact that they’d taken his earrings, too, leaving only the tiny pink holes. And as the next shots demonstrated, they’d also taken his clothes! No 9: pale little belly, pale little surgical scar. No. 10: left view, lower body: a long, strong foot, surprisingly big, with a long, taut leg, a runner’s leg. Obviously, he hadn’t run fast enough, I thought, as I raced past No. 11, apparently the right leg shot, to No.12: the chest shot. The chest shot, immediately after the tattooist got him. God! Smooth, slender pecs with a line of black letters shimmering across them, like a brand-new sign in a vacant lot: CONVICT 351699. The sign looked way too heavy for that kid to wear. And why were the letters sort of . . . glowing like that? Did they slap some gloss or something over your tattoo, after they put it on you? It seemed like somebody had mentioned that, in the bar one night . . . some guy with a fresh tattoo . . . But damn! I wish these shots were bigger. Do you think that they’ll show his dick?

I was clicking faster now. Nos 13 and 14: left and right torso: the same small chest, the same pretty little arms, the same glaring new tatt, now in profile, stretching across the narrow muscles. No. 15: Oh Jesus! They’d put one on his back, too! From shoulder to shoulder, in big block letters: C-O-N-V-I-C-T, and under it his number: 3-5-1-6-9-9.

God! I thought. I can’t believe it. I didn’t mind those little tatts that some of the guys in the clubs were getting. I just thought they were silly — you know, little Superman symbols, or little phony “tribal” things, or maybe a strand of barbed wire around one arm, like that makes you tough or something, or keeps the bad guys away. But these things that they put on Cleveland . . . They weren’t little squiggly decorations. They were like the letters you see on the side of a truck. It’s not that they were so enormous. They were big, all right. But the idea that you needed to be marked that way, so nobody could ever make a mistake, either coming or going, about what you were and where you belonged . . .

I wanted to linger, but I also wanted more. No. 16. The date was still 112316, but it must be later in the day, because the convict had put on his clothes again. Not his own clothes; the penitentiary’s clothes. Now he was wearing a brown convict shirt. It was like the shirt I’d seen in the first picture, except that this one was new and crisp, with the fold marks you get on a shirt when you’ve just taken it off the shelf at the store; but it already had CONVICT stenciled over one pocket and 351699 stenciled over the other. The board was hanging from his neck again. This time it made him look even more like a slave being put up for sale. The mouth was drawn, the eyes were wet, the forehead still seemed to be wondering what had happened to its hair. In No. 17, the sideshot, the board dangled uneasily on his chest, like there wasn’t enough there to support it, and one of his tears had finally made it to his cheek..

There were no tears in the last four pictures. Nos. 18-21 were all dated 092218 — two years later — and.a lot must have happened to 351699 in the meantime. The new pictures were all, very definitely, pictures of the man I had met, the man who had completely replaced the little guy crying in his first convict suit. Full body, frontal; full body, left; full body, right; full body, rear — all backup pictures to go with the two mugshots I’d seen at the start. I looked at those shots . . . face, body, closeup, longshot . . . This new guy wasn’t exactly grinning, but he wasn’t about to cry, either. In place of the skinny kid lost in his new uniform I saw a muscular young man at home in his worn brown suit; and considering the way the shirt hung off his pecs, it must have been a 3XL. His clothes were faded and his workboots were scuffed, but he himself was totally squared away. His white t-shirt was straight on his wide brown neck. The lettering ran straight on his broad back and his deep chest, his two thick thighs, his tough little butt. . . .   Even the tanline that separated his face from his tall grayish dome ran straight across his forehead. He was a man now, that was for sure — either that, or these pictures were the best new-product ads you’d ever expect to see. Because that was what he looked like, posing in front of those horizontal lines with the height numbers on them. He looked like the latest 70-inch unit to come off the line.

It was good enough for me. But damn! I’d got to No. 21, and I still hadn’t seen his crotch! I guessed they couldn’t put that on the net. I wondered if they’d even taken a picture of it . . . You’d certainly think that they would. Maybe they didn’t, though, as long as there wasn’t any . . .

“Yoo hoo! Anybody home?” It was Joey, pushing the front door open. Joey was the guy I’d been going out with.

“I’m in the bedroom!” I shouted. But I didn’t want to see Joey. What I wanted to see was Cleveland, Jacob Victor, Convict No. 351699. I wanted to see a lot more of him.

“C’mon, Jase–you can’t work all night! Not when I’m here.” The bedroom door flew open just as I clicked off the site.

Before I knew it, Joey was kneeling on the floor, pulling down my zipper. He was good at sucking dick. I loved the way he fell on his knees whenever he thought I wanted it. And I know that he wanted to give it to me, practically all of the time. That was the good side of Joey. I was glad he didn’t want me to do it for him. I’d rather do other things.

On Monday I went to the park again. This time, I managed to get out of a meeting so I could show up at the fence a half hour earlier, hoping to run into 351699 before the chow horn blew. But it didn’t work. I’d just gotten my first look at the field when the thing went off. Fuck! Why couldn’t they plan things better? All I could do was watch the convicts head for the truck. I never knew that anybody could run when his leg was chained to the legs of a dozen other guys, but here were all the cons on the chain humping across the field as hard as they could. The guards were right behind them. One of the convicts that had been working off by himself was loping slowly across the field, but a guard came along and whacked him on the ass with something that must have been a paddle. The con yelped and lurched forward. Then he started to run. I didn’t know that things like that were allowed anymore. I guessed that they were, though, because I was seeing them. I wondered whose butt was getting whacked. Maybe it was Cleveland, Jacob Victor. From that distance, all those cons looked the same.

They gathered around the truck and two of them opened a locker that was built onto the back of the cab and hauled a plastic tub out of it. There must have been food inside the tub, because they all lined up and started dipping into it. The guys that were on the chain held the links up with one hand and dug into the tub with the other. Then they sat on the ground and ate their grub out of the cups or whatever it was they’d been dipping into the tub with. They’d just started eating when one of them yelled out, “Boss! Takin it off, Boss!” One of the guards yelled, “Take it off, boy!”and all the cons started squirming out of their shirts and t-shirts and laying them on the ground. My body felt weak again, weak and white. Even the smallest of these guys had bodies like the one I’d seen on Cleveland. I eased forward, trying to see if I could pick him out of the gang. From that distance, I could see the numbers, but I couldn’t read them.

What would it be like, I wondered, to wake up every morning and look down at your chest and see CONVICT on your pec, and a convict number? Would you feel like a wall with a sign on it? Or would you feel like more of a man than you were before? One of the convicts stretched out flat on the ground, with the brim of his cap lowered over his eyes. His ankle chain shone in the sun. Some of the others lay facing each other, propped on their elbows, talking in low voices. I looked at my watch. I had to get back to work. If I was a convict, I’d be lying there resting. Maybe sleeping. Half the time, now, I had trouble getting to sleep at night. These guys had no trouble sleeping. All they had to do was work and sleep, work and sleep, work and sleep, in one of those tremendous bodies . . .

“Boss! Takin it down, Boss!” “Take it down, boy!” A convict leaned forward and knelt, and a guard unlocked him from the chain. The convict picked up a shovel, walked to the nearest ditch, and let down his trousers. He squatted over the ditch until a turd came out. Then he buttoned his trousers, shoveled some dirt into the ditch, walked back to the line, and knelt down again. The guard locked him back in the chain. Nobody paid any attention.

I knew I should leave, but I couldn’t. I stayed and watched, hypnotized. It was peaceful down on the field. Even the guards looked like they were nodding off. Then I heard, “Boss! Shakin it out, Boss!” and a guard replying, “Shake it out!”

Suddenly, all the cons stood up and marched toward me in a line. What the hell! I scrambled through the underbrush, trying to get away — but I couldn’t resist turning back for one more look. The line got as far as the first patch of scrub at the margin of the field; then it stopped, and every con in the line started unbuttoning his pants and pulling out his dick. It was 30 guys pissing together. 30 guys in prison boots. 30 guys in prison trousers. 30 guys in prison caps. 30 guys with prison numbers stamped across their chests. 30 guys with their dicks out, pissing together. God! I thought. I couldn’t do that. I could never piss like that. Then I thought, If you were one of them, you would have to. I noticed that my cock was hard again. “Boss! Buttonin up, Boss!” “Awright, button up!” The 30 convicts buttoned their flies. Then they ran back to work, and the guards followed along with the paddles.

I wasn’t thinking anymore. I was just watching, totally intent on watching, as one of the guards stopped and began turning slowly my way. He was surveying the landscape, and he stopped when he got to my part of it. I still had enough sense not to just jump up and run. If he hadn’t seen me before, he would see me then. I slunk down in the weeds and waited. I could see the guard taking one step forward, then another step. It was like he was sniffing the brush. I wanted to crawl away, but I didn’t want to seem like a coward, even to myself. There was a long pause. Then he turned and walked back toward the gang. In a couple of minutes, they were all gray and brown lumps again. I leaped up and hustled out of the park.

It wasn’t till I got back to the office that I wondered why I had been so scared. After all, I was on my own side of the fence all the time. And I was just looking. Can’t a citizen look at a gang of convicts? But I was scared anyway, because I knew why I was there, and it wasn’t because I wanted a lesson in criminology or I’d gotten lost jogging. Anybody who saw me would know that I was up to no good.

That night, I had another date with Joey. Maybe this is the place to tell you more about him — just so you’ll understand a few things. Joey was a guy like me. He had gone to college and now he was a junior executive in a prestigious firm. He was a nice guy, and he was a very cute guy. He liked clothes, and he always dressed really well. Even when we went out for brunch, he’d be wearing a nice shirt, nice slacks, nice little loafers, great, great haircut. His hair was one of his best features, and he always knew what to do with it. I loved to run my hands through those long, fragrant waves of auburn hair; I loved feeling them caress my crotch when he was kneeling down to eat my dick.

Joey and I were lovers, at least as far as Joey was concerned. “This is Jason, my lover,” he’d say to the guys we met at the bar. Well, Joey and I saw each other a lot, and we certainly had sex, and there was talk about one of us moving in with the other one, but then we’d need a bigger place, wouldn’t we, and that would mean money. . . . That’s what I always told him. He never answered; he just acted like it was all gonna happen, no matter what I said. I’d make all kinds of objections, and he’d say, “I think you’re so cute, Jasie! There’s someone special for everyone, and I’ve found the specialest one of all.” Then he’d give me his special kiss. I always said something like, “Aw, c’mon,” or “I guess you’d think that, if you were blind,” or some other bashful thing like that, but I definitely was not sure that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Joey Madison. He was always so cheerful and happy, and I guess that’s one of the things that freaked me out. I used to tell him that he was the reason why queers were called “gay.” He thought I was paying him a compliment, too. I mean . . . he was a great cocksucker, but he was one of these guys that suck your cock and the next thing is, let’s have brunch with my best friend Mindy and all of Mindy’s friends, because I’m certain that you’ll LOVE them, Jason, and then we can go to Warbucks and check out that new barrista that Jared says is so hot, and after that there’s the happy hour at Boyz, but who should we ask to go with us?, and that reminds me — I’m hurt, Jasie; I was at work all day and you never even called me ONCE! . . .   What I mean is, there was a lot going on with Joey that was not going on with me.

OK, maybe I should have been happy. I know a lot of guys that would have been. I was pretty good looking; I knew how to dress; I’d been to a good school, and eventually I’d have a good job, maybe a very good job; but that didn’t mean I could pick up a lover any time I wanted to. It’s like somebody told me, the handsomest guy in the bar usually gets to go home alone — and I was far from the handsomest guy in the bar. Besides, I’d always wanted a lover. When I was a kid, I was dying to have a best friend that I could do everything with and be around all the time. Then when I found out I was gay, I wanted to find someone that would never, ever leave me, not for any reason at all. Well, that was Joey, all right! So there were a lot of reasons why I should have been happy. And maybe, before, I would have been. But watching Joey in the bar that night, yelling “Hi babe!” to every campy queen he ran into and starting little jokes about “Miss Thing” all the time and dancing in that swishy way — it was too much for me. I was a swish, too, but at least I was ashamed of it. That night I hated every happy, giggly, well-dressed guy in the bar, and I hated them even more because I was acting just like them. We were at The Closet, and they’ve got a bunch of mirrors there, right after you come off the dance floor, and when I saw my reflection, I knew that I wanted to get away. So I said something about not feeling very well, and I went home alone. I really was sick, too. I just wasn’t sure why. Maybe I was sick of Joey. Maybe I was sick of myself. Maybe I was sick because I’d seen those convicts, and I’d been enslaved by the sight of them. If it hadn’t been for them, I was sure that I wouldn’t have felt sick in those other ways. Well, maybe I wouldn’t. Anyway, it couldn’t go on. It was too dangerous, anyhow. At least it was too uncomfortable.

For the next week or so, I didn’t go near the park, and I didn’t go near the shuttle stop. I took the early train, and I walked all the way to work. But one night I dreamed.

I was drinking at Florentine’s, and I was in my usual position, which was leaning against the rail in the corner across from the piano. Why do they always have fat women singing in gay bars? I was worried about that in my dream. I couldn’t figure it out. But there was definitely one of them there, and she was singing. She was singing “Somewhere, over the rainbow,” and a bunch of queens were singing along with her, and applauding and so forth, and screaming, the way they do, and it was getting louder and louder. “Somewhere, over the rainbow.” I couldn’t understand. What did it mean? Over? Why not under? Or through? A rainbow. It’s like a window. Or a mirror. An enormous mirror, inside an enormous arch. Touch it . . . it’s only water, after all. Drops of water. Little crystal drops. You can go right through. You might get wet. You might get cold. But you can go through. I couldn’t stand those screeching queens . . . I followed the little stream of guys who were heading out to the back.

I went through the swinging door and whoa! Instead of walking into the little back bar with the lounge seats and the guys making out on them, I was standing on a concrete loading dock with a white truck parked beside it, and nothing beyond except a cold night and a chain-link fence, and a gate for the truck to leave through, when it left. Which must be soon. The motor was running, and there was a line of men waiting to climb in the back. In the dim light, I had trouble seeing who they were. They looked like ghosts. They were standing still, like ghosts. Not talking. Ghosts don’t talk to each other, do they? No. Then I saw — they were prisoners. You could tell by their clothes, and by the chain connecting them. One of them moved his boot, and the chain clanked on the floor. Where did they come from? They must be the guys that I’d followed out there . . . And now I saw that there were guards standing next to the door, and the guards had taken those guys and locked them into the chain. They were all convicts now. They were on their way to the chaingang. That’s why the truck was there — they were leaving. They went right from the bar to the prison, like the back door of one was the front door of the other. And it was my turn next.

There were two guards. One of them grabbed me and made me kneel on the floor, and the other one snapped a shackle on my leg. I could feel the concrete pavement, hard and cold through my slacks. I could feel the cold steel slithering along my ankle. “OK,” the guard said, “you’re one of them now. Suck this convict’s dick.” I looked up. I was staring at the dick of the last convict in line. It was thick and long and dripping, and it was headed straight for my face. “No!” I yelled, “I’m not one of . . . .” Then the dick hit me. It was moving back and forth across my face, smacking it like a rubber whip, trying to get inside me and make me swallow it down. Finally my mouth had to open. The thing leaped into my throat and the juice started gushing, all at once, mouthful after mouthful, sweet and rich and heavy, a flood that hit me and choked me and sickened me as I gobbled and slurped and drooled and gobbled again, like an animal feasting on the convict’s life; but I couldn’t swallow it all, it ran down my chest and splashed onto his thick black workboots . . . “Lick it up,” the guard said, and I saw my face leap back at me from the shiny toe of the convict’s boot, a weird set of reflected features, eyes nostrils open mouth, as I headed down to slurp the hot white cum off the cold black leather . . . “I didn’t know . . .” I started to say, but the guard said, “OK convict, do his butt,” and two of them grabbed me and stood me up naked in front of the same convict, and I was saying the same thing, “No, no! I’m not one of those . . . ,” just before the giant dick rammed me again, this time from the rear, going in deep and wet and slick and hard, in and out, in and out, again and again, until the lava exploded inside me, pumping my guts full of something hot and dark and strong, and I needed to cum! and I was trying, trying, trying but nothing happened. Then the guard looked down at my crotch and said, “This one isn’t goin anyplace. This one isn’t qualified. Look!” So I looked, and there was my cock jutting out like a little stick, with nothing around it, no globes bouncing around at the bottom like they were glad to be there, nothing except empty air, as if the guards had gone in there while I wasn’t looking and had snipped off my nuts and taken them away and put them in a jar someplace . . . . “What happened to my balls!” I yelled. “You took my fuckin balls!” “You can’t lose what you never owned,” he sneered. “OK, get these men in the truck. But as for you . . . ” He took me by the shoulders and tossed me back through the swinging door, and then I was with all those other guys again, and they were still singing that song, and I was standing there naked and covered with dirt and sweat and convict cum, and all their eyes turned in my direction . . .

I woke up. That’s the only way to get out of a situation like that — you just wake up. Then I lay still and went over it again in my mind. I didn’t like sucking. I didn’t like being fucked. But somehow I liked doing those things in my dreams. Or somebody liked doing them. It’s scary to think that you’re more than one person. But it’s exciting too.

 

To be continued …

 

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