We went to the room. He had a pipe and some alcohol. We smoked. We drank. I talked. He listened. We ended up laughing. Next thing you know we were having sex. I was on my back, legs on his shoulders. It was consensual. It was fine.
"It lasted all night. I stayed up, hidden under my cover, scared that they'd find out about me. About what I did. I pissed myself. Then morning came, and the gossip found its way around. They'd lodged the broken mop handle up inside the guy. Smurfette made sure that he had a breakfast tray, and fed the guy because he couldn't do anything much but moan.
Peter was a nineteen-year-old bisexual inmate who was rumored to be a convicted sex offender. That was already at least two strikes. He was also small, weighing maybe 120 pounds. To top it off, Peter had a mental disability. He was smart, but was slow to respond, or pick up on verbal cues.
The first time I saw the man everyone called “Helluva,” I found myself wondering, what does that have to do with the price of tea in China? Much later after observing, meeting, and coming to know this person for who [...]