Tara Gets Served

Homosexuality is a strange scenario in the joint.  

   There are many gay dudes, openly or otherwise, doing time in prison.  Some are having the time of their life, while others are being rolled up off the yard. 

   The way they decided to be gay is what determined their fate.  

   If you’re openly homosexual, there’s a tribe waiting full of other gay men who are happy as a clam to have you.  They existed on the fringes, and consisted of all different types of races.  They’d hook up with each other, and sometimes with people who weren’t open about their homosexual tendencies, which is where most of the problems with the gay guys stemmed from.  They’d run their mouth about the homo/hetero-rendezvous, or someone would see them doing suspicious activity.  At that point, the guy who was playing at being straight and running with the fellas had to go.  He’d get beat up, and escorted from the from the yard, never to be seen again.  Problem solved. 

   Sometimes, the openly gay dude would get touched up, but not often.  He was just doing what gay dudes do.  Hard to fault him for that.

   This is where the difference lied: If you were out, it wasn’t really a big deal.  If you were fronting, and being an undercover-homosexual, the guys you ran with, and spent all your time with were going to have a serious problem with your behavior. 

    Some transexual inmates were still getting their transition-medication courtesy of the State.  Since these guys were taking the medication(s) on the streets before they were incarcerated, the prison had to give it to them by law.  The Department of Corrections wasn’t inclined to give away anything; if these dudes were getting these meds, there had to be a legal precedent somewhere. 

   Funny thing is, when those guys were on the meds, quite a few looked a lot like girls: boobs, body shape, all that.  Even their faces would change, and start looking more feminine. It was a trip; you’d be walking the yard, and all of a sudden, just for a second, you’d think you had just seen a woman on the yard in state-issue clothing, even though you knew it was impossible.  As if the medications weren’t doing the job well enough, they’d alter state-clothing to make them appear more like a lady; halter tops, daisy dukes, etc.  The COs were almost impartial to it all.  Sometimes they’d enforce the rules, and confiscate the contraband-clothing.  Most of the time?  They didn’t give a shit.

   It made for a good show. 

   You can only imagine, with dudes running around looking just like chicks, how many different prisoners wanted to take advantage of these transexual womanly wares.  Yeah, a lot of them were lifers, but a lot of them weren’t.  You’d have inmates who were only in for a few years wanting to screw one of these guys.  People you would’ve never thought of, either.  Most tried to keep their homosexual activity undercover, but there were eyes everywhere, and people talked.  They’d get found out, and dealt with accordingly.  Life went on.

   What bothered me was the guys with families.  They’d have their wives and children come to visit, then go back to the housing unit, and promptly have their dick sucked by another man.  Who knew if the other dude had AIDS or not, either.  They weren’t allowed to tell us.  Parolee goes home, gives HIV to his girl. 

   Nice. 

   Personally, I never cared about anyone’s sexual proclivity, as long as it wasn’t violent, or involved children.  Not my business to police what kind of kink a man has.  Give me my space, and we’re good.  Especially in our current circumstances.  We were all doing time; might as well try to make the best of it.  

   Some of those gay guys were funny as hell.  They’d have people laughing their asses off, which is always a welcome occurrence in the pen.  There were a few homosexuals who had hands, too.  Someone would get smart, say something stupid, and get whooped.  When this happened, the shit talking was immense, and lasted forever.  No one in the joint wants to get beat up, especially by a gay dude. 

   Unfortunately, a lot of the homosexuals who were there didn’t have a proclivity for violence.  They were meek, and submissive.  The predator-types could easily punk them, and take their shit.  A lot of them were scared, and rightfully so.  In the joint, you were on your own, and these dudes were really feeling it. 

   What usually ended up happening was, they’d become someone’s bitch.  Sometimes it was sexual, other times it wasn’t.  Depended on who they belonged to.  If a guy wasn’t gay, he could always have his laundry washed, or his cell cleaned.  Someone to watch his stash while he worked out on the yard.  Not all the big homies where making their hos give them sexual favors.

    Then again, a lot of them were. 

    You might ask why these guys didn’t go to the cops, instead of having to take it up the ass to remain safe.  Some of them do.  The only thing is, if you want to be in Protective Custody (PC), you have to debrief.  Snitch.  Not a good thing to have on your jacket.  Prison may be ruled by the cops, but it’s run by the convicts.  Once you rat, you’re done.  The kites will follow; messages written extremely small on little pieces of paper.  Just in case someone had to hide it from the CO’s, and take it to the hoop.  These prison telegrams would alert your new neighbors to your previous misgivings.  If severe enough, someone would come for you on your new yard.  Tell on the wrong person, and they wouldn’t stop coming, until someone got you. 

   The easier route for these guys was to quietly exist.  Go with the flow.  They had a heavy looking out for them; better than having no one at all.  Prison is a lonely existence.  Even though you’re surrounded by hundreds of other inmates, when it all boils down, the only one who really has your back is you.  If you’ve got one of the big guys looking out?  You’re untouchable.  For some guys, it was worth the exchange. 

   Tara thought so. 

   Tara was a transexual who was in the midst of transitioning, before he was busted for burglary, and sent to prison.  Black guy, mid-twenties, slim; was around 5’8” or so.  He’d had a record since his youth, so this time around, the judge wasn’t as lenient.  I don’t know the exact amount of time he received, but I know Tara was on the yard at least three years or so.  

   Tara already had a boob job.  He had tits.  A rarity in prison, for sure.  Many of the transgender guys who were in the joint didn’t have the cash to get surgeries.  Tara had been stealing in order to get the funds.  He’d done the top; now it was time for the bottom.

   Out of all the transexuals I saw in prison, Tara looked the most like a woman.  He was one of the guys getting meds, and he must’ve been tasking them prior to prison for a long time, because his face and body looked nothing like a man.  You’d swear you were looking at a female when you saw him. 

   High commodity in prison.  Wasn’t long before he was scooped up. 

   The guy who got him was named Willy.  He was the shot caller for the Blacks.  Older guy; guessing mid-fifties, but I could be wrong.  About six-feet-tall, totally built.  In fact, I met him in the workout area.  We usually did our routines around the same time of day, and would talk to each other.  Really cool, and a total OG.  Had a presence others could feel, which was what probably got him the shot caller gig to begin with with. 

   I don’t think Willy was gay; I’m pretty sure he used Tara as a maid, more or less.  Granted, he could’ve been doing whatever he wanted with him in private, and I would’ve been none the wiser.  It’s not like I was surveilling Willy; I only ever talked to him out on the yard.  He could’ve been fucking Tara all day long.  Who knew?  However, didn’t get that vibe.  Whenever I saw the the two of them together, they didn’t look like secret lovers; it looked like Willy was giving orders, and Tara was taking them.  Willy was running Tara like the prostitute he was.  In return, Tara gave Willy a cut, and his protection was guaranteed.  Everything was gravy. 

   Until it wasn’t. 

   On one occasion, Tara decided to render his services to one of the homeboys.  The guy who had requested him was a lifer; forget his name, but I remember he was a taller black guy in his 60’s, and had been down a long time.  Apparently, when Tara and the OG lifer got down to business, the lifer got rough.  This guy was wanting to get his, and didn’t give a fuck what Tara was going through.  The pleas and cries to stop had gone unanswered.  Tara was raped.  He’d been beaten, bruised, and torn in places seen and unseen. 

   There were a couple of people in the dorm when Tara was being assaulted.  They’d heard it happening, but thought it better to mind their own business.  In a dorm setting, the lower rack is used for homosexual hook-ups.  A couple of sheets are used to create a tent around the bed, being suspended from the bottom of the upper bunk in some fashion or another.  This way, dudes could do their business with people coming or going, and it didn’t matter, because they couldn’t be seen. 

   The big danger when undergoing this endeavor is a cop walking the tier.  If he sees a tent up, he might be cool, and keep walking.  More often than not, they’d walk over, and take a peek.  If you happened to be fucking some other dude at the time, you’d be in trouble.  For this reason, the guy requesting services would usually have someone keeping point.  If a guard was coming, they’d give some type of audible signal, and the guys in the tent would put their pants back on. 

   After Tara’s assault, word spread of what happened.  Men gossip just as much as women in settings such as these, and before the end of the day was out, half the yard knew what happened to him.  Tara had immediately gone to Willy, making him aware of the situation.  He’d been humiliated, and wanted some retribution.  Willy told him he’d handle it.  Tara listened to the guy who was protecting him, and trusted the situation would be handled.  In all reality, he had no other choice.

   A day went by, then another.  A week, then two.  Willy didn’t seem to be handling business with the guy who violated Tara, and quite frankly, no one expected him to.  The lifer who’d done the deed was another OG who had been around forever.  The chances of him being checked for what he did to a punk were slim to none.  Homosexuals were at the bottom of the totem pole, so to speak.  Their problems were the least of anyone’s concerns. 

   I can’t attest to what Tara was thinking or going through, but I can only imagine he was hurt and pissed.  The whole reason he was in his current situation was because he’d counted on Willy having his back.  As time stretched on, Tara began to realize more and more by every passing day this wasn’t the case.  Willy wasn’t going to side with a homosexual.  His homeboy did what he did, and that was that.  Dead issue. 

   I was out on the yard at the workout area, doing my thing.  Made sure to grab a couple of latex gloves from one of the porters.  Didn’t wear them, though.  When you put them over the metal pull-up bars, it made gripping them a little easier.   Leather gloves didn’t grip as well; hence the latex. 

   I was just going into my third set when Willy showed up.  We used to see each other in the workout area, and we’d talk about whatever.  Willy used to rib me a little, too.  He was old enough to be my dad; he’d talk some trash, and I’d take it, laughing the whole time.  Willy was super-funny.  One of the reasons I liked conversing and working out with him was he’d make me laugh.  Humor is one of the greatest ways to escape a shitty situation. 

   “What’s up, youngster?” Willy asked.  “You out here tryin’ to catch up to me?”

   “There ain’t no catchin’ up to you, Willy!” I replied.  “You got them superhero genes!”

   “Yeah, I’ll show you superhero, young one,” he said, as he jumped up, grabbed the pull-up bars next to me, and proceeded to crank out his first set.  Willy had a body anyone in their fifties would envy.  He was ripped; like something out of a comic book, I shit you not.  The kind of physique where if he took off his shirt to fight, the other guy would know he’d made a huge mistake.  He must’ve done at least 15 reps before he let go of the bar, and fell back to earth.  Willy took his place at the back of the line near me, waiting for his next set.  The shit-talking continued.

   “Damn, man,” I said.  “I didn’t think someone in their seventies could do that many pull-ups!”

   “I got your seventies, youngster,” Willy replied, as he made a grab for my arm.  We were playing, of course, but I still noticed some stares and sideways-glances from a few whites and blacks nearby.  Most weren’t comfortable with these kind of relationships in the joint, and I understood why.  If things were to go badly, and the two races got in a riot, there wouldn’t be any friends or homies on the other side; only an enemy who was trying to cause you harm.  Was easier not to invest in dealings with other races, rather than have uneasy feelings when you had to put hands on them. 

   Willy and I continued our banter, and our workout.  I enjoyed my time with the OG.  The fact he paid attention to what I had to say made me feel special.  Not having a constant father figure in my life was reason I was paying these guys any mind to begin with.  Don’t get me wrong; I knew most of those guys were idiots and no good.  Still, there were some who expelled profound wisdom when you’d talk with them.  There was so much I wanted to know, and in that environment, I took what I could get. 

   I remember Willy always smiling and laughing as he spoke.  Not in a goofy way; more like a comic working a crowd, chuckling at his own jokes.  Most of the lifers who were on a level-two yard had been down awhile.  They had to do some time before their security clearance would allow it.  The ones who weren’t crazy were trying to make the best of their time.  

   Like Willy.  I appreciated his delivery of the stories he’d share.   Anything to have a laugh while you’re locked up is great.  Took you away for a minute, where you felt joy, instead of self-inflicted sorrow.  He had the craziest hood tales I’ve ever heard.  Shit that he’d done, or heard of.  He’d get so into his performance; making different voices, pacing all over the place, etc.  Being able to hang out with this guy was a trip.  Gave me a view into a whole different world. 

   About a half an hour into our routine, Tara approached from the track.  I could tell he was heading towards Willy.  I moved away from Willy, as to give him privacy while talking to his bitch.  I was going to ear-hustle the hell out of his conversation, but for etiquette’s sake, I played the part.  Jumped up on the bars and did my last set, then walked to the back of the line.  Tara arrived at almost the same time.  I was about 20 feet away from Willy.  Even so, I heard their conversation, no problem. 

   “Hey, Willy,” Tara said.  He was trying to sound sassy.  The meds must’ve been working on his vocal cords, because he sounded just like a woman. 

   “Whatcha doin over here, girl,” Willy replied.  He wasn’t having any, and it was apparent.  “Don’t come over to the pile like this.”  The pile referred to the workout area, when there were piles of different weights to work with.  People still used this term for the workout area even though the weights were gone, since it was in the same spot on the yard.

   “Willy, please,” Tara said.  The sassiness was gone in an instant; now it was a plea.  “I need to talk to you.”

   “Did you hear me?” Willy asked, with a more menacing tone.  Happy-Willy was gone.  Business-Willy had arrived.   “I’ll holler at you later.”  At that point, Willy gave his back to Tara, and began walking in my direction.   He looked at me and smiled, while shaking his head.  Like hey was saying, You know, bro: women. 

   “WILLY!” Tara nearly yelled.  He, too, seemed to realize he’d put too much volume on Willy’s name, and continued at a lower level.  “Don’t walk away from me!”

   Will hadn’t even turned back around when Tara yelped out his name.  He was still looking at me.  The smile, however, was gone.  I could see Willy glance around the pile, which caused me to take a gander, as well.  People were looking, though some had the decency to pretend they weren’t.  Tara had caught everyone’s attention, and now they were all curious as to how Willy would handle it. 

   He didn’t make them wait long.

   Once Tara had finished speaking, Willy spun on his heels, and headed in his direction.  He wasn’t walking at a fast pace.  Tara still had a smile on his face when Willy smacked him so hard, he flew to the ground.  The sound of that smack was loud; instantly, everyone looked away, as to not bring the CO’s attention to the incident.  You had to look while pretending not to.

   I immediately scanned the yard, convinced the cops had heard the sound of the blow.  I didn’t see the COs looking in our direction, which was a good thing. 

   “Get up!” Willy said through gritted teeth.  “Get your punk ass outta here!”

   Tara quickly jumped to his feet, while holding the side of his face.  He was crying, but not making a sound.  He looked around at those present, and made eye contact with me, chin quivering, before he scurried away. 

   I’m sure when he was on the street, Tara wasn’t hanging around people like Willy.  He portrayed himself as high class, and had the vocabulary to boot.  Thugs were as new to him as they were to me.  Tara was out of his element, and didn’t make the best choice in choosing friends. 

   Willy was a documented gang member.  He operated as such.  If there’s one thing you need to know about gangsters, it’s this: they’re loyal to their own.  They aren’t going to choose you over a homie.  Everything’s cool with these guys, until it isn’t. 

   Tara was willing to risk exposure to this environment in exchange for protection, which may or may not have ever been needed.  He was scared, and I don’t blame him.

   However, his choosing Willy as an associate got him raped, and beaten on the yard in front of everyone.  I’m sure Tara regretted his decision. 

   Be careful who you do business, or associate with.  It always starts out with a smile.  Choose the wrong people, it could end with a frown.