Batmama's Northpoint Notes #21
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Chapter Three
Victim of a Bull and Bear lockdown stock market, the shoe swapped feet. On my former planet I'd been not only respected but elevated in my sexuality. Now I was mostly treated only worth my bank statement and it stung. Having it on B got me robbed, betrayed, then almost killed and shipped. On A it was the only reason most spoke to me and likely sole for me having any partner despite the pervasiveness of sexual and domestic culture there. Mainly I wanted the second. I love cooking for my person and watching movies activities I refuse solitarily, with them. Constantly trying to have this, Northpoint fucks me out of it every single time. I never play victim unless I am assassinated.
Ben Sallee
May 25th, 2026
WhoCares? Whores Do.
Recently we unleashed a guy named Ben Salee back to society. Ben kept a hostage in his home. A sex slave, actually. If you're his victim or their family: he didn't do his time, I did. I got my brains beat out because the punitive nature of jailhouse justice was replaced with a high shelf of protection for scoundrels like B.S. He, on the other hand, repeatedly screwed the right inmate and hit the jackpot.
Unit Administration has been told I'm worthy of a 2-man cell by the psychologist for five years. This is vitally important. Note: I wrote multiple U.A.'s begging them for a year to move me back to A-side proactively. An attack and hospital trip finally got me there with 500.00 in property loss with an "our bad - crap Intel" apology from the gangs and that'd be it for reparations. This place was complicit.
My diplomacy and refusal to snitch like a gaggle of gay molesters gets me treated like a nuisance. One who's been to the hole recently moved out of our wing two weeks ago to be with his partner downstairs. I tried to score his bed and our current B Unit Administrator told me the moves were "based on seniority beginning on
entry to the dorm from SMU (the hole)", disallowing me. Blatant hypocrisy and rampantly so. I'm stuck in a miserable, loud, and aggressively parasitic space inappropriate for where I am now trying to lay back and finish. During graduation two were in the hole and now live in the honor dorm redesignated A and are flourishing. I wrote the A U.A. respectfully providing her numerous reasons I deserved this move to zero response. The valedictorian can't be in the place catering to students but the people that were in jail at graduation are fine. These people are ridiculous, all of them.
Salee got my dream gig, U.A. Runner, and charged inmates desperate for new spots between 5 and 50 bucks for bed moves. He got my earned bottom bunk in a 2-man. His partner was his bunky. They were caught myriad times literally fucking in the shower to no disruption of his high-earning empowered lifestyle. Inmates called him "Warden Ben" due to diplomatic immunity. Two tours of the hole with job losses and good time credits lost for me caught doing less. Our former legal aide, Stanley Hensley, had a guard pull the door open to him on all fours
getting the dog. His partner was remaindered to a dorm down the hall Stanley could visit daily with his gig while he kept the 2-man bottom spot he snatched three months after arrival as the highest paid inmate at Northpoint.
This jewel also took a CashApp payment for 100.00 from a spoiled sex offender named Squirm, appropriate for a puss-wad pretend gangster caught with an infected fresh tattoo. He avoided all penalty while literally every other attendant of court call that day went to the hole. Squirm I'll mention told people I was a rat while I was working one day after he clearly squealed on a dude so he could steal his fiscally endowed trim.
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Again, if you've a bone with Salee he lived a queer dream I've never despite my education record, teaching illiterates, endowing the library, and maintaining ethics standards while keeping fish out of trouble. I got branded a troublemaker, but Ben was getting bloated with dicks and dope, eating like a queen, and telling on any and everyone. Witnesses confirm this. I don't lob rat accusations lightly after my fiascos. Adding to my soreness, the best and most beloved partner I ever had who treated ME like I needed and was adored and respected universally got undeservedly shipped. I was ready to grease Slime-ball Salee with a huge real estate venture costing me much-ly but giving me and mine a two-man with cementing jobs. This is what Northpoint Training Center forces me to. The new thing? My seniority is meaningless.
Adaptation to my environment had to happen, so Crum was sent by me to retrieve Bryce. Alone in the TV room we interviewed. I let him know only somebody not me pays some clown then delivers THEM an orgasm. He saw my point. Too, I don't do submission very well,
especially with somebody younger. Gives me the willies and separates me from another inmate variety. Really I'm not youth oriented sexually, but being surrounded by the willing always under an age, my case-by-case ideology works examining appearance, maturity, and desires. I told this seemingly mature 25 year old I wasn't crazy about this. Still it was HIM, not body parts I was into and frankly I was horny as the day's long and him hotter than the same. I prepped him my hands would go anywhere I pleased including anywhere with an opening. He grinned like an idiot and my impression was this wasn't what it seemed. It was a permission slip and a launchpad maybe.
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After the bust, an obnoxious Black trim called Benji (refer to: "Tammy With the Good Hair" in Stories, and dream up the marriage of every stereotype an "In Living Color" episode could dream of, then double that mother) came screaming at me about getting their "baby" busted, how'd it happen, and did I tell on him? I was 100% honest during the arrest interview because something told me he'd be too. This negroid blowjob-dispenser insisted my sincerity got him put on B. Hardly have I begged our generous Lord for a loaded pistol so.
Reading the man right, we were simpatico responding to questions from guards. I finally met up with my exiled would-be walking on opposing sides of chain-link into the housing. To get him out of harm's way I'd left behind with a hole in my head I offered signing no-contact paperwork if necessary. This was my idea where I'd commit to staying away to move him back. He declined the offer and told me he'd make it over, not to worry. After we both went for two weeks to the hole, his prophecy manifested. Next to each other, actually. Yeah, the cop who did the release
didn't know about the charge that put us in, unbelievably, as it was on billboards across Boyle County, KY apparently with the late Toby Keith crooning "Where Were You When Bryce Got Blowed?" on motherfucking country radio I'd swear given the reaction.
I moved out same day as in, to stick with Crum who'd by then become my domestic partner. Yes, the prospect of bathroom shenanigans meant less than cooking, eating, laughing, and enjoying somebody the yard named "Robin" (the first of a clown car's worth of varying types to this moment - the current carving his independent legacy as "Throbbin") who I adored in a way transcendental to fleshy cheapness. 24 hours into my stay, he sold the property I had him hold for me to play poker. Basically stealing from me, scum-bagging. Weeks inseparable, sharing secrets to realize I'm garbage with a bank account. Plus I'd split from the wing where I would've slept beside Bryce for somebody who saw me as a walking bag of coffee with a sandwich.
Before long, Bryce and I were a couple. We agreed that we were stronger together and if I
was to be surrounded by opportunists I might as well pick one (I thought) that got me. Thing is, that morning in the shower he wasn't the dude getting serviced. He was sweet, affectionate, and we connected, talking and laughing during. For me, the action was a byproduct. It was almost disposable. I told him repeatedly because a) he had a weird uncut Euro-anteater, and b) I'm really a tits and ass-man at day's end and he was a BUFFET. These prison queers are pathetically mechanical, all pee-pees and holes devoid of valleys, peaks, without a whisper of creativity. I'm an American Indian hunter with nothing going to waste head to toe. My hands, eyes, and mouth went to Disneyland in that rain-box.
We only lasted about a month. Bait and switch, 100%. The upright, adult, and charming person I met and had more than a crush on by now I'd planned on building a store with and being a power couple. Instead, I received a conceited, bossy, know-it-all-know-nothing that wouldn't hear whispers nor screams I had to offer despite 7 years down by then. Incessantly he blow-jobbed a puke named Mike I called "the YAP-father" (Young Ass Punk). This joke was one
who got a crumb of popularity and grinned like an idiot ever after. This nobody sex-criminal scored a sleeve of tats putting him into the graces of Diaz, a beloved A-side hipster. He became respected by proxy purely. A child-raping rat (on paper, proven) named Moses was his bestie until he, Bryce, and their YAP circuit discovered that morsel. Visibly Mike about jizzed himself daily sitting by Varsity Captain Bryce. Another pitiful specimen coming to prison wasting chances at rebirth. Instead, like so many redoing the social aspects of high school blithely forgetting how the geeks reigned afterwards last time. All Mike and Bryce did was brag about their former drug empires and tell tired dope yarns. Bryce's sad pseudo-beau there also told the YAP posses how to land a "fag" for pay their bills through the mail and on the streets. Part of me hopes Mike is lying in a barn, needle hanging from his inked arm, and half his mug gnawed off by rats, face contorted in an unending scream. That's my zen after ten at Northpoint.
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Donovan Bowshier
Practically from ether Bryce axed me then opened "our" store alone. To a dude we were to buy out together he found funds elsewhere, tossing me like trash and using my brainchild without me. I'd reconnected with another person, Donny Bowshier, by then who I'd been lightly involved with before my excision from B-side. He was this Italian Prince Charming everybody told me was the best. A perfect partner and solid choice. Plus he looked like a soap star turned TV dad.
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"Bubbles"
David Satterfield
Encapsulated: Donny ratted on me within a month of me moving to B, so he could continue his down-low exploits as a Mexican gangster's bottom. Then he boned a 300 lb. toothless AIDS patient alleging to be my "sister", "Bubbles" (sure to be a solo topic directly being a meth-head nurse murdering patients) - behind my back whilst I sent the slob iCare pizzas weekly to alleviate guilt from moving back to A as I was marooned in a 10 man full of needle-dopers due to the squealing he dealt me (he blamed the telling on Moo-Moo the Tranny and/or Fat Cowboy who paid Trans-Stephanie a can of cream corn to blow him for more see "All Needed Up With No Place To Go" and "Dude Awakenings" under Stories)). I was gun-shy
after the pill-window attack/concussion, see. Later, my amazing love colluded with a hit-man to get me killed then over cancelled bagels he wouldn't have lost but that same hitman who stalked and terrorized me for two years that management insisted on putting in our honor dorm away from nervous sex offenders agreed with me it was only fair after he kyped my 25 clams worth of Suboxone. Like the others, after I abandoned the scuzzball I was chat-friendly. If I didn't speak to or forgive wrongdoing I'd never utter a word. This house isn't built for daily grudges unless you own an entertainment website. Naturally he regretted his behavior, wanting me back for the proper reasons. Instead of coming clean he pointed out the horrible doings of others still pretending to be Over-age Gangsta Jesus (he was NOT good at aging, and a graying Honkey with sagging britches redefines sadness). Poser to the core. Wound up getting busted extorting a child molester, got shipped for the cardinal sin, and went to Eastern. Thats the second most hardcore facility in KY, where real gangs ran him in immediately. Rumor is he told on them, now carrying a target on his back anywhere he travels the next six years.
Donny, Karma. Karma, Donny...
With Donny still faking fidelity but on B-side, being on Uranus was as accessible. We'd hang an hour here and there in restraint at church - the only inter-prison locale here, making the multidisciplinary Holy House a place for drug trades and often frustrated sexual behavior. Bryce meanwhile lived across the hall. Seeing him daily wasn't a damn bit fun. The brief spate of us as couple was crap, but not for me trying. I told him to respect my privacy and not blab my and our details. "Fuck it, I keep shit real. These bitches can hear anything I got going. I'm a (sic) open book." Never mind the obvious two party issue with pesky math again.
Bryce gabbed the story of our shower bust endlessly to anybody listening til exiting three years later. Mind you, its a funny one upon face. Not only the radio blast, but that it was heard everywhere including the kitchen, so those guys even were mystified at the culprits. "Bryce" became confused with "Price" a Black dude my age with a hankering for the youth mounting the chaos. My accomplice became the target of all kinds of gags and me too. God knows I'm the
farthest from humorless you'll meet around here and really can't stand self-seriousness. The problem? Exaggeration, omission, slander, and their lasting impacts.
I could go into exhaustive details about him and myself. Cheapening this page isn't something I mind if its artful at least but this would be so inane and boring it might make you wanna skip going to prison. I'll give this: "Muscles" here offered up his man-gina I'd already gotten play off, a story nugget always left out of his talk-time diminishing his machismo. His version grew into the guard having to order me to take his weird weenie outta my mouth. Never did that ever happen. Had to tell this poor little rich kid he was sponging off of to have him put a lid on that crap. His nonstop obsession with billboard-ing the fact he was willing to have shower shenanigans made people think I was a serial trim, bent on blowing all male passersby. Still strutting like a gangster rooster, the captain of the chomo-queer football team ended up with an old locker of mine, marked with my bat-logo. Beneath it in Sharpie "Blow-jobs for iCare"
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This, many concur was impetus for my stay and subsequent write-up at the hole. The investigation captain confirmed the rumors required exploration. Without it myself and three others including my actual partner wouldn't have been cuffed. On my word, the others were released after the weekend, but had to perform extra duty tasks. I caught two weeks in Special Management, lost valuable property through R and D exchange, not to mention iCare, and had to do three weeks worth of homework for two courses in three days due to a tablet replacement the week preceding my arrest. That rumor leveled me plus good men got humiliated. Types who don't engage in anything of the sort got harassed about prostitution with their peer.
The incompetence of staffers combined with the projections of sex criminals caused this.
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Like I said, my mind rewound the setup for this arrest and the best thing I'll offer? When I was maybe 20 before exiting the awkwardness of my youth I read this article in Maximum Rock and Roll, a California Punk Rock fanzine about the loneliness of dating. A smart young lady whose name escapes, I recall her being in a band called the Yeastie Girlz, wrote "Be who you wanna be, don't date them" Bryce was the unlearnt re-learnt. Living across halls stuck with that few months - Mom dying miserably, sent to the hole for the tat when I was happy a damn second, the attack and another month in the hole, Crum betraying me and selling my stuff, all... I don't care how fucked it sounds, that maybe seven minutes in the shower hooked me because it was something I craved intrinsically. Somebody being nice to me alone.
I'm a grownup gay trapped inside the only prison in our state that still polices intimacy. People get reprimanded for hugging. It's asinine to anybody of functional intellect. Get this - also no pictorial nudity, yet inmates can buy makeup to be more appealing to others physically. I have condescending officials comment on my getting
caught and in trouble twice in ten years for "sexual performance". Screw you. Unless you're celibate shut your stupid hypocritical cowboy pie-hole. I'm a queer living with 1200 men and you expect me to be Jesus? I'm even disallowed affection and domesticity.
James Bargo
Returning to my point, my disappointment with Bryce given in analogy to my Fentanyl-casualty bestie Bargo - you meet some sexy chick, have an intimate moment you THINK is gonna be cheap sex. Instead you have this sweet thing that makes you to want her beyond that. She gets with you, prompting a decision to support your lifestyle together with a landscaping business. She hangs out with her stupid girlfriends nonstop and treats you like crap, then unceremoniously ditches you. For icing she starts a lawn service without you. Worst
part is, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting the bitch.
Along the route I gave this disappointment a loan he laughed in Crum's dumb face about repaying. Later this manly-man offered to let me "eat his p**sy for 40 bucks" which I declined, grossed out. Within 3 days he was in a relationship with an incredibly rich elitist (walking past where I used to live shuddering "Ugh, Dorm FIVE" like the boob was riding a limo through the hood - "Lovey Howell" here was another molester thinking they're better than common inmates good job, Northpoint) ironically called "Superman". They remained a couple talking life together until the Queer Of Steel brought a drug test kit home from his gig at R + D and dumped him over a Suboxone positive.
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Like I said, the silver lining was who this crap made ME. Thanks to not wanting to be the thing Bryce nonstop advertised me to be I worked out daily. Because of him telling little assholes despite me repeatedly asking him to quit that they'd be set if they fed me dick, I achieved a standard for my partners nobody else has, demanding they work, get educated, and have more going on than face and body. That gets them an interview. Him informing every newcomer with an ear about the shower episode undoing everything I worked for often led me to that valedictorian status. Unknowingly, that gay clod improved me. Not enough though.
His refusal to release that image right up to his release undid me, at least to administration and above who know better hopefully now. A close friend of mine came in from pill call less than two months ago reporting big mouth telling the highly embellished version making me look pathetic, him a rock star. I begged repeatedly for privacy. When he limped around here like an Afghanistan vet, I brought him a thorough regime for plantar fascitis, treatment plan delivered in clinician format. Still, he gave me
this which humiliated myself, got my friends investigated, and the yards ability in ordering iCare limited. Good job, Buddy!
This post is his present. Congratulations on your parole! You don't care about our privacy, mine and yours, and LOVE to blab that story? Cool, Man. Lemme help. I'm here to share the story with your friends, girlfriend, family, and everybody! Did Mom retire from the hospital yet? Hi, if she's reading this. Sis OK? How's Courtney? The kid OK from all the heroin? Y'all co-parenting? My best to everybody.
The rock bottom job title a person can hold in America I'm pretty sure is Prison Whore. I turned it down in my moments of desperation. I had a
dude with a store locker and a massive dope supply tell me to name my price. There wasn't one. It's always a soul, I've found. On the other end, the stories.
One day, Bryce and I were hanging when Crum plopped unwanted down at our bullpen table. My glasses arm was wonky and I was in a foul mood already. Matthew, Crum's surname, picked the specs up and tried to jimmy them. This was after the screw-up sold my cooler. Trying to land back into my graces, when he snatched the things I require for viewing all I saw was trouble. Predictably they were broken within seconds. Having enough, I snatched them, glared at the bug-eyed hillbilly and bellowed "everything you touch turns to shit and garbage, you dumb son of a BITCH!" The two juniors looked scared half to death.
Passing time with O.G. Wayne, my senior bunky a week and change later, his eyes bugged under ubiquitous shades worn inside. "Goddamn, Batman, that other shit's bad 'nuff but dumb sumbitch? Wonder that boy didn't kill hisself". We fell on each other as Crum walked up on the two of us howling. The perturbed man-child scowled in our direction saying "fuck you assholes" and skulked off as we near collapsed.
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We're only as miserable as we allow ourselves here. Creativity really helps. The worst is if you have it or anything, say actual money, of value, the sheeple, lemmings, and dangleberries here will work overtime to steal, break, or corrupt it. Working against a tide is my existence. I dare to be optimistic, have standards, dreams, desire to help, and the ability to laugh at crap. I'm also angry, disappointed, sad, and frustrated a lot as a result. Laying back and watching TV isn't an option. For one thing, a fat moron broke mine 3 months ago.
As it was under warranty from Emerson, I sent it back for replacement. This was to be 3 weeks, give or take. Two months later, I sent canteen management a contact form. No
response. All I would LOVE to do is end my night by lying back and zoning out to the Marvel shows and nightly Simpsons that all arrived the second the stupid fuck destroyed my property the SECOND day in a row he wrapped the cord around his lazy leg. Up on the hub, Ms. Rogers, the officer there asked canteen the status, getting "On the way". Two weeks, another attempt, same result. Three weeks ago, I came to Rogers on a bleak day and told her how badly I needed to lay in my rack and veg to my TV. The brokenness in my face working, she invested five minutes the commissary persons wouldn't. Why should they? I'm an inmate. Who cares? There's no accountability.
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They work for a monopoly - Union Supply Group. This company instead of replacing my ridiculously expensive 300.00 13" set, claimed to refund it instead. My power of attorney had to verify they failed to do this, I'll add. I could've had my TV months ago. The person reading those contact forms file 13'd them instead of any actual investigation. Rogers cares, and helps residents daily. She's rare as hell, though. This week a note went up telling us the replenishment truck contains no property orders. USG sent none of us the multi-hundred dollar orders we paid for. Again, zero accountability because they're a monopoly servicing a demographic nobody's supposed to hear from nor care about, whose families they rape financially over inferior products because they have noncompete situations allowing it. iCare has property but this prison, for reasons I fail to get, shelters us from dealing with anybody but USG who the population unanimously loathes.
I'll take a second to mention Dan Napier, our Deputy Warden of Security. I've got nothing negative to offer about him. I'll leave that there.
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Here 'n' now, Lil' Bro Brad and I have begun Superhero Cinema Sessions. I can't commit to a movie. I want to be writing, setting things up, working out, cooking, or creating and sitting for a flick bugs me like a chore. Solution? B and I divide a comic-film into 30 minute bits and watch at 3 and 9 pm count on alternating rental tablets. I'm now excited about movie time and it works for my on-the-go inmate influencer lifestyle! We finished Gunn's "Superman" my #1 favorite super joint ever. Tonight's "The Marvels", then "Fantastic Four: First Steps". 'Nuff Said!
This afternoon a gaggle of gangstas rounded my rack silently reading comics and it was what I've wanted a long time. One of the good things
in here when its almost like the big family experience I envied as lonely only boy. If you're out there and miserable - quit. I'm a bipolar person with subscriptions, Baby-Cakes, here to tell you stop wasting days on unhappiness. DM that motherfucker you think of but never talk to embarrassment or rejection fear be damned. Reconnect with somebody, awkwardness or prior bad vibes cut apart like undue red tape. Why live creating regrets? Take it from those who CAN'T - you can.
xoxoxoxo The Mayor of Bat-Lanta
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