Dawg Pound Salon

   Brought onto the incarcerated scene four-point-five decades in from a blue-collar, Mid-American upbringing on a violent case sprung from practically ether, chitchat with the boys was something I was pressed to hook into. I like partying with drugs dandy enough (standard for dudes who were gay in their 20's in the 90's), but the ad nauseam of dope fiend-ism as a topic wore the hell out quick. This being Kentucky, with methamphetamine and opioids being tightly woven into our ethos, its not hard to guess the dogmatic luster they hold in the hoosegow. For this and multiple reasons (not the least of which was ANOTHER drug problem - my script for Risperdal, the boy-booby inducing dummy-dope that kept me zombified for the first half decade of my stay), most gab with multi-generational lawbreakers in the 20-teens was a lingo foreign to me, without common ground colored on a map. I had to build my own branding over the stretch, and make myself useful as my favorite yard icon and friend Big Blind John regularly espoused. Getting so good at cooking with severe limitations I'd have inmates pay me for it homework hustling - learning to write in multiple voices and guarantee results while also offering sought-after tutoring, becoming known for my dogged pursuit of perfect scores for my clients letter-writing, legal help, composing dirty messages to aging queer pen-pals which kept gorgeous straight dudes in new shoes, plus my background in massage and bodywork- adaptation gave me purpose, which I believe is everyone's hearts desire.

   One cool night, the evolved conversation of the incarcerated over that decade and its stunning conversions, resembling ones taken by so many of the inmates in question, stood illuminated.

   Out in the person kennels, we were enjoying a breezy Spring evening, but for some random boob drumming on his cell's slim, vertical window for somebody, maybe anybody's, attention. With the half-assed coating specifically designed so we in garish orange couldn't register the drummer, they were relentless. The taps seemed closest to me, but all ten of us were over this fruitless nagging.

   Next over from me was this guy I called McGruff, the Crime Dawg: a big and tall, salt and peppered former Corrections officer who rejected a one-year plea deal and wound up serving 18 instead at 85% before parole eligibility on a sex-case. It was a he said/she said fiasco that removed him from his house, wife, and daughters, here impacting with a 52 year old (it was his birthday eve, how I would come to remember) mountain boy dope dealer in the first cage, about life in Dorm 1, located on A-side, the sex offences side of Northpoint Training Center in Danville, Kentucky.

   This duos loose rap spread to me about some new maestro in the mix that kept his entire fam-damily caged up in a (presumably) dark basement and treated to an cannonade of perversions- having non-consensual relations with his spouse as she was attired in their daughters things while pics of the girl were affixed to mom's back, the kids (and their pooch) forced to watch, and even (hostage) grandma front and center: home theater! This made me think to ask if "Rockman" had gone home yet. Dawg (urbane, three-fingered hand gesture goes with this spelling, BTW) wasn't hip to my reference, and I thought everyone knew this celeb. His claim to fame was garbing the grand-kids in lingerie (this detail according to inmate.com, the in-house grapevine, SOUNDS spicy, don't it?) and going numbers one and two on them while being held in chicken mesh cages (confirmed by sober authority). Bearing a resemblance to the Mole Man of Marvel Comics Fantastic Four lore, he was in our big house for a lengthy bit. This former potentate in NPTC's fairly prodigious Wiccan community collected crystals and made inmates rings, wands, and other mystical doodads until his blabbermouth legal aide Fat Jim gave away the prurient details of his case to everyone and their sister. Possessing breath that could knock a buzzard off a shit-wagon expedited his instant pariah status. Quick-fast, he morphed into a serial "bueberry", sporting the cobalt polyester of an inmate fresh from the hole (solitary, where this rooster party was going down), unable to survive a week on the yard but for extortion and/or terrorism i.e. " jailhouse justice". I told McG and buddy that Rockman was due to split soon, and was met with incredulity. Myself, I cant imagine what he's looking forward to besides maybe a McDouble and Super-Size Fries - whos waiting after you crap on some tykes? The worlds most understanding and/or sickest sonuvabitch, lid to your factory-damaged pot you better cherish like the fucking Hope Diamond. Anyway, at 125k in tax monies to keep a sex criminal on the streets with the "conditional" - AKA public commitment, where the individual can't go to certain public spaces, attend schools, etc., plus registration as an offender, but a mere 25,000.00 to keep them incarcerated (including that fresh 18-year old whose slightly lesser aged girly's bitter parent firebombs his existence over solicited photos their little angel's culpability in sees no punitive damages at all he's here with his buddies at Sex Offender Lite Camp with working folk buying uniforms and meals), an SOB with Rockman's priors will get shafted back before he finishes his McFlurry (if that's still a thing - last time I was free, Michelle Obama was still Commander-and-Chief). The question I posed was: who did what to HIM? Around 80% of serious sex offenders are victimized first. Nobody decides out of the clear blue to make on the grandkinderen. Somebody did something horrific to an innocent that blossomed into Grandpa Monster, likely (an explanation, never EVER an excuse). Our third party showed gratitude for the wonderful family he was blessed with, raising him without such worries. I decided I liked this one then and there (sobering question: what are the habits of Rockman's unfortunate grownup grand-kids today?).

   Relief from the underbelly of lockup was sorely needed, so naturally the fabulous world of queers was the conversational destination of choice as always in todays finer cages. Older fella told McGruff he spotted two regular penis-havers smooching in the shower. They back-and-forthed a minute trying to identify the culprits. McG tossed "Derek, and the one he's always with...", and I caught with "Andrew?", making us simpatico. Gaggles burst throughout the people-pound re: the revulsion of dudes kissing. Of course, I'm wondering what these assholes think I do with my playmates (at that time I was with Andrews ex, Sebastian, a statement sounding so nelly I can smell brunch wafting over the antiques. Straight Outta Connecticut. Back to "KY Lock-Down"). Its straight to wieners and holes with this "Clan of the Cave Bear" crowd, and I can't decide if its flattering or not that they know I'm gay but forget sometimes. Back on the streets I used to joke sometimes that I couldn't get laid in prison verification was something I could've done the fuck without. If I score a fistful of pardons and the dry spell keeps up, find me along tube sock and a rafter...

   Homos and associated weirdnesses continued as the topic de jeur, and I did my standard fly on the wall routine. Crime Dawg points to me, suddenly amped up, and says "Bat***, you know that couple, they got busted fucking right out in the open!" Leaning on the grated metal fence, lackluster expression as is general cascades away and I'm that "Price Is Right" contestant whose raw titty escaped and waved hello to Daytime Nation when her tube-top come on off when she come on down. "Shit! Shit! Who? Who was it? Who?", behaving like some non-self-conscious underage pee-pee dancer, a couple of inmates cracking up from never seeing these layers of me in play before. Hollers McGruff, "Pac-Man and Marshall- that's who- they were doing it right in front of the video visit monitors, and the cameras! They both got shipped right after that."

   TRIGGER WARNING: What follows is a more subjective offering, delivered in what some would describe as a vitriolic fashion and lexicon than that you've observed thus far, more reflective of the cultural parlance. Reader discretion advised. "I hope somebody's at Luckett beating the clown paint off that worthless fuck-stain Marshall right now. He shows up an asshole anti-gay pretty boy, gets a money Jones, tries three times for Landscape since Peaches, whose mission was to blow every honky under 25, and was "suck-retary" of the department (I later restored dignity to the role as the executive ass-sistant), hotness made him a shoe-in, except he decided since he was cute showing up to push the fucking mower was beneath him, so even Northpoint's most diligent cocksucker turned his third attempt application into confetti with a fit of eye-rolling giggles. Next thing, he's being sold from one dude to another for 200 bucks (Not bad. To paraphrase Kathy Griffin - if you're gonna get a whore, you want one the first day on the job. We got a winner here called Cupcake that's going stale. Looks 24 going on 42. Being fucked-out is a job hazard without comp pay), then this Genius Bar escapee rings up daddy and lays this item on him - *making annoying duck lips with deep masculine WASP voice* I've had to make some tough decisions in prison, Dad. I know together we lost Mom then I disgraced you by boning Sis, and came here a sex offender- thanks for picking up, needless to say. I want more out of life, Father. To achieve my goals, I know I have to change, and you'll support me in this your answering alone proves it. What do I want from life, Dad? I want Adidas sweat pants. I want reheated frozen pizzas, Philly cheese-steak sandwiches, and chicken strips (who WOULDN'T consider some massive lifestyle alterations for those Ken's Steakhouse Ranch Dressing packets? Shit's ignunt, playa'!- RTH). How can I achieve these things? I've tried working, and the compromises were beyond what I was willing to give, so I'm becoming a prison bitch, Pop. Yep, I'm gonna sprout some tits, suck up the dicks, and dole my hot young ass out for things I need while making it a Federal Hate Crime to punch in my sex criminal face. Two birds with one stone! Where do you come in, Daddy-O? Howzabout some seed money for cream foundation or an eyeliner pencil off the canteen for number one son? Got me, Pop? Dad? Uh, hello? Daddy? Well y'all, my father has totally abandoned me on my trans journey.' THEN, this wet skid-mark gets taxpayer funded hair growth formula with *pain level 8 eye roll* 'her' endo-package, plus skeeter-bite ta-tas. When your woman name is Marshall, too lazy to lop off the end and be motherfucking Marsha, legit trans and gender-fluid folk losing their benefits from the abuses of malingering ass-clowns and armchair activists that helped no one, should stomp this prostitute until hell wouldn't have them. These are inmates who came in with hormones for decades, not for gains or even trying to get laid actual gender dysphoria sufferers that have potential disastrous effects physically and psychologically from these losses. Individuals like this inane fuckup aren't only in the way, they're viral nightmares. Meanwhile, he hooks up with this j-boy who supports the loser and winds up afoul of his drug suppliers over insurmountable hemorrhaging debt doubled by keeping up this YAP (young ass punk), whose busy doing what? Shagging another trim. A fool in love I understand. At least Pop had none of it. I wanna shake his hand, buy him a drink, play wingman, and find him a sophisticated broad who'll give him some doting, worth-the-fuck-while kids to make up for that ambulatory abortion the last one kicked out!"

   Standing in the last cage was a principled type that cosigned about the wretchedness of men swapping spit in our showers, who was astute in the names, stats, and lore of Eastern's women inmate scene, and regarding our window rapper said that if he was in a visible one he'd be putting his dick in it "to fuck with people". His back to the grassy, lush field with the yard tower behind him, the shiniest lustrous hair ever pulled into a loose bun, falling into rivulets on his muscular shoulders, having almost cartoonish crystalline blue eyes. Finished off with the orange jumpsuit top pulled up from the bottom making a knot like Daisy Duke, revealing a toned and tanned abdomen: If I'm the only one to get excited when my eyes hit the back fence, I'll send every dime that hits my mitts to UNICEF. I promise, not a single pitiful orphan scored a bowl of oatmeal off my lone woody. When the laughter at my rant died, he stared into the air and put hands on the grates, declaring "That's why I live in the country. Ain't no weirdos out there."