Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison T. Parsell (ebook reader play store .txt) 📖

"Listen, I didn't make up this game. These motherfucker's did, and so I'm just a player in it and I don't have a choice. Not if I don't want to keep getting pounded like a piece of meat. It's play or be played, so fuck 'em baby boy, you play on these motherfuckers to get some control."

He took a bite of his macaroni and cheese and smiled at me.

"Listen, I can sit around all day long feeling sorry for myself. Pissin' and moaning about how unfair it all is-but it ain't gonna change a fuckin' thing. After chow, I'm still sitting up in this motherfucker and in this situation. But hey! We're not talking about a bunch of PhDs around here either. Fuck, half these guys can't even read. I know I'm smarter than they are-so how do I turn it around on their silly ass?"

I knew he was right, but I still didn't know how to play them. For Paul, it seemed deeper than just defending himself-it was as if his whole identity was at stake. Or perhaps it was his dignity. If Paul had nothing else, he had his self-respect. He was proud of who he was, and that was worth learning how to play the game.

It was consistent with what Black Diamond had said, about having to learn how to work it if I didn't want have keep happening what's been happening.

Paul was right. I hated being the one getting fucked all the time. Plus, I wanted to know how he learned to accept himself.

Paul's hair was straight and long, and he kept it pulled back into a ponytail. His cheekbones were high, and his chin dimpled. He had both a feminine and masculine edge.

I was different from him. I wasn't proud of who I was, and I still felt responsible for all that happened to me. My secret fantasies had drawn me to prison in the first place-but I was too young and dumb to see the reality that laid ahead. Shame and guilt continued to haunt one.

Up until then, sex had remained an unpleasant obligation. I did it because I had to in order to survive. Yet some parts of me, liked it, which only added to my seventeen-year-old confusion. I could never say out loud that I enjoyed any of it. Some parts of it I liked, but I never thought I would be able to admit it to anyone. Paul on the other hand seemed to adapt easily to prison life. Confident. Self-assured. He knew who he was and what he was doing. He was in control.

When it came to being fucked, I still hated it, even with Paul, though I only did it once with Paul-to please him. With Slide Step, I rolled my hips, because it eased the pain, and gave me something else to think about other than his battering-ram dick. It was always painful, especially when he first entered me, but Slide Step went slowly and the pain eventually eased. He enjoyed it, and I wanted to please him because of the attention lie showed me afterward. Paul didn't like it when I rolled my hips. He preferred it if I just lay there. It was more difficult for me without the rolling notion, and it forced me to be present with the uncomfortable pressure.

"Relax," Paul kept saying.

"I am," I said, with hardly enough air inside of me to speak.

Paul stopped, and for a brief second could sense his frustration. He kissed me on the neck and ran his nose through the curls of my hair. It mixed with my sweat and tickled my ear. But it was no use. I was still too tense and shifted under his weight. I had no meat on my bones so my hip cut through the blanket and felt pinched on the concrete floor. It also gave me flashbacks of Moseley and Nate, Loud Mouth, and Red.

"Shh," Paul whispered, "and just relax." I felt him twitch inside me. "Shh," he repeated, and for a moment the ache almost went away.

I didn't want to get fucked, but I felt I had to please Paul. And besides, I looked forward to his blowjobs. Paul delighted in giving them to me, and I enjoyed receiving them. All in all, it was a fair trade. Or at least the fairest of those I had received to date.

To get through sex with Rock, I would pretend he was someone else, but that only worked a few times. I'd slip free of my body, allowing my consciousness to drift someplace else. Anyplace but in the present moment. But Paul made me want to stay present. Unlike all the others, he doted on me, which made me want to be with him. He was interested in me, and he worked hard to please me. For the first time, someone was pleasing me, and I wanted to feel it.

Paul said I was the only person he had ever been able to cum with-I don't know why that was, but he said coming had never before been that important. He never asked to fuck me again, and when I offered, he said that was OK. It made me feel guilty, knowing how much he liked it, but it never stopped me from accepting his continued blowjobs.

My favorite time with Paul was usually after sex-when we cuddled on the floor, under his bed and talked.

Paul's parents were abusive. We compared notes, and the stories of his childhood made me feel grateful I grew up in the house I did.

"I started running away from home when I was seven years old," he said. His eyes stared off into nowhere as he spoke. It took him some time to confide in me, but he eventually shared that his older brother had been abusing him-sexually.

"I was sent to Star Commonwealth for Boys at ten years old, and BTSBoys Training School when I was twelve." He said