Date: Fri, 8 Jul 2011 17:46:07 -0400
From: Sean Williams <williamscold@gmail.com>
Subject: Dean's Getaway, Chapter 1 (Prison)

[I usually do not put disclaimers before jumping right in to the narrative,
but if you are under the age of 18, material of an illicit nature is
illegal in your country, state, province or territory, or if you are not
interested in reading a story involving adult situations and violence, read
no further.  If you have a pair of balls, keep reading.]


Chapter 1


	When I saw him again, I knew it was him; it was the same kid with
the backwards Kansas City Royals baseball cap, the hearing aid looped
behind his right ear, and the big and expectant brown eyes that had not
dimmed in the two years since I had seen him last.  When I last saw him, it
was a lot like this.  I was down on my luck.  I never got his name.

	"Are you from Kansas City?" I would ask one day soon.

	"Yeah," he would reply.  His words were short, spoken quickly; he
didn't look at me as he said them.  He didn't have to.  Being only inches
away from him had gotten my heart rate up (like jogging up three flights of
stairs on a moment's notice) and it took all of my restraint to keep myself
from pinning him to the ground and fucking him right there.  He was that
fucking cute.

	But that hasn't happened yet.  When is now?  Now is July 15, 2010;
it's a Monday.  Unfortunately for me, I am back in a place that I sure as
hell do not want to be: in jail in a small town in New Mexico.  Tumbleweed
and shit blowing by outside my barred window.  Before you start picturing
me as a tatted up felon with a prison bitch I call "Chip", a "fiance" on
the outside that I have never met (she sends me letters and pink frilly
underwear), and a criminal record ten years long to match my bad attitude,
let me just say that I'm a good guy.  At least my Mom thinks so.  I spent
much of my younger years in juvey for minor things like stealing CDs (they
were overpriced anyway) or breaking into school after hours (don't ask me
to explain that), and now, at 29, I find myself in a jail just off a desert
road, brought in on a misdemeanor charge.

	I don't know who's reading this, but I imagine you live on a nice
cul-de-sac, your house has a white picket fence and a closely-trimmed lawn;
you probably have neighbors with names like "Todd", "Chad", and "Amy" whose
walk-in closets are stocked with J. Crew, Land's End and Ralph Lauren; the
cops in your neighborhood are fat and happy, they don't have a whole lot to
do other than give out speeding tickets, and you know them all by name, so
as soon as I mentioned "jail" you probably pictured the worst.  You
imagined something unlike your sanitized world, where people like me only
make an appearance as crime committers on Nancy Grace, bogeymen your
insurer scares you with to get you to invest in homeowner's insurance.
Like, I said: you were certainly imagining the felon with prison tats
licking his shank and posting the pic on his Myspace.  Nothing wrong with
that, but that's not me.  I'll say it again.  I'm a nice dude.  No poet,
but a nice guy.

	Am I gay?  I'll leave that for you to figure out.  I can say that I
have had lots (Read: FUCKING LOTS) of pussy and I could give you a lecture
on how to get a woman to do anything you fucking want her to, but hell.
Life is complicated.  People are complicated.  I went to jail once before
on a misdemeanor and I never thought I would come back, and yet, here I am.
I guess you could call this time "zero" and at time zero, I have a sense of
what turns me on and what gets me off.  I never really thought that a guy
aged nineteen to twenty would get me off, but it looks like that is the
case, my friends.  But I can't say what'll float my beat five, teen,
fifteen years from now.  I seriously doubt I will ever be a six foot six
drag queen (cough... RuPaul... cough), but fuck, I don't know.  All I know
right now is that I met a kid in a blue baseball cap that I really wanted
to fuck.  Really, really wanted to fuck.

	I met him two years ago.  Well, I didn't really meet him.  I saw
him, here in a local jail in New Mexico.  I was waiting for a repeat
psychiatric evaluation, since the previous shrink had gotten a new job and
left the facility, when a kid with a blue backwards cap walked out of the
psychiatric office area and had a seat in the waiting area, right next to
me.  I had been in the present minimum security jail for about a week,
waiting for transfer to a state prison, and so it wasn't all that
surprising to me that this kid was wearing plain clothes.  I was looking
down at the floor when he sauntered out.  I saw beat-up Nikes, acid-wash
blue jeans, white V-neck shirt, and blue Kansas City Royals baseball cap,
in that order.  I wasn't surprised that he was dressed casual.  I was,
however, surprised that he decided to sit next to me.

	The kid leaned back in his chair and kept his eyes locked on the
wall, directly in front of us.  My heart had gone from Driving Miss Daisy
pace to Nascar and I started to sweat.  If you asked me then what was going
on I wouldn't have been able to say, but obviously, there was some sort of
primal attraction at work.  I don't know if I would have felt it as
strongly as I did if he had not sat next to me, but I can still feel it
even now (like a soldier relives combat) as if it had only just happened,
and was not a memory from two years ago.  As the kid (remember, I didn't
know his name yet) sat next to me, I went through a host of questions in my
mind (words that I would never say):

	"What are you in for?"

	"Did you get Dr. Yamamoto?  He's a fucking asshole."

	"Where you from, bro?"

	"What's your name?"

	"Do you live around here?  You don't look like you're from these
parts."

	"Can I see the tag on the back of your shirt?  Yup!  Like I
thought: 'Made in Heaven'."

	"You're not crazy, are you?"

	"What block are you in?  Do you want to come over to my block
before curfew and suck my dick?"

	"God, you're cute.  How old are you?"

	"Do I know you from somewhere?"

	"Are you from Tennessee..."

	You get the idea.  Before you start thinking I'm Nabokov and this
kid is twelve or something, let me make it clear that they do not send kids
eighteen or younger to this place.  The kid was at least nineteen and,
judging by the looks of him, he may have been right at the cutoff to gain
entry to the jail.  It goes without saying (since I already mentioned it)
that something about this kid really got me going from day one, as soon as
he walked out into the psych waiting area.  I don't know what it was
exactly (I don't think it was just the baseball cap), but he had something
that got my "Mini Me" excited.  Really excited.  And I'm a ballsy guy.  I'm
not the type to let an amorous interest just walk away without me getting a
word out, but that's just what I did.  When a guard came to escort the kid
to the visitor's area, I watched him as he walked away, but even then I
didn't say anything.  Not: "Take it easy" or "Hey, my name's David".
Nothing.  After he was about six feet away, almost out of the room, I
watched him disappear through his reflection in the glass of a door window.
Going.  Going.  Gone.  Fuck.

	I ended up staying in this transitional facility for three more
weeks, weeks in which I saw this kid at least every other day, but did I
ever get around to say anything, even: "What's up?"  Nope.  Nada.  Failure
to launch.  And I won't lie: I had plenty of opportunities.  But as big as
my dick is, and as large as my low-hanging balls are, I never had the nerve
to say one word to the kid.

	Fast forward two years.  Back to the present.  It's a Monday and a
bunch of us are sitting in the fenced-in yard behind the jail.  I like to
joke and call it "Recess" when the guards let us sit out here.  We're just
sitting around.  I don't smoke, but a few of the "friends" I've made on the
inside are passing around a cigarette and talking about which guards they
want to fuck up and how one guy we know flipped out on one of the prison
staff yesterday and got shipped away on "attempted murder" charges.  It's
kind of a weird thing being in jail.  I went to college and I'm usually on
the straight and narrow, so listening to these guys talk, there are several
times when my brain flashes the message: "What the fuck are you doing here?
Get out.  You don't belong here."  But, it's weird.  Something in me feels
like I belong here.  I don't know what it is, really.

	So we're sitting talking about stupid things when the door into the
yard opens and out walks this kid in the backward Kansas City Royals cap.
He walks out and covers his eyes, because it's the height of summer in the
fucking desert.  After looking around for a bit, he decides to walk over to
the bench that I'm sitting on.  There are three or four benches lined up
facing the back wall of the jail.  I'm the only one sitting on my bench
until this guy shows up.  I can see his tight body underneath his shirt,
but that's never been the attraction for me.  It's this sort of look he
has.  It's everything.  The kid seats himself about six inches from me, but
he doesn't look at me.

	I knew it was him.

	"God, it's fucking hot out here," I said, almost spontaneously.  I
regretted it as soon as I said it.

	The kid nodded, but he didn't say anything right away.  He wiped
his brow with the back of his hand and flicked off the sweat.  Then he
said: "I've seen you before."

	"What?"

	"I've seen you before.  You recognize me, right?"

	I laughed; I momentarily debated my answer.  Then I told myself
"Fuck it!" and figured I would just be honest.  If the kid thought I was a
loser or a weirdo or something, at least I would know that I was honest
from the get-go.

	"Yeah, I recognize you," I said calmly.  "You were in this place
about two years ago.  Same cap and everything."

	The kid moved his head in a way that was both a shake and a nod.
"Yeah, that was about two years ago."

	"Why did you sit next to me?"

	"What?"

	"Was it because you recognized me from before?  Just wondering."

	The kid shrugged.  "You seem safe," he said.  "I dunno, you seem
cool, like you wouldn't do anything weird.  God--"

	"Yup, you really just said that.  Don't get up.  I'm safe.  I mean,
this isn't a maximum security prison.  I'm not going to do anything shady.
I won't say: 'You can trust me, but'..."

	"I got it," said the kid.  "I can trust you.  You won't drop the
soap or try to shank me in the showers."

	Drop the soap?  Maybe.  "No, I'm cool," I said.

	"I don't see how you can get used to a place like this."

	"Who says I'm used to it?"

	"Sorry, man," said the kid.  "You just seem really calm.  I'm
Dean," he added, extending his hand.

	"Dave," I said, taking Dean's hand and shaking it.  "Dave Sanchez."
His hand was warm, his handshake was firm, and his fingertips were
calloused.  "Work with your hands?"

	"My uncle is a mechanic."

	"Is that why you're in here?" I asked.  "Something to do with cars,
I bet."

	He nodded.  "You caught me.  This is my second time, too."

	"Three strikes you're out."

	"I know," said Dean.  "But whatever.  I don't fucking care
anymore."

	I laughed again.  I don't know why, but I did.  "Don't even say
that.  That's bullshit."

	"Why not?  I don't.  I don't care."

	"You don't know what you're talking about," I said.  "You're young,
you're good-looking.  You could do whatever the fuck you wanna do.  Be a
doctor.  Be a fucking astronaut.  Join the circus.  Whatever.  You don't
know what's ahead for you.  Make sure you stay as far away from here as
possible."

	"Correct me if I'm wrong, man, but you've been here before.  This
is at least your second time, am I right?"

	"Yeah, but, I'll make sure it's my last."

	"Yeah, bro.  I think I've heard that before."

	As Dean spoke, he never looked at me, but I took every opportunity
to look at him.  I don't know if I can really describe Dean to you, reader.
There are some people where the attraction is purely cookie-cutter: the kid
that looks like the Abercrombie model, the dude that looks like he should
be on the cover of "Exercise For Men" magazine, the tanned surfer with the
ankle tattoo and the killer grin.  Sometimes, in stories like these, the
reader needs to constantly be reminded of what the beloved looks like, but
not Dean.  He was perfect.  There was me.  There was Dean.  And Dean was
the perfect fit for me.  He was maybe two or three inches shorter than me.
I'm on the muscley-side and Dean has got that slim muscularity.  The night
that Dean popped up again, I could not stop thinking about what it would be
like to have Dean's slim body underneath mine.  Big brown eyes.  Red lips
perfect for kissing and... other things.  I can't describe him to you, at
least not effectively.  I will tell you right now that I will not describe
Dean to you, readers, ever again.  At least not superficially.  All you
need to know is that I could not get Dean out of my mind.  He had a
time-share up there and his time was now.



	Over the next week, I ran into Dean practically every day.
Usually, it was out in the yard, where he first spoke to me, but
occasionally I saw him in the cafeteria, eating by himself.  Or walking
down the hall, thinking.  Being in jail's a weird thing.  It's definitely a
place where you want to have friends, a circle of some kind or another.
Unless you're big, bad, and ugly, you don't wanna be on your own in a place
where things can turn real ugly, real fast.  But you also have to be
careful about be being too buddy-buddy with other guys here, too.
Obviously, you have some guys that let themselves get fucked by other guys
for protection (I don't need to explain the prison bitch system), but if
you're not into that then you have to be careful.

	Do I need to say that I thought about making Dean my bitch?  I
didn't think about it seriously because what I felt for him was this weird
combination of sexual and abstract, so I didn't just want to have power
over him.  That would have been purely sexual.  I WANTED him.  I wanted him
to be mine.  I wanted to walk down the halls with my arm over his shoulder.
I wanted to protect him.  I wanted him to rest his head on my chest and
fall asleep like that.  I wanted him to be mine, a feeling that I had never
felt before for anyone.  I was too timid at this point to take my
conversation with him beyond the friendly talking-about-nothing type of
talk, and I figured I would never really get to know him in the way that I
wanted.  I was pretty sure that he was not into guys (just a vibe that I
got) and I knew that I would just scare him off if I charged forward like a
raging orangutan.  Something about Dean made me think that he needed
protection, but I didn't just want to be some guy taking advantage of him.
So we talked about simple things.  Eventually, I would ask him about
himself and he told me, almost one word at a time, over several days.

	"Are you from Kansas City?" I asked.

	"Yeah," he replied.

	I learned a little about his family; I told him about mine, at
least about the ones that were still around.  A lot of times, that initial
attraction dims when you get to know someone better, but as I learned more
about him I still wanted a piece of Dean, even if it was dry-humping his
leg like a horny dog.  But, as you already know, I was taking it slow.  I
figured if anything significant ever happened between me and Dean, it would
have to be because Dean initiated it.



	It just so happened that Dean did not have to do, or say, anything,
because Fate had something in store for the both of us.  Fate would throw
Dean into my lap for better or worse (better for me, at least).  It's too
bad that it had to go down the way that it did.

	One day during Dean's first week in the jail, I saw him walk into
the cafeteria with his head down.  It was after a rough night in which many
guys in the jail were gathered up in the middle of the night and taken to
federal prison when new charges surfaced.  So there was a lot of
flashlights, swearing guards, pissed off inmates: you get the picture.
After all that noise, a lot of the guys managed to fall asleep again, but I
couldn't.  I was partly agitated by all the activity, but I was horny, too.
Just as I was about to reach down and give my cock a nice tug, I heard the
sound of a baton banging slowly and regularly against prison bars, and then
I heard the sound of two loud prison guards.  I knew one of them was Tony,
but I couldn't quite make out the other guard based on the voice I heard.
After about ten minutes of talking (and the sound of a cell gate opening in
the middle), I heard what sounded like soft screams, maybe a whelp.  It was
late and I thought my mind was playing tricks.  In the middle of all that,
I started thinking about home and I fell asleep.

	So the next morning, I saw Dean walk in to the cafeteria about five
minutes after it was opened up for lunch.  Looking down, he maneuvered his
way over to an empty table.  He had his cap turned forward, casting a
shadow down over his face.  I knew something wasn't right so, rather than
give him his space like I usually did in the cafeteria, I picked up my tray
and walked over to his table.  I set my tray down, squinting my eyes to get
a better look at his face.

	"You okay, Dean?" I asked.  "You look fucking awful."

	Dean didn't say anything. He sighed and pulled open the corner of
the mini milk carton on his tray.

	Getting a closer look, I said: "What happened to your face?"  I
noticed that some parts appeared darker than others.

	"They fucked me up," he said.  "They fucked me up."

	"What?  Who?"

	"I have to get outta here, man."  His voice trembled and his hands,
straddling the tray, shook, causing a constant rattle to echo across that
corner of the cafeteria.  "I can't stay here.  Fuck.  I can't believe this
shit.  I knew this would fucking happen if I came back.  I fucking knew
it!"

	I wanted to place an arm on Dean's shoulder, but I hesitated.  I
knew what had happened, but I didn't know how to deal with it in this
context.  "Who?" I asked.

	"I... I don't wanna talk about it, man."

	"Just... just tell me."

	"The guards," said Dean.  "Tony and that fat fuck Donald."

	I sighed and my chest, already pounding, must have escalated in
audibility because Dean asked: "Are YOU okay?"

	"No," I replied.  "I'm not.  I just... what?  Last night?"

	"Yeah."

	"Fuck.  Fuck!"

	Dean was shaking.  It was a combination of agitation and rage.  I
knew the feeling.

	"I have an idea," I said.  "Fuck."

	"Don't do anything," said Dean.  "Just forget about it.  I'm only
here for three months."

	"Fuck, man, you've only been here a week!  It'll just get worse
from here.  Trust me, Dean."

	"I don't think you shanking the fucking guards is gonna help."

	"Who said anything about shanking the guards?" I asked.  "I have
another idea.  We could get outta here."

	"The cafeteria?"

	"No, the jail.  You're from Kansas City, right?"

	"Yeah."

	"What the hell are you doin' down here?" I asked.  "Forget about
it.  Obviously, I won't be able to get you all the way up there, but I can
get you out."

	"You know a way out?"

	"I do," I replied.  "I know several ways out.  A guy escaped when I
was in jail last time.  Two years ago.  He always said there were two ways
to get outta here and he told me what they were.  He used one of them, the
harder one, to escape, but I still know the easier one.  He figured if he
actually managed to escape the harder way, but got caught, he could use the
easier route to get out the second time."

	"But he never came back?"

	"Nope.  Not that I know of."

	"If this is some kinda digging out, Monte Cristo shit..."

	"No," I said.  "Nothing like that.  Trust me."

	"I don't know you."

	"I know you don't, but I am the only person you can trust right
now.  Unless you wanna trust Tony to shove his fat dick into your ass every
night.  Sorry.  Sorry.  Just... listen.  I wanna get you out of here.  I
need to.  I can't sit around and let these fat fucks hurt you.  If I don't
get you out, I might have to kill them, and that's a fucking felony.  I
have to help you, Dean.  I have to get you out."



	[TO BE CONTINUED]

	[See disclaimer above.  I can be reached at the e-mail address
above if you would like to get in touch with me.  That includes typos, you
hated it, it made you cry, it gave you a raging veiny boner, etc.  Later
guys!]