by Amazing Grace (a/k/a Deborah)
My entire family has spent at least some time in the slammer, except my mother; she's dead. My older brother James is a transvestite and got busted for soliciting which caused him to become the black sheep of the family (see the story “A Maze & Grace”). Doing hard time is one thing, dressing up like a girl and sucking cock is quite another, at least to my father.
Daddy, he did a year for income tax evasion, a very reputable crime, according to him. “Who doesn’t try to fuck the IRS?” he asked when questioned about his criminal record.
I only spent one night in jail, for drunk and disorderly and resisting arrest. A wild party had gotten even wilder. The neighbors got pissed about all the noise, but what really ticked them off must have been when we all got naked and went outside and played volleyball. Something about corrupting the morals of their kids so they told the cops. What I can’t understand is why the dude who called the police watched us for an hour with binoculars before he made the call. And then the same guy offers to bail me out of jail if I promised to give him a blowjob. I told him to fuck off.
My sister Camille is a high-priced call girl. She only got nabbed once. She spent some quality time with a famous celebrity who had been in trouble with the law for drugs and such. Someone tipped the narcs and they got busted in a luxurious hotel suite with some illegal substances.
“Totally stoned,” Camille related, “and naked, that’s how they found us. And Bobby, the famous dude in that TV show and those movies, starts mouthing off about how all cops have little dicks and no balls.”
Now my younger brother, Billy, he did some serious shit. He started with stealing bikes and moved on to grand theft auto. He really had a thing for Corvettes, particularly those several decades old, and they brought the most money.
“I love this one, Billy!” I raved about a 1967 Corvette convertible, red with a black interior and top. It had a 350 horsepower 327 and four speed. “Get a white one like this and I might buy it,” I offered, “if you give me a good deal.” He found a 1963, white with black interior and top. Great years for Corvettes, more like sports cars than those dogs they made in the 1980’s.
Billy would comb the entire country looking for the prime stuff. Finally he took one too many chances and got nabbed by the state police in a certain northeastern state while driving a 1961 Roman Red with White Cove, you guessed it, Corvette convertible that didn’t belong to him. The gun and dope he had in the car didn’t help matters much either. Five years in a maximum security joint is what he got.
“Sis, you wouldn’t believe the things that go on in here,” he said so many times in different words in his letters. Such sad and shocking letters he wrote me. I couldn’t stand it, I had to go and see him.
Visiting Billy in prison became a little more involved than dropping in on my clients in their hotel rooms. I worked for an escort service for a short time to come up with the cash to pay my college tuition.
The prison bureaucratic red tape that must be endured before you visit your loved one is long and difficult. You have to turn in an application to a counselor who sits on it for awhile before passing it on to the department that does the background checks. They don’t even tell you if you’ve been granted permission. You just have to call and call and call.
At long last on the day you show up at the prison, it’s random searches of vehicles, registration, metal detectors, drug dogs, the guards feel you up real good and you even have to take off your shoes for inspection.
“Billy!” I hugged and kissed him when we at long last met. He cried and cried and cried.
The visitation has some privacy, taking place in small cubicles with panels about five foot high. But if a convict or guest violates the rules, the visitor is quickly escorted from the premises.
“That guard, Roland, watch yourself with him,” Billy warned. “He’s the one who stuck the billy club up my butt my first day here.”
“What’s it like in here, Billy? The truth, tell me the truth.”
“If you’re pretty like me, you get along. I’m a girlfriend. My main man is a lifer; he split a hooker’s head open with a shovel he had in the back of his pickup. Jethroe is his name and he’s from West Virginia. I’m just another sheep to him.”
“Tell me more, Billy,” I begged.
“Well, Roland does me special favors if I do him special favors; a pack of smokes, generic though, for a blowjob. When he’s checking the cell blocks he’ll stick his dick through the bars when he knows I’m out of cigarettes.”
I gave Roland the once over the next time he passed by our cubicle and leered in. He looked like a fucking slob; about forty, pot belly and bad teeth, and he looked mean as a snake.
“Hey cunt,” Roland snarled at me, “time to go, get your sweet ass out of here.”
“Billy,” I asked as I rose to leave, “is there anything I can do for you, I mean anything, to make your life more tolerable in this awful place?”
“Yeah, Sis, next time you come don’t wear jeans and a sweatshirt. Get all dolled up. You know, a dress or something. It’s been so long since I’ve seen a real woman. Sis, do you think, I mean would you consider, if I could arrange it, uh, I mean, oh never mind.”
“Spit it out, Billy.”
“Would you let me fuck you? I don’t even remember what pussy looks like. I could probably make a deal with Roland so he’d kind of look the other way while we’re doing it. I’ll probably have to have his dick for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but it would be worth it.”
“I’ll think about it, Billy.”
“One more thing, Sis?”
“What, Billy?”
“Bring me a wig.”
