Terry - Part 7 - Harris and Jon

After we were once again manacled, Rogers and Crabb led us down the hallway toward our cells. Suddenly Harris, who preceded me, stopped-backed into me as he flattened his back against the wall. Surprised by his sudden move, I looked at his face. Wide eyed-a frightened look I thought-he stared ahead down the hall. Following his gaze, I saw another convict, escorted by two guards, approaching us from the far end of the hall.

The convict, rather than being naked as we were, had on the pants of his prison whites, but no shirt. His arms, hands, and torso, were covered with tattoos. With black hair, hooded eyes-one wider than the other-and the dark shadow of a beard, which was evident even though he had recently shaved, I thought that he epitomized a felon. Rogers looked mean-was mean-and would need little reason to hurt-possibly even kill-an inmate, but this convict looked evil. He would, I thought, need no reason to kill. That he was in prison for murder, I had no doubt. Since to have met him in a dark alley, would have frightened me out of my wits, I could almost understand why Harris appeared so scared-but the convict, as were we, was manacled and accompanied by two guards. What could he possibly do?

We had been walking down the hallway in single file; Rogers had been in the lead, followed by Harris, me, and Terry. Crabb trailed Terry. When Rogers realized that Harris had stopped, he turned, grabbed Harris by the handcuffs, jerking him forward, and said, “Get moving, you fucking fag.”

Harris lurching forward, thrown off balance by the shackles around his legs, would have fallen, if Rogers hadn’t-seemingly without effort-held him up by the handcuffs. Harris cried out, apparently in pain, as the handcuffs bit into his wrists, but regaining his balance, began walking down the hall, his eyes glued to the approaching convict.

Nothing happened until the other group was beside us; then the convict lurched at Harris, ramming his shoulder into him, driving him into the wall. “I’ll kill you, motherfucker,” he said, as he slammed Harris into the wall again.

Rogers and the other guards did nothing. Grinning, Rogers watched until, the convict-once Harris had doubled over-grabbed Harris by the neck and began choking him while pounding his head into the wall. I should have helped Harris, but, shocked by the swiftness and the violence of the attack, I did nothing. Rogers, at the last minute, stepped in and began pounding the convict over the head with his club, eventually-after many blows-beating him into submission. Harris, bloodied and barely conscious, lay on the floor. Rogers laughed. “Bobby Duke nearly got you that time, Fag. I wonder how long you’d last with him in the recreation yard?”

Bobby Duke-so, this was he. I could understand, now, why Harris had appeared so frightened. Bobby Duke scared me-and I wasn’t the one he wished to kill; and kill Harris, he would have, if Rogers hadn’t stepped in at the last moment. Nothing, neither the presence of the guards, or that of Terry and I, would have stopped him from trying. Nor would have the threat of the death sentence-the needle-have stopped him. I began to understand why others, even the guards, feared such men-men who valued nothing-certainly not life-not even their own. I guess he thought he had a reason to kill Harris, who had killed a fellow member of the Aryan Brotherhood, to which O’Leary had also belonged; but I thought that Duke would kill for much less, perhaps for a pack of cigarettes.

Once Rogers had come to Harris’ assistance, he had vigorously beaten Duke. Blows rained onto Duke’s head, pounding onto it like a Texas thunderstorm. Similar blows, I was certain, would have killed me-but not Duke. Although beaten, insensibly, to the floor, he soon regained consciousness, and was able to walk, with some help from his guards; they continued down the hall to wherever they had been going.

Since Harris didn’t recover so quickly, Terry and I had to pick him up from the floor and half carry-half drag- him down the hallway. I thought that we were returning to our cells, but Crabb said, “We’d better take him to the infirmary.”

“You worried about this little fag? You fucking him, too?”

“No, I’m not fucking him-and I don’t give a shit about him, but I don’t want him dying on my shift-too fucking hard to explain. If he’s going to die, let it be on Snyder’s shift, or on my days off. Snyder’s used to the heat. Inmates are always dying on his shift.”

Although I had previously worried about the outcome of Harris’ trial, I hoped, now, that he would live long enough to go to trial. Left to Duke, Rogers, or Snyder, he would not.

Not wanting to carry him, Crabb and Rogers made Terry and me. Luckily, after a while, Harris was able to help by walking, although, Terry and I had to continue to support him. We had been to the infirmary for our physicals, but, instead of going through the prison yard as we had before, this time we cut through the cell block.

The lock-down had evidently ended. Most of the cells were open and empty and some cons, clothed and without shackles, were about. I became even more aware-and embarrassed by my nudity. We attracted stares, shouts, hoots, and whistles from the other inmates. From the way my face burned, I was sure that it was red-as was Terry’s. Only Harris, probably lost in his pain, didn’t seem to be affected by the comments, even though most of them were directed at him-and at his ball-less crotch.

Although Harris probably had a mild concussion, his wounds weren’t serious; so, after applying some topical medication, the medic released him. Better able to walk, Harris only occasionally needed support from Terry and me.

Once again in the general population, the whistles and catcalls resumed. Again, I was embarrassed by them, as, I’m certain, was Terry; but, Harris seemed unaffected. I wondered why-but, it had been almost a year since he had been castrated, and he had been fucked regularly and had given blow jobs in the recreation yard, while surrounded by other inmates. Compared to that, I guess walking naked among the general population, meant little, and, as he had described, during shakedowns all the inmates had to stand naked for hours while the guards, both men and women, inspected the cells. Perhaps, it would one day mean little to me; but, what, I wondered-by that time-would I have lost: my self respect? whatever integrity I had left?

By the time we reached Harris’ cell, walking by himself, he stepped up to have his shackles removed before entering his cell. Instead, Rogers, after opening the cell door, shoved him back, then, grabbing Terry, threw him into the cell-still shackled-still naked.

Of all that had happened-of all that I feared would happen-to be separated from Terry was the worst. In spite of my fear of Rogers, I spoke, “That’s not Kimsey’s cell. He’s in with me.”

Rogers poked me hard with his baton in my solar plexus. Doubling up, I fell to the floor with the breath knocked from me-unable to speak. He said, “I decide who bunks where,” then locked the door to the cell.

Harris helped me to my feet, and with his aid, I stumbled to my cell, expecting to be thrown into it, as had Terry, shackled and naked. Rogers, however, removed our shackles, even our handcuffs, in the hallway-so little regard he had for us as a threat-then allowed us to enter the cell-naked, but not manacled.

In a panic, after the door was closed and locked, I pounded on it; but, there was no response. Of course, the only response I could have expected was another rap with Rogers’ baton.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?

“In love with who-Terry? No,” I quickly-perhaps too quickly-denied. “He’s my friend. We’re just friends.”

“Yeah, maybe as far as he’s concerned, but you’ve got it for him-bad. I could tell when I first met you guys.”

“What do you mean? I-I’m not...”

When I didn’t finish, he finished for me. “Not gay? Don’t shit me. I’m gay. I can spot another queer a mile off.”

I balled up my fists. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to strike out against someone-something-but I knew it wasn’t Harris, so I sat down on the bed-on Terry’s bed-and began crying. Harris, sitting beside me, put his arm around my shoulders, pulling me toward him until my face was touching his. When I didn’t resist, he took my face in his hands, wiping away my tears with his thumbs. Then he kissed me.

That kiss. As long as I live, I’ll never forget that kiss. Opening my mouth with his tongue, he thrust it deep into my mouth. I responded-greedily-hungry for human contact, hungry for affection-hungry for love. Our tongues fenced, parrying and thrusting, each point scored gladly given up by the other. Then laying back on the bed, he pulled me on top of him, raised his legs and guided my rigid cock into his ass. I didn’t think about right or wrong-about whether I was gay or straight. I didn’t think about Terry. I don’t think I thought at all. With my mouth glued to his, I rammed my cock into his ass.

It was over much too soon, but for those few brief moments, nothing else had existed-had mattered. Somewhere, between my cock and Harris’ mouth, I had either ceased to exist, or I had merged with Harris. It seemed as if I was being sucked into his mouth-into his ass; then the world exploded-I exploded, so that I was no longer Jon Lyon, but was everywhere-everything, but mostly a part of Harris.

I hadn’t known that an orgasm could be like that. Although pleasant, the ones I’d had before had been mere twinges-mere spasms of my cock when compared to that one. Exhausted, I lay on top of Harris-and gradually returned: to my body; to my cell; to prison.

My cock, having expended it’s juices, shrank, withdrawing from Harris’ ass. As it did, I slid my mouth from his. My thoughts, which had been suspended while I had been fucking Harris, returned-raced through my mind. What about Terry? Although I loved Terry-as I love him to this day-I knew that the love I felt for Terry would never be returned-not in kind. I might, as Harris had perceived, be gay, but Terry was not. If he became gay while in prison, it would be because he had been broken; the Terry I loved would, then, no longer exist.

When I rolled off of Harris onto my side, I noticed that Harris’ little cock was still soft, and I realized that it had not become hard when I had fucked him. What did he get out of it, I wondered? Why had he let me fuck him? He had told us about how he hated to be fucked by O’Leary and all the others. Hell, he had even killed O’Leary to stop it. But, he had readily-willingly-taken my cock-guided my cock-into his ass.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“Why did I do what?”

“Why did you let me fuck you?”

Because I wanted you to-and you wanted it, too. Both of us wanted it.”

“But, I know what I got out of it. I got off. Did you come, too?

Harris laughed, that ironic little laugh of his, “No, I didn’t come. I haven’t come since shortly after I lost my balls.”

“What did you get out of it, then?”

“Is getting your rocks off, the only thing you got out of fucking me?”

Thinking, I didn’t answer for a moment. It hadn’t been. As great as the orgasm had been, it hadn’t been all. My skin had sucked up the touch of Harris-had absorbed the feel of him-the softness of his skin. I had lost myself in his mouth. Rather than answer, I kissed him again-this time a gentle, loving kiss, then I said, “No, that’s not all. I like the feel of you, Harris. My skin drinks you up like water.” Then, suddenly, I thought. “I don’t even know your first name.”

“Paul,” he said.

“Mine’s Jon-or Jonathan, but everyone calls me Jon, except my family, who calls me Jonny.”

“Jonny. I like that. I think that I’ll call you Jonny.”

“OK, but...Paul, if you don’t get horny, why do you enjoy being fucked?”

“I don’t like to get fucked-but I like to make love. You weren’t fucking me; you were making love to me. Didn’t you feel the difference?”

“Yeah-it was great. I had the best orgasm I’ve ever had, but, you don’t have any balls. How could you feel anything? Your cock didn’t even get hard.”

“The biggest sex organ isn’t between your legs, it’s up here,” he said, tapping his temple. You turn me on-up here-in my head. I like to look at you. I like the feel of you. I love to kiss you-and I like having you inside of me.”

“What about Terry? He’s much better looking than me.”

“Terry’s a Greek god, but like a god, he’s unattainable. I could never have him-and I’m smart enough to choose to have what I can-not what I can’t.”

“But, I love Terry.”

“But, Terry, even for you, is unattainable. You can never have him. Not the way you want him.”

We were interrupted by the arrival of supper.

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