Kids charge up the aisle, heading for the Burger King's playground. I can barely remember what being that young was like. That's bad. It's only been fifteen years since I was there age.

Bobby, grinning from ear to ear, slides into the booth across from me.

"Christ, Mitch, for a guy who just got out of jail, you look like your girl just dumped you! "

"Um. Bobby. You mind not yellin' to everyone I just got out of jail?"

His face falls. "Sorry, Mitch."

"It's OK. What time is it? It must be later than --"

"Dude, Carruthers hates your guts. Not me! I'm his little buddy! I sweet talked him into letting me go early. Want something to eat?"

"Nah. I done ate. Here's your change --" I fish in my pocket. I can find my cock and my balls but the bills, the quarter and the pennies have gone underground.

"Keep it! I gotta order me somethin'." Bobby's gone in a flash.

I can't help it. My head swivels. I track his ass as he trots towards the counter. Bobby's tugged those jeans up, but, yeah, with each step, his jeans sag. White Jockeys, man. My cousin's white Jockeys. They're burned into my brain.

Turning back around, I catch some old geezer staring at me. Does he think I'm queer? I shoot him a smile to say, nah, I'm not queer, he's just my cousin. But I think he heard that crack about jail, because he stops chewing and his eyes turn flinty.

I feel a blush spread up the back of my neck.

Look, it's time to stop bullshitting myself. I've felt this way for a long, long time. It was easier, back when me and Bobby were just hell raisin' country cousins, to cover this up. To pretend that, on those nights we'd prowled the local hangouts together, when we'd driven down some country road to get it on with our girls, when I watched his ass thrust and gyrate as he drove into whatever chick he'd scored that night -- well, it was just a convenient porn show. Yeah. That's what it was. Nothing more was going on. I was getting off on her cries. Not his moans. No. It wasn't true that I thought Bobby's wiry body was perfect pussy-pounding pornographic poetry. No, it wasn't the sight of my cousin's clenching, piledriving butt that was edging me close to filling my girl's womb with spooge. No, it was her tight pussy, squirming and gobbling on Mitch Grant's legendary prong.

Yeah, that's right. Mitch Grant was the high school stud. The one you always hated 'cause I could get into places you couldn't, even though I didn't have half your build. Plowing a furrow was like sliding my prong into a block of soft, warm butter. Doing pussy wasn't a chore. Wasn't a cover. It was pure fucking joy.

Bobby's butt was just the spicy buffalo wing sauce that made being the county stud even better.

Bobby slides back into the booth. He fishes an onion ring and munches it, grinning and smacking his lips. He snatches another one and thrusts it at me.

"Come on, man! Try one."

This is one of our oldest games. He knows I fucking hate onion rings. He's expecting me to be Mitch Grant, champion smartass. Tell him to cram it up his nose. Something like that.

Let's fuck with his head.

I lean forward. I don't know what Bobby sees in my eyes. Something playful, I guess, because a brilliant grin lights up his face. This makes butterflies churn in my stomach. I slip my lips over the godawful onion ring. My lips gently kiss his fingertips.

Laughing, Bobby snatches back his hand. "Leave me some meat, cuz!"

I chomp after them like a piranha. He kicks my shin.

"Still no vegetarian, huh?" Bobby starts unwrapping his burger.

"Fuck that. So. What you been doing these past two years?"

Frantically, Bobby digs in his back pocket.

"Look, I don't need any more money --"

"Well, Mitch, that's great, because I ain't givin' you any." He plants his phone on the table. "Look! Here's my girl!"

The baby giggling on the screen is, to my eyes, generic baby. But, hell, if she's giggling like that just for a picture, she sprang from Bobby's balls.

"She kinda looks like you."

Bobby frowns. "What? Are you nuts? She's pretty! She looks just like Heidi!"

"Heidi? You really fucked Heidi Bolton?" I shake my head. "I can't fuckin' believe it."

Bobby grins. "Finally nailed her, Mitch! We even shacked up. I thought we was gonna marry, you know."

Feeling odd, not wanting to risk too much, I just say, "Why not?" I keep staring at little Kathleen's picture.

"Heidi didn't like me smokin' weed! And I didn't like bein' sober. So, she took Kathleen and left! Can you believe she did that? Hell, Mitch, I can barely see my little girl! "

"She's a preacher's daughter. You bet I can believe it. You pay child support?"

"Damn right I do --"

"Then you got rights."

"Not if you do drugs! Besides, I want Heidi to love me again --"

"Bobby," I say, gently as I can, "Heidi liked your prick, your spooge, and your wallet. She never liked you." I slide him his phone.

Bobby looks annoyed. "What are you sayin'? That she liked you more'n she liked me?"

"No, I'm sayin' she liked the same three things from me. Or you. Or any other guy."

"Yeah, well, since you're such a cheap bastard --" he grins "-- guess that's why she dumped you!"

"Cheap bastard? Damn right. That's the only reason why she ain't the mother of my little girl." I feel a little cocky. "Maybe I oughtta give her a call. Wouldn't mind sliding home."

"Yeah. You oughtta. She'd go for that body." Bobby's eyes shift away. He gulps a bite. Staring towards the playground, he falls silent.

I can't stop myself. I gotta seize these chances when Bobby gives them to me.

Bobby's never had a heavy beard. I used to study the way dawn glittered in his peachfuzz on those mornings when I woke up after long nights of drinking and doping and fornicating. The bed of my pickup wasn't the best place to sleep, but we made do. His whiskers were sleek, like a kitten's fur. Hell, that was the only time I could risk watching his face! Any other time, his blue eyes always seemed to laser in on mine.

I'd like to stroke his cheeks -- his lips -- with the back of my hand. You know, the way you do with a chick in a bar when you're being suave. I picture a startled smile on his face. But this is just my mind fucking with me. What would really happen? Well, his face would darken with angry blood. Then he'd deck me -- well, try and deck me -- with a solid roundhouse.

His ears are delicate. Like some fancy cookie you'd like to nibble on.

Bobby's shoulders and the expanse of skin between his Adam's apple and the arc of his tank top is daubed with oil and blotted with concrete grit. The tank top's fabric is thin. I see the dark flesh of his nipples under the worn cotton.

"What ya thinkin', Mitch?"

"Huh?"

"You got that look. Like you're comin' up with a scheme."

"I ain't scheming. Those days are over."

"Come on! Scheme! That's what you're good at!" He winks and lowers his voice. "I know some guys who wanna buy."

I shake my head. "No. Can't go back to dealin'."

"Then would ya do somethin' for me?"

"Do what, Bobby?"

"Help me get her back!"

"Who? Heidi? You're nuts!"

"Don't be fuckin' stupid! Me and Heidi are splitsville, and there ain't no changin' that. I want Kathleen back! Help me get her back. There's a custody hearing comin' up. I need you to tell the judge I don't smoke weed no more!"

"Done."

We shake on it. I feel lightheaded. Dizzy. Like I'm gonna pass out --

"Watch my food, Mitch! I gotta piss!"

I groove on Bobby's ass until the bathroom door swings shut behind him.

Oh man. I got it bad for my cousin.

What do you do when you want to bury your throbbing cock in your best buddy's ass?

Those crisp white jockeys. Those lean, sculpted mounds.

Now what the hell am I going to do?

You ever think, Mitch, he might be doing it on purpose?

Well, if he is, then I'm gonna handle him the Ogden State Penitentiary way.

Flashback: junior year of high school.

Locale: somewhere on the Tanner River, a slow, lazy stream that ambles down from the hill country and meanders through peach orchards, corn fields, small woods, past kudzu draped remnants of forgotten farms, before curling round Choctaw Point and flowing on to its destiny.

Time: Late spring. Mid-afternoon. Dragonflies buzz through golden sunlight. Turtles pop heads from the water. Four high school kids drifting on inner tubes. The conversation is about the prom.

Scene: Seventeen-year-old Mitch Grant's inner tube trails the other three, but he's in charge. He holds the cooler full of stolen beer. Mitch puffs contentedly on a pipe packed with a fragrant, illegal plant. Bobby Allen paddles desultorily, his eyes fixed on his cousin's pipe, wearing an expression like a kid waiting a bedtime story. Just ahead, stretched prone on a nine-tenths inflated air raft, is Rusty Hodgson, slathered in tanning cream. A redhead -- with that shoulder-length hair, he gets called Ron Weasley way more than he wants -- the lotion is ineffective; Rusty is lobster colored head to foot. Leading the quartet is Josh Gordon. Blond as a California surfer, crew cut like an old-school Aryan, sweet-faced and innocent-looking. He's the bulkiest of these four wrestlers.

"Well, Mitch," says Bobby. He's wearing swim trunk he should've trashed at age 14. His mound is enormous. He keeps adjusting it, watching Mitch puff on the little stone pipe. "Is it true?"

All the boys rotate the floatation devices so they face Mitch. Rusty, who typically wears the hang-dog expression of a guy who once thought the world was a fun place but is beginning to suspect it's a put-on, perks up. He rolls over. His boxers, still wet from the dip he took in the river half a mile back, cling to his bulge. His bulge isn't in the same league as that scrawny Bobby Allen and he knows it. Josh, wearing old cargo shorts, isn't as innocent as he looks. Eyes twinkling -- he knows what Bobby's question is about -- Josh eases down his zipper.

Mitch, the world's smuggest smartass, puffs and puffs until he's almost entirely lost in a cloud of pot smoke. His hand emerges from the cloud and hands the pipe to Bobby. Then the baggie. When he passes the lighter, a catastrophe almost occurs. Mitch fumbles the pass. Bobby scrambles to save it. The lighter begins hopping like a Mexican jumping bean between Bobby's desperate grabs and Mitch's stoned lunges. The other pair's shouting rises octave after octave as the peril grows. Water splashes. Inner tubes rock. Bobby saves the Bic from a fatal plunge into the river.

"Anyone ever tell you, cuz, ya ain't as smart as ya think ya are?"

"Yeah," drawls Mitch. "But they're wrong."

"You gonna tell us or what?" barks Rusty. His fingers keep darting up the leg of his boxers.

"Fuck yeah. If you can keep your pants on till we're all baked."

Bobby coughs loudly as he inhales his bowl. His parents, far more Orwellian than Mitch's, delayed his enjoyment of this gateway drug until he got his driver's license and could escape their surveillance. When the smoke disperses, he's glassy eyed, slack-jawed, and extremely pleased with the state of the universe. He passes the pipe, weed, and lighter to Rusty, who bakes without incident. As Josh smokes, the head of his stubby cock peers out of his fly. He stuffs the paraphernalia into a pocket, glancing furtively at Mitch. Mitch is too stoned to give a fuck.

Let's settle this right now. None of these guys are queer. Yeah, sure, there have been some embarrassing incidents, laughed off by the entire wrestling team in the lockers after practice. But you gotta expect unexpected plump-ups -- even raging boners -- when you're dealing with high school males. Every single one of these guys has chubbed up during a practice match. Or a real one. Skin-on-skin contact, plus testosterone, and what the fuck do you think is going to happen? Lock some dude's thigh to the mat with your groin -- he'll try and twist away -- and the high school jock on top will feel his body react as if it's a girl moaning under him. No doubt some perverted photographer captured these moments. No doubt they were forwarded on to Dennis Hastert's email.

"Well?" Bobby demands.

Mitch grins. "Nah. It's not true."

"Shit!" cries Josh. "You mean you didn't get in there?"

"Don't mean that at all," drawls Mitch. "I got in there. But Heidi Bolton was my first slice of cherry pie."

"Holy shit!" breathes Rusty. His hand quits pussyfooting and crawls up his boxers.

Bobby's eyes laser in on his cousin's prone form.

"Remember that video?" asks Mitch.

The three listeners nod. Damn right they remember that video. Mitch has been obsessed with this ancient music video he found on YouTube. He won't shut up about it. There was this scene ... a girl in a night club's bathroom. Hypnotic music throbs. She drops her water bottle. It rolls into a toilet stall. Inside the stall two people -- or two skeletons; the video's skillfully edited -- are rutting. The notion of just picking up a girl, taking her into a bathroom, and fucking her silly seems to Mitch like paradise.

"Well, guys, I did it."

"At the prom?" Rusty splutters.

"Yep."

"How'd you do it?" Josh's cock lurches into hardness. It's not an impressive weapon. It's most remarkable feature is that it's shaped like a traffic cone. Tiny head, thick base. As he begins jacking, the cockhead winks beneath his foreskin.

"Had to ditch Deb." Deb is Mitch's current girl. Their alliance is not an emotional one -- at least not on Mitch's part. Dating Deb is a strategic move. Deb is the daughter of the farmer who supplies Mitch with his weed. Deb's a fox, but she's smarter than Mitch, and he doesn't like that at all.

"How'd you do that?" asks Rusty, breathless. He dated Deb before Mitch stole her away, so he knows how clingy she is.

"I had a wingman."

At this Bobby's chest -- thin but finely chiseled -- puffs up. From their angle, both Rusty and Josh can see a glint in Bobby's eyes that Mitch can't. They exchange knowing smirks. Yep, Bobby scored himself a piece off his cousin's girl again.

"I thought," says Mitch, "I was gonna have to do something to get Heidi away from Morgan." Morgan Cheatham had been Heidi Bolton's prom date. Morgan, son of Peachville's most prominent lawyer, was born with a silver ramrod up his ass. Mitch grins. "Something nutty, like keying his Mercedes again. But I'd gotten her primed."

"How?" Rusty fishes his cock out of the leg of his boxers. A smooth alabaster shaft, respectably thick but not notably so, capped by a strawberry-sized cockhead, it takes both of his hands to properly jack it. Which Rusty commences with relief.

"Well, I been texting her for a couple of weeks. Buttering her up. Took her a while. She ignored me for a while, but she gave in. So, I asked her out. She said not just no. She said hell fucking no. Then --" Mitch grins "-- I threw a Hail Mary."

A guffaw breaks Bobby's steely concentration.

"Oh, no, you didn't!" says Josh. Precum trickles down his shaft.

"Yep!" Mitch thrusts his hips up. While he'd been jabbering, he undid the fly of his cutoffs under water. Now that he's stretched across the inner tube, his giant prong is on show for everyone to see. The thing is so goddamned tall it's easy to imagine a malevolent, fiery eye blazing between Mitch's pisslit, glaring down at a pubic nest of microscopic Orcs. "She saw that pic and she was mine! Heidi promised we'd talk at the prom."

All eyes are on Mitch. Word has been out all over the county -- and the surrounding counties -- about the amount of meat between Mitch Grant's thighs. And Bobby Allen's thighs. Rusty and Josh have seen it before. In this very same state. They play it cool so well they even fool themselves. They might pretend to be listening to the hot story Mitch is spinning, but the image of his gargantuan shaft blazes in their minds. They might mollify themselves, imagining Mitch's boner plowing cunt, but you can't subtract the boner from that image without rendering the whole thing meaningless.

"I don't know how she ditched Morgan," says Mitch, easing his hips down into the water. An impressive eight inches of cock are still on show. "We met in the breezeway --"

Bobby, as Mitch's story rolls on, wriggles his trunks down to his thighs. His meat is a carbon copy of his cousin's. He joins the other two, frigging it slowly. Bobby knows the rhythms of Mitch's stories -- and the pressure in his balls -- so his pace is calculated so he'll burst at just the right moment.

"Heidi kissed me," Mitch insists. He begins stroking as well. His eyes flick across the other three guys' hardons, and he smirks. Mitch likes being the master. "Used tongue. She started to go down on her knees. I guess she blows Morgan. A lot. She's good with that tongue. I think that's why everyone thinks she's a slut. But I caught her. I still had the key to the girl's locker room --"

"Oh, man, you didn't!" cries Josh.

"Fuck yeah I did. Took her into the bathroom. First stall. Reached up under her dress. She had these lacy pink panties on. I pulled them down to her thighs, got under her dress, and started lickin' her like a Cocker Spaniel --"

Mitch stretches the telling of his tale as long as he can. His buddies love him for it. Josh, groaning, finally slips his shorts down to his knees. He throws himself back on his raft and starts jabbing a finger from his free hand up his butt. Rusty, stretched on his back, keeps crossing and uncrossing his legs alike a little boy trying not to pee. Except Rusty is a big boy trying not to cum. Bobby's eyes are slits as he paints on the back side of his lids images of the girl he lusts for doing it.

"So, I put it in," growls Mitch, his fist a blur on his massive shaft. "And she squeaks. She starts to say somethin' but I don't' listen. I just jam it. And she howls! Oh, man, she howls! So, I look down. And, fuck, her blood was running down my shaft." He shudders. "Popped her cherry. Popped it into a thousand pieces!"

And it happens.

Four pairs of tight teen nuts shatter. Gouts of jism blast from Josh's cock, leaving dark streaks as they skim his inner tube before plopping into the river. Rusty rolls from side to side, sloshing water over the raft, his jerking cock raining sperm down on his chest and the river. Bolt after bolt of gravy smacks Bobby in the chin; his chest looks like someone's spilled a bowl of hot Elmer's glue on it. And, of course, there's Mitch Grant, who thrashes at the base of a mushroom cloud of sperm fragments.

Then it's over. Four pairs of feet relax into the water.

"You're a pervert," sighs Josh, drowsy now.

"Yeah," agrees Rusty. "And that's the only reason anyone likes you!"

"Yeah, I know," says Mitch.

"Don't you like his weed?" asks Bobby.

"Sallright," murmurs Josh.

"So," Mitch says dreamily, "I think me and Heid are gonna be a thing."

Bobby, flinging cocksnot off his fingertips, looks sharply at his cousin. "When you gonna ditch Deb."

Mitch draws a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "Soon. Man, that's gonna cause trouble, ain't it? Well, guys. I might have some trouble making deliveries for a while. Only other supplier I know is ..." he trails off. "Trade secret."

"You want me to break the news to Deb?" Bobby offers.

"Nah. I can handle her."

"Is the shack still a mess?"

Bobby laughs. "Fuck no! I gotta keep the place all spiffy. Fuck, I hate it! "

Bobby's somehow bought himself a Toyota Tacoma, only a few years old. The air conditioning is shut off. The windows are down. At sixty miles an hour, you catch a good wind. We live for this. Neither of us has ever whined about the heat. This is the goddamned South; it's supposed to be hotter than hell.

I smell the cigarette he's toking on. I smell diesel exhaust. I smell fresh-turned earth. I smell dirt and grit. It's great to be a part of the living world again.

One thing's missing. Bobby's stretched his arm out across the seat. I can see his moist pit hair quavering in the breeze. If the windows were rolled up tight I could once again groove on his musk.

I don't much care for his mix tape, but, hell, it sounds better than grunting inmates and screaming guards. We just got past the last light on Old Corduroy Road so we're officially out of Peachville and heading out into the country.

"Got a girl?"

"Nah. I'm huntin', though, you know it!"

"Heidi?"

"Well, she's kinda what I wanna get back to, but, you know, us guys need what we need?" He winks. "You lookin' for a girl?"

"I always am, Bobby."

"I know it, cuz."

Sometimes I see something in Bobby's eyes. A mischievous glint that shows up only when he lights up a Camel ... and I've been checking out his butt. It reminds me of what I see a lot in women's faces. The Jezebel quality that means -- even when she's talking about her thoughts and emotions -- all she's really interested in is stuffing her dripping cunt with Mitchell Grant's schlong.

But is Bobby really a Jezebel? Or do his eyes just reflect me?

In our glory days, we double dated a lot. I remember those nights listening to his chick moan and thrash on the hood while mine moaned and thrashed beneath me. Those were some hot times. Fucking out of doors, on sultry summer nights, listening to all that moaning, that squishing ...

I gotta clutch at memories like that. Grab at 'em like a drowning man after a life preserver. They reassure me nothing is really changed. Neither of us is queer. Certainly not Bobby. As for me, I swore off prison pussy this morning.

So, stop thinking about his ass!

"So, uh, what was prison like?"

"Boring as fuck."

"Well, ya didn't lay in your cell all the time, did you?"

Flashing back to the cell isn't the direction I wanna go. "Nah. They got weights. And they put ya to work."

"Where'd you work?"

"Laundry."

"Oh, man." Bobby flicks the butt out. "All them stinky undies! Man, that must've sucked."

"Better than cleanin' toilets."

"What? They ain't got no one to clean 'em for you?"

"Cuz, it's prison."

For a while we shoot through the countryside. His fingers tap on the wheel in time with the mix. I grin at the familiar landscape rolling past.

"So. Um. Do dudes get it on with dues?"

He says this neutrally so I don't know how to take it. I don't think he's insinuating anything. But I feel like someone walking on an icy pond and just heard a loud crack. "Yeah. Guys ... some guys ... hook up with guys."

"Must be weird."

"Yeah," I say slowly. "I'd say it is."

Bobby slaps the back of my head. "You're a horny dude, Mitch. You didn't get into that, did ya?"

"Oh. Hell no."

He buys it. We drive on.

My last woman? Well, I can't remember her name. She was one of those kinds of things. And I met her the night before the bust that sent me to Ogden went down. Two-plus years ago.

So, that evening, after I got away from Carruthers, I left Bobby at Mac's and went to Rude Dave's, a dive on the bypass east of Peachville. I could swear to you that I just went there to have a beer. But the true reason was I needed to convert a few grams of ice to cash. I felt her eyes on me the moment I walked in. At first I thought she just wanted to fuck me. Back then, everyone did. Then I noticed she was sitting close to this big, rough dude. Boyfriend/girlfriend, I thought, and since he was bigger than me I wasn't about to start trouble.

She started it. She idled up to me at the bar. I forgot about her boyfriend right then and there. Big mistake. We chatted. She knew I dealt so she came right out and asked. I made the sale in the back of Rude Dave's. I can still remember the stink of beer going rancid in discarded bottles. Without her boyfriend around she got all loose and friendly. Even offered to share some of her crystalline goodies with me. We hit the road.

The old lane where me and Bobby did some serious furrow plowing saw a lot of action that night. Me and the woman shot up. Man, that shit makes you horny. Hornier than weed. The moment she got in the back seat her legs spread and I was between them, sawing away. Man, I was a stallion! Couldn't get enough. Thirty seconds after spooging I was hard again. When I pulled out of her for the last time, a dinner-plate-sized puddle of fishy liquid stained the vinyl. Two-foot long ropes of jism tied my prong to her open-petal cunt. I got so hot looking at it that I jerked off in her face. I think that's what pissed her off.

I was still jerking it when the sun came up. Though by then I was back at my apartment. I remember I was watching a donkey screw some girl who, if she wasn't underage, really fucking looked it. I don't know if it was that woman or her jilted boyfriend who ratted me out, but one of them did. I was wiping up lube and cum when the cops banged on the door.

County jail was hell. Not just because I was cut off from regular doses of weed and women. Since there were plenty of bastards who had a beef with me, I spent some time in solitary for fighting. Most of 'em complained I'd put my thumb on the scale when weighing out their supply. They changed their minds after I beat the shit out of them. And solitary wasn't so bad. Especially after I saw Dad's face at all those preliminary hearings. Mom never showed and, after Dad had all he could stomach, even he stopped. I just wished Bobby would stop coming, because his cheeriness grated on me.

"I'm tryin' to be supportive, Mitch," Bobby explained once.

That was the closest I ever came to fighting with Bobby. I hate that word supportive. It means this: when we're dating, I gotta do your heavy lifting, but when the time comes for you to share my burden, why, this is too much, I'm being too demanding, so sayonara.

My public defender was just as cheery. He kept promising probation. Mandatory rehab. I bought his bullshit. But, on the day my case came to trial, I watched Morgan Cheatham's father ease up to the prosecutor. They mumbled like old friends for just a few seconds. Then they had another amiable chat with the judge. I got a cold feeling in my stomach. I knew I was fucked, and I was right.

Ogden. Fucking Ogden. There's some evil people running the place, you know? That's where they started fucking with my mind. They started twisting me, changing me, perverting me on day one.

I remember the bus chugging between the guard towers. The ribbon wire. The chain linked fences. The dull, angular cell block. The prison guards ordered us to strip down to our skivvies. The guards were fucking Rottweilers. Pit bulls. Snarling at anyone ... especially if they weren't out of line. They herded us into the intake processing unit. The catcalls and wolf whistles from the prisoners in the yard creeped me out. Turned me into a fraidy cat. Damn. What they said about penitentiary life was true. No one, and I mean no one, out of my intake group wanted their asses fucked.

We got marched into a big cinder block room with a cold concrete floor. I stood in the front row. I didn't want these assholes thinking they'd intimidated me. The warden had a speech for us. Just from looking at his stony face, I knew old Warden Joe Bell was a crooked and evil bastard. Someday he'll make the news, probably wearing an orange jumpsuit. He lectured us on the Rules. There were lots of Rules.

There was only so much of Warden Bells shit I could take. I let out a guffaw in the middle of the lecture. The same kind of guffaw you make when you know your high school principal -- the guy who makes you pledge allegiance and blathers about how important it is to pray in school -- is screwing his children's babysitter.

Bell fell silent. Bell's flinty eyes shifted, he gave a nod, and two guards appeared at my elbows. Nothing else happened, so I figured this was just Bell's way of showing his power. I shrugged it off.

Joe Bell's speech rolled again. Someone else guffawed -- big, throaty, dangerous, like a volcano sneering at Pompeii. Two more guards moved in. That was the end of the guffawing.

Joe Bell finished. "Take those two to the exam room."

The guards put me and my co-offender into half nelsons. I relaxed, biding my time. The other prisoners filed out, muttering. Just before the door slammed behind them, I tried to twist free. I got slammed to the floor.

"What the fuck, man?" I snarled. "What the fuck?"

"Cavity search for punks. It's kind of a tradition we got here so stop whining and fuckin' get with the program!" The big ape smelled of liquor.

The examination room smelled like antiseptic and sweat. So many guards swarmed there I wondered who was watching the inmates. Florescent lights gleamed on the butts of their holstered 9mm automatics. There were officials, too, looking all high and mighty in jacket and tie, or just tie. I felt like I was in an arena and a show was about to begin.

The apes hauled me to an examination table. It was a metal rack covered with a strip of paper. It had leather straps they could use to bind me. My apes didn't bother. They held me by the arms, grinning and chatting with their buddies.

Later, I learned my smartassed companion's name was Damon Johnson. His guards manhandled him to the exam table next to mine. Up to that time, Johnson was the biggest, blackest man I'd ever seen. Only a stupid cracker with a death wish would call him nigger. Johnson shot me a brief keep it cool, man look. I wondered if he'd been here before.

Joe Bell pushed to the front of the crowd and harrumphed. The buzzing conversation fell silent.

"You guys ever been cavity searched?"

I shook my head. Peachville's jail was lax. Johnson stared defiantly at Joe Bel.

"Well, it's a tradition here, 'specially for troublemakers. Bring in the queens!"

I heard a door open behind me. Then giggling. Soft whispers, and softer footsteps. Someone touched my butt. Touched? No. It was a caress, lewd and creepy. I jumped and shot a look over my shoulder. I never learned his name, but from first sight I knew this medical orderly was a faggot. He simpered at me.

"Now don't get excited, love. This doesn't mean we're together forever."

Johnson had a faggot copping a feel of his butt too. The guards had this bright-eyed, parted-lip look as if they were about to watch porn. Bell traded a smirk with some evil-looking pudgy man.

Smooth, cold fingernails ran between my waistband and my skin.

"Oh, I just can't wait! This looks scrumptious!"

The faggot flicked my shorts down.

"What the fuck?" I yelled.

"Oh, do scream, it makes you so tight!"

Laughter thundered through the room. Drawing in breath, the faggot giggled, fondling my cheeks. I was purple with rage. My fists bunched, and I was that close to whirling and bashing the faggot shit into bloody hamburger.

"Don't think it, love," he lisped. "They'd crack your skull open before you could even turn around."

I scanned all those leering faces. Pistols. Nightsticks. Muscles. They had me. All I could do was stand there. The faggot breathed on the back of my neck.

"Just concentrate on the feeling," he said, cupping my cheeks and digging his fingers in. "Don't worry about remembering. That's what those cameras are for."

Holy fucking Christ. How had I missed those? There were cameras mounted on brackets in every corner. Every inch of the exam room was covered. For a second I hoped those blinking red lights meant the cameras needed maintenance. But then I realized that was just wishful thinking.

Shit. Does the goddamned governor get copies of these vids? The president? Nah -- unless I piss myself.

"You're a smart boy," said the faggot. "And such a nice ass! Really hard, kinda slim, but oooh! What a shape! Now, normally I use a glove, but for you -- well, I'm feeling frisky enough to go bareback!"

Joe Bell nudged the pudgy man. Eyes fixed on me, they conferred.

"Now bend over, love."

I planted my elbows on the table. My faggot toyed with my asshole. There was something slow, sly, and creepy about the way his finger teased my pucker. It made me think of child molesters. Cooing, he smeared something jelly-like on it.

Then it started happening. I couldn't stifle my whimper in time.

"Look!" called Joe Bell. "That redneck likes it!"

I saw red. I wanted everyone in this room dead! Christ, Mitch Grant, Peachville's prime stud --

It's not that I hadn't had something up my ass before. I was on the wrestling team. Medical exams every year. Doc Porter was quick and to the point. I'd bend over -- he had a nice, padded exam table -- I'd hear the snap of latex, something cool and greasy would slide up me, then slither out. I just thought it was a minor inconvenience until my senior year, when a nurse handled it.

I wish I could say she was a hot nurse. She wasn't bad. I'd do her. She was stocky, older than my Mom, but, hey, she was hotter than that methhead chick who landed me in Ogden. I thought I knew the routine so I bent over the table and kicked my legs apart. She wasn't having this. She had me sit my but on the table, lean back on my elbows, and prop my heels on the edge. I shrugged and figured what the hell. She wormed her finger in. Thing was, it didn't make a quick exit. That nurse began to probe. She felt her way up there. In and out. Side to side. Corkscrews galore. It was the weirdest thing I'd ever felt. I stared at her and she stared right back, daring me to say something. The only thing that moved was my cock, which had been coiled on top of my balls. It stretched and stretched while I turned beat red. She didn't take her finger out until I started dripping on my sternum. I can't be sure, but I think the nurse was the mom of the first girl I ever fucked up the ass.

That's why I was getting hard in Ogden's exam room. Not because the faggot's finger, swirling on my butthole, turned me on.

"Stand by to go to heaven!"

That goddamned sissy jabbed his finger in. I gasped. The faggot wasn't kidding about not wearing a glove. I felt the bite of his fingernail on my ring. Tears leaked from my eyes. He sank deep and began wiggling it. It felt like a worm.

It happened so quick. Goddammit, I fought it. I thought of the worst things I could think of. But it happened. The guards began chuckling, and Joe Bell again whispered to his pudgy buddy.

"That's amazing!" gasped the queer who, kneeling behind me, could sight beneath my balls and watch my dong drop.

"Would you look at that," breathed Warden Bell. "That redneck's as big a fag as the nigger!"

My cock -- which I hadn't touched since boning that ice-hungry chick -- stretched then smacked my belly.

"I love playing with horsies!" squealed the faggot.

"You think the redneck's hung big as the nigger?" asked Warden Bell.

"Almost," said the pudgy man. "But not quite."

My cock swayed and bounced with every dig the simpering faggot made in my guts. I glanced at Johnson and almost fell over. His was the first nigger cock I ever saw hard, and man I've never forgotten it. At least I wasn't the only one whose body was misbehaving.

"You boys do know what we're here to see?" growled Joe Bell.

"Oh, yes sir!" chorused the queers. "It'll be fabulous!"

The faggot jabbed his finger against something up me. I didn't know what it was but damn if my eyes didn't' spin when he hit it.

"I don't think mine's going to last all that long, warden!" my faggot cooed. "It feels like he's not gotten off in years!" He sniggered, churning his finger in my guts. "Might need a bucket to clean up after this one."

"Mine's going to get off first! See! He likes it!"

I remember gasping when the second finger plunged in. I remember every stroke. Every twist of that sick little queer's fingers. I remember them laughing when my haunches started lurching back just like Johnson's. I remember my eyelids fluttering. I remember my parted lips drying while my breath rasped. I remember that feeling that I ought to be beating the shit out of someone. I remember it fading away. I remember beginning to feel gooey inside.

Johnson shot first, his wildly bucking cock dousing his guards with half a gallon of stinking spunk. But his spurting cock made it impossible for me to avoid the same humiliation. There's just something about being in the same room when another man cums. Groaning, I followed his lead about five seconds later. The faggot, kneeling at my ass, shrieked.

"Ow! Ow! He's going to pinch it off!"

"We'll getcha a new pair," murmured Joe Bell.

My spurts didn't slow his fingers down. Each stab made me cum harder. I couldn't take it. I collapsed into the pooling spunk on the exam table, smearing my belly and chest with my own hot, steamy load. It felt like I'd sprawled into a spilled quart of hot motor oil. I could've been the babydaddy for half a billion kid.

"One hundred percent certified queer, Warden Bell," called my fag as he slipped free his fingers. "Really butch queer."

"Any drugs?"

Everyone sniggered.

"Sweetie, that tight chute is the only drug Ogden needs!"

I snarled, "I'm not a queer, you goddamned perverted son of a bitch!"

The faggot looked at my cock wistfully. "If you want revenge, I'm open to rape." He sashayed off.

Warden Bell looked me straight in the eye, but his words were aimed at the pudgy guy beside him. "Get the word out to the general population, will you, Kent?"

"You can bet on that, Warden."

Johnson shook his head ruefully. I knew that meant something bad. Oh fuck. What was I in for now?