Imprisonment

This may sort of seem to contradict my prior entry but it seems a fit follow up.

Ever been in jail? I have: three times.

The first doesn’t count. I spent an hour in a holding cell - small enough to be good for a scene - for maybe an hour while my parents arranged bail.

The second time I got locked up I learned a valuable lesson. Do not take a bunch of unknown pills while hitchhiking through Georgia. The police are apt to arrest you for - their words - barking at trucks on the highway.

My cell in the Statesboro jail was shared with a murderer. He was a crazy redneck but he left me alone. Even though my parents said they weren’t going to pay the bail I was pacific enough. If I couldn’t do anything about it why fret? (They paid my bail after five days.)

My third arrest was even more edifying. Trying to cash someone else’s stock dividend checks wasn’t wise. Clearly I didn’t have the talents requisite for a life of crime. My stay in the Eden County, North Carolina jail was about three weeks. I also learned the value of knowing someone wealthy and powerful enough to make fraud charges - poof! - vanish.

This jail was crummy. Much of it had been condemned and padlocked by Federal authorities. My section was made for dungeon scenes. The best part was that food had to be slid in via a slot at the bottom of the cell door (Kool-Aid and fried bologna sandwiches).

My cellmates were the highlight.

They sized me up as a homo. I wore a natty three-piece suit, carried a fountain pen and - ! - read books. Sure proof for sure. (Hilariously enough I read Jean Genet’s The Rose while there.)

The first night two of these guys told me I had to go through an initiation: let them shove a broom handle up my ass. My two attempts at inserting something in my anus had failed. And I’d yet to act as a bottom. Even so I doubt that rod of wood could’ve been pleasurable.

And it would’ve convinced them I was a queer. I yanked the closet door shut. What I said I don’t recall. It was a large volume of words wherein I sought to convince them that if they tried that with me they’d regret it. There is a benefit to being slightly over 6’3”.

A trusty smuggled in pot some nights. A couple of the inmates would get terribly horny. And they’d pester me. Was I sure that I didn’t have “the package” (slang for being gay I’ve never heard elsewhere). Surely I really, really wanted to give them blow jobs of get fucked. Like the loud drag queen in the cell above.

No, not me I assured them.

They guy I shared my individual cell with was a muscular black youth in for violent assault awaiting transport to state prison. He could’ve been me around his finger and eventually have done anything to me he wanted.

It is a very common fantasy. To be forced to become a man’s personal cocksucker while locked up.

The possibilities were too spooky for me to want to try it as a reality. Even on that night when I knew I’d be getting out the next day.

Despite all that I once again simply relaxed and accepted my fate. I couldn’t change it. Why fight it.

That makes me wonder how possible it is to even make some of my fantasies real (without going too far).

I’m very difficult to humiliate. Humiliation requires accepting certain social norms. Most of those norms are just constructs. I share few of them.

And to the degree that you can accept imprisonment as simply a datum tolerating it is easier than you’d think if you haven’t been there and done that.