Pen Pals

Sweet Release

By Bert Burykill

The author, free at last.

It’s difficult to compare getting released from prison to anything. The first time I got out was only a day after I was locked up. I remember smoking a cigarette and drinking a margarita, thinking profoundly about how blessed I was to be free. The second time I got out was after eight months inside. I was floating on air. My dick was singing, and the outside smelled like a good lovemaking suckfest. The third time I got out wasn’t so sweet. I was on work release and had to go back into jail a few hours later, but I think my scrotum still tingled slightly. That was after two LONG years, but I had no pussy lined up and couldn’t imbibe invigorating spirits because of that bastard-fucking breathalyzer back at the work release facility that overlooks Central Park on 110th and Fifth. Not too bonerable. This time my release party was truly quite bonetastic. My loving parents picked me up, transported me to a fancy hotel (a Sheraton) where a Love Goddess (not a prostitute) awaited me strapped with fancy bottles of wine, tasty snacks, an insatiable mind, and a tub of organic extra-virgin coconut oil.

Prison is extremely shitty in too many ways to explain. I overcame the extreme boredom  with my own ingenuity, but there’s only so much to do. I played soccer, basketball, softball, and ping-pong, then lifted lots of weights with a little bit of innovative jacking-off on the side. I hope I live long enough that all the time I spent finger-fucking my asshole in prison makes me have a really strong old man finger. It’d be a shame to have wasted all that time.

Honestly, the worst part about prison (other than no booze and no cooze) is that I was not naked for two years. I could have been naked I suppose, but that would have labeled me a homo, and then I would be ripe for the pickin’ by some big-dicked booty bandit. We shower with boxers on and we sleep with clothes on. There is no privacy available EVER in most prisons. Even the inmates in maximum-security joints with their own cells never really have privacy. I was in a dorm with 59 neighbors in my face day in and night out. So, upon my release I was thinking about getting naked and staying that way like a toddler in the buff—bouncing around and lettin’ my nuts hang, chicken chow mein?

We don’t have mirrors in prison, so I wanted to get drunk, naked, and fucked—and I wanted to do it all while looking at myself as much as possible. I took a lotta pictures in the Sheraton. I’m a glutton for everything I’ve been deprived of. I sucked down oysters on the half-shell while my dizzle drizzled spittle and the Love Goddess touched me tender under the table. After all that sensory deprivation, a tickle or even a feminine word makes my dick drool. So, even as I was eating with a semi-bonerable broad in an eatery in Watertown, New York, I was staring at all the tits around me, imagining everyone missed my hungry eyes.

So, yeah, sweet release... a dream come true for a cracker-ass inmate living lavish on his first day out the clink-clink. The Love Goddess said, “Ooh, it’s bigger than I remembered.” Is that because of all the Kegels I did, or just some line that the bonerable broad manufactured to make her inmate feel more like a man? Whatever, I love her anyway and my hog is long and strong if you measure him all the way to the base of the balls. Maybe I’m a late-bloomer and the thing is still stretching out. I got drunk, laid pipe proper more than three times, possibly made a lovechild, and was the tongue-bath king.

Now that I’m back in the real world I can get drunk, pull weed out of my pocket (and not my ass), listen to my Love Goddess snore and play with her perfectly feminine kitty kat. No more nights worrying about a boisterous gang of Bloods drinking Kool-Aid and shootin' dice in the spunkatorium as I fuck a homemade vagina passionately on the shitter. I don’t have to be rich and in the Bahamas, living a fantasy as Bert BigBucks—I can just be Thud DownThrust on welfare, going to rehab, and spending food stamps. I hang out with the family and try to smile—I am a functioning functionalholic.

As beautiful a fairytale as my sweet release is, I beg the kiddies to be smart and please never get caught. The cops are stupid—be smarter and don’t be Bert, and you won’t know the degree of hurt I’ve incurred. You want sweet release? You’d be much better off going on a mealworm diet for about two weeks and then feeling the unadulterated ecstasy of eating a Cambodian creamsicle out some foxy strumpet’s starfish.

Previously - Booty in the Buttpocket 

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