Odd bleach dating game
In prison your reputation precedes you, follows you, and often haunts you in a primal, often Biblical manner. “I don’t know, and I don’t give a fuck,” I said, the wine still talking. “Man, if that cat got ahold of you he’d rip your arms off, he’s so bad.” “I can’t tell,” I said. He’d gone to the state reform school not much more than a scrawny child, and had been brutally raped, abused, and passed around by the older teens. By then he’d developed a taste for homosexuality, and the weak prey of predators past morphed into a predator himself. He’d never had a life in society, never had a job, never drove a car. He was insecure and uneducated, and had no skills but one. I’ve spent my life in prison, and I’m not a germaphobe by any stretch. Heaven help the cowardly, ratting child molester who exists at the very bottom of the pecking order and food chain. The first thing I’m gonna do is snap that fuckin’ leg at the knee, then I’m gonna snap the other one, then the party begins.” He’d never said a word, but his eyes lasered fury and anger into me. He breathed in and out several times, turned around, seized the steel bar loaded with weights, screamed, and flung the massive barbell into the air over his head. “He hauled ass.” “Yeah, he did.” We went back to finish the dregs of tomato puree buck. I had a couple cups of that tomato puree buck those guys in the kitchen made, and it went to my head. Now he was a grown man, having spent most of his life in captivity, turning into that which he’d feared and hated most as a helpless youth. Hell, I eat chow off those greasy, plastic trays every day, but at least they run them through hot water in some semblance of sanitation. PART THREE When Mama Herc came to me about the ninja and that boy, Brian, I felt very sad. All that was missing in those jail cells to make it any scarier was crackling campfires and hooting owls.
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When the bus pulls in, he’ll be standing on the side with the other faggots and booty bandits picking out the fish and the fresh meat. Sex in prisons.” Untold thousands heard those apocryphal tales of impending doom at the hands of Mama Herc, but the reality was quite different. If he wanted to do something here, I was in trouble. Months later Herc signed up for a prisoner self-help program where men spend days sitting in a circle and telling their life stories, among other activities. I’m not talking about those old “B” movie scenes where the big hairy guy with a handmade blade shanks [stabs] the hapless prisoner for refusing to star in a gang rape, grimaces of pain, blood swirling down the drain, last words of “I love you, Momma,” before the poor guy curls up and dies on the tiles. You know I had a thing about that boy for awhile.” “I didn’t know that, Herc, but I’m not surprised.” “He was fine at one time, before he got sick.” I said nothing. We were standing in the hallway in front of my cell.
I’d been in jail for so long, had been in so many knockdown drag-out fights over food trays, the TV or telephone, that I’d developed a reputation as “standup” — one of the most revered praises, meaning that I wasn’t afraid, would fight, wouldn’t snitch. He reached across and my hand disappeared into his. I tried to shake back, but I could feel the bones in my hand crackling. Herc opened up, and I learned the terrible truth behind his chain gang legend. He turned to the weight pile, desperate to add size and become strong, and in a couple years, he’d spurted upward, at fifteen, bigger and stronger than most fully-grown men. He was truly institutionalized, a product of his environment, and life in a “free society” was as alien to him as life on Mars or Jupiter. Anytime there was a dispute of a fact Mama Herc would bring the arguing parties to me. He knows everything.” Not quite, but more than most of them. Nowadays the showers are scary not from knives but from germs, leftovers from consensual acts clogging the pipes and floating sudsy sewage out into the hallways, catching those strolling unaware in flip-flops on a slippery stretch, skidding and cartwheeling, splashing onto their backsides into the mire. Men passed by, staring, then averting their eyes at the incongruous scene, the massive black homosexual crying on the shoulder of the straight white dude comforting him.
” “Mama Herc grabbed me by the throat with one hand, picked me up in the air, pulled me toward him, kissed me right dead on the lips, and grinned at me.” Groans and yechs resound. “Mama Herc looked me right in the eye and said, ‘White boy, I’m gonna suck your dick.’ And he did. “When he got done, he squeezed my neck a little bit, just to let me know he could pinch off my head if he wanted to, and told me, ‘Now you’re gonna suck mine.’ ” Louder gasps and groans. “If you were pitching and he was catching, and he had it, the odds are a lot better than if the roles were reversed, if he were pitching and you were catching.” Herc dropped his head, then looked at me. “We was playing all positions, my man, back and forth.” I couldn’t say anything.
“Mama Herc’s still up there waiting for you boys to show up. “We straight,” he said, meaning no hard feelings, and resumed scouring his tray. I put my hand on his shoulder as scant comfort, one friend to another, and the big man began crying, whether for himself or the lost boy, I did not presume to know. I couldn’t reach around him, he was too big, but at least I could reach to his back and pat him as my grandmother had done me when I was a little boy, hurt, crying from a stubbed toe.