Date: Fri, 3 Jul 2015 15:44:20 +1000
From: M Pirkis <a12807703@gmail.com>
Subject: Prison - The Real Deal

Prison – The Real Deal

by Castor (a12807703@gmail.com)

I got really pissed off when I get out of prison after an eighteen month
stint and a friend of mine started to tell me what it had been like.
Charlie really was a twit and I really got angry because he pretended to
know how my life had been for the last eighteen months when he really had
no idea. When I questioned him Charlie told me about the Nifty site and how
it had all these stories about what it was like to be in prison and what it
was like to be a young man in prison. I finally got Charlie to show me the
site and started reading some of the stories and I have to say there are a
lot of people out there who live in fantasyland. There is no fucking way
that prison is about a bit of suffering and then the long-term happy
families. That really is beyond belief. Charlie challenged me to write the
truth so for everyone out there the following is just how it is.

First off I have to say that prisons vary undoubtedly from country to
country and state to state. Maybe there are prisons with the lovey-dovey
relationships described by so many authors but I sure as shit don't know of
one.

The first thing you have to understand about entering prison, particularly
if you're young and not completely unattractive, is that you are going to
be humiliated beyond your wildest dreams and you're going to be made to
suffer for being there and being fresh meat. The next thing you have to
understand is the smell. Prison has only one smell and that is of human
body odour and suffering and if you think that you can have cologne or
aftershave to get rid of the smell then think again – those things are the
same as alcohol and of course that's banned.

The next thing you learn about prison is that the guards are generally have
an IQ about that of a lump of concrete. There may be some that have a
higher intelligence but let's face it anyone taking such a job is doing it
for the money not because he or she aspires to become a rocket scientist.
So when you go from the prison van that delivers you, you take off your
clothes because you're told to do so, you shower, get deloused and then
you're given clothes that don't fit you, a toothbrush and some paste and
some toilet paper and off you go.

In my prison my first stop was with a medico he checked to make sure that I
had no illnesses, was HIV-negative and was mentally stable in relative
terms. A great deal of interest seemed to be focused on my sexual
preferences and the fact that I was married and had a child and had never
engaged in any gay shit were all noted and duly passed on to the guards.
There is no privacy and so there is no sense in griping about the fact that
the guards can tell your fellow prisoners all about you.

If like me you're in your early 20s (or even younger) when you enter the
cell block the smell hits you immediately and then the noise consumes your
consciousness. Men watch you, scream at you, make obscene suggestions about
what they would like to do with you and all the while you have no option
but to go where the guards point you.

Your initial accommodation can vary. I was put into a cell on my own but
some of the other prisoners who arrived with me will put into cells which
were already occupied by one other person. Now it might be thought that
this was the luck of the draw but I have to say that is far from the truth.
This was my first time in prison and therefore I was viewed as a relatively
valuable commodity. The others, who had been in prison reform despite their
young ages, were more or less bought even before they arrived. There were
two men about my age who had been out for less than a year before being
caught rather stupidly committing the same crime that they had before. As I
understand it they had each become the property of a long-term inmate on
their first stint and were therefore return to that person as soon as they
were processed. That didn't mean that that is where they were going to
spend their time, but it did reflect the continuity of ownership.

My situation was different as was that of two others who were in the same
batch in the prison van with me. One was of a coloured persuasion, clearly
straight and clearly terrified and, like me, was put into a single cell
whilst the prisoners and the guards worked out his disposition. The other
was a guy who was slightly younger than me but had rolls of fat so gross
that I doubt that anyone wanted to go near him. He waddled around when we
arrived and was put in a separate cell on his own where I suspect he was
going to spend the rest of his sentence. That was only my suspicion and I
never really did find out what happened to him.

My cell had two bunk beds a toilet and hand basin, a small desk and a metal
stool all of which were bolted down and immovable. When the cell door shut,
blocking out much of the noise outside, I felt a very weird sense of being
totally disconnected from reality. I had to sit down and think very hard to
admit what my reality was and I slowly gave up my disembodied existence and
settled into the truth.

I saw a film once which portrayed a kid about my age, perhaps a little
younger, in a prison which I think was located in Canada but I'm not sure.
In the film and he gets given a guitar without being told that he has to
pay for it and when he has nothing in his prison account to make the
payment then he is basically told that he has to pay for the guitar with
his butt. The story goes on, the kid gets raped and then does a swan dive
off the first floor balcony – all nice and neat.

If I had any belief in that film I guess I would have cozied up to somebody
and asked them to send me a refrigerator and in return – well you get the
idea: refrigerators and guitars don't get smuggled into prisons. A lot does
though, mainly drugs and cigarettes and the occasional bit of porn but
that's about it and since I am not into drugs and cigarettes and have a
fertile imagination I can probably do without the porn as well.

That first day apparently was very busy outside my cell although for me it
was just the first of 540 odd days that I had to spend separated from
family and friends. I knew that my wife and my child would be looked after
by my extended family, so that was a relief but I also knew that my
resources inside were going to be somewhat limited since money on the
outside was scarce to say the least.

I didn't find out what happened outside my cell that day and the days that
followed for quite some time. When I did find out some of the pieces of the
jigsaw started to make sense.

I guess I came into prison expecting trouble and believing the conventional
wisdom that at some point, most probably in the showers, I was going to be
faced with a choice between seeking protection and getting gang banged.
When I was taken down to the showers I was certainly conscious of being
assessed by the other prisoners but no one made any approach to me, there
were no threats and indeed there were very few salacious comments. When I
got my towel and dried myself, dressed and return to my cell I breathed a
sigh of relief that everything had gone smoothly and without any real sense
of threat.

The biggest challenge that day came at dinner when I queued for food and
then was faced with the choice of where to sit. When I came off the food
line I became acutely conscious of the number of people in the vast room
who were looking at me. Now I knew better than to go and sit with one of
the racially homogenous groups and I didn't particularly like the thought
of eating with the steroid crowd of white folk and so I avoided making any
choice by simply going to a table where there was only one other person
already seated.

The other guy who had been put into a single cell near me came to the same
conclusion about where to set any walked over and sat down opposite me,
sweating from the fear he was experiencing. Just so the record is clear, I
was sitting there frightened so much that I could easily have soiled
myself. We got talking, Chris and I, and I guess we found some comfort in
the fact that we were both in the same boat, both equally as scared as one
another and both wondering what the hell was going to happen. He and I sort
of had a mutual fear society going and agreed that we would do our best to
stay together when out of our cells. Of course we were a little naive to
think that this was going to be a sustainable approach to our existence but
the simple thought of having somebody who was as shit scared as you about
was comforting at that time.

Chris and I both went out on to the yard and the following day and walked
around trying to ignore all the eyes that were following us and certainly
keeping away from all the groups which appeared to be ethnically based
gangs. At one stage we came in the area where the steroid crowd was working
out and quickly decided to move well away from that area although, in
reality, their cocks have probably shrunk so much from the abuse of their
bodies by steroids that the last thing they could have done was pose a risk
to our respective virginities. Mind you they could have probably crushed
our skulls with just one hand – better to steer clear.

It took a few days but Chris and I hooked up with a guy in his late 20s who
is doing a five-year stint. Sam had been inside for nearly 2 years and had
adjusted over that time to his reality and sort of kept to himself as much
as he could. It was from talking to Sam that Chris and I came to the
conclusion that it was better to keep family and friends away from the
prison since seeing them would only make the separation more difficult. I
followed through and sent a message to Katie to say that while I missed her
terribly I thought it was easier just to talk on the phone and that seeing
her and the baby in prison will be just too difficult. Chris didn't follow
through with his girlfriend but after one visit realised that Sam was right
and that it was easier not to see people on the outside.

Sam was fairly nice although he had some anger issues particularly when it
came to his cellmate who seem to have a chronic case of flatulence. From
time to time Sam seemed to be in a mood to throttle the guy although seemed
to me an unlikely murderer. On the yard Chris and I asked Sam about sex –
about not for!

Chris and I had already encountered a few of the guys who decided it was
profitable enough to play the role of fag and rent out their bodies. I
guess Chris was like me and according to the textbooks thought about sex at
least several times every five minutes. Sam told us in no uncertain terms
which end was up. Anyone who was HIV positive was segregated from the
general population but there were still people carrying STDs around and Sam
suggested extreme caution. He was pretty blunt when we discussed sex.
Basically there were three different categories of people in the joint.

The first category, by far the large majority, went without. The most they
would do we try and have a quiet wank when they hoped that their cellmate
wasn't awake. Some even went to their cribs during the day, screened them
off with a sheet and took their pleasure.

The second category were the fags who were allowed to ply their trade quite
openly because the guards found that having them available generally
reduced the level of violence.

Sam was quite frank about Chris and me falling into the third category of
fresh fish who would be given limited choices. Sam had heard through the
grapevine which is incredibly active in prison that some sort of deal was
being struck between the prison guards and a couple of the cell bosses
regarding our fate. Sam seemed to think that we were being auctioned off by
a couple of the guards and he said that we had two choices, either to be
turned out or to fight.

Neither Chris nor I were prepared to be turned out and we agreed that,
despite the chance of being seriously injured, we would fight. Sam gave
some hints about how to defend ourselves and how to make sure that our
first moved to repel boarders was effective by aiming at the knees of any
aggressor. Chris and I sort of practice as well is we could while we waited
for what Sam said was an inevitable confrontation.

The grapevine proved accurate even if Sam's advice proved less than
practical. The guards came to me one morning and told me that I was moving.
I was instructed to collect my meagre belongings and then to walk along the
landing to the new cell where I was to be quartered. It was clearly
occupied although the occupant was nowhere to be seen. I sensed that
whoever was my new cellmate had an unhealthy preoccupation with birds with
impossibly large tips because the walls were plastered with magazine cut
outs which left nothing at all to the imagination.

My cellmate, Raymond, actually caught up with me on the yard when I was
talking to Chris and Sam. At the time I was just telling them about the
move and how I was focused on aiming for my cellmate's knees when I was
called out by Raymond. I almost broke out in hysterical laughter because
the idea of having a go at his knees and trying to disabuse him of any
notion he might have regarding me was simply absurd. I am of average height
and weight but Raymond has a good 12 inches on me and there was no way on
earth that I was going to be able to kick the knee of the huge man.

I had to walk with Raymond, that much was obvious and as I did so I told
him that I was sorry intruding on his space but that are had no say in the
matter: I just did as I was told. Ray (he rather disliked `Raymond') made
it quite clear to me as he backed me up against a chain-link fence at the
side of the yard that my presence in his cell was it his specific request.
I responded by telling him that I really, truly was a married man and had
no desire or intention of engaging in any form of sex during my eighteen
month stint.

Ray seemed very understanding and said as much and then walked away leaving
me with the impression that I could indeed have a quiet and unremarkable
stay in prison. I don't think I was delusional or particularly naive in
thinking that my new cellmate might be prepared to leave me alone after
all, the walking mountain of a man might well be one of the large majority
of the did no more than wank. Equally I thought he might be one of those
who use the fags and was happy to pay whatever the going tariff was for the
friends of their bodies.

Had I thought about the situation a little more clearly I might have been a
little more wary. But like anyone who just gets it to prison there are so
many things going on in your mind that thinking clearly and precisely is
very difficult. So when I got back to my cell after a shower that night and
Ray sat me down for a very brief discussion about options I was taken by
surprise. There were three options according to Ray, although I found that
there were indeed four.

Ray's options were to put out to him, to be turned out for the use of
anyone, or to fight and finish up with a shank in my kidney or my chest.
Ray he told me that he would allow me to think about it and it was during
the night when I was almost hyperventilating with fear that I realised that
there was a fourth option and that was to find a means of suicide. I didn't
get much sleep that night as I pondered the choices.

Having a fight and getting a shank in my guts really didn't seem terribly
appealing and I realised that there was some practical difficulties in
committing suicide although I figured that if I put my mind to it I could
find a way. The really big downside for both those options was that I
wouldn't see my wife or my baby again and really they were far more
important to me than anything else. Being turned out basically putting a
neon sign over my head saying `gang bang me' seemed to be the second worst
choice, ranking behind submitting to Ray's demands. The more I thought
about it the more convinced I became that the least worst option had to be
the one I would adopt. I told myself repeatedly that if Ray wanted a blow
job like the ones my wife gave me from time to time, so be it. I was far
less relaxed about the thought of him wanting something else.

Come morning I told Ray of my decision and he put his arm around me and
congratulated me on my common sense. He gave me instructions as to how he
wanted me to prepare myself and he made it quite clear that his interests
extended well beyond just getting a blow job. I tried to reason with him,
begged even, but his demands were set in concrete. Out on the yard I talked
to Sam and Chris about what had transpired. Sam seemed to think that I was
rather lucky because Ray had a veritable gang of compliant partners and it
was Sam's view that I would probably not have to put out for a Ray more
than one night a week. Sam didn't appear to understand why I didn't find
that particularly agreeable and it was only later that I came to understand
that Sam was in fact playing the role of catcher to his cellmate as pitcher.

Chris that morning was somewhat concerned about his own situation but his
uncertain position was clarified by lunchtime when he too was moved into a
currently occupied cell. I didn't see Chris for quite a few days after that
although I think I heard him that first night. If the screen didn't come
from crevice then there was some other unfortunate who was not at all
enjoying the attention he was receiving.

For my part in the most difficult aspect of being with Ray was that he had
serious personal hygiene problems which made me want to throw up every time
he was near me. I guess even that challenge was like the smell of prison
itself in that you become used to it eventually. I have to say that whilst
giving Ray head was something I could rationalise because it was something
that I received from my girlfriend and then my wife, I really could not
rationalise in my own mind the need to accommodate Ray in my butt. I
suppose if you are married like me and your wife enjoyed taking it up the
butt that it might be possible for a guy to rationalise doing so himself in
the same manner that I rationalised giving head. Yet my wife had never
suggested my doing so to her and I had actually never thought about doing
it to her – perhaps our sex life was heading towards boredom and routine, I
don't know.

Like every situation there is upside and downside. Of course the upside was
that I was protected by Ray and therefore the many predators around the
prison stayed well clear of me. Another advantage was that Ray had
significant resources and could therefore get me liquor which allowed me to
dull my senses before I submitted. The downside was that Ray could take me
when he wanted and, as he did with some of his other boys, punk me out. The
other part of the downside was that for a few days my walk gave away my
status vis-a-vis Ray and that was the subject of a certain amount of
unwelcomed and demeaning comment.

Chris found his cellmate to be borderline psychotic and after his first
encounter was taken to the infirmary where he received a few stitches and
was allowed to recover. I really felt sorry for Chris and remonstrated with
the guards when he was returned back to the same cell. I begged Ray to have
words with Chris, cellmate but Ray refused because that was against the
accepted code of conduct.

To complete the picture I think is important given all the crap on the
Internet. Neither Sam, Chris nor I found one iota of affection or
attraction to our cellmates. We spent most of our time begging the guards
to reassign asked to different cells – those occupied by inmates who were
part of the `wank only' brigade. None of us came to accept our positions
and our subservience only increased our anger and our disgrace. Now that I
am out I can understand why people say that it doesn't matter what goes on
inside because people are locked up for very good and sound reasons. That
might be so in terms of the law that I have yet to find a law that says
that you go to prison for a specific number of years and there you will
submit your body for the most vile abuse by the strongest person who wants
it.

If some people are gay and find their ideal man in prison, good luck to
them. I won't be abusive to the abuses, just in case I meet them again in
the hellhole that is society's answer to those of us who rightly deserve to
be punished.

©Castor (a12807703@gmail.com)