Prison Time Page 13

  ‘Decades!’

  ‘Yeah. And there’s also the thing about the dead bodies,’ She-Ra says.

  ‘Dead bodies!’ I say, my brows springing up. ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘Sex with dead bodies,’ She-Ra says. ‘It’s just a rumour, but Ken and Bud say it’s true.’

  ‘Ken and Bud probably started it,’ I say, shaking my head. I hand She-Ra blogs I wrote about her antics in the chow hall, which made everyone laugh. ‘You’re getting as many comments as Two Tonys now.’

  She reads them and asks to take them to show her boyfriend. Smiling, She-Ra pats her hands excitedly on her lap. ‘So, what’s the deal with you and Jade?’

  Dreading the question, I bow my head. ‘It’s been a month since the last visit and I still haven’t heard from her.’

  Shortly after I saw her, Jade went to stay with her mother in Wisconsin. She was going to write with her new address. As I haven’t heard from her, I have nowhere to mail letters, so our correspondence has ceased. Not knowing how she feels is making me miserable and moody. Thirty mail calls in a row I’ve suffered disappointment and heartache.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Maybe she lost interest or found someone else. ‘I don’t know. She’s probably busy,’ I say, staring at the floor. ‘Prison relationships never last. I was dumb for getting over emotional. I appreciate that she went out of her way to visit. I should know better than to have high expectations while I’m stuck in here.’ I miss her so much that talking about her increases my sadness.

  ‘Well, I’ve got a new girl for you to meet on the yard!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My friend, Gina, just arrived. And does she have a story for you!’

  ‘Like what?’ I ask, sitting up straight, hoping the story takes my mind off Jade.

  ‘Outside of prison, Gina wanted to have a vagina, but they wouldn’t give her a sex-change op because she’s a felon. To get the op, she would have had to wait seven years without committing a crime. She ended up back in prison, so she cut her nuts off and flushed them down the toilet.’

  ‘Ouch!’ I yell, curling forward, pressing my knees together. ‘How on earth did she manage that in a cell?’

  ‘Give me a pen and paper.’ I pass them to She-Ra. ‘She cut open her sack like this.’ She-Ra draws a circle with a vertical line down one side. ‘Then she severed her vas deferens with a razor blade.’

  ‘What’s the vas deferens?’

  ‘It’s a vein, nerves and a tube that carries the sperm. It’s attached to the balls. She cut that, popped her nuts out and flushed them.’

  Shuddering, I arch forward and claw my thighs. ‘So the vas deferens is a branch holding the nuts in the sack?’

  ‘Yes. The branch was severed. The nuts were free. Then she used a cigarette lighter to cauterise the wound, and a sewing needle and thread from inmate hobbycraft to stitch herself up.’

  ‘Holy shit!’

  ‘But she got caught because the wound got infected. She was wheeled out on a stretcher all strapped down.’

  ‘Was she happy with the end result?’

  ‘Kind of. She said she lost a lot of weight, and now the nuts are gone she overheats a lot.’

  ‘What about her penis? Does she still have one?’

  ‘Yeah, and she still gets erections. She gets excited sucking someone’s penis or taking it in the butt. She doesn’t like erections, though. The sack’s shrunk quite a bit and she gets sensations where the sack’s at, but she’d be much happier with a vagina.’

  ‘Do you want to have a vagina, She-Ra?’

  She-Ra jumps up. ‘We’re all gonna get vaginas! Fuck it! I wanna get a vagina on my right hand, that way my fingers won’t get tired. I’ll be able to fuck someone with my hand and tickle their balls at the same time.’ She-Ra bumps my shoulder with her hip, licks her armpit and sits down. ‘I don’t really want a vagina, but I do believe that if someone wants to change themselves or their lifestyle and it will make them a better member of society, they should be free to choose those changes.’

  ‘How do they make the penis into a vagina?’

  ‘They slice the penis in half and fold it into the body.’

  I cringe. ‘Do they still get enjoyment afterwards?’

  ‘The incoming penis would rub against the prostate; they get the same pleasure as getting fucked in the ass but just from the other side.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘To make it look like a vagina, they take the urinal tract and they place it to look like a clit. It works the same way.’

  ‘But the clit contains nerve endings,’ I say.

  ‘And there’s nerves in the prostate.’

  ‘That cause jollies?’ I ask, my mind boggled.

  ‘Yes! Anyway, let’s go meet Gina.’

  ‘Am I allowed to ask her stuff?’ Enthusiastic, I’m wary of coming across as impolite.

  ‘I already told Gina about your blogging and she doesn’t mind sharing her story. You can ask her whatever you want.’

  I follow She-Ra across the yard. Spotting Gina, I can’t believe my eyes. She looks like a woman – a short, thin attractive Italian one. I search for signs of masculinity – everything is feminine. Her small head, her heart-shaped face and thin chin. Long, lustrous black hair. Narrow olive-coloured hands and long nails polished dark red. Sculpted brows. Eyeliner tattooed around large eyes the colour of lychee stones. Full sensuous lips tattooed red. A round behind narrowing towards a tiny waist. Toned hairless legs in cut-off shorts. She even smells of perfume.

  ‘Meet Gina,’ She-Ra says.

  ‘Gina, how do you do?’ I ask, smiling.

  ‘Very well,’ Gina says in a female voice.

  While she bats her long eyelashes and smiles flirtatiously, I’m surprised to feel the stir of sexual excitement – the same I experience around an attractive woman.

  ‘I need to tell you I’m an Anglophile,’ Gina says.

  If this was a woman, I’d have it made. ‘So, you like all things English?’ I say, without giving it much thought, realising I’m flirting.

  ‘Yes. And your accent is making me feel like I’m talking to King George III in his coronation robes.’

  Oh boy! I’m in trouble. ‘The pleasure is mutual,’ I say, responding as if on autopilot – a situation so unfamiliar and bizarre I don’t know where it’s heading. ‘What made you become an Anglophile?’

  ‘When I first saw a drawing of George III in his coronation garb, I was hooked. The crown, the robe – ooh la la!’ Gina rolls her eyes. ‘I knew I was an Anglo at heart and tracing my family tree revealed that England is the home of my ancestors. They also taught us about the colonies and independence. I always felt at one with America, but then I fell in love with England.’

  With Gina feeding all the right signals to my eyes, ears and nose, I’m unable to stop my thoughts: I’d only be putting it in her mouth, and she looks like a woman … Reminding myself she has a penis, I blush.

  ‘OK!’ She-Ra yells. ‘Now tell him why you cut your nuts off.’

  ‘Ovaries – I like to call them,’ Gina says in a posh voice. ‘I cut off my ovaries to feminise myself. Testosterone is the sex hormone responsible for the production and maintenance of pubescent male characteristics such as body hair and having a deep voice, and the major contributing factor to male pattern baldness.’

  ‘Are you happy with the results?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. Since removing my ovaries – or, as my beloved puts it …’

  Beloved. She’s taken. Damn! I wonder who the lucky guy is that’s getting some almost-female action as opposed to nothing. I can’t believe I feel a pang of jealousy. I wonder whether I’m turning gay. I’m unable to stop the sexual charge that’s heating me up from Gina’s proximity and the way her eyes are gazing so invitingly.

  ‘… my underies – my voice has softened, my skin is softer and less … much less oily, even the large spider-like veins in my arms became 100 per cent unnoticeable. Plus, I’m not subject to getting colon ca
ncer.’

  ‘So how does it feel to be in a men’s prison in your situation?’ I ask.

  ‘Being in a blokes’ prison without Lenny and Squiggy is a plus. I am a woman. My orchidectomy sets me apart from the error nature made and moves me closer to the woman I am within. When I get out, I want to have breast augmentation. I can reach a B-cup and I look hot when I jack my stuff up a cup higher – especially with my little waist.’

  My eyes drop to her waist and linger on her hip curves. If Gina looks like a woman, speaks like a woman, moves like a woman and smells like a woman, what’s the difference?

  ‘I plan to have rhinoplasty, teeth-whitening procedures and then move to England. It must be London. I love rain and fog. It’s so sexy to be in a field of tall grass with someone you love, inconspicuous to others. As for the fog, it’s the same scene as being in tall grass in the rain but when the fog lifts. Yes! England and a soulmate are my obsession. By the way, yours is the first English accent I’ve heard face to face.’ Gina flicks her hair. Her beautifully made-up eyes stare affectionately.

  I shiver with unanticipated and uncontrollable pleasure. My face reddens. ‘Really. And you’re the closest to an attractive woman I’ve seen in prison,’ I say, smiling giddily. Thank God George and Frankie aren’t here. Realising that Gina and She-Ra are tuned in to my aroused condition, I stiffen my expression.

  ‘Gina!’ a voice booms across the yard.

  We turn our heads to Bud waving Gina over.

  ‘Ah, my beloved,’ Gina says. ‘Au revoir.’

  Bud! Visualising him with Gina makes me want to laugh, but I stay composed to avoid provoking Bud.

  Charged up with sexual frustration after flirting with Gina, I head for the shower to masturbate in the hope of preventing myself from overstepping any boundaries. With all sexual acts illegal in prison and subject to disciplinary sanctions, the shower cubicle is the safest place, away from the guards.

  Masturbating while surrounded by chaos was hard after I was first arrested, but I’ve managed to improve my concentration over the years. In 2002, at the medium-security Towers jail, I shared a pod with 45 men. At the end of the bottom tier, the shower area consisted of three showerheads in a row, separated by privacy divides so small I could see the rear of the person showering next to me and, if he was masturbating, his elbow jerking. Every now and then, I’d run into an exhibitionist – like Booga – who’d yell my name and shake his penis at me. Having another prisoner stare at your penis in the shower was so common I learned the expression for it: peter gazing. As the gangs preferred to attack and murder people in the shower out of view of the security cameras, getting from erection to ejaculation when showering next to two inmates, with fruit flies and mosquitoes whizzing around, required discipline.

  In 2003, at the maximum-security Madison Street jail, the inmates were considered so dangerous that the shower area was open plan in the hope that no one would get murdered out of view of the guards in the control tower. There was a space the size of a small room at the end of the lower tier with a railing in front. At all times you were in full view of not only the guards but also the prisoners in the day room. The frosting on the windows adjacent to the corridor had been scratched off, enabling predators in the next pod to watch, blow kisses and play with themselves while you showered. I followed protocol by masturbating with my back facing the guards and the day room, so that it looked like I was giving my man parts a prolonged scrubbing.

  In here, the showers are self-contained cubicles – like telephone boxes without windows – but the doors don’t lock.

  With so many barriers to a pleasant experience, it’s a wonder why I bother. Going without sex for days, weeks, months, years – the pressure builds like Chinese water torture. To remain sane, the pressure must be released. Many heterosexuals view no sex as the hardest part of incarceration. When I was first arrested, the shock of the situation overrode everything, but, over time, the demands from my sex drive intensified. Almost daily, I felt a yearning in my loins that made my hips quiver: hot flushes combined with restlessness and flashbacks to previous encounters rendered me incapable of concentrating on reading and writing. After taking a shower, the antidote of orgasm reset my stress clock. The ensuing docility enabled me to resume my routine.

  Being committed to hand relief for years on end means that we heterosexuals – the minority in here, according to She-Ra – must innovate to spice up our sessions. We sometimes tape sexy pictures – either cut from magazines or photographs of partners – protected by a clear plastic bag to the semen-spattered shower wall. After a few years of using my right hand, I tried my left, which although suboptimal in terms of speed and eloquence of rhythm still added an exciting new dimension; it was as if someone else was doing it. In the Madison Street jail, Frankie recommended a ‘fee-fee bag’ (usually a hot, wet sock lubricated with soap or lotion) but a creatively folded towel also suffices. I tried it and enjoyed the texture, heat and moisture, but the end result was so messy I didn’t make a habit of it.

  I’m in the shower masturbating when I hear the door open. Through the curtain, I see the silhouette of a tall, long-haired figure.

  ‘Shaun, where’s that book you’ve got for me?’ She-Ra asks, referring to a book one of my blog readers sent her.

  Surprised, amused, I yank the curtain back. Is She-Ra coming on to me? Even though my erection is dwindling, I obtain a strange thrill from She-Ra looking me up and down, as if a woman is checking me out. ‘It’s on my bunk.’

  ‘All right,’ She-Ra says, smiling as if something unspoken is happening.

  I giggle. ‘How about lending me some tapes? I’d like to listen to some music.’

  ‘I’ll get some for you.’ She-Ra leaves, closing the door behind her.

  Within the hour, George bursts into my cell. ‘So you were in the shower grooming the willy when She-Ra came in with some lame-ass excuse, eh?’

  He’s quickly followed by She-Ra, who drops her trousers and wiggles her thick and lengthy circumcised penis at George. ‘Look, I’m hung like a boy hamster.’

  Having never imagined I’d end up in a situation that requires me to stare at a penis, I’m compelled to gaze at the tattoo of a colourful butterfly on She-Ra’s. Thankfully, I feel no sexual pleasure, just curiosity.

  ‘Yeah, a 12-foot one,’ George says, unable to detach his eyes. ‘Let’s have sex.’

  ‘I can’t ’cause you’re a girl just like me,’ She-Ra says, playing with her penis, ‘and I don’t have sex with girls. Besides, I heard your anus smells like halibut.’

  I laugh. ‘What turns you on so much about She-Ra, Jeeves?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s cute, and she has a beautiful penis. I’d like to see it erect. It’ll only take me a couple of minutes.’

  ‘It takes hours for me to get hard,’ She-Ra says.

  ‘I’ll massage it until it’s as erect as you found his Prince William in the shower,’ George says, his face glowing with lust.

  ‘And when it gets hard, I pass out,’ She-Ra says.

  I cackle. ‘It is pretty big.’

  ‘Actually, it’s not that big. It’s the same size hard as flaccid.’

  ‘C’mon, let me try it!’ George yells, purple patches exploding on his face, as if all of his blood has gone to his head. George dives, mouth first, wide open, at She-Ra’s penis.

  She-Ra falls backwards, knocking the door open to a guard, Officer Ronson, a hillbilly with a haggard face – a wart on a cheek, a crooked nose, an elongated chin and sinister slitty eyes – who’s always coming on to She-Ra in front of everyone in the chow hall. I quickly climb onto the top bunk. About now, any other guard would be issuing us disciplinary tickets for sexual acts. I’d be the laughing stock of the yard and officially out of the closet in the minds of many, such as Frankie. I pray Ronson doesn’t write us up; however, as he is excessively intimidating and unpredictable, I brace for what might happen next.

  ‘What the hell’s going on in here?’ Officer Ronson asks, admi
ring She-Ra’s penis. ‘You told me you and She-Ra weren’t an item!’ he yells, scowling at me.

  She-Ra puts her penis away. George stays on the floor, panting.

  ‘I’m just up here minding my own business,’ I say unconvincingly.

  ‘You leave!’ Officer Ronson yells at George, who jumps up and disappears.

  ‘So what’s She-Ra doing in your room?’ he asks in a threatening tone. ‘And don’t try and bullshit me, Attwood, by saying you’re writing about her.’

  To buy time to think of an answer, I climb down from the bunk. I try to defuse the situation with humour: ‘Well, you know how She-Ra likes a little English muffin on the side.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Officer Ronson yells, smiling, his beady eyes sparkling, as if turned on.

  ‘Actually, I was writing about She-Ra,’ I say, afraid that he might make sexual demands.

  ‘Your hair looks nice, She-Ra,’ he says, stroking her hair, ogling at her rear.

  ‘Thank you,’ She-Ra says cautiously.

  He winks at She-Ra. ‘I’m gonna work the night shift one of these days. Stay away from my woman, Attwood!’

  He leaves.

  Staring at each other as if we can’t believe we didn’t get in trouble, She-Ra and I smile and hug.

  32

  Dr Owen’s listening to Beethoven and reading Synaptic Self. He checks my homework: a thought journal detailing my recent nightmares about being chased and shot, and a description of the anxiety I felt when picked to speak in front of a group of prisoners at a SMART Recovery class. I expect him to disclose my personality-test scores, but he asks, ‘Why do you do yoga?’

  ‘For better balance in my life,’ I say, taking notes.

  ‘Yoga means union. In the context of universal energy, you need to increase your awareness of the universality of your life.’

  ‘How does that relate to my problems?’

  ‘What do you want to do with your problems?’

  ‘Get rid of them.’

  ‘All energy is constant through the universe, psychic energy or whatever. If you get rid of your problems, then you must consider what you’re going to put in their locations. You must clarify your thinking and consider multiple solutions to your problems. Do you have hermit fantasies?’