Terry -Part 5- A New Guard

We weren’t allowed to speak on the way back to our cells. When we stopped at Harris’ cell-as they were removing his manacles-Harris, looking up at me while slightly raising his right hand, smiled and winked. Remembering what he had done with that hand, I felt my face burn. It must have been bright red because Terry, with one eyebrow cocked, shot me a strange look. I was certain that he hadn’t seen Harris jack me off in the shower, but, afraid that he might somehow be able to read my thoughts or be able to discern what had happened from my reaction, I looked down at the floor, glad that my baggy prison whites hid the hard-on which the remembrance had induced.

Our cell was stifling. It had been hot in the exercise yard, but there had been a breeze-and we had sat in the shade. What air that came from the vent was inadequate to cool the cell. Harris told me that he had a small fan, which he had bought from the commissary. When we were allowed to go there, I intended to buy one for ours. My parents were supposed to have deposited some money for me so that I could make purchases from the prison store. I also needed something to read to pass the time. I hoped that there were books for sale, or that there was a prison library to which I would have access.

The guards had removed Terry’s handcuffs first. After they removed mine, I removed my shirt, throwing it on end of my bed and joined him on his. Terry asked, “What’s with you, Lyons? Why’s your face so red?”

“I-uh,” I stammered, “I don’t know. I guess that I was thinking about Harris-about how he had no balls.”

My statement distracted Terry. With his hand seemingly going to his crotch to protect what was there, he said, “Shit-that blew me away. Do you think that he was telling us the truth? Do you think that really happens out there?”

“I think he was telling the truth. You heard what they yelled at us. Some of them threatened to cut off our nuts.”

“What the fuck are we going to do, Lyons? Out there are all those guys who want to rape us-even cut off our balls. In here is that guard. What was his name-Snyder? Do you think that he’s really as bad as Harris said?”

“Yes-you missed a lot of what Harris told me about him. He fucks Harris and makes Harris suck his cock. He even makes him pluck out the hair around his cock and under his arms.”

“But, he didn’t bother us last night,” said Terry, now the one who seemed to be trying to play down the threat that Snyder presented.

“Last night was his night off; so is tonight.”

“And, he fucks Harris-in the ass?”

Where else would he fuck him, I wondered? But, I answered, “yeah, he fucks him in the ass.”

“He’ll never fuck me in the ass, or make me give him a blow job. I’m not gay like Harris. He’d have to kill me first.”

I wondered what I would do. Would he have to kill me first, too? I no longer knew whether I was straight or gay. As far as Terry was concerned, I guess I was gay. I would have gladly sucked his cock. He could even fuck me. Hell, I wanted him to fuck me. But, because I wanted to have sex with Terry-and, I guess, even with Harris, although with him, I would have to do the fucking-that didn’t mean that I wanted to be fucked by Snyder, by another guard, or by all those convicts. When I was fourteen years-old, another boy, older and bigger than me, had tried to make me suck his cock. I had refused and had been beaten. He would have had to hurt me much worse that he had to have made me do it. I wondered how much Snyder would have to hurt me to make me suck his cock?

Being gay and without balls-did that make Harris a coward? Had he given into Snyder because he was weak? What must it have been like-to have been fucked by all those men back at the Whinns Unit? What would I have done in his position? Would I have killed one of them; would I have killed myself? What did Harris finally do? Why was he here-in segregation at the Walls? We had been interrupted before he had reached that part of his story.

We were to be victimized because we were young and vulnerable. What made people, I wondered, take advantage of the weak? I had never felt so powerless-so incapable of affecting my destiny. I think that was the worst part about being in prison. Being locked up, being treated worse than an animal would be treated, the indignities of the strip searches, of showering in front of women guards, of being manacled whenever I was taken anywhere, were mentally distressing; the physical discomfort of the small, hot cell, of trying to sleep on a thin, lumpy, mattress, of having the light always on, exhausted me, but the thought of not having any control over my destiny-the thought that the guards or other prisoners could do with me-to me-as they willed, was maddening. Again, I thought, why are they like that? Then, a thought, passing through my mind, illuminated it like a camera’s flashbulb.

Was I really so different from them? I was in prison for victimizing someone-a group of people who, I thought, were too weak to retaliate. We hadn’t robbed the strong or the powerful; we had chosen those who we thought would have no recourse to the law. Wasn’t the same happening to us, now? We were to be victimized because we had no recourse to a higher authority. Suddenly, I was sorry for my crime. Before, I had been sorry for having been caught-for having been sentenced to prison-but, now, I was sorry for what I had done.

Let me out of here! I’ll change-I have changed. Set me free and I’ll never hurt anyone again-especially not the weak. The strong should protect the weak, not plunder them-not victimize them because they are bigger, stronger-more powerful. I wanted to call out to the guards, to tell them that it was all right to let me go-that I had learned my lesson-that there was no need to keep me locked up for six more years.

I felt the tears begin to flow. Sobbing, cradling my head in my arms, I lay back on Terry’s bed. I felt his hand on my bare chest, rubbing it, “What’s wrong, Lyons? What is it?”

For a moment, crying as I was, I couldn’t answer; then, I said, “What we did was wrong, Terry. We were attacking the weak. We’re no better than these animals.”

Continuing to rub my chest, he answered, “I know, Lyons. I don’t know why I ever wanted to do it in the first place. I would take it back, if I could-and not just because of what has happened to us; but, Lyons, do we deserve this? Is this justice? We may not live out our prison sentence; I’m not sure I that I would want to-not if someone tries to do to me what they’ve done to Harris; and, I don’t mean his castration. I think that I would rather be dead than let someone fuck me-rather be dead than suck someone’s cock.”

He lay across the bed beside me, his arm around my chest. “Don’t cry, Lyons. If you keep crying, I’m afraid that I will, too. We’ve got to be strong-to stick together. I need you, Lyons.”

“I need you, too, Terry. I-I love you.”

“I love you, too, Lyons. You’re my best friend. Here, you’re my only friend.”

I can’t describe the thrill I received from having Terry tell me that he loved me, even though, I knew he was talking about his love for me as a friend. Mine was more-but, I couldn’t tell him that. He had just told me that he would rather die than to be fucked, or to suck someone’s cock. How could I tell him that I would gladly suck his, or that I wanted him to fuck me?

Watching him, as he sat up to pull off his shirt, I was struck by how he had changed since I first met him. Then, he had worn gel in his hair so that it stuck straight up. Now, he wore his hair, frosted gold at the ends, brushed forward in bangs almost down to his eyebrows. With his hair brown at the sides and on top, the gold formed a halo around his head. He looked like an angel. I couldn’t understand why he was here-in this hell.

Laying back beside me, this time, on his back with his hands under his head, he said, “Damn it’s hot in here.”

“Yeah-Harris told me that he has a fan, which he bought in the commissary. We’ll have to buy one when we get to go there.”

“One, hell-we each need to get one.”

After lunch, we were taken from our cell for the second time. Crabb and Poland, the two guards who had taken us to shower and to recreation, came for us again. Poland was the woman guard. “Where are we going?” Terry asked.

“You have a medical and dental examination scheduled, then a trip to the barber.”

I was surprised that Poland answered him. I had the impression that she would have told me to shut up, if I had asked-which she did, when, encouraged by her answer to Terry, I later asked a question myself. Terry’s good looks had always impressed girls and women, as they apparently had this woman guard. It was too bad for Terry, I thought, that all the guards were not women. Men, unfortunately, often reacted toward him with jealousy and spite, or, as in here, with lust. Besides, I don’t think that he would have found it as disagreeable to be raped by a woman, if that is even possible.

The prison was still locked down, so we were led across the prison yard to avoid the corridors through the cell house. Hoots, whistles, shouts, and lewd comments, issuing from the windows of the cell house, followed us across the yard. I was reminded of our arrival at the Walls. If not for my fear of Snyder, I would have been glad to stay in our cramped cell.

Most of our medical examination was conducted by a convict technician. We were young and healthy. Other than remarking about how skinny I was, he said little. The dentist found that I had several cavities, but Terry’s teeth were perfect. I don’t know that he’d ever had a tooth filled. Next, we went to the barber. A convict barber cut our hair; it took little skill, since he shaved our heads to an eighth of an inch of our scalps. All of the gold was gone from Terry’s hair.

Given little time at the prison library, the only books I could find were westerns, definitely not my favorites, but I grabbed a couple. They were better than nothing. Then, we went to the commissary.

I was disappointed with the fans. The largest had only a ten inch blade and wasn’t very sturdy. I wasn’t certain that it would last long, especially since it would probably be kept on all the time. Terry and I each bought one, anyway. We spent the rest that we could afford on food-twinkies, candy bars, and chips. Fortunately, they gave us each a cardboard box to carry it all back to our cell.

Back in our cell, we hooked up the fans. We had bought ones which would clamp to our bunks. For now, since we were sitting on Terry’s bunk, we attached both to it. That night, when I went to bed, I would move mine to my bed. Then, we pigged out on the food which we had bought. Later, full for the first time since we’d been in prison, we lay back on Terry’s bunk. Briefly, I even felt somewhat content. I was full; I had books to read; and, although it was still hot, I could feel some breeze from the fans. Everything is relative I guess. We were still in hell-but, at least for now, in a cooler spot in hell; and, I wasn’t thinking about Snyder. That night we wouldn’t have to worry about him-but, the next night....

Shortly after breakfast the next morning, Crabb came for us again, but, this time, with another male guard, instead of Poland. Although I disliked Poland-her pettiness, the smirks and lewd looks she gave us-especially Terry-when we were naked, and her curt responses whenever I attempted to ask a question-I liked the looks of this guard less. Being an avid reader, I had seen characters described as having a cruel look, or a cruel mouth. With a mouth severely turned down at the corners, eyebrows which seemed to protrude from his face, lowered as they were in a perpetual scowl, and almost colorless blue eyes, seemingly made of ice-eyes which glared at us-at Terry and me as if we were vermin, insects hardly worth the effort to squish beneath the toe of his foot, as if, had he smashed us, we would have besmirched the sole of his shoe with unspeakable filth, he personified those descriptions-and he had not yet spoken a word.

His name was Rogers-like Mr. Rogers on TV, but when I looked at this Mr. Rogers, I didn’t see the genial TV host, with a smile, welcoming the kids to his neighborhood. I saw Satan, with a smirk-an evil grin-welcoming his hapless victims to Hell; and, we were in Hell. Of that I had no doubt. Dante, himself, could not have envisioned such a place of torment. We had been here but for a few days. From what I had heard from Harris, from what I had seen of Snyder, and from what I read in the face of Rogers, I had no doubt that they had been our best days, a respite from the real torment which was about to begin.

As I’ve said before, as bad as the physical torment was, the mental torment was worse. Shakespeare said, “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.”

I think that I could have faced death bravely-had I been certain of it, if I had known that I was to die; but, the uncertainty-the unknown-was maddening. So far, I had suffered great discomfort, embarrassment, and confinement, but I hadn’t yet been really hurt. I had no doubt, though, that it was to come. I just didn’t know when. Would it be today? Would it be now? Would it be Rogers, who would hurt me? How would I be hurt: raped; beaten; castrated like Harris? Not knowing was driving me insane. Glancing at Terry-from the look on his face-I judged that he felt the same.

Again, we stopped at Harris’ cell. “Move it, you little fag,” said Rogers, although Harris came out of his cell as soon as instructed. Glancing at his hands, I noticed that the handcuffs were so tight that they were digging into his wrists. “Move when I tell you, faggot or, the next time, you’ll get gassed.”

Harris didn’t smile at me as he had before; he didn’t even look in our direction. I almost didn’t recognize him, so different was the expression on his face. No longer cherubic as it had been the previous day, his face resembled faces I had seen in pictures of holocaust survivors. Although he didn’t look at me directly, there was no longer any light in his eyes. It was as if he had retreated deeply into himself-trying to hide where he couldn’t be hurt, or, at least, to where he wouldn’t feel the pain.

We were in the showers before I got the chance to speak to him. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

It was a moment before he responded to my question, then looking up at me, he said, “Snyder will be back tonight.”

I had somehow put Snyder out of my mind; probably it had been defensive response from my brain-if I didn’t think about it, it didn’t exist; but, now, I remembered how he had stared at us that first night as we stood naked on the yellow line. That remembered fear returned. I wonder if the light also departed from my eyes.

Thinking about Snyder, I hadn’t even looked at Harris’ crotch, but Terry had. When I looked at Terry, he was staring at it-and he had a hard-on. It was the first time that I had ever seen Terry with an erection. I had seen him naked everyday in P.E.; but, boys don’t get erections in the locker room. One that did would never live it down.

He had an erection now, and seeing it gave me one. His cock-hard-was larger and thicker than mine. Mine-I had measured it-was five and one-half inches when hard. Terry’s was closer to six and one-half inches, but, instead of standing at attention, as mine did, his stuck straight out from his body, and from the small jerks that it was making, I was certain that it was fully hard. Glancing at our erections, Harris said, “You’d better jerk off. You don’t want to go out there like that. If Rogers sees you with a hard-on, he’ll hit you in the nuts with his baton until it’s gone.” He didn’t offer to help me with mine this time.

“What if the guards come in?” asked Terry.

“Fuck, the guards aren’t coming in here, unless we don’t’ come out. They don’t want to get their uniforms wet.”

“Do guys beat off in the showers often?” Terry had his hand around his cock-unconsciously, I thought.

“Sure-and that’s not all. Most guys get plugged for the first time in the showers.”

Plugged-what did he mean by that? When he said plugged, I thought of the old gangster movies. In them, plugged referred to someone’s getting shot. I didn’t think that was what he had meant. “What do you mean, plugged?”

“Harris laughed-for the first time that day, “What the fuck do you think it means? It means someone gets his ass plugged-with someone’s cock.”

Glancing back and forth from Harris’ ball-less crotch, from which dangled his small flaccid cock, to Terry’s throbbing erect penis, I began stroking my cock. That I was doing it was no longer of my volition. As turned on as I was, I would have jacked off in the hallway at school between classes with all the students watching. Terry began stroking his. We came together, both shooting our come onto the shower floor. Soon after, we heard Rogers yell, “Get your asses out here, now!” Rinsing off the vestiges of our come, we exited the showers; our cocks were no longer hard.

When we came out of the showers, Crabb and Rogers were waiting with manacles, but no uniforms. Our dirty ones were gone, but there were no clean ones. “Where’s our clothes?” Terry asked.

“Shut the fuck up,” responded Rogers. You little fags don’t need uniforms.”

Manacled-naked-we were taken to recreation. I felt the leg manacles, no longer over my pant legs, rubbing my legs raw.

Once again free of restraints, the three of us walked into the yard. There was an elevated, fenced, walkway from which the guards could have watched us, but, except to check on us a couple of times, Crabb and Rogers didn’t bother.

In the shade, the three of us sat cross legged on the ground in a circle. I certainly didn’t want to shoot hoops naked; I guess that Terry didn’t either; besides, I wanted to hear more of Harris’ story-and more about Snyder and the other guards. Facing Harris, both Terry and I became hard again. Without saying anything we both beat off again, spilling our seed onto the asphalt.

Harris watched us with a half grin on his face. “Ironic, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m certain that the last thing that either of you want is to lose your balls, but looking at my ball-less crotch makes you both hard; don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, though. I have that effect on most guys.”

At least, after coming for the second time, we were able to listen to Harris without becoming hard again. He told us the rest of his story:

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Next: How Harris came to be at the Walls.