Lockdown. What's the difference between lockdown and lockup? Are these words made up to confuse people? Maybe they think we're too dumb to remember they're repeating words. When Glynn starts saying lockmiddle, I'm calling him on it.
I never thought I'd be in jail, the pen, up the river. Freedom and prison is an oxymoron. Must make me a moron, because I experience more in here than I did at home, with the boob tube. At first, I couldn't look at my own shadow without crapping my pants. But now I look at Em City in a different light. I don't have my parents over my shoulder (or in my mouth) anymore, and I get to see people I'd never meet in the real world. Like Bob Rebadow. Miguel too. Miguel's an interesting choice for podmate. We have nothing in common. I'd only seen guys like him when Mom and I went to the supermarket. She usually told me not to look too close. Miguel told me he wouldn't hurt me if I kept my teeth to myself. Easier said than done. He used to look in the mirror all the time, admiring himself. He's too bummed out now, because of the baby dying.
He hates being in here because we don't have drugs, but I think he's got some claustrophobia hangups. He loves these stamps. I can't even remember where I got them, I think they were hidden underneath the sink my first day. Really tasty, but my head aches a few hours later. Mom was right, drugs are bad. Miguel loves the little hallucinogenic devils.
There he goes again, babbling "Maritza". And he keeps rubbing himself. That's the other strange habit Miguel has. He loves doing that to his chest, his dick, everything. Of course he usually doesn't if he thinks I'm watching. At the moment he's too whacked out to care if Madre De Dios or whatever she calls herself had a front row seat. I haven't figured out if this is better than the nights when he imagines his baby. I always say, "Miguel, your baby's dead", but he doesn't pay any attention.
"Agarrame mi pinga..Maritza..baby...donde estas?"
His dark leer has trained on me. That rough look must have been dandy for him in his old barrio. He's walking closer, the muscles on his stomach are pushing back and forth with each heavy breath. It's hard to believe that such a slender, mouthwatering hand could ever cause me harm. He's grabbing my leg. Now I wish Mom were here, to tell Miguel about the birds and bees.
"Show me tus tetas!" A sick laugh. His hand's pawing my thigh. Does he think I'm Maritza? Probably the hair. Dad was right, I should have cut my hair. If I hadn't killed him and stuffed him in the freezer he could do it for me.
He's only in his boxers. I just realized that. The straining light flowing into our pod really makes him look ripped. Can this bunk support two people? A dog in heat, that's what he is. And no Milkbones to feed him. "Miguel, I'm not Maritza. Miguel, I'm a guy." He's still climbing....no...jumping up here.
Finally, reverse movement. Even in this state he can tell what a penis is. I kind of wish he'd squeezed a little harder. He can't even look at me, he seems so hurt. His lower lip is quivering. I bet that'd be delicious, sucking, biting, drinking his hot Latin blood.
"Ese tu shemale?" Dark brown eyes flash on me. Like a weapon, to pierce my soul. "Bitch!" Crap...I should try to move. He's jumped right on top of me, straddling my thighs. "Shemale?!" I'm strong. I could roll him to the floor in a second. Do I want to?
"No. No Miguel!" Am I answering him or me? His skin looks like broiled chicken, simmering. Ready to be cut open. He already slashed his face up once. I wish I'd thought to nibble on the loose flesh at the time. The mark remains, a permanent reminder. A trophy. A succulent scar.
Maybe this is the price for never feeling guilty about my cannibalistic desires. Never repented, never lost the urge. I'm already running my hands over his chest. So many ridges, little scars from a tough gang life. Would he let me? Why not? The bed's creaking under my movement, hope the hacks don't bother us. His nipples are pointing out, happy to see me. The nub feels so good in my mouth, a fleshy raisin. My teeth are going down hard, but I don't want to bite it off because he'll beat the stuffing out of me. Miguel looks like he enjoys the rough stuff. If I don't detach my mouth in 5....4.....3....2....phew, I made it.
I've never had a chance to realize how beautiful he is. Like a fallen angel, with the scar across his cheek. I have to taste it, just for a minute. The line has a slight roughness. I put gentle kisses from the tip of his ear to the corner of his mouth, tracking the holy wound. Maybe he won't remember in the morning. A quick flit out won't hurt anything. I've learned not to try to tell my taste buds what to do. And his skin tastes good against my tongue, salty, no indentation where he mutilated himself. A few nips in his caramel neck, nope, he won't notice. I hope.
"Maritza, lo siento, I killed our hijo." He's actually crying. I never thought he'd boohoo in front of me. I'm not even a priest. Or Asian. My arms wrap around him pretty good, we're a snug fit. He's sobbing on my shoulder.
"Shh...Miguel..um..Miguelito." English won't help. "opstay yingcray. Isthay isn'tyay youray aultfay. Ethay abybay iedday ecausebay Odgay asway ungryhay."
"Whassat shit s'posed to mean?" And his waterworks continue after a brief pause for commercial announcements. English might not be the worst case after all.
"God took your baby because He needed him. Your son was special. And God isn't going to forget that. As a matter of fact, he's probably grateful to you for letting the baby go at the right time."
His troubled head slowly rises after I'm done. The tears are fading. His puffy eyes are mirrors to his heartbreak. With little marshmallows underneath them. I want to lick the tear stains away.
/Drink the blood and eat the body of Christ../
Miguel's no messiah, but he's going on Job status. Close enough. Salty again. The human body is supposed to be mostly water, all the salt makes it into a big ocean. That doesn't make any sense, Dad would say. Well, it does to me. Fuck you Dad.
"Gracias baby. When you start talkin' so good?" Coming closer. And closer. And...FUCK...he's putting his lips on mine. This body contact is getting to my groin area. So's his hand, again.
"Damn 'Ritza, we gotta get a knife and cut that sucker off." We both laugh at that one.
He is a good kisser. I always heard they make the best lovers. His tongue has forced itself into my mouth. Response is only natural. *MMMMM*, can't let this go too far. *nipping into his full bottom lip with my sharp pearly whites* I don't wanna *hands sliding inside his ultra-white boxers* be like Beecher. "I'm gonna make you come, OK Miguel?" Now to get his hands out of my hair.
Going by the jump in his underwear, he's ready. "Suck me off."
no. No. NO. My head's shaking as fast as my thoughts. He notices.
"C'mon baby, Miguel needs pocita head. Just a few minutes. Promise."
He's probably the type that grabs the back of your neck and won't let go after you take the whole thing. At least when he's chemically influenced. What can I tell him? While I'm pondering, he's already thrown off his tentmakers and dropped them on the cold floor.
"Miguel, that's a very nice piece of meat. Really. But if that goes in my mouth, your sausage is really going to *be* sausage. Or sushi. Raw meat. Get it?"
The lusty determination in his leer says he obviously doesn't. What's that old saying? Actions speak louder than words. His cock's just standing there above the sheet, poking into my thigh. Meat needs a cover. Bread. Or a hand. I can give that. I've got pretty big hands. The left goes over Miguel's straight part...oh yeah, shaft. I should lick my palm first. There, nice and wet. He likes that. Friction. My right hand falls under his balls. Circular, big, roll around the fingers. They're like eggs. He doesn't even realize his lower torso is a breakfast bar. He doesn't even realize I have to fight tooth and nail to stop myself from partaking in an all you can eat special.
Pumping him at a slow pace seems to be paying off. He's really getting a thrill out of this. Mouth contorting into moans and "oh yeah" and more muttering in Spanish. Eyes practically rolling into the back of his angst-free noggin. I can't stop myself from licking his neck every few minutes, my impression of a cat in heat. The pressure is incredible. I know! This should work. Scratching the thumb of the left over his dripping head, working the index of the right into the tight, warm crevice of his butt. Up to the knuckle and he begs me to stop. I drive to the base, grinning when he screams in multicultural ecstasy and starts spewing. I have a pretty long index finger. The spasms go on for a very long time. This is probably the first time any hand but his has touched his dick since Maritza.
The cum's all over my hand. Supposedly the taste is terrible. You only live once. On the early stages to the path between my palm, my mouth, and my stomach, I can understand the claims of bad flavor. Must be an acquired taste.
"Don't forget 'bout yours." His hand dives into my blue boxers, the heat of his grip and the hardon from the past hour of activity finish me off in no time. Semen imprints from his hand are wiped on my sheet, proving Miguel went to the well once and isn't going back.
"Love you." Lips meet again, this time more willingly. I even french him a little. I always wanted to try that. He heads back to his bunk after a gentle reminder, immediately falling into a deep sleep. Typical male. Shutting my eyes to remember the sensations, I fall into the same slumber. Typical male cannibal.
Morning. Must be. I can see the guards and the lights, but count hasn't started yet. My feet plop to the floor so I can go through the daily brushing and washing of teeth and face. I remember to skip the irritating tooth that likes to cause me pain. Please, please, let the pain fade away holistically, or at least non-dentally.
Miguel's stirring. I still can't believe I got through all that sweaty passion without tearing off a limb. Or a cheek. He really shouldn't sleep without underwear, even occasionally, the view is very distracting sometimes. Sometimes I can't eat the cafeteria food for days. Seeing what I can't have ruins the "normal" cuisine. Dozens of guys and gals in the real world probably whispered about being able to eat off that ass. I'm probably the only one who means it literally.
You see, this is why I didn't want to push into a forbidden zone. I'm walking toward him even when my brain says no. He's a work of art. A Michaelangelo of Ricky Ricardian proportions. Crouching beside his stirring physique makes the situation worse. His hand is jutted out. *Waiting* for a mouthful of teeth. I'm doing what he wants. After the way I held back last night, Miguel owes me. His five fingers and butter-rum palm are a small price to pay. My eager tongue darts over the back of his hand, over the veins and skin. Next comes the thumb. Not as much worry about bones. He won't even notice.
"Get the fuck away! You loco in la cabeza?"
Apparently he did notice. My head almost made fatal contact with the toilet. I hope he doesn't shove me again. No, he's too busy looking for his underwear. Teasing me again. Finally, they're found and on.
"I warned you, stay away from me."
"You had something on your hand."
A snort of derision. "Yeah, my fingers."
"Sorry." Probably not good enough.
He faces away from me. "Don't do it again." Maybe it was good enough. "Those stamps you gave me are a fuckin' nightmare. I'm done with 'em, starting today."
Miguel turns to look at me, and for a second I see uncertainty in his pained eyes. If he remembers our little tryst, he isn't talking.
"This lockdown is working on my last fucking nerve."
I don't expect any repeat performances, but I never expected what happened between us. Expected the unexpected, perfect for Oz. And us, as long as this clampdown continues. Maybe even after. I step toward him, ready for another day of learning, and claustrophobia, and glimpses of dark meat. "I think lockmiddle sounds better. How about you?"