Nobody's Taking My Peanut Butter
Aug 4 2011
For some reason, inmates call getting buttfucked “gettin’ your peanut butter taken.” That doesn’t really happen in here, though. Sure, I’ve heard stories about the Booty Bandits who go around raping people and the big diesel homo who knocks guys out in the shower and sucks their dicks, but I’ve never seen it. I reckon female inmates get their slut on more than us. We flagellate our cocks until they bleed so we don’t turn gay.
You cannot imagine the intricacies of jail jerk off culture. We call it “gettin’ money,” and I get mucho dinero. Or at least I used to when I had a single cube to myself. It was a 9’ x 6’ cubby where I could get the money real quiet-like early in the AM. Then I finished my six months in the drug rehab dorm and got sent to a new dorm where I’m like a baby slug crawling around on a top bunk for the whole dorm to see. No more beating off. This dorm already has about 40 chronic money getters who keep the spunkatorium (the bathroom) filled to the brim, meaning I have to fit myself into their already established circadian rhythm of meat pounding.
When’s the last time you had a wet dream or even heard of someone having one? People don’t think about those things because the average human manages to bust nuts frequently enough during their waking hours to make nocturnal emissions unnecessary. I’m ashamed to admit that at age 31 I don’t know if there’s a female version of this. Do they wake up mid full-blown spasming orgasm, all soaked and sticky? Personally, I always wake up as the explosion is occurring, feeling like I just wiped my ass or tied my shoe for the first time. Which is to say, it feels awesome. I have a few wet dreams in jail every year, but I wish I had a whole lot more. Sometimes they are mega-vivid, but a couple nights ago, after not stroking my buddy John Hancock for ten days, I blew the gunk and I don’t know why.
I was having a dream about basketball and I rolled over and blam! All over my shorts and leg. It was really wet and slimy, and the hog wasn’t even tumescent anymore, just a post-bust shriveled baby dick drooling sticky goo. Even worse, I’m on this top bunk and it’s hot and there's no blanket. My guess is I was probably stroking it or humping the bed in my sleep or some dumb shit. I was embarrassed and confused. I blacked out during part of the dream and woke up feeling violated. I could have been dreaming about getting raped or blown by some old man with gray prickly whiskers. I might've even enjoyed it. I couldn’t even jump down off the bunk and wipe up the dicksnot cream pie because I’m lazy and would have had to jump back up. I tried my damndest to recollect what bonerable baby might have coaxed the cum out of the cock but… nothing. I just dozed off again, grateful I didn’t shart, but disappointed my sperm smells so bad. That’s the kind of thing that happens when a man is deprived of love and companionship. You can become pretty psychologically damaged in these pussy-less conditions.
Previously - Locked Up and Looking For Love - Part 2
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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