Date: Sat, 12 Jul 2003 13:15:06 -0700 (PDT)
From: alex <dovetail1128@yahoo.com>
Subject: From Prison, Part 1

Tomorrow is my birthday. I won't have any visitors,
and if I'm lucky, Joe won't remember. It wouldn't do
to have "the kids" find out. Their celebrations, and I
use the term facetiously, too often involve
humiliation and pain. In here, it's best to go along
quietly, ignored by both the inmates and the guards.

My birthday is significant only because it means I'll
be going before the parole board soon. I arrived here
two days after my twentieth birthday, and spent the
first ten years counting the days to this one.
Somewhere into the second ten, I stopped counting or
caring. Lately, I've come to realize that I arrived a
young man and I'll go out, essentially, an old man,
still without prospects, thoughts or hopes for the
future. And of course, without Joe or anyone else. He
doesn't come up for another four years. Maybe two and
a half if he keeps out of trouble. And who's to say,
once he's out, that things between us would be like
they are now. He had a wife before. True, she divorced
him two years into his sentence, but I'd be naive to
think he wouldn't choose a woman if he had the
opportunity. And like it or not, he'll hook up with
someone else after I'm gone, and that whoever he is--
I've made a list of likely candidates in my mind--
will make me a distant memory pretty quick.

Twenty years ago I'd have laughed in your face if
you'd said I'd be afraid to leave here when it came
time. But now I wonder about where I'll live, and how
I'll live. I read enough to know it's a whole new
world from the one I left. I wonder about the boy,
who's going to be twenty himself. Should I contact
him? Does he even know about me? And I wonder about my
sister, Ari. I had a Christmas card from her eight
years back, the first and last contact since I came
here. I assume it was a lapse in judgment, a kindly
gesture regretted as soon as the mail box slammed
closed. She's the only person I know on the outside,
though I have no idea where she is now. For all I
know, she moved down south or out west.

"You working today?" Harrison asked, smacking my cell
gate with his stick. Harrison doesn't like me, doesn't
like anyone classified a Sigma (think sissy), and he
barely tolerates Omegas (think ordinary), like Joe. My
feeling is a tough guy who only likes tough guys-- the
Kappas-- is not really such a tough guy. He's a guy
wishing he was a tough guy, pretending to be a tough
guy, using real tough guys as models for behavior. Of
course, Harrison is the last one I'd share such an
opinion with.

"Porter in the library, Sir," I tell him. For years I
resisted all use of the honorific, especially for
someone like Harrison. But you learn, in time. You
learn to give the word a dual meaning with the tiniest
change in inflection. For people I truly do respect,
Sir is a polite acknowledgment. For Harrison and
others like him, I speak the word in a way that means,
to me, asshole.

Harrison smirked as he keyed the lock, sliding the
gate open and I stepped out of the cell. He's never
actually roughed me up-- that he saves for the newbie
Sigs, but he likes to threaten me or shove me around.
He loves stepping too close, invading my personal
space, looking down on me, exhaling his garlic or
onion breath to see me wince, whispering obscene
things to see me blush. Sometimes I do, sometimes I
don't.

"Get your ass in gear, Lopez." I didn't reply, but
waited for him to escort me down the hall. As we
passed Joe's cell, Harrison leaned in, his breath warm
and moist on my ear, "I've been wondering about your
ass, Lopez. Yesterday I saw Joe pulling his dong in
the shower. For him to carry on the way he does when
he's dicking you, you've got to have one tight ass.
Shit, my kid's dick is bigger than his." I didn't look
at Joe, nor did I acknowledge Harrison. With him, it's
best to just get on with it. Don't give him anything
to grab hold of and life goes along pretty well. He
laughed like he was the funniest thing around.
Reaching the end of the block, Harrison sent me
through the gates to Tull, a decent enough guy, to
take me to the library where I'd mop, dust, and
re-shelve.

Library porter is up there with the best jobs.
Seniority and the last porter's untimely death
qualified me for the position. Two weeks into it, I
discovered a small cache of romance novels-- not a
typical men's prison genre. I've read the six of them
at least a hundred times now. If I'm efficient, I can
get most of my work done, disappear in the accounting
section and read for twenty to thirty minutes each
morning. I don't dare take one of them back to my
room. If Harrison caught me, it'd be all over,
literally, and then I'd be back to watching out for my
ass the way I did the first few years I was here.

I guess that's one pleasurable thing I could do when
they let me out-- check out romance novels from the
library, tell them my mother's bedridden, and I read
to her. Joe knows I love them and he likes it when I
relate the sex scenes, whispering to him as we fuck
about heaving breasts glistening in moonlight,
kiss-swollen lips, slippery warmth, pulsing shafts,
giant pecs and iron abs.

"Have a good one, Andy," Tull said as they buzzed me
into the library.

"Thank you, Officer Tull. You too." I smiled before I
stepped through. A decade ago, I had a crush on him--
used to fantasize about him fucking me in the showers,
and sneaking me into the office so I could suck his
cock. He's happily married, as far as I know, has a
couple of kids in high school, likes to fly fish and
bow hunt. You can learn a lot about a CO by listening
to them shoot the shit with each other. Harrison has
been married three times, and always keeps a chick or
two on the side. Maybe one day he'll admit to himself
he'd rather have a boyfriend.

+ + +

"Harrison says you were pulling it for him yesterday,"
I said under my breath to Joe, holding a dust mop,
pretending to be busy behind him while he scanned the
new fiction shelf.

He pulled a Tom Clancy down and flipped through the
pages. "I see it as my civic duty to give the guy jack
off material."

"He says his kid has a bigger dick than you do."

"Now see, that's just wrong. He shouldn't have any
idea how big his kid's dick is."

"You're a good man to worry about that, Joe.
Personally, I've been picturing you jacking off all
morning and by now, I'm hard as hell."

"Maybe you can show me where I might find Generally
Accepted Principles of Accounting and we can look into
your problem."

I loved Joe. "Right this way, Sir."

The accounting section was usually deserted. In fact,
most of the business in the library these days was no
where near the books, but on the computers.

"Touch me," I told him, holding the back of his hand
against the bulge in my pants, while I humped it. "Did
you really whack off for the cameras in the shower?"

"Yeah."

Still holding him against me, I used my free hand to
grope him, feeling his cock rapidly firm. I kissed and
licked his neck, below his ear. "Shit," I whispered.
"I love watching you beat it." It was true. Watching
any guy jack off got me hot as hell. I wondered, for a
moment, if Harrison knew that or if he was just
guessing. Shit, he probably gets off on it, too. I
imagined him pulling it as he watched Joe, spurting
his hot seed all over the video monitor.

For the record, Joe's cock, is not small. It isn't
large either. Probably about six, six and a half with
a decent girth. A good mouthful, and a good assful.

"You just love my cock," Joe whispered before kissing
me, rimming my mouth with his tongue, making me
quiver.

"Yeah." I was breathless, moaning more than talking.
He turned his hand around, squeezing and rubbing my
cock and balls through my issued blues. With a groan,
I pulled open his trousers, pushed the zipper down and
reached inside his briefs, but he pushed me away and
pulled his cock out, stroking himself. I took a step
back to watch.

"Oh fuck, yeah." My groin was boiling.

"You like this?" Joe he whispered, his hand slowly
pulling his dick forward, stretching it away from his
body, squishing the shiny, spongy head in the tight
channel of his fist, then sliding it back, slowly, to
grip the base tight making it extra hard while turning
the head a deep, dark purple. With the other hand, he
was pulling the skin away from his balls. I licked my
lips, imagining the taste of him.

We were insane to be doing it in the middle of the
library, accounting section or no. They wouldn't let
me out if they caught me. I opened my pants, grabbing
my own slippery knob.

"Yeah, Joe. Yeah, like that." Fuck, he was hot as
hell. My balls were already tingling, pulling up
tight. With a brutal squeeze I backed off, hoping the
pain would slow things down a little.

"Suck it," Joe said. "Suck my fuckin' cock." He took a
step toward me, dropping his nuts, reaching for me.
"Suck it," he hissed again. I didn't reply, but felt a
fresh burp of goo come out of my dick at his demand.
Before my next heart beat, I was on my knees slurping
his juicy head, ready to swallow him deep. Three beats
later, I was deep throating him and yanking myself in
earnest.

In my experience, there's no such thing as languorous
sex in prison. Sex here is furtive, hasty and rarely
satisfying for more time than it takes to restore
clothing and lower your heart rate. Unless, of course,
you're masturbating. I can spend quality time
pleasuring myself in my cell, all night long if I want
to.

As soon as his hips began bucking in the syncopated
rhythm of eminent orgasm, I pulled back, hand still
pumping, to catch his sperm on my tongue.

"Fuck, fuck... coming, I'm coming!" His exclamation
was choked as spurt after spurt of salty, bitter,
bleachy fluid filled my mouth. I shot my own load a
moment later.

+ + +

I dreamt about Danny-boy and woke up feeling as low as
I ever had. Sure, my anxiety over the great unknown of
my more and more immediate future had a lot to do with
it, but spending time with Danny-boy in my sleep
always left me sad. The content didn't matter-- if it
was a sweet, sexy, nonsense dream or bits of the
nightmare that resulted in me coming here 20 years
ago, I still crashed afterward.

"You working today?" Fucking Harrison.

"No, Sir," I said, surly as I've ever been, and pulled
the blanket over my head, avoiding the bright light he
was shining in my face.

"What? You sick Andy?" A shift in the light told me
the flash light was moving over me and my shoe box of
a cell. "You know you forfeit the porter job if you
aren't sick enough to be admitted to the infirmary."
I knew, I'd been here longer than he had.

"Not going to work today." I crossed my fingers he
wouldn't decide to have some fun with me, forcing me
out of bed, or taking me to the infirmary. Today was
my birthday, and in honor of that and my dream of
Danny-boy, I promised myself a good, day-long sulk. A
genuine pity party. I wasn't going to get out of bed
except to piss.

"All right then, but don't come crying to me when
you're out of dough." I let go of the breath I'd been
holding.

Besides lying there feeling sorry for myself, there
was only one other thing I really wanted. A joint. I
couldn't remember the last time I'd been high. Years.
Sharing a joint was something I used to do with
Danny-boy. It was how we met, sneaking out of seventh
grade study hall to get stoned.

My sister, Ari, and I are a racial and ethnic
mishmash, the products of a century of defiled
cultures and people. Danny-boy was Irish, through and
through, both sets of grandparents off the boat. His
skin was the most exotic thing I'd ever seen or
touched-- so fair it seemed to glow, particularly in
street light. There were parts of him so soft, the
skin so translucent, that I was afraid I might break
it just by touching my lips to him. But he was a rough
and tumble boy, never a delicate thing, despite his
beauty.

The first time we got stoned together, it was pouring
rain. We squeezed between the chained doors of the
maintenance shed to the left of the gym, near the
playing fields. It was warm inside, a thick, loamy
smell of cut grass, and crowded with riding and push
mowers, trimmers, edgers, chalk markers and various
garden tools. We shared the joints each of us had
brought along, discovering that we liked the same
music and hated the same teachers. In addition to
study hall, we had two other classes together, social
studies and math. We also, both of us, confessed to
getting horny as hell and jerking off whenever we got
wrecked alone.

We became the best of friends, meeting each day to get
stoned, either in the shed when it rained, or when it
didn't, in the teacher's parking lot. Mr. Connors, our
Social Studies teacher, never locked his car. It was a
traveling trash can, the back seat stuffed with
hamburger wrappers, soda cans, newspapers, a Playboy
magazine, a few issues of Time-- three years apart,
and more. But the prospect of digging deeper scared
us. We were afraid we'd find spoiled food, or possibly
even the bones of a forgotten pet.

Mr. Connors was a heavy smoker, with yellowed fingers
and teeth, and breath so bad you could smell him
huffing and puffing from half way across the room. The
ashtray in his ancient Toyota was always overflowing,
the floor around it littered with escaped butts and
gray with ash. Often, we found it smoldering with the
remains of cigarettes enjoyed on the way to school
that morning. The vinyl seats were pox-marked with
burns, and the car stunk, covering the smell of our
dope easily.

It wasn't until high school that we started hanging
out after school. Danny-boy's father kicked it and he,
together with his six brothers and sisters, and his
mother moved into our neighborhood. We walked to and
from school together, got stoned, and hung out at a
comic book store near where we lived. The hippie who
ran it liked us hanging around, and it didn't take me
long to figure out he liked Danny-boy in much the same
way I did. Maybe even liked me a little that way, too,
though he never acted on it.

Just before Halloween in my senior year, my Nana got
sick, and Mama sat me down to tell me I had to be the
man of the family and take care of Ari like she was my
own daughter while she was away in Manilla seeing to
Nana. We had no father, none that I could remember
anyway. He died in Vietnam a year after Ari was born.

Anyway, that's how Ari and I came to be living alone.
A month hadn't gone by before Danny-boy was living
there.

"You don't have four sisters, man. You don't know how
hard it is to fuckin' piss in the morning, let alone
whack off. Most days I gotta pee out the window when I
wake up. I'm lucky to get a shower on Sundays."

"Move in with me," I said. "You can stay in my room.
Ari doesn't spend much time in the bathroom. Come on,
Danny-boy."

You can be sure it was blissful torment having him
there. I got to see him in his briefs, hear him
whacking off. Join him, even, there in the dark,
laughing later on. I mixed up our laundry on occasion,
slipping into his underwear instead of mine on
purpose. I stayed half hard all day at the thought of
his cock having been right where mine was.

Just before Thanksgiving, things started to change
between Ari and Danny-boy. Initially they had pretty
much ignored each other. Then they began fighting.
Danny-boy would tease her, relentlessly, often making
her cry. Again and again I had to take him aside and
talk to him about it. I knew she was a pest, but she
was my sister. He just laughed. But within a week, she
was giving him as good as she got. I was proud of her.


The Friday after Thanksgiving, they were going at it,
bicker, bicker, bicker-- had actually been going at it
since Danny-boy's mother set the turkey on the table
the day before. I couldn't stand it anymore, the
television flying between channels every five seconds,
pillows, socks, kleenex flying, swiping at one another
with `cunt' or `dickwad'. I split, going to the store
for a root beer.

When I got back it was quiet, no sniping back and
forth, just the sound of the TV, on one channel. I let
myself in as quiet as I could be and got the shock of
my life. They were stretched out on the couch,
Danny-boy on top of my sister, lip locked, hips
pumping. Her shirt was open, his was pushed up. They
were making soft, needy sounds-- slurps and whimpers,
ahs and grunts.

These people hated each other.

"What the hell?" I think I said. They startled,
Danny-boy nearly fell off my sister and the couch. He
looked at me, cheeks flushed, as if he'd been caught
at something he wasn't supposed to be doing. His lips
were a swollen mess. Plump and wet, glistening, and he
was panting, obviously aroused as well as startled. I
saw my baby sister's nipples, brown bullets pointing
to the sky.

I was aware of pain in my chest, like my heart was
trying to punch its way out of my ribcage. My vision
was growing darker from the edges in, going fuzzy in
the center.

Danny-boy had been kissing my sister, kneading her
breasts. And Ari, she had been kissing my Danny-boy,
tasting him, feeling his skin against her, his body
pressed against hers. Danny-boy licked his lips,
watching me, saying nothing.

I couldn't breathe because of the pain in my chest. A
moment later, I was falling, my knees had gone to
liquid. My ears were pounding in time with my heart,
so I couldn't hear Danny-boy, Ari or even myself
gasping on the floor, my fumbled root beer spread out
before me in a brown foamy puddle. My Danny-boy. My
sister.

Ari went to her room and closed the door and Danny-boy
went to the kitchen for a rag.

"You probably think I don't know," he said, mopping up
the mess on the floor. "But I do. I know you got a
thing for me, always have." I tried to crawl away. The
shock was wearing off, and humiliation was setting in,
alongside a shattered heart. "Hang on, Andy. Hear me
out."

I sat back on my ankles, not having any desire to turn
around and show my face.

"I got a thing for your sister." The words sliced
deep. "She's funny like you, and pretty, and sexy and
she seems to like me all right." With that, I was back
on my knees, crawling away again. "But the way you
look at me, the way you're just... always there." He
walked around me, dropping down, blocking my path.
Placing his hands on each side of my face, he forced
me to look at him.

"Poor Andy," he said, and tears of anger joined the
tears of hurt streaming down my face. He leaned in to
kiss me. A gentle brush of his lips against mine. And
then he deepened it, pushing with his tongue to open
me up, stroking my lips, my teeth, my tongue. I
couldn't help the moans or the additional tears. His
fingers were in my hair, pulling me up and closer.

Hesitating for only the briefest second, I put my arms
around his neck. He didn't stop me. His lips were
fruity tasting, possibly from the strawberry flavored
papers we'd used to roll a joint earlier. Possibly
from my sister's lip gloss.

Eventually, we were forced to part for need of oxygen.


"Fuck yeah," Danny-boy grinned. "You made me hard,
Andy." He adjusted himself in his jeans. We burst out
laughing and I leaned forward, wanting to kiss him
again, pushing him back, until he was lying beneath me
so I could grind my hard cock against his. The
laughter faded pretty quick. For me the feeling was
electric. Clearly it was something he liked as well
because he grabbed by hips, holding me closer, rubbing
himself against me.

Danny-boy wasn't the first person I'd kissed, but he
was the first person I loved, and that made this so
much better. Combined with the attention my dick was
receiving and the idea that he wanted me like this,
made for a real quick trip to Spurtsville.

It might have been a perfect moment, if it hadn't been
for Ari. When my balls pulled up short, I tore my lips
from Danny-boy's, trying to breathe, trying to let him
know I was going to blow my load. All I could manage
was an ugh-ugh-ugh, but he swore and followed me over
the edge, punching his dick against mine, making his
own delirious, sexy, guttural sounds. Almost
immediately, we were aware of Ari standing beside us.

If I hadn't just shot my load, I would have wilted
then and there. It was hard to read the look on her
face, but I felt guilty as shit. Moments ago this was
her boyfriend. Now he was mine. I looked at Danny-boy
who was looking at her-- I assumed-- trying to figure
out what he was going to say. I slid off him, keeping
my crotch to the floor, praying there wouldn't be a
telltale wet spot on the front of his jeans.

"You were right," Ari said finally. Danny-boy smiled
and looked at me before turning his attention to back
to her.

"Told you," he said.

"What?" I asked.

Ari answered, arms crossed, still looking down on us.
"You're queer. I didn't believe him when he said you
liked him like that."

"Well--" I started.

"Andy, there's a catch to this."

"A catch?" I got a bad feeling, like he was going to
say it was a one time thing, that it hadn't meant
anything. Or maybe, that it was a test or a joke.

My heart, which had just begun to slow down, started
to pound.

"I told you, I got a thing for your sister. And," he
raised his voice, hastening to add, based on the look
of betrayal I could feel on my face, "and I got a
thing for you. The thing is, I really like girls,
Andy. I don't like guys. Just you."

I waited a moment before answering, hoping my voice
would work. "So what are you saying?"

"We're going to have to share him." Ari told me, the
same way she might have said we'd share a pizza-- like
it was obvious, and so what.

When had they had time to discuss all this, I
wondered. I'd only been out of the apartment for ten
minutes. She sat down on the couch and Danny-boy
climbed to his feet.

"Shit, I'm sticky as hell," he said with a laugh,
pulling at the front of his jeans, extending his free
hand to me. "Come on, have a seat, Andy. Let's work
this out."

And that's how things got started between me and
Danny-boy. And Ari.

+ + +

"You okay?" Joe was standing outside my cell. I didn't
bother to sit up or answer. When you have no privacy,
acknowledgment or the lack of it becomes your walls
and doors. "Come on, Andy. Talk to me. What happened?"
I was right, he didn't remember my birthday. Dickwad.
"You going to the yard today? It's a beautiful day." I
said nothing. Lowering his voice so only I would hear,
he said, "I'll do you later, Baby. However you want."
I couldn't care less. Let him find a new bitch. It's
not like he thinks of me as a friend, much less
anything more than that. Just a couple of holes to use
when he needs relief. "Fine, be that way," he said at
last. And then under his breath, as he turned away,
"God-damned drama queen."

Danny-boy never did that. I mean, don't get me wrong,
while Danny-boy had "a thing" for me and for Ari, my
sister was the top dog. She said jump, he said how
high, and made me jump along with him. He'd tease me,
that's true enough, but it was good natured teasing.
And it wasn't just sex. He was still my best friend.
There were times when we'd all be sitting on the couch
watching TV and he'd hold my hand. Just hold my hand--
that's tenderness. That's something real. He never
actually said it, but he made me feel his love.
Actions speak lower than words, right?

Joe isn't my first "daddy" here. I'm sure that comes
as no surprise, but in a lot of ways, he's been the
best. My first, Jamal, (a kappa poster boy if ever
there was one), used to beat me as often as he fucked
me. In fact, he liked to fuck me and then beat me. I
finally figured out it was because he liked fucking me
a little too much, you know? He'd get so excited
rubbing his dick over mine, or jacking both of us off
in his huge fist. More than once I saw him licking his
thick lips while he was working us together and I knew
he was thinking about sucking me off. Most of the
time, he'd come almost as soon as he worked himself
inside me and stroked a time or two. He never lasted
more than a dozen. Afterward, feeling sick about what
he'd done, he'd beat the snot out of me. But beating
me also turned him on, so then he'd rape my mouth.
That's what he called it, clearly separating it from
the way he fucked me. Raping my mouth, he was
absolutely brutal, giving no thought to spit lips, a
bruised jaw, swollen eyes, or a bleeding nose as he
held my head and drilled me. If a tooth accidentally
nicked him, he'd pull out and slap me senseless before
shoving himself back in. Depending on his level of
enjoyment, I might get a swift kick in the kidney or
the ribs after he'd zipped up. Sometimes, just an
"affectionate" slap on the face. Rather than say thank
for the blow job or fuck, Jamal was more apt to
express his dissatisfaction, again, related to his own
feelings about our intimacy:

"You want to go back to bein' block pussy, just keep
it up. You want my protection, you serve me, faggot."

For the record, I was not the block pussy. I've been
raped a few times, but it's not like I was passed
around from inmate to inmate. There are some sniveling
sigmas who do their time on their knees or holding
their ankles, but I'm not one of them.

Not three weeks after his release, Jamal took a
chest-full of buckshot trying to rob a liquor store
and died in route to the hospital. I didn't mourn.

tbc...