Locked Up and Looking for Love: Part 1
It is unfathomable to imagine a thirst for female companionship greater than the one some of us suffer in jail. My current bonerable baby claims it’s harder for her out in the real world with a buncha hard dicks recklessly poking around her face and ass areas, but I disagree. While she is busy shunning hunky dick action she can sit around naked, drinking champagne and masturbating while eating Cherry Garcia. Me, I can’t do anything but Kegels and surreptitiously pop the top on the Spam can in the spunkatorium, aka little boys’ room. For those of us who really, truly love to bang broads, and even just talk to them while staring at their cleavages, this prison lifestyle is totally unbonerable.
Back in January ’07 I left the county jail and headed to upstate prison. First I was on the border of Canada and couldn’t find a female. Even dudes with wives have trouble convincing them to travel eight hours up here to Siberia. Then I got lucky and they sent me to an Albany-area prison where it was possible to maybe get a really fat retard with bad complexion to visit. I got a friend’s ex-girl to come up, but it’s impossible for a nice white guy like me to bag a buddy’s old broad. I still sent her a card that said, “You’re a special friend,” with a picture of a cute puppy dog licking his cock and balls barking, “I want to bury my bone in your bodacious backyard.” (I commission jailhouse artists to cleverly construct my concepts into pornified cartoon cards, but sometimes our efforts go unappreciated, as in this case. I never heard from her again.)
I thought I finally struck gold when one of my friends told me he found a pen pal for me. As it turned out, he hooked me up with a crazy friend who his crazy friend had met at a crazy person support group. The crazy friend tried to bone the crazy broad and failed, decided she was crazy, and passed her onto me as a combination joke/favor. So here we go, I’m ripping open letters with a raging hard-on, drooling like a fool, thirsty for some shred of real life fantasy intimacy. But by her second letter she had explained that she lived with her parents, was bi-polar, a virgin, picked her face until it bled, and compulsively pulled out her body hair. I tried to overlook some of her inadequacies and make the love connection by sharing with her that I, too, am a trichotillomaniac—someone who’s fond of yanking out ball, grundle, anus, and armpit hairs like a caged baboon until they have bare patches in their ass/ball area. I don’t act on my fantasies like her though; I use a beard trimmer.
So I took it to the next step. I explained that I’ll be free in a few months and I’d love to shower her with sperm. She wrote back saying that sperm baths weren’t her thing and that I was a narcissist. I still can’t understand what female wouldn’t want to be skewered silly by some convict with two years worth of bottled-up sexual fury. I still don’t get it. I’d pay me to fuck me in my own ass and I’ve never even been a gay. So I lost that baby bird. Good riddance.
I became a freak on the hunt again, writing all my friends broken-record style: “Hook me up! Get her to write me! What’s up with her?” I lifted weights like a Siberian mongoloid on steroids in an attempt to get mega-bonerable for all the unknown beavers floating through my head. I wanted pussy. I wanted a phone call. I wanted a visit.
My balls ached, so I went to the doctor complaining of testicular pain just so someone would play with my balls. It was some mean old doctor who squeezed them too hard, but those were desperate times. I was so lonely I told my boys that I actually wanted a fat chick. They’re loyal and they try hard to give great brain. I’d have taken a sugar mama too. I’ve seen guys with really old girls visiting them, buying ‘em stuff, gumming ‘em off in the visit room floor, and I was ready for that. I would’ve given grandma hot spuzz. I was sick with perversion. I dreamed about fisting fat grandmas. I was in trouble.
Finally, my so-called jail friend from Long Island told me his wife had a friend who would drive up with her and visit me. She wrote me and seemed totally spunky, drawing smiley faces and writing shit like, “I can’t wait to meet you!” I started to leak out of my semi-rigid dick. I did pushups, ironed clothes while practicing Kegels, and tweezed hairs all over the place so I’d be sharp and precise everywhere. I daydreamed about this beautiful piece of misunderstood trash from the gutters of Riverhead trailer parks. I was hoping she would be pleasantly plump with a face full of potential. I would motivate her to lose weight with my good-natured cheer and then pork her ragged when I got out. I was determined to fuck the fat off of this unseen beast. I would shower her with sperm and make her buy me steroids so I could bone her with more aggressive rage and take all her money. I wanted a quasi-chunky sugar mama sex slave with little to no inhibition and relatively few qualms with being tied up and degraded. I was delirious with delight and my dizzle drizzled 24/7. I beat off all day everyday, picturing what my savior would look like. I was hoping for something Rikki Lake-esque. I thought of a thousand things to talk about. I crafted hours of stimulating conversations that all culminated with her taking my tumescent hog in her fat, greasy mouth.
Next week: The modern-day Abelard and Heloise meet! Will Bert ever find his true love, or at least a place to put it in?
Bert Burykill is the pseudonym of a guy serving time in a medium-security prison in upstate New York for drug possession. We don’t want to get more specific than that, because apparently the prison doesn’t look kindly on its inmates publishing anything negative about incarceration.
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