Date: Wed, 27 Apr 2005 03:06:23 -0700 (PDT)
From: Gay Storywriter <gaystorywriter@yahoo.com>
Subject: Prison Tails

Prologue:

Hi! My name is Tahoe Joe. Or you can call me El Dorado Joe. Or just plain
Tahoe, as most do. They're my nicknames. My prison nicknames, that is. As
I'm sure you can surmise, I got them because I'm from the Lake Tahoe area,
or El Dorado county, specifically. The following accounts will be about
some of the experiences I had while in the California State Prison system
during the decade of the 90's. All told, I was in for 7 years, 11 months,
and 29 days. I've since gotten out, cleared parole, graduated w/honors from
a community college, and am now at a prestigious public university in the
San Francisco Bay Area majoring in American Studies.

All true nifty readers. And, for the most part, the stories I am about to
tell will be true, also. I reserve the right to change names here and there
at my whim, and to perhaps embellish a bit for literary sake, but I promise
that the events will be true to their essence. They also won't be in any
particular chronological order; I never know what I want to write about
when I sit down and don't want to restrict myself. In the end, I am writing
this for myself--so I'll have a chronicle of these events--more than I am
for any particular reader of them. But I do hope you enjoy them,
nonetheless for that.

Before I continue, I should give you a crash course on prison lingo. I plan
to use a lot of it in these stories, as it is how my mind remembers the
events, plus it adds a little bit of ambience to the account, I think. I'll
make a list of terms and phrases with their definitions and paste it
in. Please, all you writers out there who try and write prison fantasy
erotica feel free to refer to it--I really dislike it when I read one of
those and I see the wrong terms being used for things. A pet peeve of
mine. Bear in mind, however, that my lingo is specific to the California
Prison system, particularly in the 90's. There may be overlap with other
eras or states, but for the most part they'll be California specific.

Con: also known as inmate, prisoner, etc. Most guys prefer to be referred
to as a Con; inmate has a perjorative context.

C/O: Correctional Officer. AKA bull, screw, turnkey, etc. In California we
call them C/O's.

Cellie: This is your Cellmate, your roomate, as it were. The guy you listen
to jack-off, who pisses and shits 3 feet from you, who has your back on the
yard. Very Important Person.

Yard: This is the recreation area that is between buildings and where the
weight pile, basketball and handball courts are. It usually has a track
that runs the the perimeter of it that people walk around while they
talk. You do a lot of that. Most are about 100yds in diameter and a 1/4
mile in length; at least at the prisons I did time at.

Building: This is where you live. They are the Housing Units. Whenever
anyone wants to know where you live they'll inevitably ask, "What Building
you in?" Most modern California prison yards have the same basic design
with the Housing Units fanned out in a starfish pattern away from a
centrally located hub where the administrative offices, dining hall,
canteen, and gym are. The older prisons are an exception to this, but with
the recent prison building boom over 70% are as I have described. Most of
my time was spent on these types of yards. There are some distinctions made
between levels of security that I will address within the context of a
story as it is needed.

Sallyport: This is usually the entrance to a housing unit. It's a narrow
corridor that has a sliding grill on each end and is about 8ft high and
60ft long. You enter and exit the housing unit through the Sallyport.

Wood: slang for white cons. It is derived fron Peckerwood; an insulting
name for redneck-types in the South that has been adopted by white cons as
a source of pride. If you're 100% Peckerwood it means you're down for your
people. It is often found tattoed on cons.

Crips/Bloods: Black prison gangs that have spilled over into the community,
but they found their start in the prisons. There are many forms and
branches of these gangs, particularly related to locale.

EME: pronounced em-ay. This stands for Mexican American and is one of the
oldest and largest prison gangs.

Sureno: A chicano from southern California.

Norteno: A chicano from northern California.

Border Brother: One of the many mexican illegal aliens that are locked up.

AB: stands for Arayan Brotherhood. A white prison gang that is not to be
fucked with.

NLR: stands for Nazi Low Riders. Another white prison gang that got its
start in the California Youth Authority. They are made up of mostly younger
guys.

Fish: a con who is new to the system.

Bitch: usually a con who's backed down from a confrontation or been
disrespected by someone (will now be refered to as an inmate) or sometimes
the sexual plaything of a more dominant con.

Chester: a person convicted of having molested a child; as in Chester the
Molester.

Rape-O; someone convicted of rape.

187: California Penal Code designation for murder.

All Day: being sentenced to life in prison.

3rd Strike: having been convicted of a 3rd felony and been sentenced to 25
yrs to life.

Level 4, Level 3, etc.: These are the various security classification
levels for a prison yard. Most prisons have several different ones. Level 4
being the highest Level, 1 the lowest.

Ad-Seg: The prisons jail, if you will. This is where you go if you get into
trouble. You're usually celled by yourself and only get 1 hour out of your
cell a day, if that.It's used as a form of punishment.

SHU: stands for Security Housing Unit. This is a long-term AD-Seg unit
(usually more than 3 months to 2 years). Sent here for violent
altercations; stabbing someone, being involved in a riot, threatening
staff, etc.

PC: Protective Custody Unit. This is where the victims go after an assault,
threat, etc. Usually the same conditions as AD-Seg/SHU, but safer. They
have some whole yards (PC yards) that are nothing but people that have been
assaulted, informants, cops, lawyers, pedophile priests, celebrities,
etc. on them.

Lockdown: this is when they put everyone in their cells after an incident
(stabbing, riot, etc.). They usually only last a few days, but I have been
on lockdown as long as 6 months. Some yards they are on almost perpetual
lockdown because soon as one is lifetd another incident will take
place. That's how it is at places like Pelican Bay, High Desert,
Calipatria, etc.

Shiv: a prison-made weapon. Sometimes refered to as a shank. It can be made
out of almost anything as long as it will poke a hole, or cut, or
slash. Little bits and pieces of metal squirreled away from the workshops
or kitchen do nicelly, but you can also melt a disposable razor blade into
a toothbrush handle in a pinch and have yourself a nice slashing weapon.

Kite: messages that cons pass between themselves. It could be a kite from
cell to cell, building to building, yard to yard, joint to joint. Didn't
matter.

CDC: California Department of Corrections.

The Desert: High Desert State Prison (HDSP) at Susanville, CA. Level 1, 3,
and 4 prison. I was a founding member of B-yard in '97. No one had ever
slept in the cell when I moved in--there was still concrete dust on the
floor leftover from construction.

Suzie's House: California Correctional Center (CCC). Located in Susanville,
CA and is across the street from HDSP. Level 1, 2, 3.

Jamestown: Sierra Conservation Center (SCC). Located outside Jamestown,
CA. Mainly a level 1 fire camp prison (it has 30 or so satelitte camps
around the state), but it also has a Level 2 yard and the Level 3 Tuolumne
Yard.

The Q: San Quentin. Mostly Level 1 and 2 now. It has too many blind spots
for any higher level custody prisoners--it would be a blood bath. They do
still have death row, but those guys never get out of their cell. Quentin
is used mainly for reception/intake from the county jails. Then the con ois
sent packing off to whichever prison they are going to be housed at. The
process is usually 1-3 months and while there you are basically on
lockdown. I was there 2 months, before being shipped off to Suzie's House.

Canteen: blanket term for snacks and supplies purchased at the prison
store. Also used as a name for the prison store; as in, "I got it at the
canteen".

Car: this is the group you hang around with--sort of a mini-gang. Usually
made up of members who are from the same county, but can include friends,
as well. The person who leads the group is said to have the 'keys to the
car' (See Shotcaller).

Shotcaller: The alpha male. Usually the toughest of the group or the
meanest. A little bit older, they are usually doing long time. They hold
the 'keys to the car' (see above). It's their responsibility that no one in
the group is disrespected or disrespects and has everything they need;
canteen, job, good cell, etc. And if a problem needs to be dealt with they
assign who should do it.

D.O.M.: Department Operating Manual. This is the big book that has all the
procedures and potential violations for running the prison system.

115: CDC Form 115. This form is used to write you up for various
infractions; making pruno, disrespecting staff, late to work, tattooing,
drugs, assault, murder. It all starts with the 115. Sort of a prison police
report.

Pruno: Prison wine made by fermenting fruit, sugar, water. Usually oranges
are used, but grapes and raisins are popular, too. When I worked in the
kitchen at Suzie's House I was able to get a hold of some dole pineapple
and that made great pruno. It takes from 2-7 days to make a batch and,
though it usually tastes god-awful, it will get you hammered.

Well, that's certainly not all of the lingo, but it will do for now. The
rest you can pick up while reading, I'm sure.

Now for the disclaimers: If you're not supposed to be reading this because
of age or locale you should stop now. Or at least be prepared to face the
consequences of your actions. If you'd like to share the stories with
friends or loved ones, please do. But, I reserve any and all copyright to
the material (it is my life, after all). If I find it posted somewhere
else, I'll be highly upset. 'Nuff said.

If you find me or the story of interest, feel free to drop me a note at
gaystorywriter@yahoo.com ( I set up the account for just that reason).

Remember kids, just say no.

Tahoe

2005



Prison Tails

Tommy 1

I'd immediately woken upon hearing the tell-tale hum of the electrical lock
as the door opened 2 minutes ago. I wasn't terribly concerned by this, but
some things in the joint get your guard up, and one of them is the cell
door opening when not expected. I've seen enough shakedowns and assaults
over the last few years to know better. But being the infinitely cool
customer that I am (at least as I present to the world) I just continued to
lay on my bunk waiting patiently, and ready for anything to happen. The
first thing you learn in the pen is to not worry about those things you
can't change; there is plenty enough to worry about as it is. Truth be told
I had been expecting it. We'd been on lockdown for a few days now after the
incident on B-yard between the Woods and the Crips. My cellie, John, had
gotten caught up in the mix and been hauled off to Ad-Seg. I knew I
wouldn't be seeing him anytime soon and was expecting them to send me a
cellmate fairly quickly. California State Prisons are nothing if not
overcrowded and I had actually been a little surprised that I'd gone 3 days
without one. Not that I minded; in here you take any chance for privacy you
can get, but with c/o's wandering by and peeking in the little window in
the celldoor 12 times a day privacy becomes somewhat relative, I
suppose. So, when the door popped at this time of night,it was around 11, I
immediately assumed I was about to get a new cellie. I was correct.



I sensed right away he was nervous. Not the normal nervousness we all feel
in the joint when entering a new, unknown situation, but the borderline
scared nervousness that any self-respecting con would never put on view to
the world, no matter how terrified they might be. It just wasn't done, and
was an invite to be taken advantage of in all sorts of ways. He was trying
to be cool, but it just wasn't happening. I couldn't so much see his
nervousness; I could feel it radiating from him like heat does off asphalt
on a hot summer day. "Great," I inwardly groaned to myself, "just what I
need, a new fish to train!". But I really wasn't displeased. I have always
preferred younger cellies (I was 33 then) and this kid looked to be in his
twenties--his early twenties (I'd later learn that he was 20). He was
dressed in that formless bright orange jumpsuit that the CDC uses for
transporting inmates around and I figured correctly that he had just gotten
off the bus from reception. All I could really see of him was that he was
about 5'8", weighed about a buck-fifty, and had quite a mop of unruly hair
atop his head. I didn't have the cell light on, so I couldn't tell you at
this point what he really looked like. I just got flashes of him as he
walked further into the 6' by 9' that was going to be our shared house for
awhile--never call it a home; homes are on the streets. There was enough
light coming from the 13" TV set up on my locker to allow functioning
around the cell. I tried to keep the ceiling light off as much as possible
to keep down the heat. I don't really believe a small flourescent light
puts out enough heat to notice, but there is the psychological factor to
consider.

All these impressions happened in the first few seconds. It doesn't take
long to size someone up after you've been down for awhile. I also
immediately decided I was going to be gentle with him. I suppose because I
instantly identified him to be a potential sex partner, but also because I
could tell he was scared and I'm just a softy that way. Really, I am! I
don't have, or never have had, a mean bone in my body. I've acted like I
did on quite a few occasions, particularly here in the joint, but that's
survival; truth be told I'm a lover. And this little fish might just be the
next recipient of those loving feelings. The first step is to be gentle.

"Hi, I'm Tahoe."

"Tommy" He had to try twice to get it out. I think his mouth was dry.

"Welcome to our house, Tommy" My voice smiled at him as much as my face
did. The use of the encompassing 'our' was intentional.

"Thanks"

I could tell it might be awhile before I would get him to string two words
together. I decided to hold off on the twenty question game and give him
time to get settled.  I stood up and walked the two paces to the switch by
the door to turn on the overhead light. I wanted him to have enough light
to put away the few belongings he had, and I also wanted to get a better
look at him. As I approached him to get to the switch he scrunched himself
over next to the wall--to get out of my way or to get away, I wasn't
sure. Except for the Q, all the prison cells I lived in were of the same
design: a 6' by 9' concrete box. There were two bunks bolted to the wall on
the left that were 3' wide and 6 1/2' long. The toilet/sink was a one piece
unit made out of stainless steel that had no moving parts on it--just 3
buttons; 1 each for the hot and cold, and 1 to flush. There was a desk at
the rear of the cell; it was just really a piece of metal bolted to the
wall with a steel stool bolted to the floor in front of it. The desk was 2'
by 3' and there were two lockers that hung off the wall parallel and even
with the bunks. They were each about 2' high, 4' wide, and 1' deep. They
were atop each other. This left a narrow strip 2' wide and about 7' long
ran down the middle of the cell; our community space, if you will. There
was also an additional 3 square feet of floor space just in front of the
door and before the lockers started. It was in this space near the door
that Tommy was now huddled. I turned on the light and quickly moved back
onto my bunk without trying to get a close-up look at him. I wanted to
relieve some of his anxiety as soon as possible. There would be plenty of
time to look at him later anyway; I was expecting to be on lockdown for at
least two months this time because a couple inmates had been killed during
the latest incident (it later turned out to be almost 6 months long and I
was transferred to Jamestown just as it ended).

"I thought you could use a little bit more light so you can get your stuff
put away and make your bunk." I grinned at him as I started the process of
giving him the once over.

"Thanks." He replied as his eyes began to rove over the stuff in the
cell. Much like mine were doing over him.

I could tell he was impressed with my stuff. As far as prison goes, I was
set-up about as well as you could be. I had a 13" color TV and a Sony
CD/Radio player with 24 CD's, mainly metal and hard rock with a few
mellower ones tossed in. My locker was full of canteen items: Folger's,
Bugler (cigarette tobacco), tuna, roast beef, jalapeno's, tortilla's,
soup's (slang for top ramen noodles), etc. I had baby blue cotton blankets
on my bunk with two pillows, and a Creeping Charlie in a wicker basket on
the desk. There were some perks that went along with being a building
porter and I took full advantage. Plus, my family on the streets took
pretty good care of me; I always got a quarterly package and had the full
$140 to spend at the Canteen. All in all, I lived about as well as you
could in the joint. Over the years more than one youngster wanted to be my
cellie because of my living style. And I was only too happy to share.

While Tommy was looking over my stuff I was looking over him. My initial
impression was correct, he was about 5'8" tall and 150lbs. That unruly hair
turned out to be a golden blonde color, leaning a little towards white. It
was hanging down past his collar in the back and was over his ears. In
front it barely hung down into his eyes and he would give his head a little
shake every now and then to get it out of their way. I wouldn't call it
curly hair, but it certainly was wavy. Spicolli hair, if you get the
reference. I moved further down past his eyes, I wouldn't be able to see
them until he actually looked at me, and he hadn't worked up the nerve for
that yet. His skin was very pale. Most fish coming in had been in county
jail and then reception for the last 6 months and rarely saw the sun, so
they were usually pale. His skin looked very smooth. It was without any
hint of a beard shadow and I knocked a couple of more years off my age
estimate. His cheeks each a rose-colored tint to them as if he had just
come in from the cold. I guessed this to be a permanent fixture though,
considering the temperature had been in the high 90's all week and even at
night hadn't fallen below 80. His nose was narrow at the top, flaring
slightly down to the bottom ending with thin delicately shaped nostrils
that were just a little too wide. I glanced at his ears briefly, but wasn't
able to get that good a look at them as they were covered by the
aforementioned hair. What I was able to see of them appeared to be small
and close to the skull and each possessed the tell-tale holes of prior
piercing. I then let my eyes wander to his mouth. Against the backdrop of
his pale skin, his lips looked too red to be natural and it made me imagine
that perhaps he'd eaten a pomegranate recently. They were a little thin,
but, because he had such a small mouth, the overall effect was that he was
pouting slightly. Continuing my inspection, I moved onto his chin. It
wasn't a man's chin; it wasn't square, it wasn't pointed, it was rounded
and the image that came to mind was the way a boy's chin looks just as they
are beginning puberty. That transition period between child and man.
Tommy's chin hadn't gotten the signal to grow up and looked to be stuck in
his past youth. The effect of that childish chin, the small pouty lips, and
thin delicate nose was one of infinite cuteness. Tommy was just cute as
hell.

That is until he finally looked up and into my eyes. Then I understood he
was beautiful. Cute? What the hell had I been thinking? This boy is
beautiful! They were gray, those eyes. They were light gray, in fact, and
as I peered in to them I got the impression that the irises were surrounded
by a halo of gold. I would later find that they were, indeed, and when he
became upset, his eyes tearing up from anger or sadness, that the golden
ring around those beautiful gray eyes would sparkle as if they were solar
flares. They were eyes that could fill or kill one's heart. They were
encased by the longest lashes I'd ever seen. Lashes that almost reached his
eyebrows as he slowly blinked while looking at me.

"My God, you're handsome!" My mouth blurted before my mind could get a grip
on my tomgue. Thankfully I said handsome amd not beautiful as I was
thinking.

And he then did the most extraordinary thing. Something I hadn't seen
anyone do in the joint for 5 years. He blushed! Amd I can tell you, with
his pale coloring and golden hair, it was quite dramatic that blush. It
started somewhere deep down inside that orange jumpsuit where I couldn't
see and spread across his face like a flash fire. His eyes darted away to
stare at the floor for a few seconds before they rose again slowly. He
looked at me as a shy little smile started tugging at the corners of his
mouth. Mind you, he'd only been in the cell for about 30 seconds by this
time, but as far as I was concerned I was ready kill any one who even so
much as thought a bad thought about this boy. Yeah, I had it bad. Of
course, none of this would have been apparent to Tommy. Beyond the comment
about his appearance, my expression hadn't changed, and when first meeting
people that is usually a slight scowl. He had no idea what I was thinking
or that he'd just become the best protected young man on the yard.

Tommy 2

I didn't say anything else to Tommy after that last comment and he hadn't
responded verbally in return. I think the blush and shy smile had
fullfilled any need for that. I went back to watching the TV while Tommy
busied himself with putting away his meager belongings and making up his
bunk. I was only pretending to watch the television, of course. I spent
this time trying to get a better look at his body as he moved about the
small space putting away his things. With him still wearing the bright
orange jumpsuit, and it about 3 sizes to big, I couldn't really tell what
he'd look like naked (which is how I wanted him). Being the enterprising
fellow that I am, it didn't take me too long to solve this dilemma.

"Hey Tommy, did they give you any clothes when you came in?" I knew the
answer to this before I asked because I had seen what he carried in.

"Nah, they said because of the lockdown the C/O's would have to bring me
laundry later." He answered.

"Well, take it from me, don't hold your breath. The C/O's are already
pissed off that they have to feed us and clean up after themselves. The
last thing on their priority list is getting a fish something to wear. They
don't plan on letting us out of the cell for a couple of months, except for
a 15 minute shower a couple times a week. If you want, I have an extra pair
of gym shorts you can wear. They might be a little big, but they should fit
alright. I know personally I've always hated wearing those damn jumpsuits."
Without waiting for his response I started rooting aroung in my locker
looking for the shorts.

"I don't mind the jumpsuit so much" he said, "it's not that bad."

I guess someone had warned him about accepting gifts in the joint and what
trouble that might lead to.

"Look, Tommy" I smiled at him, "you and I are cellies, now. And we're going
to be locked up in this box together for god knows how long. You're going
to have to get used to me helping you out, sharing with you, or this is
gonna be a long, fucking summer. You ain't got any juice with the C/O's to
get what you need, and you certainly aren't going to the store anytime
soon, either. As you can see, I have plenty. And it's always been my policy
with cellies that what's mine is yours. All I expect in return is that you
don't disrespect me, yourself, or anyone else. Now, if I offer you
something that I know you could use, or might like, and you don't take it,
I have to ask myself, why? Are you too good? Am I some kind of piece of
shit cellie you don't want anything to do with? Do we have some kind of
problem?" If my little speech seemed a bit practiced it's only because I'd
given it before. I did actually believe what I was saying about sharing
with cellies, mainly just because I'm uncomfortable living well next to
someone who isn't, but Tommy didn't know that. He thought I was getting
genuinely angry with him. I could see his eyes, those beautiful eyes,
getting larger and more frightened as my little speech continued.

"I'm sorry, Tahoe! I wasn't trying to disrespect you! I just don't want to
be a bother to you is all" he said, his voice wavering.

I guess I should interject here that prison is just one big fucking mind
game. It starts in county jail, where all the punks and lames who aren't
going to the joint tell horror stories about what it's like (usually stuff
about being raped and made someone's bitch if you aren't tough enough).
Almost invariably these stories are bullshit--I was in for 8 years and
never saw or heard about a single con being raped. I saw quite a few
beatings, stabbings, and people shot, but never anyone's ass taken against
their will. Most of the major shit starts over drug debts. Drugs are
plentiful and expensive in the joint. Best way to do clean time is to avoid
drugs like the plague in here. Do that and you'll be fine. Of course, fish
like Tommy haven't learned that, yet, and are expecting everyone to attack
them at the slightest provocation. They learned all about in county, right?
And that's the way it's portrayed on TV and the movies, isn't it? Too
funny.

Anyway, I've got Tommy all worked up and thinking I'm about to snap on
him. That was my intention, but I didn't really enjoy it. I just needed to
set the stage if we were going to get along as I hoped we would. I can be
such a fucking predator, I'm sometimes ashamed of myself.

"Whoa, whoa. Don't trip, little dude. I'm not mad. I don't think you were
trying to disrespect me. Relax. I'm just trying to school you on being my
cellie. From the looks of you, I figured this is your first time down.
You'll never be a bother to me. O.K. Kemo Sabe?" I said, putting as much
tenderness in my voice as I could.

"O.K." I could almost feel the tension leaving his body, now that the
danger, in his mind, seemed to have passed.

"Fantastic!" I gave him my best smile. I even reached over and ruffled his
hair. I'm incorrigible.

I tossed him the shorts I had retrieved and laid back down on my bunk. I
went back to pretending to watch the TV, while keeping an eye on him. I
also began thinking how innocent he seemed, It always was a shock when I
ran into these innocemt kids in the joint. Most people think cons are all a
bunch of animals that have been out raping and pillaging the land before
finally being subdued and locked away where they can do no harm except to
each other. Well, that might be overstating it a bit, but you certainly
don't expect to run across youngsters like Tommy in here. I mean you have
to do something illegal to get in the club, and most people with the stones
or stupidity to commit a felony usually aren't the sweet, boy next door
type. At least that was the case until the WAR ON DRUGS (capitalization
added for effect). Now just have enough coke, or speed, or weed on you and
you to can be locked up with the rest of the predators! Nevermind that
you've never hurt any one in your life, except yourself, perhaps. Let's
just say that's which category Tommy falls into. I never talk about any
cons case, you'll have to ask him about it, but I know he's never, ever,
hurt anybody. He's just a sweet, lovable, not terribly bright kid who now
finds himself locked up for the next five years with me. And I'm laying
here on my bunk with a hard-on, thinking he's beautiful, as he changes out
of the orange jumpsuit into the gym shorts I have just given him. Poor kid.


To be continued...