The Interaction Transition House (I.T. House)

   The I.T. House in Seattle, Washington, was established as a parole destination for convicts by an x-con named Herb Smith. Herb was a short stalky black man with a friendly disposition. I only met him a few times while I was still in prison. He, and other volunteers from the I.T. House would come and visit each of several nearby prisons (namely, Shelton, McNeil, and Monroe) on a weekly basis to sponsor group meetings where prospective I.T. House parolees would vie for acceptance into the program. Prisoners were required to attend these meetings for at least one year before submitting their application. Once you were accepted by the I.T. House for parole your plans were almost guaranteed to be approved by the parole board. I say, “almost”, only because my plans to parole to the I.T. House were denied the first time I submitted them after I was accepted by Herb and a group vote in 1988. At the time, no one had heard of such a denial before, and I didn’t find out until years later (after a friend hired a lawyer for me) that the reason for the denial was because I had come out in prison as openly “gay” (i.e. a “queen”), on the advice and with support from the prison psychologist. The parole board denied my plans, against the psychologist’s recommendation, because in their (unsupported) opinion I was exhibiting “unstable sexual behavior” (though I had no infractions or disciplinary reports for any sexual behavior at all --- unlike most openly gay prisoners).

   I was eventually paroled to the I.T. House in Seattle (the only one at that time), but only after serving another five years in prison as a direct result of the parole boards bias against my “sexual behavior” (i.e. open homosexuality). By that time Herb Smith had died of natural causes (i.e. old age) and the I.T. program was itself in an unstable state of transition from private ownership to a state sponsored and fully accredited program. Once the state took over the program, and expanded it by opening more houses around the state, its notorious success rates (i.e. non-recidivism) plummeted down to state averages of my other halfway house.

   But the I.T. House, as Herb Smith first established it, was anything but a halfway house (where parolees work and live in the community under severe restrictions on their freedom). Herb based his program on one very simple idea: that in order for an x-con to survive on the streets (i.e. not re-offend or otherwise recidivate) he had to feel like he belonged there.

   Herb understood, better than any state official ever would, how social pressures and a lack of social support (i.e. acceptance) drove most x-cons right back to prison. So he privately established the I.T. House as a parole destination with one main purpose: to shelter x-cons from negative social pressure by providing a haven of acceptance and support. He knew that a huge part of the pressure that drove so many x-cons back to criminal behavior was the result of the very rules and conditions that were supposed to “protect society” from the x-cons. So Herb was adamant about there being only one rule at the I.T. House; a rule that all x-cons could understand and appreciate: “respect the house!”

   Every new arrival at the house got a speech from Herb about the meaning of “respect the house”. It simply meant to show the same consideration and respect for the other x-cons living there that you would show for another convict in prison. In essence, it was the “convict code” reapplied to the house; remarkably simple, but extremely meaningful for every convict who ended up there. The “code” not only provided a clear guideline for acceptable behavior, it also gave the x-cons something familiar to cling to in an often whirling, unfriendly, and unfamiliar new world. They still had all their parole restrictions and stipulations, but Herb told them right up front that enforcing their parole was not his job, or anyone else’s at the I.T. House. His job was only to provide support, and he needed the x-cons’ respect in order to do that. He got their respect with his “respect the house” rule, and it worked.

   The I.T. House became the most successful parole program in the state. They routinely accepted the hardest cases, and yet the recidivism rates were almost non-existent. Herb quickly earned the respect and admiration of not just the x-cons he helped “transition” back to life in society, but also of the prison administrations, who soon started letting Herb, and other I.T. volunteers, come into the prisons to help start the “transition” process. And these “volunteers” weren’t your typical Christian do-gooders either. They were genuinely compassionate people, who shared Herb’s heartfelt conviction that convicts are people too.

   Betty Ruth was one such volunteer, and a commendable force all on her own. Nobody called her Betty thought, I only found out her first name when the defense investigators for my current case contacted her for me and told me what it was. Everybody just called her “Ruth”, and even though she had a doctorates degree (in psychology I’ve been told, but not by her), if you ever called her “Doctor Ruth” she’d bite your head off. She was Ruth, a proudly wrinkled little old black lady who you’d expect to meet in a black alley pushing a shopping cart full of her valuables.

   But she was no bag lady. Even though she drove an old ‘70’s boat of car that could barely rattle down the road and was spray painted with words like “love” and “peace” all over it, she was an independently well-to-do home owner in Seattle proper, which I only found out because I had a friend who worked in the county revenue office who told me how everyone in his office knew about her because she’d come into the office once a year and plop down a considerable amount of money, in cash, to pay her property taxes. To say that Ruth was eccentric would only begin to express how different she was; I love her deeply to this day, though I have hardly even known her company (in person at least).

   The first time I met Ruth was at one of the prison I.T. group meetings at McNeil Island in 1988. One of the inmates at the meeting was whining about something trivial when Ruth suddenly threw herself on the floor in the middle of the group circle. She rolled onto her back and started waving her arms and legs in the air like a distressed infant and wailed like one too. Thus getting everyone’s attention she then sat up, looked at the now stunned into silence inmate who had just been whining about how own problems and said, “That’s how you sound; like a giant baby crying for attention!”

   Nobody laughed. I think everyone respected Ruth too much to laugh unless she laughed first. But she didn’t laugh. She just kept looking right at that now sorry inmate until she felt her point was made. Then she got back into her chair and pointedly gave the floor to someone else. I’ve respected her deeply ever since. Though most people just think she’s crazy, I know better.

   Once, years later, while I was living at the I.T. House in Seattle on parole, I was depressed over a bad job interview or something, but was keeping it to myself (I’m not a whiney person by nature). I was standing by the sink in the kitchen at the house. When she saw me she blurted out from across the room, “Jet! What’s wrong!?” as she held out her arms and came and gave me a big Ruth hug (she hugged a lot, and was the only person I knew with whom I didn’t mind getting a hug from). I immediately got emotional and didn’t even know why until I thought about it later. I didn’t cry, of course, I was still too deep in my shell for that. But when I looked at her I saw that she was crying! Real tears, for me! I knew then and there that somehow she could feel my feelings, but only because she had caught me with my guard down. I later learned that she was one-quarter Native American, and considered herself to be a shaman, though I never heard her ever use the term myself. I believe she is now though, in the truest sense.

   When I first arrived at the I.T. House in 1994 the director, attempting to fill Herb Smith’s shoes, was an ambitious middle aged bureaucratic leech named Paul Ajzenman (sp?). Picture the short fat balding guy on “Kramer” and you’ll have a good image in your mind of Paul. As far as I know he never attended the prison meetings, he was too “important” for that kind of menial responsibility. He always seemed nice enough with everyone he dealt with, but that was just it, he “dealt” with people as problems, or puzzles, to be worked to his advantage. And the I.T. House was a major project of his. I knew Paul was a typical bureaucrat the first time I met him on my first day out of prison, fresh from the airport. We met formally in his office and one of the first things he told me was that there was only one rule at the I.T. House, “respect the house”. But, when he tried to explain what that meant I could tell he didn’t even know. Then as our conversation continued he started causally informing me of all the other “expectations” (i.e. rules) like paying rent on time (Herb never enforced rent payments), abiding parole conditions, and even a new curfew for entering and exiting the house; just to name a few. Ruth told me later that Herb was rolling circles in his grave because of what Paul was doing to the I.T. House (i.e. institutionalizing it!).

   You see, Paul had no interest in helping x-cons “transition” to the real world, except insofar as it lined his pockets. I didn’t know it at the time, but I found out later that Paul had already established a drug addict rehabilitation service center that bilked money from the state coffers by providing life “counseling” for addicts in treatment programs elsewhere. It all looked great on paper, as if Paul was a real public servant providing needed social services. But if his drug program was anything like what he turned the I.T. House into then the only service it provided was all bureaucratic lie.

   Apparently the “social services” Paul set up for drug addicts required very little of his personal attention (as a true leech would have it), so he could work full-time at preparing the I.T. House for official state funding. That means rules, rules, and more rules; no state program could possibly run without rules. He submitted numerous reports, applications, reviews, and whatever else it took to get money from the state for the program, and all the while made himself out to be the great savior of the I.T. House. According to him, without state funding the house would be forced to shut down because Herb’s surviving wife, who inherited the house and property, had sold it all and the new owners (a group of investors who were never named, but I have no doubt now --- given hindsight --- that Paul was one of them) raised the rent so high that there was simply no way the rents collected from the x-cons living there could ever cover it, not even close. But, state funding could “supplement” the needed rent, not to mention pay competitive salaries for essential staff (i.e. the director, who, of course, was Paul). All hail Paul Ajzenman for coming to the rescue of a program he was helping to drown!

   I didn’t piece all this bureaucratic waggling together until years later, but I didn’t need to know about Paul’s “business” arrangements at the time to see what kind of person he was. In fact, I tended to treat him with the same general respect I would give anyone, until one day at a weekly group meeting at the I.T. House (at which attendance was now “mandatory” for all residents at the house) Paul said something to me that made me swear to never speak to him again. With one seemingly innocuous statement, that was actually meant to be high praise for me, I knew everything I needed to know about Paul as a human being; he was a bigot of the worst sort --- the kind who has no clue of the depth and destructiveness of his bigotry.

   At the time I wasn’t even a resident at the house. I had long since gotten a job, and saved enough money to move into a nicely refurbished studio apartment closer to downtown Seattle. I was only attending the meeting with a friend of mine, Dave, who was the gay lover who helped me get out of prison (by hiring an attorney for me) in the first place. Dave was now official on the I.T. House staff roster as a “sponsor” (he later became the “counselor” for gay x-cons). Dave was a good man, but when I tried to explain to him later why I suddenly demanded that we leave (he was my ride), he couldn’t understand why. All he heard was Paul’s high praise. What I heard was an insult of the worst kind.

   The group meeting had already broken up, but Dave and I were hanging around as expected to socialize. Because of my status as a “successful” x-resident of the I.T. House I enjoyed enough prestige to warrant the director’s attention. So, Dave and I ended up in a clique conversation with Paul and the soon-to-be new director, Tom Tiecher (more about Tom in a moment), standing in a closed circle in the foyer with our paper cups of coffee and donuts talking about something I have no reason to recall.

   But, what I do recall is that after I had just made some appropriately intelligent sounding interjection into the fourway conversation with good timing and plenty of savior faire, there was a gratifying pause as my statement was thoughtfully absorbed by the group. And then Paul looked at me with a big smile and said with great praise in his voice, “You know, Jet, just standing here like this having an ordinary conversation it’s easy for me to forget that you’re an x-con.”

   I looked at him blankly; or, at least my mind was blank, but the expression on my face must have betrayed my hurt and confusion over the implications of what Paul had just said, because Dave told me later that it was clear to everyone that I was upset by the statement, though no one could understand why.

   After a moment of saying nothing while the conversation continued without me I finally decided that I was, indeed, just severely insulted. And, as I remember it, I simply turned around and walked out the front door without saying good-bye or anything (I may have said something to Dave, like, “I’m leaving,” but I don’t remember specifically). A few moments later Dave caught up with me outside by his car. Even though Dave was just as clueless as Paul and Tom about the reason I was so hurt by Paul’s “praise”, I told him that I would never speak to Paul again --- I knew if I did that I would not be able to conceal my anger; and concealing anger was very important to me at the time --- and I never have- (And in case you too are puzzled by this “insult”, try imagining a similar conversation in the pre-civil war North between a free black business man and three whites, when suddenly one of the white men blurts out, “You’re pretty smart for a negro!” I doubt if the black man would feel very complimented no matter how sincerely the white man meant it. In fact, the more sincere he was, the more insulting the statement would be!) The fact that the I.T. House was being taken over by men who could not see the insult in a statement like that was all the indication I needed that everything Herb Smith had built was soon to be completely destroyed by the wrecking balls of ignorance and state sanctioned bigotry; not to mention green in the guise of social service.

   Tom Tiecher eventually took over the director-ship of the I.T. House, after Paul had set up the cash flow pumps and turned his attention to other prospects. Tom wasn’t a leech like Paul, but he was a bureaucratic parasite, taking money from the system while constantly trying to convince himself that he earns it. Tom was a very typical “counselor” type, constantly providing “counseling” because he thought that’s what he got paid for. To illustrate the sickness of this mentality (and the harm that it can do to “innocent” people) let me relay a little story about Tom as well.

   About a year or so after the incident in the I.T. House foyer, I had made friends with an attractive older “African American” nymph who called herself Dee. We had met at work (telemarketing) after she had learned I knew something about computers and asked me to help her buy a PC clone for her family at an auction, which I did. I ended up giving her personal computer lessons (she was very intelligent and learned fast) which very quickly became very personal and we consequently became very good friends even though she was married with two preteen girls.

   I had told Dee early on that I had been in prison for half my life and what for (“raping” a boy), but she didn’t seem to let that bother her. Though she’d never been in trouble with the police herself, she had been around x-cons enough to not be afraid of them, or me.

   But more about Dee elsewhere; the important thing here is that she fell in love with me and (or) wanted to have my baby (which never happened, but not for lack of trying). So when she started asking a lot of questions (we had a very open communicative relationship; the kind I like) about my past life in prison, I thought taking her as a guest to an I.T. House meeting would be a great way to show her a part of my “Prison life” world first hand. So I asked her if she’d like to go to one and she said yes.

   We showed up unannounced (which was the practice) on a Wednesday night for one of the weekly meetings. I remember that there was more people there than I had ever seen, a real crowd with barely room for everyone to sit on all the couches and chairs in the living room (with chairs brought in from the kitchen and everywhere else, even from Tom Tiecher’s office). It was crowded, I learned, because of the new mandatory attendance rule.

   Tom was there, of course, and so was Ruth, though she remained watchful as ever, she was uncharacteristically silent throughout the meeting. I only learned later the reason why; because she generally only spoke when she knew her words commanded the respect they deserved, and this new I.T. House, under Tom and Paul, didn’t even know the meaning of respect. The fat that she was there at all was out of love and respect for Herb. But even that wasn’t enough to warrant regular attendance from her. I was lucky to see her that night.

   The meeting went pretty much as I expected, and had even warned Dee that it would; according to a very institutional format with Tom at the helm at all times steering the meeting instead of letting it go wherever I wanted the way Herb used to do it. At one point an “issue” was brought up concerning an empty beer bottle that had turned up in the kitchen trash (where only a “cop” would look for something like that).

   The issue was treated seriously and very formally. Questions were raised, and there was some discussion about what should be done about it. There were several suggestions, monitoring refrigerator contents, imposing spot checks on bags brought into the house, etc. Toward the end of the entire discussion I finally broke my silence and said what Ruth told me later she had wanted to say, but didn’t because she knew (wiser than me) that it would not be respected; and it wasn’t. In fact, I was practically attacked by the group, all at Tom’s guidance.

   I pointed out that the beer bottle was not the problem. The problem was that obviously someone was in trouble, and the bottle was their way of letting someone know, and instead of responding supportively, as Herb would have done, all “The House” was doing was threatening discipline and sanctions that would only drive whoever needed help further down that road of isolation and abandonment that would inevitably lead to recidivism.

   But, the “group” didn’t see it that way. A house rule had been broken and I was being irresponsible to think it could just be “ignored”.

   I tried to counter that I wasn’t suggesting it be “ignored”, but instead that it be “embraced”, or rather, the person who left the bottle in the trash should be embraced, because that’s clearly what he needed, not “discipline”.

   At this point Dee spoke up bravely in my defense, saying something intelligent and prudent to my cause. Because she was a guest she could not be “attacked” as easily as I could be, so Tom took control and promptly ended the discussion, which also concluded the meeting, but before breaking up Tom asked me and Dee to join him in his office.

   I honestly and innocently thought that he just wanted to have a private conversation so maybe he could ask how I’d been, since it had been so long since he’d seen me, or perhaps he would even thank me for attending the meeting and bringing a guest (i.e. showing support for the program). Boy was I naïve!

   After we entered the office, dragging a couple of chair in from the meeting, Tom promptly closed the door and took up his position behind the desk; the position of authority, which I’m sure now was the real reason he wanted us in his office before he assaulted us; to establish his authority firstly and clearly, which is something bureaucrats like him do instinctively without even thinking. He needed to establish the wall between us and him, so he’d be protected from any emotional cost, and/or damage. Herb never had a desk, or at least not one like Tom’s or Paul’s that he could sit behind and feel safe, distant, and above.

   Tom never asked how I’d been, nor did he thank me for showing my support. Instead he told me he was concerned about me (why do they always say that) because I was “thinking like an addict”. He used my attempt to “support an alcoholic” as his evidence. And then he accused Dee of being co-dependent by supporting me!

   At first I responded automatically and, of course, defensively, which I’m sure he noted as another indication of my “problem”. I told him that I could care less about the alcohol, and the only thing I was trying to support was the idea of support. I began to engage Tom on an intellectual level and was ready to defend myself thoroughly. In my mind Tom was the one who needed a lesson, and I was going to give him one. I knew I could easily beat Tom intellectually; I’d done it many times before. He would eventually surrender his poorly reasoned position without conceding my superior one. So, he’d learn nothing (people like him seldom do because they think they know everything they need to know and that keeps them from ever admitting that they don’t know anything; which is, as readers of this blog should know, the beginning of real wisdom).

   But, just as I was gearing up for the skirmish I glanced at Dee next to me and saw instantly that she was crying, but trying not to show it! That threw me, because Dee didn’t cry. She was one of the strongest people I knew, one of the few who could stand my rash intellectualizing. But apparently something had snapped, or at least was about to. All my attention immediately shifted to her. “What’s wrong”, I asked. But she couldn’t answer. Her emotions had already choked off her words. This was bad. This was VERY bad!

   Paul insulting me and hurting my feelings was one thing. But whatever Tom did to hurt the feelings of someone I cared deeply about was way over the top! I took Dee’s hand and said, “Come on…” and got up to leave. But she was still trying to be respectful of Tom’s authority, authority that I didn’t recognize at all, despite all of his airs. I don’t remember clearly what happened next, I was way too upset. But somehow I got Dee to leave with me before Tom could finish his “well intended” lecture. This time I was the ride, but once we got in my car I only drove a few blocks (to get away from the I.T. House and any chance of being disturbed) then parked in an empty parking lot near a busy street and waited for Dee to calm down enough to tell me what was wrong.

   Dee and I had many long heartfelt conversations parked like this, so there was nothing unusual about that. The level of emotion was unusual tough, so I just held her hand until she was ready to talk. She told me that she felt Tom and I had conspired together against her, to “teach her a lesson” of some sort. She felt threatened and confused by our hostile familiarity with each other, like it was all some sort of act for her benefit. She simply wasn’t accustomed to feeling on the “outside” of a conversation like that, so she assumed we were playing a game at her expense.

   I understood instantly why she was so upset, and apologized profusely for putting her in such a position, then assured her that there was nothing close to conspiratorial between me and Tom at all. Yes, we were unfortunately quite familiar, but only in the way two cats who don’t like each other but are forced to live in the same house are familiar. I would never plot to “help” someone that way (i.e. by manipulating their emotions), it went against everything I believed. (Not even in my crimes did I ever play such “head games”. I could never be THAT cruel!) We hugged for a while until we both felt better, then I drove her home.

   That was the last time I had anything to do at all with the I.T. House. The last I heard is that the program has spawned several branches in different parts of Washington state, but no longer provides housing for z-cons at all. They only provide “counseling services” now, all at the state’s expense (way to go Paul!)

What Happened In Prison – Part V: The Merry-go-round

In early 1993, after thirteen years of imprisonment for a crime (rape) that I was supposed to serve only five years for, I was found paroleable (again) by the ISRB (the defunct parole board now called the Indeterminate Sentencing Review Board). But, this time they set conditions that I had to meet before my release.

These conditions were a part of their newly invented MAP requirements. The ISRB came up with these requirements ostensibly to help inmates prepare for the supposed „shock” of being set free after so many years in prison. The real reason of course had nothing to do with helping inmates at all. It was just another one of their ruses to delay the parole-release process as long as possible so the ISRB could keep their jobs. You see, they only had a fixed number of old guideline inmates (with indeterminate sentences) left in their charge after the SRA (sentencing reform act) laws went into effect. Once those inmates were gone (released or deceased) then so was the ISRB, along with all of its support staff and lawyers. They would loose millions of dollars that they raked in annually from the state coffers to pay their ridiculous salaries so they could continue flying arount the state going from prison to prison playing God.

It took nearly two years after I was found paroleable for me to meet all their MAP requirements so I could be released. It was only supposed to take nine months at the most. The system made it literally impossible for me to complete the requirements. It took an attorney working on my behalf just to get the ISRB to make the necessary arrangements that would allow their requirements to be met. Without the attorney I would have been stuck indefinitely.

The MAP requirements stipulated amongst other things that I had to complete a five week Victim Awareness class and spend six months at a minimum security institution. The minimum security stipulation was supposedly so I could acclimate to the fewer restrictions on my freedom in preparation for my release.

So, in the middle of the last semester of school at Walla Walla, which I needed to complete an associates degree, I was abruptly transferred to the Olympic/Clearwater Corrections Center (OCC), a work camp in the middle of the Olympic rain forest on the Washington state peninsula. The transfer of course kept me from finishing the last three humanities credits I needed for my degree. I don't have to tell you what a negative impact that was on my ability to get a job or even to continue my education after my release, not to mention what a huge let down it was for me not to get the degree after working so hard and so long on it. My g.p.a. was over 3.8, which would have easily gotten me accepted at a four-year University, if I had an A.A. degree. But, it seemed the ISRB thought cleaning bathrooms at a minimum security work camp and listening to victim sob stories for five weeks was more conducive to my success on parole. Yah, right. They consequently ignored my requests to delay the transfer for the few weeks it would have taken to complete the degree.

The reason I ended up at the OCC work camp specifically was because the Victim Awareness class was supposed to be there. Of course as it turned out wasn't there anymore. Apparently either someone didn't think to inform the ISRB (not likely), or the ISRB just wasn't doing the job they were so eager to keep (i. e. by reading the program status memos that are routinely posted on the DOC computer network bulletin board), which was almost likely the case.

Of course it seemed to me at the time that the real reason for this fiasco was that the ISRB was stalling again. I believed that they had deliberately sent me to OCC knowing full well that the Victim Awareness class wasn't there, just to piss me off even more than I already was. It was like kicking a mad dog for good measure before releasing it on an unsuspecting neighborhood. I was the mad dog, and it seemed the „kicks” came more and more the closer I got to that release gate.

As it turned out the Victim Awareness class was only available at two different institutions in the state. One was the Spokane Pre-Release, which did not accept sex offenders, and the other was at McNeil Island Corrections Center (MICC), the same medium security prison where I'd met my man, Big Al, and where I had previously served six years before going to Walla Walla. But, the MAP requirements stipulated that I remain at camp for six months. So, I was stuck cleaning bathrooms and „acclimating to the fewer restrictions on my freedom,” so I could later be sent back to a medium security prison with more restrictions again to take the Victim Awareness class. And all this was going to make me more suitable to be paroled. Yah, right.

The acting CUS (Custody Unit Supervisor) at OCC was a haughty and overly ambitious middle aged female counselor. As soon as I arrived she took me into her office for a little „girl chat”. Apparently she was expecting me and had a speech all prepared. This made me very uncomfortable right from the git. She told me that if I had any problems with any of the inmates because of my sexual disposition (I'm paraphrasing here) that I could confide in her and she'd put an end to it. I took this as an insult of course. The idea of asking for her help dealing with other inmates was as repulsive to me as asking a rapist for a back rub when he was done. I just smiled and nodded politely so she would continue. She told me that she was considering placing me in the medical room which was rarely used and would afford me some privacy. Translation; she wanted to seperate me from the other inmates, which I actually didn't mind. I still just smiled and let her continue. Then she told me that she was the head honcho at OCC and as long as I respected her (i. e. her rules) then she would respect me. Translation; don't mess with her and she won't mess with me. I think she was starting to detect my disdain. I bit my tongue and said nothing. But then she blurted out that, „Some of the inmates here call me mom...” and I couldn't help but laugh a little. Since the cat was now out of the bag I told her that I didn't need her help dealing with other inmates and by virtue of her „authority” alone I would never respect her; but the private medical room would be nice. Her reaction was predictable and she did exactly what she said she'd do; started messing with me every chance she got.

The first really mean thing she did was to have me assigned to an open bunk in the middle of the main dormitory right in front of a large picture window that gave anyone on the back porch a direct view of the bunk where I slept and especially the area in front of the bunk between it and the locker where I had to stand to get dressed (or undressed). The back porch area was where all the inmates congregated to play cards, smoke their cigarettes, or just hang out. It seems my privacy wasn't such a big concern for that acting CUS after all. She must have thought that staking me out for the wolves would make me regret snubbing the offer of her personal protection. But, wolves (predatory inmates) didn't bother me. My man, Big Al, and years as a queen in the penitentiary (i. e. real prison) had taught me how to handle them. It was her blatant renege on my privacy that pissed me off. I thought if that dominatrix bitch wants to play games, well then I would certainly oblige. I still wanted to get moved to the private medical room, which by now I had seen. It was spacious and comfortable looking with a read bed and even a private shower! I had an idea of how I still might get moved there, or at least have some fun trying.

On the very next workday morning I came from the shower wearing just all my white bathrobe with nothing on underneath (most of my personal clothes were white, which I considered Jazzi's signature color). I stood directly in front of the picture window between my assigned bunk and locker. Outside on the porch were about 30 or 40 inmates talking and smoking cigarettes as they waited for the DNR busses that would take them to work (planting trees). I couldn't see them very well because it was still dark outside and only a few relatively dim lights illuminated the porch area. All I could see was mostly my own reflection which i pretended to ignore as if the window weren't even there. I knew full well of course that all those inmates were out there and that they could see me as plainly as a mannequin in a brightly lit display window at night. I proceeded by opening the locker door so it would block the view from the dorm area. I didn't want anyone to see my privates from the front. That would have been embarrassing. Then I doffed the robe and stood completely naked with my backside to the window, reached into the locker and took out a bottle of lotion and began applying it all over my body with my hands, starting with my shoulders, arms, torso and working my way very deliberately down around my waist to my butt and legs. I was careful to keep my legs together so no one could see anything I didn't want them to see dangling between them. I might have spent a little more time than necessary applying the lotion and rubbing it in on the lower portions of my body (especially my ass) and bending over (of course) to do my legs, but I do that anyway, even when I'm alone and in private, just for the fun of it.

I didn't need to look out the window to know I had everyone's attention. The usual commotion that came from the back porch had ceased. I had a very sexy and effeminate looking body that I was proud of. From the back, my slender shoulders thin chest and narrow waist going to a pear shaped ass and long smooth legs, made me indistinguishable from a real genny (genetic female). I had actually expected some cat calls and whistles, but the silence from outside was even better. Those mostly short-timer inmates were completely stunned (or so I at least imagined). They didn't know what to think or how to react to such a blazon display of sociosexual contradiction. But, at least a few of them knew how to snitch, which I was counting on.

After finishing with the lotion I put it away and slipped into a pair of my panties (men's white bikini briefs) and, as discretely as I could, tucked my”embarrassment” between my legs, turning sideways to make adjustments so it would look like I was fondling my vagina (assuming I had one). I made sure right there in front of everybody that everything was securely in place, penis pulled back to the crack of my ass and testicles pushed up inside my body where they'd stay out of harms way. This arrangement allowed me to wear super tight pants pulled all the way up in the crotch comfortably with no bulge at all between my legs. I quickly finished getting dressed for work in tight fitting state khakies. It was eight o'clock sharp, time to go clean bathrooms.

Before I even get to the janitor's closet so I could start work I heard my name called over the camp's PA system, „Inmate Duncan, report to the front office”. I put on my best what'd-I-do? Face and walked into the front office (a.k.a. Segeant's office).

The acting CUS was sitting at the sergeant's desk. The sergeant and another unit officer were standing on either side. Their presence, positinos, and postures (not to mention facial expressions) told me that they were prepared to physically restrain me at any moment.

She told me to sit down (they never ask you to sit, they just tell you to), then she played her cards without further delay. „We have several reports from inmates and staff that you were seen exposing yourself to the work crews this morning.” she said.

My jaw dropped in feigned indignation. So that's what she was in the sergeant's office with her goons. She thought she had me on a major rule infraction, for exposing myself no less. In all my years in prison I had been infracted for just about everything, but never for anything sexual like this. Considering the sexual nature of my original charges and my subjection to the ISRB's arbitrary rule, this could be very serious. I would at least loose my minimum security custody and be sent back to a medium security prison on the next chain bus. So much for paroling in six months. The ISRB could add years for something like this; they'd certainly already done so for much less.

But, I knew i had done nothing wrong (as if that would really make any difference). So, I told her, „I have no idea why anyone would think I was exposing myself, unless they were peeping in the window next to my assigned bunk where I was getting dressed this morning after my shower. I opened the locker door to try to block the view as best as I could, but I couldn't block that window.”

She frowned. Apparently she didn't expect a ready excuse. Most likely she expected to see me squirm the way most duck inmates do when they've been caught. But, I wasn't squirming at all and that seemed to make her unhappy. She still had more cards to play though, so she followed suit with, „Two staff members said they saw you fondling yourself in front of the window.”

I had to assume that her statement was another authoritarian doublespeak question, so I answered her by explaining that I was in fact just putting on my body lotion and then adjusting my „privates” the same way I always do after a shower and while getting dressed. I told her that I didn't like having to get dressed in front of that window, but I had little choice. „You were the one who had me assigned to that bunk.” I said, letting the implication hang there. Then, in case the implication was not enough, I said, „If any other inmate had been getting dressed in front of that window no one would have paid any attention.”

She just looked at me for a moment, then frowned again and looked at the sergeant and raised her eyebrows. The sergeant just shrugged. It seems my cards played, but she still had her trump, so she laid it down, „From now on you will get dressed and undressed in the shower only. Is that clear?”

I had to concede of course. So, that was that. No medical room for me. But, I had managed to announce my arrival at camp in a way that now everyone knew who I was and, more importantly, that I was no snitch or anyone's punk. But, now „Mom” was out to get me more than ever. Someone like her would never let me undermine her „authority” (i. e. power trip) without retaliation. She did eventually manage to hang me in a paper noose, but it took her a few months to do it. And, in the meantime I had the run of the camp with certain liberties I hadn't had in a very long time.

As I've said, my job was cleaning the bathrooms and showers, twice each work day, once in the morning and again afternoon. I didn't mind the job at all, even though the bathrooms and showers were really disgusting, especially in the morning. I'd just put on a pair of thick rubber gloves and scrub practically every inch then hose it all down afterwards. At least I knew the bathroom was clean when I used it, and it was a lot better than having to trudge up and down muddy hills all day planting trees.

Some of the Mexicans would literally stand on the toilets then squat over them to take a dump. They frequently ended up getting more shit on the toilet than in it, and I had to clean that too. But, in the afternoons all I needed to do was just check the bathrooms to make sure they were still clean, which they usually were since nearly everyone was out of camp with one of the DNR work crews. So I had lots of time to myself in the afternoons.

I liked to go up to the „yard” behind the camp that was up on a hill and out of sight of the main buildings. There was no fence or any other kind of perimeter around the camp, not even the yard. If I wanted to I could easily walk off into the woods that surrounded the camp and bordered the yard, but I never did. Just knowing I could was exciting enough for me.

I almost always had the yard to myself, even in the evenings, and I enjoyed it thus even more immensely. I would just sit and watch the ravens, which were so numerous at times I felt like I was in a Hitchcock movie. I tried jogging around the mud track too, but my knees still couldn't take much of that. So, I'd walk for miles just in circles, frequently fantasizing that I was really free, walking in the forest. The yard was by far my greatest pleasure at camp. I never understood why no other inmates felt the same way about it (but in hindsight I realize that after working all day in the woods planting trees, the „yard” probably seemed like just another muddy trail to them).

From the yard I also had an excellent view of the surrounding hills, which would have been something beautiful to behold except that nearly all of them had been stripped by the logging operation called clear cutting. The only thing left were the ugly dead stumps of the trees that once dressed the hills in luscious green. The saplings planted in their stead didn't even begin to cover up the black and brown nakedness of the soil exposed by the violence I came to think of as the brutal rape of mother nature.

One day I found an editorial cartoon in the newspaper that ridiculed such logging operations, and I hung it up on the camp bulletin board near the front office. The cartoon showed a doe and her fawn standing in a natural forest looking out across a field at a tree farm with uniformly spaced trees and no undergrowth. The fawn was asking its mother in the caption, „Mom, what's wrong with that forest?” I made no effort to conceal what I did, but it was a good thing no one saw me putting up the cartoon because the next day it was gone, and in its place was a memo from the acting CUS („mom”), „ANYONE CAUGHT POSTING SUBVERSIVE MATERIAL ON THIS BOARD WILL RECEIVE A MAJOR INFRACTION FOR INCITING”. So much for free speech in that neck of the woods.

Another thing I liked about OCC was the kitchen and dining hall, which doubled for the visiting room on weekends. It was a modern building that stood seperate from all the other barracks-like camp buildings (dorms and rooms). It was like a campus cafeteria, not a prison chow hall at all. They even had a self-serve salad bar and all the peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches you could make yourself and eat. The good food was considered the main perk for being at a work camp, and the DNR crews claimed they ate even better out in the field, but I wouldn't know. For me the biggest perk was being able to sit alone in the yard area completely out of sight of everyone else with only trees around me.

During the few months I was at OCC I got visits from my mom, who drove from Tacoma over the Narrows Bridge, and from Dave, who came from Seattle across the Puget Sound on the ferry. Dave was the friend I had met in Walla Walla through a Gay newspaper (SGN) ad. He was also the one who hired the attorney that made the ISRB obey the law and find me paroleable, which is what got me sent to camp and which I was about to find out was really just a merry-go-round ride designed to get rid of Dave and the attorney.

I can't say that I was ever in love with Dave, but I certainly came to love him as a friend and eventually even as a lover. I respected him in ways that I don't think he ever really understood. To this day he thinks I used him from the start, which is what the ISRB and acting CUS and OCC wanted him to think back then, but try as they might, they only made him love me even more by attacking me and screwing me around the way they did.

The acting CUS knew of course that Dave was the one who hired the attorney that got me sent to camp (this information was communicated to her through my central file and flagged „confidential” so I would never see it). So, unbeknownst to me she started reading every letter that Dave and I exchanged as soon as I got to OCC. Her intent of course was to look for her chance to drive a wedge between us, or, in her mind, to „warn” Dave that he was being used.

I had written to Dave and asked him to make a copy of a computer printout (dot-matrix) hat I had changed so it would appear to say my original offense was assault, not rape. The document was an unofficial Earned time/Good time report that was essentially meaningless in my case since I was so far past my ETRD (Earned Time Release Date) that the numbers on the report made no sense. But, it did show my original charge, and by making the change I'd be able to show other inmates „proof” that I was in for assault. I had asked Dave to make a copy so the place where I made the modification would not be visible (I had used a razor to literally cut and paste the new information in place of the old).

I knew my mail was routinely scanned (i. e. read), but I didn't know the acting CUS was personally reading all my mail looking for anything she could use to screw me over. So, I thought nothing of asking Dave to make the copy, since I honestly did not think I was doing anything untoward. But, the acting CUS decided to arbitrarily call it an official document so she could then infract me for forgery! Forgery is a major infraction that would cause me to lose minimum custody and get kicked out of camp. She also took it upon herself to contact Dave to let him know how I had tried to involve him in a criminal act, and warn him about how inmates use people.

But, Dave took my side, especially once I explained to him what she was calling an „official document”. It was by now clear to him how the system was trying to screw me over every chance it get, all in the name of „Justice”, of course.

The acting CUS presided over the hearing and she completely ignored my observation that the printout I had modified was in no way marked „official” and even said, „unofficial” right on it. I pointed out that making a modified copy of a page from a book is not forgery, and neither was this. She reiterated that it was an official document (with no evidence) and found me guilty. I was on the next chain bus back to Clallum Bay Corrections Center (CBCC), which was the closest medium security state prison to OCC.

When I got to Clallum Bay I cried, literally. As soon as I arrived I went straight to the sergeant's office for the unit I was assigned and cried like a lost little girl and asked the sergeant to put me in protective custody. I didn't really need protection, but I was devastated by the sudden turn of events. One minute I was at a camp on my way to freedom, and the next I was back inside another cold concrete prison surrounded once more by posturing apes seeking precious status within the dregs of human society. The razor-wire and steel doors with shatterproof glass all reminded me of how hated and feared I was yet again. And if all that weren't enough, I was being punished again for something I didn't even know was terribly wrong. It felt like the nightmare of my incarceration was being revived all over again; and my fear that it would never end (i. e. that I would never get out of prison alive)was just too much for my poor lonely little girl heart.

In other words, I had let down my emotional defenses while I was at camp, thinking I'd never need them again, only to find myself right back in hell.

I desperately missed Big Al. When I got to the SHU (Special Housing Unit for PC inmates) I could see black prisoners playing basketball outside of the window from the solitary cell I was in. Seeing them play reminded me of the times Big Al and I had play HORSE while we were in adseg together at MICC. We'd talk as we played and tease each other over missed snots, letting each other win in turns because the score didn't really matter to either of us; the company was all that mattered.

In the SHU I cried off and on for a few days, then after I'd calmed down (and reinstalled my defenses) they let me back out into population. I stayed to myself and pretty much didn't talk to anyone except to let the convicts know who I was and who my representation was (i. e. Big Al). That was enough to keep the wolves and other predators off my back (literally), so I didn't have any problems in that regard, mostly thanks to Big Al's reputation, not my own so much. I wasn't interested in sex at all, I suppose my longing for Big Al pretty much squashed that need, not to mention that since I was throwing his name around as representation I had to honor our relationship even though technically we had already agreed hat all ties, other than our continuing friendship, were officially severed. I ate at a neutral table in the chow hall, and didn't make any friends that I remember (not that I tried not to, but I didn't try either).

Within a few weeks (as I remember) I got my minimum custody status back. It normally takes at least six months to get enough points back after a major infraction, but they had just opened a brand new minimum custody housing unit inside Clallum Bay and needed to fill beds. So they gave me an administrative override and moved me to the new unit.

It was exceptionally clean, and I had more so-called privileges, like a key to my cell, and no toilet in the cell. So the move was a step in the right direction, I suppose. But it was still inside the double razor-wire fence and didn't make me feel any closer to getting out. I still ate in the same chow hall and went to the same recreation yard to walk around the track with the medium security inmates. So why they called it „minimum security” didn't make any sense to me (I found out later that it was technically called „closed minimum”, as if that made any difference).

I passed the time mostly on the yard walking the track by myself or just sitting someplace looking out at the trees. At least I could see the trees, even if I could not be amongst them. I'd also go to the library and spend quiet time there reading. I checked the school offerings, but they had no college level courses (except vocational).

Because the housing unit I was in was considered minimum security, the time I spent there counted toward the six months minimum custody requirement for the MAP conditions of my parole release. That meant that after a few months the only requirement I had left before I could be paroled was the illusive Victim Awareness class. So I was chained up and put on yet another prison bus to be transferred back to McNeil Island (MICC) where the class I need was supposedly being offered. But, of course, once again no one bothered to check the current status of the program before I was shipped off. So I didn't find out until after I had arrived, just like last time, that the class had been discontinued at MICC as well. Oh, they had an active class just a couple of months before, while I was completing the six months of minimum security in a medium security prison, but that had been the last one before the class was cancelled. This of course was just another kick in the ribs of that already starved and mistreated dog; my soul, if you will. (I found out later that the counselors and ISRB were in fact conspiring to keep me locked up as long as possible, as if delaying the inevitable was somehow going to help anything more than their job security – if a mad dog bites a child, then the dog catchers get a pay raise, even is they're the ones who beat and starved the dog in the first place – it's what we call the justice system in this great country of ours).

The only place in the state that still offered the stupid class was Spokane Pre-release. But they refused to accept sex offenders (nothing like a little state sanctioned discrimination to make things even worse than they already are). So now I was stuck at MICC with no possible way of completing the last MAP requirement for my release. The counselor at MICC was no help of course. He literally shrugged his shoulders and told me there was nothing he could do (the proverbial „my hands are tied” excuse for injustice). I wouldn't be the first inmate forced to max-out (serve the full 20 year sentence for a crime I was only supposed to serve five years at most for according to the so-called SRA Laws) because the system set impossible to reach requirements for release. It was a trick that worked well under the old-guidelines (pre-SRA). But lucky for me there were new laws that the ISRB were still somewhat inexperienced at cirrumventing (my case was an early attempt to bypass laws requiring the ISRB to release inmates under specific conditions, but it ultimately failed only because I had a lawyer and they made mistakes, like keeping computer records of their communications regarding my case. But they've since gotten a lot better. My friend, Big Al, was found paroleable over nine years ago, and is still sitting at a so-called minimum security camp in Monroe, Washington, waiting to complete the very same last MAP requirement that I had; the Victim Awareness class. He has been waiting for years, because, guess what? The only place that has the class is still Spokane Pre-release, and Big Al is considered too violent for them too. He has lawyers trying to help him too, in fact MY lawyers, from my death penalty case, who are helping him pro-bono, out of the kindness of their hearts. My attorneys met and interviewed Big Al while preparing my case for trial. They were so impressed by him – one person said that out of the hundreds of people she has interviewed over the years for her cases, Big Al was one that impressed her the most, for his intelligence, and sincere compassion, and humble outlook – so they took it upon themselves to help him as they could. But so far, apparently, they haven't been having much luck.)

The lawyer that my friend, Dave, had hired for me back then filed a PRP (Personal Restraint Petition – which is a standard legal remedy for prisoners), and within a couple of months the Spokane Pre-release was somehow persuaded to accept at least one „sex offender”, namely me. It seems that the ISRB decided to quickly fix the problem rather than allow the PRP to go through the courts, since it contained evidence of their conspiracy to keep me locked up way past my legally sactioned release date. So the PRP became moot and was dismissed, but not before it had served its purpose; to make the ISRB, and DOC, at least pretend to obey the law. I found out later that there was another reason why the ISRB wanted this PRP squashed quickly; because it would have set a legal precedent that other prisoners (like Big Al) could take advantage of. Those board members are devious as hell when it comes to legal maneuvering, they manipulate the law more than they obey it, just to keep their jobs.

But, before I was chained up and shipped off one last time, I had a couple of months to get reacquinted with MICC. It had changed quite a bit in the four years I was gone, and was still changing quite drastically right before my eyes!

Summit House, the preferred housing unit that was nicknamed the Hotel, had been torn down and replaced by a modern SHU (thus replacing the most open living unit I ever know of in prison, with the most closed and restricted). They had also closed the main cellblocks and moved all the prisoners to brand new „medium security” units that had been built right next to where the old cellblocks stood. These new „medium security” units had all the same amenities and privileges as the so-called „minimum security” units I was in at Clallum Bay. In fact, the only difference I could see was that the actual shapes of the buildings and floor plans were triangular instead of square. Everything else was the same (i. e. dry cells, inmate keys, etc...).

I had arrived just in time to watch them tear down the old cellblocks with a wrecking ball and giant tractor mounted jack hammers and hydrolic pinchers for grabbing and tearing out all the steel bars and cutting the rebar. I couldn't help but feel that somehow fate was involved with allowing me to witness the destruction of such an icon from my past just before I expected to be released. I suppose I could have even taken it as an omen, but I didn't. My rational mind insisted it was pure coincidence, and I left it at that.

They were still using the old chow hall though, but i knew they had plans to build a new one in place of the cellblocks being torn down. I had actually seen the plans for the new chow hall, complete with a whole new kitchen, back before I'd left MICC four years ago. While I was working as an aide to the Food Services Manager (the last job I had at MICC before being sent to Walla Walla) he showed the plans for the new kitchen to me like a proud father. He explained how efficient the new serving line would be, telling me that each inmate will be served a tray through a slot in the wall, so everyone gets exactly the same amount of food. The servers never see who they are serving and the inmates never get to see who is serving them. „So there'll be no favoritism”, he boasted. I asked, „Doesn't that strike you as inhumane at all?” He just shrugged. This was the same man who liked to put prune juice in the juice machines when the menu from Olympia (his headquarters) called for orange juice. When I asked him about that he told me, „The inmates drink less prune juice than they do orange juice, so it saves money”. So I asked if he got some sort of an award or other incentive for saving money, and he said, „No. It's just my job to save money.” He also claimed that he knew for a fact that the WWF wrestling matches were real, because he used to be a professional wrestler (apparently back before it became a popular form of commercial entertainment for children and idiots).

Anyway, since I basically grew up at MICC I knew a lot of people there still. So I got to talk to a lot more people than I did at Clallum Bay, mostly old acquintances I met on the yard or in the chow hall. Though most of them didn't want to be seen hanging out with a queen, so they wouldn't talk for very long, usually just long enough to say hi and exchange a little news (i. e. gossip mostly).

I ate a neutral table in the chow hall like at Clallum Bay (at OCC camp, all the tables were „neutral” as far as I was concerned, in other words, no one was liable to smash you in the face for sitting where you weren't supposed to). But I usually took my time eating so people who knew me would have a chance to come over and say hi, and gossip if they wanted.

There were a lot of new faces too. I'd guess that there was about a seventy to eighty percent turn over in the time I was gone. For the most part all the ducks (newbies) left me alone because, like at Clallum Bay, they just didn't know me. But it was clear by the company I kept (or at least by the people I talked to, even if briefly) that I had been around for awhile and was known by all the old-timers. Only once did anyone try to mess with me. Some idiot duck in the chow hall scrape room (only ducks worked in the scrape room) apparently thought it would be funny to spray me with water as I dropped off my tray. Without even thinking about it I just threw my tray as hard as I could through the window, and was shortly rewarded by a huge crash as I had apparently struck a large stack of trays (and they were metal trays, so you can imagine how much noise they made). The whole chow hall seemed to just stop and everyone looked in my direction to see what happened. But, I just walked away calmly as if I had nothing to do with it. Everyone, even the guards apparently, just assumed some klutz must have knocked over a stack of trays in the scrape room. But word eventually got out (maybe I helped a little) and I never had anymore trouble from any ducks after that. (By the way, yes, I was aiming for the inmate, but the stack of trays was just as well).

There was only one staff member that I was interested in seeing while I was back on the island, and that was the vocational electronics instructor, Glen Backman. When I'd left four years before I was angry at him for letting the guards find me guilty for „stealing” items from the electronics shop where I worked at the time. This was the infraction that got me kicked out of Summit House, so it really hurt. Glen was supposed to testify at my hearing that he'd given me permission to have the items in question (some wire and miscellaneous jacks and resistors that I used to fix – usually quick patch jobs – other inmates radios and such). But he never showed up at my hearing and I was consequently found guilty for stealing (I had actually even paid money to the electronics shop for some of these items, and I would never have stolen from the shop out of respect for Glen and the other inmates who worked there. So to be accused of and found guilty for stealing from the shop was a blow to my pride as well). It was because of this infraction that I had quit my job (as lead technician with the most seniority at the time) and took the job for Institutional Industries as a computer programmer, which had been offered several months before but I had turned down, even though it paid four times more than what I made in the shop, out of respect and loyalty to the electronics shop.

But, over the years my steam cooled and when I thought through everything that happened back then it dawned on me that Glen had most likely been threatened with the loss of his job if he testified at my infraction hearing. So I forgave him and wanted to see him now so I could formally apologize.

So, I signed up for an electronics class in computer programming (even though I already had an AS degree in electronics from the last time I was at MICC). But the class was in the evenings and I found out that Glen only worked during the day now (he used to work evenings too) and a part-timer filled in the evenings. At least I got to snoop around the electronics shop, which actually wasn't a shop anymore, just a classroom in the basement of the building where the shop used to be. They no longer allowed inmates to repair other inmate's radios and such, so the shop was closed down, and much of the old equipment was just sitting off to one side of the classroom in stacks of boxes.

It was some of these boxes that I was rooting through one day when I found the actual very first book I learned to program computers from. It was the Apple_IIe_Programmer's_Manual that was like a bible to me when I had it back in the 80's. It was just laying by itself in a box of probes and other junk (the only book in the box) as if it was put there for me to find someday. This book had tremendous sentimental value for me and I could hardly believe I'd found it. So I commandered it of course, which was easy enough to do, and I still had that book with me when I was eventually released many months later.

I don't remember if I ever got a chance to apologize to Glen, but I'm sure I did. I do know that as of just a few years ago my attorneys confirmed that he was still working as an instructor on the Island and had even spoken to him about me. Surprisingly he had nothing but good things to say about me, despite knowing that what I had done after I got out of prison. That's what I always liked about Glen, he was honest and treated everyone fairly. I should never have gotten mad at him.

I don't recall exactly how long I was at McNeil Island this time, but it seems like it was six months or less before I was finally shipped off to the Pre-release in Spokane, clear on the other side of the state.

Spokane Pre-release was the least restrictive custody, between a minimum security camp and work release. The prison was located in an annex of Eastern State (mental) Hospital, comprised of an old hospital building surrounded by several portables that served as kitchen, chow hall, recreation center (gym), as well as administration offices and classrooms, and one extra dormatory unit. The entire complex (about two acres all together) was surrounded by a ten foot high chainlink fence topped with razor wire. Behind the main building there was a yard big enough for playing softball, with the obligatory track going around it. The even had an outdoor basketball court, though, strangely, no one ever seemed interested in it (I guess they preferred to play basketball inside the air-conditioned gym).

It seemed to me like I was the only prisoner there who'd ever seen the inside of a real prison. Almost everyone else had either been sent directly from Shelton (the state receiving and classification center), or from one of the minimum security camps. They were mostly serving less than two years for class „C” felonies.

I had no problem „adjusting” to this new social genre at all. I even befriended a few people I'd met with common intellectual interests. After the fiasco at OCC camp I'd toned down my flamboyant queen act, and though I made no deliberate attempt to conceal my sexual orientation, I was better at fitting in, even if as a „gay”. So nobody bothered me and seemed to think I belonged even (i. e. didn't stand out). I signed up for yoga and meditation classes, and of course, enrolled in the required Victim Awareness class.

The Victim Awareness class was just as pointless as I suspected it would be. We cut up pictures out of old magazines and made „victim” collages that were supposed to express how victims feel (or something dumb like that). Then we'd watch videos about victim impact (or something dumb like that). And occasionally a „guest” would come in to tell us what it feels like to be a victim (or something dumb like that). We weren't allowed to ask questions. The principles of the class were taught like a dogma; criminals are insensitive, and victims are innocent. I guess whoever thought up the class didn't think „criminals” knew what it felt like to be a victim. Imagine that.

After I finished the class, my counselor notified the ISRB and submitted updated parole plans. Everything went extremely well in this regard, especially considering that the counselor rarely ever had to deal with the ISRB or submit formal parole plans for most pre-release inmates. I suspect the pre-release staff wanted me out of their hair as quickly as possible, so they weren't about to play the ISRB's games.

My plans were to parole to Seattle. The Interaction Transition program House had already accepted me many years ago and their policy was that once someone is accepted (a process that can take years) then that person is always accepted, even if they don't have a room, they'll let the person sleep on a couch is necessary, until a room opens up. Fortunately for me they had a room available, and my friend Dave (who had become a regular face at the IT House on my behalf) had already paid the first months rent (about 300 dollar).

Surprisingly, my parole plans were quickly approved. I suspect that the ISRB had to call in some favors to get me accepted at Spokane Pre-Release in the first place in order to get themselves out of the legal bind my attorney had put them in. And my speedy release now was one of the conditions of their bailout imposed by the Pre-release officials, who I'm certain did not like having a „violent sex-offender” in their charge one bit. Within a matter of days I had an actual release date – my god, I get emotional even now just remembering that. A real honest-to-god release date! And I found out what the actual date was just weeks before it came, so I didn't have long to wait biting my nails.

Needless to say, those past few weeks passed by very quickly. In fact, I have no memories at all of the time even passing. The next thing I knew I was walking out the prison gate carrying a brown paper grocery bag with a few belongings in it (I had already sent most of my stuff, personal property, including the Apple IIe book I'd commandered from the electronics shop at McNeil, by mail to the IT House in Seattle a few days before so it wouldn't be a burden on my release day). A couple of prison staff (guards) were waiting in a state owned sedan to take me to the airport. My friend, Dave, had paid for the cost of a plane ticket ahead of time in order to spare me the long bus ride to Seattle. Dave himself would be waiting, with my mother, for my arrival at the Seatac airport.

At the Spokane airport, the guards handed me an envelope that contained my ticket and 20 dollar in cash (I was to get the rest of my 100 dollar „release money” when I checked in with the parole officer in Seattle). Then they let me out in front of the main entrance to the airport and drove off without any further instructions and without even saying good-bye. I suppose they were „just doing their job”.

I entered the airport terminal wearing all white, 505 jeans and shirt, with my hair pulled back and tied into what I'd hoped was an inconspicuous ponytail. I wasn't worried about people thinking I was gay, I just didn't want them to think I'd just gotten out of prison. So I tried to act as casual as I could as I found my way to the airport coffee shop. I desperately wanted a good shot of caffeine to calm my nerves.

When I asked the young woman behind the counter for a coffee she said, „Americano or Laté?” At the time I had no idea what an Americano was, so I ordered a Laté, and chose vanilla, thinking that would be the safest choice (I'd never had a Laté before, but had heard of them from TV and visitors in prison). After paying the shocking cost of the drink, I found my way to a tall coffee shop table so I could set down my bag and try the drink. A moment later the entire drink was in the trash and I was off to find someplace where I could sit and watch the planes on the tarmac; maybe that could calm my nerves, since I didn't know how to order a regular coffee and was too embarrassed to ask.

I eventually found my gate, and managed to board the plane for Seattle without any difficulty.

I was fortunate enough to end up with a window seat on the plane. I was looking out the window as the plane taxied to its runway for take off, and I remember thinking, it's not over yet. I knew that I wasn't going home, nor would I ever be able to. My mother had lost the house in Tacoma where I lived when I arrested as a kid. So couldn't pay the mortage, so the bank took the house shortly after my parole plans were denied for the first time many years ago. If I had been paroled back then I would have been going home, and I could have helped my mom keep the house. But not now. Somehow that lost home epitomized everything else the system had taken from me over the years, my youth, my future, even my innocence. So no, it wasn't over, because I could never go home again. And I thought too that I would never be free either, until the score was settled, and perhaps, even probably, not even then.

Inside, buried deep, I was one very mad dog, starved and beaten for years, both psychologically and spiritually. But outside, and on the surface of my mind, I was perfectly serene. I was biding my time as I wore the two-faced mask I had learned to wear, happy side out, just so I could have this day at all; my release day.

When the pilot throttled up the engines and released the brakes I leaned forward in my seat and pushed my face even closer to the window. Not so much so I could enjoy the view during take off, which I certainly did, but more so no one could see my face at that particular moment. I was afraid if they did that they might ask why I was crying.

Next stop, Seattle, and Part VI: The Streets.

About Jeff, Who Was Not Very Polite

When I was 15 years old, and my brother, Bruce, was 13, we lived in a suburb in Tacoma, Washington, called Lakewood (which has since been incorporated and is now its own city).

One day, while my brother ans I were out terrorizing the world together on our 10-speeds, we saw a black man flying a line-controlled model airplane in an empty parking lot of the local highschool. It was the weekend, so there were no students around.

Being the boys that we were, my brother and I were of course drawn to the scene like flies to well, you know. The man quickly befriended us and even offered to let us try to fly the plane. My brother and I had similar planes of our own, so we had no trouble getting the model into the air.

The man said his name was Jeff Polite, and he soon asked us boys if we wanted to go to his room to see his other model airplanes. He was obviously retarded and still lived at home with his parents though he was in his mid 20's.

Because he acted so much like a kid – like one of us – my brother and I accepted the invitation without apprehension. Jeff seemed a little weird, definitely not dangerous.

Jeffs parents were not home, of course. But, he invited us into his bedroom anyway, of course. The room was almost a typical of what you would expect of any teenager's room – there was nothing „adult” about it all. There was a made bed in the middle, a few plastic Revel model airplanes hung from the ceiling with fishing line, and more plastic models on some book shelves.

At the end of the bed was a desk that might have had a model airplane in the process of being assembled. The desk did have various impliments and gadgets used for building model planes, which my brother and I took an interest in.

Then for some mysterious reason Jeff became agitated with me and asked me to leave. But my brother was welcome to stay so Jeff could „show him something”. My brother and I were still completely unsuspicious of Jeff, so I just thought he'd decided he didn't like me, and my brother wanted to stay to look at the models and stuff some more.

So, I left, and my brother stayed. But, not for very long.

Before I got even halfway home on my bike (about a mile) I heard my brother calling from behind for me to stop so he could catch up.

When he caught up he just said, „Jeff's a weirdo”. Then we continued on together.

I asked him what Jeff wanted to show him, and my brother said he didn't know. He told me that Jeff just asked him to hold onto a two or three foot length of wire that went „inside his pants”.

This didn't make sense to either of us. But apparently Jeff made my brother nervous enough that Bruce quickly decided to leave and try to catch up with me after all. When I pressed my brother for more information he repeated what he'd already said, and we both shrugged it off as some „retardo” thing.

Less than two years later I was convicted for raping a 14 year old boy in the same neighborhood. I guess things change pretty quickly at that age.

Some fifteen years or so after that, while I was still on parole for the rape, my brother came to visit me at my Seattle apartment, and gave me an interesting update on the Jeff Polite saga.

Bruce told me that he had run into Jeff recently at a fast food restaurant, and decided to confront him about the incident back in 1978, when we were boys.

It seems that my brother had decided over the intervening years that Jeff was masturbating that day in his bedroom while he held onto the wire. It wasn't just a „retardo” thing; it was a „perverto” thing! So my brother asked Jeff for an apology right there in the restaurant.

My brother told me that Jeff very nervously denied even recognizing him. But Bruce was certain that Jeff not only recognized him, but was guilty as hell too, because of the way he was acting. „Scared shitless”, was the way my brother put it.

Bruce, unlike me, had grown into a fairly imposing man. He was over six feet and easily more than 200 pounds. He liked to keep scruff on his face (which made him look macho) and carried a concealed 38 automatic of some impressive sort, because he could. He was the type of person who would „accidentally” let people see he was packing heat, just for the fun of it.

But when I suggested to my brother that perhaps Jeff was just scared over being so rudely confronted by a scary man in public, my brother insisted again, „No, he's a perve, and he knew I knew it! I wanted to blow his stinkin' head off right there!”

That was just the way my brother talked, which after 15 years in prison didn't impress me very much. I suggested again that maybe Jeff genuinely did not recognize him, and even if he was masturbating back then, so what?

Big mistake on my part that, „so what?” bit. My brother got angry at once (which he tried to hide as usual, but I could tell as easy as I could when we were kids that he was about to be rash). So, I tried to clean it up by asking him to tell me again what actually happened back in '78 in Jeff's bedroom. What he told me was pretty much the same thing he told me back then, except now with a little more insite to Jeff's motives.

Bruce said that Jeff „molested” him, even though he kept his privates in his pants, and never touched my brother on his.

I tried to question my brother about what he meant by „molested”, but he could only tell me the rote responses that someone might get from a book, or magazine article.

„He used me”, my brother said.

„He asked you to hold a wire. You didn't even know what he was doing then, even if you do now”, I retorted.

„It doesn't matter if I didn't know. I was just a kid and he molested me!”

We clearly weren't communicating. To me my brother was just spouting off all the classic „victim” expressions but saying nothing about the reality of what happened at all.

What I wanted to do, but sensed danger so I didn't, was remind my brother of the times he himself „molested” younger children even before we ever met Jeff. (By my brother's own definition of course. As far as I know, my brother has never really molested anyone. But, as kids we sometimes „played doctor” or „spin the bottle” with other children, which involved a bit more explicitly sexual behavior that what Jeff had done with the wire. Jeff was, after all, mentally only a kid himself even though he lived in a man's body.)

So, instead I reminded my brother about the time he was „molested” by George Worley, who pumped air up his butt with a bicycle pump. George was 15, and Bruce was 10 at the time. George became an „Eagle” in the boyscouts, which is how my brother and I knew him, he was in our troop 462, and at least I heard George was some sort of commander in the U.S. Navy stationed in Hawaii.

I asked, „How come you don't go demand an apology from George?”

That was enough to send my brother storming out the door of my apartment. I guess I'm lucky he didn't „blow my stinkin' head off”.

(No disrespect, bro'! I just never could take you seriously; you were my younger brother after all! I love you and miss you dearly!!)

My brother died from a sudden heart attack in 2006. I learned after his death that he believed I „molested” him too, and was even going to write a book about it. I wish people could see how victim hysteria creates more victims than it will ever help. My brother's emotional trauma was real. The reason for his trauma was a fabrication of the worst kind, and not real at all.

(Originally written by Joseph E. Duncan III - March 31, 2011 – 1 am

Nine Lives And An Evil Monster

When I was living in Fargo I once saw a cat get hit by a careless taxi driver while I was on my way home from a movie with a lady-friend. The incident took place on a residential street, with no other traffic. The cab obviously did not try to avoid hitting the cat, and then afterwards didn't even slow down, much less stop to see if the cat was okay. My reaction was to immediately slam on my brakes, even though I was not the one who hit the cat, and I tried to jump out of my car to help so quickly that I got tangled by the seat belt, which I had forgotten to unfasten. When I finally managed to get to the cat laying in the middle of the road it was still trying to run, even though its head was completely caved in and one eye was hanging by the nerve outside its socket. Needless to say, for all its effort, the poor cat only managed to move its legs in jerky sporatic motions, as if it were trying to run in its sleep. My lady-friend, Joni, was soon approaching from the other side of the car, and when I heard her ask if the cat was okay I bid her desperately to stay away, knowing she was a cat lover too, like me. I didn't want her to see the terror of what I was seeing. I asked Joni to get an old towel out of the trunk of my car, which I then used to wrap the cat up and carry it on the side of the road. By that time the cat had stopped trying to run, but I could tell that it still labored to breath for several minutes more. I cried silently to myself as I waited with my hand on the cat's fir for it to stop breathing. I wanted to comfort it, and contemplated breaking its neck in order to end its misery. But, fortunately, the cat stopped breathing on its own before I could even figure out the logistics of doing so. I then picked up the dead cat and carried it back to my car, where I placed it, still wrapped in the old towel, into the trunk. When Joni asked me what I was doing with the cat off to the side of the road, I told her that I was just waiting for it to die. In truth, I didn't want her to see that I was crying. We ended up taking the cat to a small strip of woods next to a cemetery for people, where we buried the cat, towel and all, in a shallow grave. We made a hurried marker out of some sticks, said a prayer, then left. Joni and I both watched the classifieds for a few days, looking for any ads for a lost cat. We also drove through the neighborhood where the cat had been hit looking for any lost cat signs, but saw none. Of course, this entire time I was only pretending to be concerned about the cat and its possible owners, all the while fantasizing secretly about raping children and terrible things like that. I don't actually remember any of these fantasies, or feeling like I was faking anything, but I must have been, because I am an evil monster after all, or so they tell me.

What Happened In Prison – Part IV: The Queen

„I will remember, because a queen can never forget.” - Juana of Castile, in The Last Queen, by: C.W. Gortner

By the time I arrived at WSP (Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla, Washington) in early 1990, I was a full-fledged and completely weaned prison queen. All my nervousness about being seen as queer had left me, and was replaced by the more normal social nervousness over meeting new people and adapting to a new environment.

As strange as it may seem, I was actually looking forward to Walla Walla, even though it was reputedly one of the most violent prisons in the country. I was fed up with all the petty games and attitudes from the wannabe prison (MICC), and hope WSP would be better. I had no concern at all for my safety because I was, after all, Big Al's girl and nobody messed with a fully represented queen in a real prison.

Right away as soon as I stepped off the chain-bus I knew things were going to be different. The guards actually treated me with politeness and respect. They even took me into a private area in order to strip search me out of view of the other inmates. And I could have sworn the guards themselves were looking at me lasciviously, though that was possibly just my own devious imagination at work.

From the intake processing area all the inmates from the chain-bus were taken to a temporary housing unit for a few days of observation before we would be classified for regular housing in the prison.

As we were being dressed out in the temporary unit (given clothes to replace the orange transport coveralls) an inmate I'd never met before covertly gave a full pack of cigarettes along with a message from Big Al that he would see me at mainline (in the chow hall).

I passed some of the cigarettes out to other inmates who I had befriended on the bus and they in turn passed them out to their friends. Suddenly I was very popular and it felt strange.

As a queen I had to get used to people I'd never met before talking to me as if they knew all about me. I was a celebrity of sorts since people talked about almost everything I did. For example, almost everyone I met had heard about how I „dumped” Kato, the kung fu expert and asian gang leader at MICC and „lived to tell about it”. They also knew that I had broken into the furniture factory offices at McNeil Island and „planted a computer virus” in order to avenge Big Al.

Usually it was the things people „knew” about me that I didn't even know about myself that were the most interesting. Things like:

„Hey, Jazzi! I heard you turn tricks with the turn keys!”

Oh, I didn't know that.

„Hey, Jazz! I heard you got AIDS...”

Oh, really?

That AIDS rumor actually followed me all the way to Kootenai county jail in Idaho in 2005. The FBI asked my attorneys to get an HIV test for me because they „heard” that I was HIV positive from a former cellmate of mine. Ya, right. (That particular inmate used to sit on his bunk and masturbate while he watched me exercising in the cell. He was not my cellmate for very long – after I told Big Al what he was doing)

All this attention was a bit disconcerting for me at first, especially considering my so-called „antisocial” propensities. But I ultimately learned to relish it as much as anyone would, revelling in all the positive attention while ignoring the negative; usually.

I got almost no harrassment at all from the other inmates. The worst insult I got came from a prison guard who waved a hot dog at me as I was going through the serving line in the chow hall to get my food one day.

„Do you like weaners?” He asked, apparently to get a laugh from the other inmates around because there weren't any other guards within earshot.

If an inmate had been stupid enough to attempt to insult me like that I probably would have picked up one of the hot dogs off my own tray and thrown it at him while saying something like, „sure, but I like to share!”

Something like that might have been what flashed through my mind as I stopped and just glarred at him. The guard must have seen something in my eyes at that moment that frightened him, because I remember seeing the fear flash just for a moment on his face before he covered it up with a nervous laugh and a sudden order to, „keep moving!”

The fear on his face, even if just for a moment, told me he was a coward. So I dismissed him and the entire incident. By the time I got to my table, in the „blacks only” area of the chow hall, I had forgotten all about him. But he unfortunately didn't forget about me.

Later that night I was called out of the unit six dayroom and escorted by a group of three guards down into the counselor's office area; a secluded area after hours with all the lights turned off. I didn't understand why I was there until one of the guards turned on me suddenly and glowered in my face.

He said menacingly, „If you ever look at me like that again I'll find a way to mess you up!” (an exact quote by the way)

It took me a full second or two to realize that I was being threatened. And then another second or two to figure out who the guard was and why he was threatening me.

„Oh!” I said „You're that guard from the kitchen!” I was smiling at my own realization.

Yes, smiling. I thought the threat was funny because it was so pathetically childish. I actually chuckled, as I said, „Is that all you want?”

The guard said, „Yah, just remember what I said”. Then he ordered me to return to the unit dayroom unescorted. So, I turned and started to leave.

But, as I walked away I couldn't resist a parting shot, I said over my shoulder, „You don't know who you're messing with; I'm not some duck...”

...that you can intimidate, is what I'd meant to say. But, before I could finish the guard cut me off by yelling at me – he had just gotten exactly what he wanted from me all along; a „threat”. In that „authoritative command” voice, that cowards like him love, he screamed, „Lock up! Now!”

I had fallen for the same kind of trap that got Big Al shipped out of MICC. It's an easy trap to fall into, even if you know about it. Fortunately I was already in a maximum security prison so I couldn't be shipped out. But I could go to the hole, and that's exactly what happened. I returned to my cell and after a few minutes the goon-squad arrived, and cuffed me up to take me to segregation. The guard from the kitchen was with them and kept making comments that were intended to get me to „resist”. But I knew better than to give him a chance to „goon” me also. (Getting „gooned” is prison slang for getting beat up by the guards. All they need is the smallest excuse in order to make the paperwork look good and then they can beat you up all they want. But they need that excuse, however small, before they can get away with it. And don't think for a moment that it's just a few „corrupt” guards that do this. It's part of how „the system” works, and just one of the hypocritical aspects that made me hate it so much. Rodney King knows what I'm talking about!)

At the disciplinary hearing the guard from the kitchen denied waving the hot dog at me and threatening me, of course. And so, more evidence of my „antisocial” behavior in prison was added to my official record.

And that was the story of the worst insult I received. But the greatest compliment came from a young inmate in the unit six shower room.

The showers were only open for a couple of hours each evening after mainline (chow). It is a single large tiled room with about 25 or 30, or so, shower heads spraying water from the walls. No stalls, of course, and a guard booth right there in the shower so there'd be no funny business. There was always a crowd in the showers.

I used to usually go with Big Al as my „escort”, more for symbolism than because there was any real danger from other inmates. Sometimes I'd even go by myself, but I liked having my „man” with me.

I'd always be sure to prepare ahead of time by putting on a pair of jocky underpants in a way that allowed me to keep my „embarrassment” tucked up between my legs in the shower, with my testicles actually held up inside the abdomen.

I wore these „panties”, as I called them, for the whole time that I was in the shower, and would discretely wash under them to get myself clean.

So, anyway, one day, as I was drying off and getting ready to leave the shower room, a young inmate standing next to me who was also just getting out of the shower, suddenly asked me a question completely out of the blue.

Shyly, he asked, „Do they let you take female hormones here?”

I answered in my girliest voice, „I wish!”

Then I wondered why he would ask a question like that. I didn't know him and have never spoken to him before. And I thought it was obvious, by how flat chested I was, that I'd never used female hormones. So, out of curiosity I asked him, in turn, „Why do you ask?”

Without hesitation he answered, „Because you look so much like a real woman with no clothes on”. And then he quickly moved away, apparently embarrassed by his own comment.

It was obvious that he did not intend to flatter me. I could have kissed him right there in the shower, if he hadn't run away so quick. To this day I can think of no time that I was ever more proud of how my body looked.

I just realized that I forgot to tell about how I got moved into the same unit, and even the same cell, with Big Al.

At first they put me in a special unit that was still in general population but had only one-man cells. It was in that unit that I got to meet and know a legendary prison queen named Star.

There's really not much to tell about my meeting Star, except that she was past her girly prime and no longer bothered to even try to appear effeminate, though everyone still called her Star and refered to her in the feminine.

In her day Star was a legend. Not for her good looks (she was too big and muscular to ever pass for a real girl) but because of her principles – you couldn't be a more „solid” convict than Star was – and her exploits.

Once Star grabbed a guard and put a shank to his throat and paraded him around the prison demanding „justice” for some violation of her principles. (Perhaps he made the mistake of waving a hot dog at her provocatively!)

Needless to say, Star was one of those people who was never going to get out of prison. But I loved and respected her as a human being all the same. She never once ever tried to disrespect me and she taught me a lot about what it was like to be a queen in the „old days”.

She befriended me more out of love and respect for Big Al than for me, I suppose. But that was because she knew that if Big Al respected me (and he did) then that meant she should too. So she did.

Well, as much as I appreciated being in the same unit with a legend (I'd heard a lot about Star long before I ever got to Walla Walla) the only unit I wanted to be in was the one Big Al was in. So, the first chance I got I requested to be moved to Six Wing.

That chance came at my first „unit team” hearing about one month after arriving at WSP. They asked me about how I intended to protect myself from other inmates and I told them that I had „a friend” who would make sure nobody messed with me.

Then they asked, „What if someone bigger than your friend comes along?”

And I looked them straight in the eye, and said, „There is no one bigger than my friend”. And I meant it, though I was thinking more about Big Al's reputation than the size of his arms.

The move was not only approved, but they actually moved me directly into Big Al's cell, even though I never once told them who „my friend” was. Like I said, everyone knew I was Big Al's girl!

So, sans the first month, the entire time I was in WSP I lived with Big Al. We had a four-man cell all to ourselves for almost the entire time, with only a few brief interruptions – one of which I've already mentioned (the masturbator who thought I had AIDS).

Our cell was in the middle if a bottom tier and directly in front of a guard both. But the guard both was empty and locked up every night after lock down at nine o'clock. So, the guard both never seriously interfered with our love making at all.

And we certainly made love. Almost every night after lockdown, I would start by giving Big Al a therapeutic back rub (his huge muscles almost demanded to be massaged) that would always end up being a sensual back rub. I'd rub his back before we had sex, and he'd rub mine afterwards, if I wanted him too. But usually I'd be so wore out that all I wanted to do was climb into my own bunk and go to sleep (or masturbate alone, see below).

In case you're wondering how two people with male „equipment” can make love as a man and a woman, then let me tell you. After Big Al was good and relaxed from me rubbing his back (actually, shoulders and arms mostly) he would roll over onto his back and I'd spend some time working on his chest and arms from the front.

I'd usually be either naked with my penis out of site between my legs or wearing a sexy pair of women's panties (I had several pair that were more or less homage gifts from another inmates, who were lucky if they ever even got to see me wearing them). So Big Al would be at full attention in anticipation of what was coming by this time.

After working his front muscles for a while I'd begin massaging his legs and groin area, then bend over and begin giving him a dick massage with my tongue and lips. This was more for his pleasure than mine though. I got my pleasure soon enough.

Then after we were both so hot with anticipation that we could hardly contain ourselves, I would lay down next to him with my back to his front, „spoon” style and we'd entangle our legs together in a special way that we both agreed was „the best way”, then I'd reach back and guide his manhood into my „pussy”.

And he would fuck the hell out of me. But not violently, just passionately. All the time kissing on my neck, my shoulders and even my ear. I would also frequently twist my upper body around, while he was still buried deep up inside of me, so we could kiss, deep and wet, on the mouth.

We'd fuck like this for up to a half an hour, sometimes even more and then Big Al would release inside of me, usually in the midst of a deep passionate kiss, which was how I liked it. And then we'd sometimes just lay together while he went semi-soft with his dick still inside my ass, enjoying the profound intimacy of it. This was the human intimacy that the „system” had tried to rob from both of us, but which we difiantly stole back every night we could.

As for my own orgasm; I would usually wait until after I'd climbed into my own bunk then slowly stroke myself to an orgasm while I could still „feel” Big Al inside of me. This bothered Big Al because he wanted to be sure that I was being satisfied too, and he always would assure me that he didn't mind if I masturbated while we were together. But, he himself would never touch me „down there”.I think it was because he wouldn't touch me there that I prefered to wait to pleasure myself alone. I wanted to be his woman, and jacking off in front of a man just didn't „feel right”. So, I prefered to do it alone.

These were my happiest days in prison, easily. Big Al and I shared a special status in WSP that most staff and inmates seemed to respect. It was as though everyone knew what it was we were „stealing back” from the system and honored our courage for doing so.

It took courage because the one thing the „system” tries to destroy more than any other is the human spirit. So Big Al and I were making ourselves targets by simply daring to express our love for each other out in the open.

We were together as much as we could be, on the yard, in the gym, in the chow hall. And most people seemed to appreciate what we represented. Even the guards (usually) and especially the higher ranking guards (sgts. and lts.) who had been around in the „old days”, seemed to really understand the value of what Big Al and I stood for. Which is why I was moved directly into Big Al's cell, and why, unlike at MICC, we were seldom harassed as a couple.

Big Al would go to work during the day out in the Industries administration offices (they'd hired him right away because of his experience – and connections no doubt – in Industries at MICC). So we'd always have money to keep extra food and cigarettes in our cell (I didn't quit smoking until I got out to WWCC about a year later). I even kept track of big Al's money (or „finances” if you can call an inmate account that) since I had so little „money” of my own.

I did not have to work because I have a „bad back” (I have a very slight curve in my spine, a.k.a. scoliosis, that can only be seen by measuring an x-ray. It never really bothers me, but it makes a great excuse for getting out of work in prison). So, I'd stay in the cell and read, or watch TV. Or, I'd go to the library or big yard for something to do. I also attended weekly Yoga classes and an occasional college course if I saw one that interested me on the school schedule.

It was a stress free existence and with my „man” always by the side it was as close to freedom as anyone will ever get in prison. Maybe even freer in a way than what many people have outside of prison.

But I was only inside WSP (the actual penitentiary) for a little more than a year before I'd gotten enough security points back to be transfered to a „medium security” prison again. Big Al took longer to get his security points back for some reason, but I don't remember why.

So, I got transfered by myself to WWCC, which is literally right next door to WSP, though in a completely seperate compound. Big Al and I decided to accept this temporary seperation because we knew it would only be for a few months.

Because WWCC was medium security instead of max, I had a few more privileges and a little more freedom (not much) than inside WSP. But, without Big Al around, I also had more time on my hands (alone time), so my deviant fantasies came back (which had all but left me while I was with Big Al, that is unless you consider transexuality to be „deviant”). I had no real interest in having sex with other inmates, since none could approach what I had with Big Al. So my fantasies turned once more to children, only this time I didn't even try to resist them. I had no reason to.

And since I couldn't just stay in my cell and masturbate all day, I ended up enrolling in school fulltime (at WWCC I was required to „program” in one was or another, „bad back” or not). They had much better college level course offerings from the local community college. So I started work on an AA in general studies and got straight 'A's” and on the Dean's list frequently.

The only thing interesting that happened during this alone time (without Big Al) was that I managed to catch a mouse in my cell with a homemade „humane” mouse trap, that actually worked. I had made it out of two one-pint icecream containers, a rubber band and a paperclip. I was proud of this feat, though the mouse soon escaped to be never seen again. Apparently some mice at least can learn quicker than most humans.

Oh, I also saw a full grown tomcat attempting to mount a very young kitten just outside my cell window once. I thought that was interesting; a child molesting cat, in prison! Hmmm, go figure that one out!

Westly Allen Dodd, a man convicted for raping and murdering young boys, was hanged inside WSP while I was at WWCC. The execution was meant to send a „message” to other would be child-killers; like me. I got the message all right, loud and clear. But I don't think it was the one I was supposed to get. The execution only strenghtened my resolve to get even with the "System".

After about six months Big Al got moved out to WWCC and directly into my cell. I'd been living alone with no cellmate until Big Al came... and came... and came... (joke).

While I was still inside WSP I had taken out a free personal ad in the SGN (Seattle Gay News) and started writing and occasionally calling the men who answered my ad. That's how I met Dave.

Dave drove across the state (from Seattle) to visit me for the first time while I was at WWCC. We became fast friends.

Dave ended up hiring an attorney to „look into my case”. The attorney began reviewing my prison records and basically learned what I already knew; I was being shafted by the system.

So the attorney started writing some letters to the ISRB, to basically let them know that he was representing me and that they had better start obeying their own directives (i. e. the law).

With the help of letters written to the ISRB by the attorney that my new friend, Dave, hired, I was finally found parolable again in the Summer of '93. But, this time there was a catch. I had to "map out" before my parole. That meant that there was a list of supposedly progressive steps to more freedom, and programs to prepare my for the streets, that I had to take before actually being paroled.

Needless to say, it was years yet before I get paroled. And even then it took many more letters and actual litigation (to procure an order from a judge) before the ISRB consented to my release. In the mean time I was being transported (i.e. shipped) all over the state from one institution to another, supposedly to fulfill my "map" requirements.

This "merry-go-round" ride (a tactic they use to try to keep inmates from being able to file litigation) kept me from completing the one program that would have really helped after I got out. I was on my last semester of classes needed to complete an A.A. degree in General Studies when the merry-go-round ride started. So, it didn't keep me from filing litigation (Dave's lawyer was doing that for me), but it did keep me from finishing the three-credit English class I needed to get my degree. And, it also interrupted the Spanish II class I was taking, which would have been directly transferable toward a university degree years later. With those Spanish credits I would have a B.A. in Computer Science today. But, instead I had to go for a B.S. degree instead which took more time (and money, of course). Apparently their "map" program - slash,merry-go-round - was more important.

And so began the next chapter of my prison adventure, where I managed to fight my way out at last, with the help of a friend on the outside, a lawyer, and no small deception.

To be continued in... Part V: The Merry-go-round