Three+ years into my Northpoint bit, I'd figured out the reason I devolved into a fat and sexless hobo without a speaking part was this pill called Rispiradol I munched for Bipolar 1 with psychotic features. Didn't stop me from stabbing up a chum (being fair, I meditated on it before the scrip) now here I am not imbibing anymore, "back to life, back to reality" like that Soul II Soul song.

     Checking out menfolk wasn't new, but horniness after a split-decade of dead air felt foreign alike bullshitting with inmates where I wanted to once being a sex-positive, hyper-sociable type, yet it was all rusted and demolished. Here I was in MEN'S PRISON, asshole-to-elbow in cute smiles, sexy voices, swingin' Johnsons, broad chests, and bubbly asses like a 1980-something porno, my character with chemically-inspired micro-penis, social retardation from conversational atrophy, and the physique of boil-in-the-bag mashed potatoes mounted with a swelled Fantastic 4 Thing head. Fuck ALL your nightmares.

     For a plus-column was stellar bunky Joe to rap and wreck with, responsible for yanking me onto our planet again, and aiding the steer to epiphany that those pills were wreaking damage. Cute, irreparably straight, married, and mirroring me as a libertine/libertarian he gave ideal reentry into humanity discussing sex, politics, celebrities, inmate gossip, and drugs extensively. My gears slowly churned, and he didn't pry overly into the whys and wherefores concerning a lack of prurient pursuits. Our wing being located in Historic Old Fartsburg and me being a wretch (though not as bad with upkeep - shaved head, trimmed goatee, and around 10 lbs. lighter quickly), provided it's own alibi, so needless to explain my manhood had pharmaceutically regressed to childhood (It bounded back, I SWEAR. Enough, anyhow...) which explained me not cruising the halls for midnight snacks.

     Arose a legit couple to the 10-man room we lived in, and like a pair of morning talk show hosts they became a major focus covered by the white noise of the corner fan (If you think women the gossiping sex, put 1200 penis-wearers under one roof and see what meddling, trifling, interfering, and catty bitches you get. They should rename this Corrections facility "The Unreal Housewives of Boyle County"). First Jerry pushing 50, then " Skinny" clocking in around 21. If it's a sexy Gay - December romance you're craving, keep shopping, this ain't Clinton/Lewinsky (or Batman/Beiber). Senior was that paunchy dude who on his lunch break ate thru the glory hole at a dirty bookstore, wolfed down a Baconator Combo on his way back to the shop after while vacuuming down two helpings of his amorously discontented wife's chicken and dumplings. Both gents sex offenders, the latter a past (and probably present) meth-head with the slick, tatted body of a rock-star. Claimed was the prison-borne romance of a lifetime with Jerry getting himself a D-I-V-O-R-C-E like the late Tammy Wynette sung, who planned on marrying Skinny so they could co-habitate outside the fence despite their matching offenses (Well intended old lady at the courthouse to Skinny: "Where are you lovebirds registered?" "Probation and Parole, dumbass, where else?"). We were RIVETED. Jerry regularly shot the business with Skinny's folks on the horn and was treated like their own. In the night we'd see them snuggling, Skinny shirtless in Jerry's hungry arms, Joe a degree from blasting a shit-gasket. Me? Oscillating between bemusement, horror, and jealousy. It was that Jerry did so little to be that guy. I wanted to bellow " Run LAPS, bitch!", but hell, I wasn't in a spot as I'd be gagging on them sour old grapes soon enough...

     Let me say something right now about ol' Jerry: this mother could COOK. No mean feat when our only conveyance was a lone microwave shared with 50 piss-stains (said with love). I inhaled a Thanksgiving plate of his deviled eggs and scratch-made Mac and cheese. Sheeee-it, maybe that boy loved that fucker for what he could accomplish with a stick of butter (naught to do with anuses).

     Pre-incarceration, cooking was my catharsis. When I relocated to Paducah in 2012, a pleasure I had was hosting for family and childhood friends. My mom especially loved my cooking and vice versa. I used chicken grease to fry onion potato chips, figured out my late Mama's mama Mammy's oatmeal cake, came up with my own Korean-style chicken and cabbage Crock-Pot recipe that was such a bad MF my stylishly thin Aunt Paula ran to the slow cooker for seconds, a virtual Oscar. I grew squash, a few types of peppers and tomatoes, pumpkins, basil, gourds, and rosemary among others I was planning on raising chickens to cook and for eggs, my #1 favorite foodstuff too. This was a magical era I'm glad I was blessed with.

     Food is elemental to the social compact, nowhere more than prison. It's the mortar of our society and economy - the currency of commissary food for everything, primarily ramen noodles. Barter is the engine of the inmate complex, despite institutional illegality. As platforms like CashApp began to erode that model crackdowns begun halting the changeover. Everyone has ramen on recent receipts, making them a decent foil for a category 4:13 write-up - Unlawful Transfer of Money or Property, along with cheap items considered roughly a dollar in yard math like sodas, mac and cheese, or vermicelli (my personal favorite yard noodles). Chow Halls are networking spaces with reserved tables no one past a day-in fish is dumb enough to park their ass on. Those with outside funds receive "iCare" - actual prepped food like calzones, chicken strips, tater tots, Philly Cheesesteak sandwiches, i.e. not garbage devoid of nutritional value/flavor. This fare isn't available through an app on our tablet, ergo accessible to any inmate without beyond-the-gate resources working a state job. This furthers class division within the inmate community, with a flurry of guys dining on the finest having a penchant for young'ns, while the have-nots were raised in economically disadvantaged areas, some of whom even in Appalachia manufacturing methamphetamine to bring home the bacon. I myself am lucky enough to receive iCare, I will admit. I still resent it being placed on a shelf where indigent inmates can't reach. I was raised blue collar and this is disruptive to my principles.

     Despite years of restaurant work getting back in the kitchen especially with these new parameters was intimidating. Add to that, I became lazy as fuck no way resembling the go-getter of bygone times. The synapses werent recovered fully and when Joe and I would eat I'd shoot him the heavy lifting and take the prep role. I was getting my peddies in the pool, edging back in. As for that fella who might play house with Skinny one day? Hats off on the holiday food, Buddy (SPOILER ALERT: Don't fork over a deposit on that gown, Jerry)!

     Aiding in my rebirth was the return of COMICS, a major passion since age three at Shopper's Fare department store when I spied an over-sized Famous First Edition reprint of Detective Comics #27 - the first appearance of the Caped Crusader. Racing on tiny legs to my grandparents, handing it to my Pa George who knew I was about to bust and couldn't relax until I got that fucker home. Soon after I discovered reruns of the Adam West '66 series and was rapt, having no idea it was the Paragraph inter(s) as the books my folks were taking me to convenience stores to buy. I've been a hardcore superhero junkie ever since. George was the first person to die on me at seven, also getting me my first "real" book, Charlotte's Web. I wish I'd known him better because he demonstrated a lot of love and lasting impact for the shocking brevity of his run.

     From a Corrections-approved Bargain Books catalog I got a Wonder Woman/Justice League Dark trade paperback with a Teen Titans also. Around that time due to the logo tattooed on my shoulder blades, a group of Black dudes started calling me "Batman", which clung as my yard name with my given virtually vanishing to no complaints from me other than people love saying it too much sometimes because it's fun.

     Another dose of self was an injection of MUSIC we received through MP3 players, and for an obscene 2 bones a download we had a surprisingly deep selection of tracks and this audiophile went berserk. Doja Cat, Siouxsie and the Banshees, KISS, Sonic Youth, Marvin Gaye, Lizzo, Bruno Mars, Amy Winehouse, ELO, David Bowie, The Weeknd, Passion Pit, Stevie Wonder, Arianna Grande... a buffet of escapism throbbed into my horny ears. I Disc Jockeyed at an alternative radio station in the '90s- WRFL-FM in Lexington - for six years and music is crucial to my mental solvency. Overnight my movement and optimism escalated.

     What did not pump up the jam was the midnight move of Joe, heading upstairs and converting from Marine Fox News-hound to Muslim who rarely spoke to me. This isn't commentary on Islam, but one on an 85% sex offender prison: by all appearances, Joe wasn't donning a Koofi, but a "protection helmet". Many Honky sex criminals suddenly discover Allah in lock-down, and when some entity attempts to extort them they can't get past the congregation dues we're tithed to.

     Joe's replacement bunky was a nice enough chap, Hensley, a gentle giant drawn up in clink-ink. Each time he drew a picture, he delivered it to me with the zeal of a tyke desiring a piece of tape and a trip to the fridge door with it. One day without warning, Mama's lil' artiste was swapped out with a Herculean force of nature named Moo-Moo.

     Our 10-man until their arrival was a retiring row of five bunks off the main drag. In the wing, a benign group of elders sans much drama (bushels of bitching unsurprisingly, given the demographic...). Those days were done, Kemo Sabe. The posse of nine loved the upper corner fan that provided cross-breeze and white noise buffering for the orchestra of nightly flatulence the seniors whipped up. The seven foot lady of color was not a "fan" ironically. Loudly and confrontationally, I'll add. Those other eight elderly Snow Devils seemed perpetually traumatized thereafter.

     Moo was an aspiring rapper, like 75% of the incarcerated population, them being the reason our generous Lord invented Trade School. The lady of our house was actually decent, credit where due. Problem - she'd bust flow around 5 AM without a drop of fuck given regarding audience approval.

     Another Moo-centricism was her post-bathing routine done bedside, unlike most opting modestly for inside the shower box. She complained to Unit Administrator Christina Coleman whose superstar moment was walking into the compound church before the piano recital she arranged, underhand motioning towards the back row and in her husky voice saying "You queers come up to the front". The little sissy-wads hated this gangster goddess, so I dug her. Moo griped to Ms. C regarding old men staring at her. Rolling over one morning, I caught both eyes full of lotion being slapped on seriously out-of-context choc'lit boobs in direct line of sight inches from my nose, as a pair of petrified Saltines tried for dear life to avoid peering at a bus(t) crash from behind her.

     As for my psychotropic rebound, I was less flat and monosyllabic than pilled-up old man Catfish, but the present bag of sass was a ways off. I was a cipher primarily, and yes-man generally. Moo was as E.X.T.R.A. as it gets. One day, she was getting in her appointment TV with "Ellen" and a certain sex-symbol was the guest. Moo went to pop a squat, and says I "Are you fucked up about Channing Tatum? I think he looks like Mr. Potato Head." This Jane Goodall moment was the most verbose exhibition of personality I'd demonstrated in five years. Moo cosigned about Tragic Mike, lit up like NYC for NYE. This was our General Foods International Coffees moment.

     Miss Thang had an entourage, one of which was this thug-type I kept fixing my eye on. Filled that white v-neck and 'dem britches out GOOD. This Brother in our wing, Ray, tells me the cat's been asking after me. First bite since the comeback, right here. Thing is, I'm SO fish to "The Game", its pitiful. He sneaks up to me with this husky low voice, I can't hear shit to start with, mumbling "you want'na do sum'?" so aggressive I thought the motherfucker wanted to fight. I shake my head and practically duck, then he looks disappointed and confused. As he begins to head out I have observational clarity and stop him. He had to believe me bat-shit crazy as a mad-dash to whip up a scheme followed, then the tactics got scrapped with me getting down to business, scarfing that dog within the wide open 10-man in broad daylight (since then Northpoint has gone Orwellian surveillance state). Apparently, 5 years of chemical chastity made me a sex-crazed go-getter. There was a cuss answering to "Papaw" napping right behind my partner whose sweats I'd yanked to mid-thigh. Of note, this was also my first cross-racial escapade - the dream survived, MLK! Being a Massage Therapist on the mean streets, my mitts were as busy as the jaws. I was Dora da Explora Sextopus.

     Slight kink, as it were - dude had dreadlocks, like Moo's paramour. Papaw awoke and saw what he believed to be our girl having dessert at home instead of the Chow Hall and raised Hell. Snack-Cake made me swear to keep my trap shut about us carrying on, making me a complete wreck. I wanted to come clean to Moo, but I gave Dude my word before everything/I went south. Dammit, back in play and thigh-deep in horse-shit already. Papaw tore into Moo about everything he hated about her with the icing being hummers in her rack, which she rightfully denied.

     So incensed Moo was by his accusations, she talked about having his case explored with intention of extortion (legend held that her own was so horrid that blood vengeance awaited her on the streets, debunked by her survival and short-term return). I was a basket case but my co-party told me to stay chill until it blew over, and damned if it didn't. Literally nothing came from it. Moo-Moo moo-mooved out as life marched on, stressing over nothing, and I'd learned about as much.

     The lady and I ceased as bunkies but her career on our yard shot stratospheric moving on to accrue more power than almost any figure on the compound. Persons of rank cowered when she strutted the foyer, and they surrendered scepters to her. What fool wouldnt accept? The once Jamaal was representative of new entitlement, having stumbled into it by learning the word "discrimination", she could escape incarceration by ownership of the establishment.

     Therefore, Administration didn't take her down. 'Twas Fat Cowboy, who once paid Hairlip Stephanie a can of cream corn to go down on him (I adore the side dish, but I draw the line at blob fellatio although that story made me so hungry I was weak all morning once), smashing her face to pieces in an epic brawl he guaranteed Moo she wanted no part of begging not to have to. The lioness felt unconquerable, as too big to fail typically learns the hard way.

     Don't cry out loud though, M. eventually made her cameo comeback entitled and unchanged as ever. For balance's sake, allow me to say there's gold under them bouncy hills. When some shit people robbed me, folks in my gravity offered me clothing at ridiculous prices. With family funds, and having had more than enough opportunists Ms. M and I weren't in each other's scenes at this stage but learning about my losses she piled my rack with threads no strings attached. Multitudinous tales of goodness, love, spirit, and fidelity reside in prison walls. Conversely is a strata of loathing and viciousness unparalleled enough to motivate some to become WRITERS.

     Revolution was afoot at the 'Point ensconced in ladies wear. The transgender designation slunk onto the files of several inmates as though gender dysphoria was spreading via potty lids. The numbers of "trims" up-ticked with Pantene-offa-canteen long locks being the only necessary feature to suddenly morph from unexceptional aspiring bank teller types likely sporting Dockers with button-ups on campuses now requiring sports bras and make-up. Purely coincidentally, a healthy percentage of these sassy gals had sex cases. You can't strike a lady, Sir! At least not without pending Federal Hate Crime charges anyhow...

     A few rotations past the Moo exodus came a'calling the Lord's own sex maniac criminal called Justin. I saw this problem around - gorgeous in a Midwestern straight-off-a-farm-fantasy way. Toothy grin atop reconditioned baby-fat and telegenic enough that experience speaks to him being plenty a sorry bitch's severest mistake. Passing him, out of vapor came renewed confidence to toss a flirty smile like a runway model, not an inflated stand in for the third Stooge. Clearly it got the job done as we crashed into the throes of fornication in a twinkling. A pattern established, me + this freak: hawt, and not sucky-sucky-bye-bye, no Sir. This was tongue in cheeks, full-bodied, quid pro quo high school dynamite with the junior partner ever the instigator, and raring to go 24-7. Nancys Drew/Grace might hold up a magnifying glass and ask why is this young love god chasing Uncle Fester around the Big House like a schoolgirl? Simple, toots - he's a flaming nut-case. Medical literally slapped signage over his bunk saying this bipolar paranoid schizophrenic meltdown machine is so sick let him do what he wants. Yep, a "Get Out Of Jail Free Card" in prison.

     Once, he amputated his testacle to lob at a passing guard, my honey-pie did, this showcasing the magic I was attracting at this stage. Bonus - this winner's a proud public serial masturbator also. A cham-peen amongst the sportsmen. Entering our TV room (one per wing with communal big screen, jacks for earbuds, and surrounding bench seating) there he sat beating that sizeable monkey like it had misbehaved with old man George looking like a country full-service gas station attendant with white mustache and matching Einstein hair under superglued ball-cap every tick of 70 either a) blithely ignoring the vulgar display b) completely unaware of the exhibitionism due to diminished faculties or c) ecstatically celebrating the peepshow with the wizened poker face of a Navy seaman and sex offender cleaning the oversized home theater with the gusto of a deep sleepwalker.

     A month give-or-take later Justin wanted exclusivity. Declining coz' reasons, primarily being the taxing nature of long-form communication with me still gaining my sea-legs aside from Jr.'s sterling qualities what with the nut-butchery and public pud-pulling, then him being unstable on the best of days, plus a severely lateral conversationalist, describing the bulk of the incarcerated. I realize you're soaking in my psyche here, but on the daily I'm the Stockholm Syndrome sufferer with face hollering "Tell me every uninteresting detail you got and PLEASE don't skip the repetitious drug stories nor those mundane hetero sex stories I'm completely un-fascinated by." This is why I vomit the details of myself as entertainingly as I can muster. I cannot get a fucking word in edgewise most days from being blabbed at by paste-munching boobs. I'll send you my bill(s), Dr(s).

     As Justin and I were still carrying on into our wing trucked a new freakazoid men called "Mudflap". Rocking a bod like '90's starvation icon Kate Moss with the noggin of nubile Don Knotts, teeth and brain cells competing for scarcity, he scored Taylor Swift level popularity for a skills-set primarily led by a top-drawer hand-job. Word was his head game was crap - heart wasn't in it. Not a legit queer said inmate.com, but a combo plate of opportunism and scared. You'd never guess - the fucker migrated from boner to boner like some joyful little dick-bee lighting on them as if cross-pollinating the Spring Penal penis patch. This go-getter even strode boldly across the foyer to Lower Right (wing crossing - serious no-no - a category 3:15 in the policy book with a potential trip to the hole = no joke) to polish the knob of a baby elephant-sized pervert called Knox, whose purplish legs were prone to burst and ooze pus. Whatta dreamboat - no wonder 'Flap couldn't keep his hand off him.

     A cavalcade of youngsters began flooding into Dorm 2 and as my pill-encrusted dementia had given way to sobriety, I was given to epiphany one day: all these old farts are cho-mos! Sonofabitch. Now, a cannonade of post-teenybopper sex criminals are being poured into the slurry. No way this shit can go South, huh?

     

I was thinking, its been a minute since weve had a Global Pandemic don'tcha think?

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TUNE IN LATER: SAME BAT-SITE, SAME BAT-PRISON!