Read How To Rape A Straight Guy for Free Online

for someone who’s only been to prison once.”
    Shit, the fucker was payin’ attention.  An’ it was makin’ me feel...well, feel weird.  Like they wanted me t’ tell ‘em more than I really wanted to.  But it also felt...I dunno, felt good to be talkin’ to somebody besides Connie.  Somebody who acted like they gave a shit, even if they really didn’t.  Connie, she’d act like she’s listenin’, but after a while I figured out she was really thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’ like the costumes she had to pull together for nothin’ for some low-rent movie she was workin’ on, so I stopped tryin’ to talk with her.  But Wayne -- it seemed like he wanted to know.  Really wanted to.  An’ not just to be nice, y’know?  Or for chit-chat.
    Then I got the idea there was somethin’ more goin’ on here, somethin’ I couldn’t quite figure out.  An’ I remembered I got the same vibe earlier from him, so it made me want to be careful with how much I did tell him.
    I must of taken longer than I figured to answer, ‘cause Lenny added, “Well, are you up for a third strike?”
    I shook my head.  “My first time, I was a kid.  They wiped it clean when I met probation.  Then came Mid-State.”
    “Were you raped?”
    That question came at me, low an’ quiet, from Wayne.  Now I remember I’d already told these two I wasn’t, so now I knew they didn’t believe me.  But I wasn’t gonna tell ‘em anything else.  Problem is, he got my mind ripped back to my first time inside.
    I wasn’t even eighteen.  Just a dumb-shit kid who got too deep into pot an’ wound up havin’ to pay off his dealer by doin’ some transactions in “home room.”  I got narc’d out by this little fucker named Anthony on the school’s varsity baseball team.  Little “Mister Born Again” Boy Scout bought a joint off me an’ turned it over to the principal, who turned it over to Vice, who turned me over to the County Jail.
    Now, I’d never been in trouble, before -- I mean, not where th’ cops had come down on me -- so it looked like it was just gonna be a smack the wrist time for this one.  They put me in a holding cell an’ called my mother to come bail me out.
    Good ol’ mom did just like she always did -- she bailed.  Told ‘em to make me take care of it, myself; that she was “tired of dealin’ with me.”  Like she ever had really “dealt with me.”  Fuckin’ cunt.  She could get stoned an’ blasted an’ knock me around -- till I got big enough to knock her back -- an’ leave me to fend for myself most of my life, but th’ second I get in copland trouble, she figures, “Well, he sneaks out at night an’ gets stoned an’ had a fight or two an’ my new husband doesn’t like him, so he’s on his own.”  I hate her fuckin’ guts, an’ when I finished with that stint, I split.  I’ve only seen my brother, since.
    So there I was, this scared punk kid caught dead to rights an’ no one backin’ me up, with a public defender who had a thousand other cases to follow.  He told me to plead guilty an’ he’d try to get leniency.  I got lucky; the prosecutor offered a plea bargain of six months in county, an’ the judge said that if I was good, they’d wipe the slate clean.  So in I went.
    Since this was my first time in, I didn’t know what the fuck was goin’ on, but that didn’t stop the guards from actin’ like I should.  They treated me like I was the devil’s disciple or some such shit.  Anyway, I got transferred to a long-term wing an’ made it through bookin’ an’ th’ mug shot, okay.  But then they strip-searched me.  An’ then the pig that was doin’ it pulled on some rubber gloves an’ shoved his fingers up my ass.  Didn’t say a fuckin’ word about what he was gonna do, first; he just poked ‘em in.  I jumped an’ kicked him off me an’ the other guards smashed me ‘round the room for a few minutes.  Then they shoved me over a table an’ held me down