Chapter 33 - No Means No R-Kelly

At the end of the day this is what it boils down to. . . to be raped, or not to be raped, that is the question on everyone’s lips. Not the cool labia type either. There’s the saying that loose vaginal lips sink dicks and that’s great inall, but how does my little ass factor into this?  

It’s not like there’s a ‘I don’t want to get fucked’ embassy inside of the HMP system.  

Could always ask to go in the same section as the pedo’s. I know that there would still be a risk, but it’s better to get fucked by an old man with man boobs and a semi hard dick, than a hench black man with a throbbing member, sculpted from precious metals. . . vibranium to be specific. 

I’m walking onto the prison wing for the first time and there are three levels of cells. On the ground floor there are tables and stools bolted to the deck, accompanied by both a tennis and pool table. Who said jail couldn’t be fun?  

It’s really nice of the staff to bring us in at a time when all the prisoners are out of their cells, stood in silence, staring us newbies down. Each set of eyes feels like a pair of daggers piercing through me. . . each penis feels like an unsanctioned insertion inside my anatomy.  

Right on cue, a bulky man with jelled, black, curly hair who is clearly a pikey, welcomes us. “Fresh meat.”  

That’s great, nothing beats a good old rape joke to settle the nerves.  

Was it a joke?  

I could just submit and be his prison bitch, can’t wait to invite my mum to the wedding.  

Slightly louder this time, the bloke repeats. “Fresh meat.” 

 It spurs on the other prisoners who proceed wolf-whistling and banging their fists, against the walls. . . the ground is shaking and I’m glad to be taken into cell number 25 on the second level, where I am the only occupant. . . my furnishings? A single bed with a rickety, old metal frame, holding a blue mattress that school’s use for P.E.  

There’s also a cabinet that has a 15inch tv on top of it. . . the walls in the cell are beige with stains of sadness splattered across.  

I feel like crying but have been unable to since watching The Lion King – you know when Scar kills Mustafa, it’s very sad because it’s the ultimate betrayal. . . if somebody could do that to their own brother, then I can’t cry no more. I spit on my hand and rub the fluid on my eyeballs for lubrication, initiating an artificial weep. . . 

Boo Who 

The lack of colour in jail is eerie and the whole vibe reminds me of a room in my secondary school called I.E.R, where misbehaving students would be sent for the day. It’s as if beige is the colour of punishment and I’m paying for my sins. . . with interest.  

I take a seat on the bed and turn on the tv. “Today on BBC news, we bring you a truly shocking story, that some viewers may find distressing. A transformer has been let loose in St Malo, France, ripping the town to shreds. . . Casualties are thought to be in the hundreds and armies from France, England, USA and Belgium, are trying to take down the metal maniac. On the robot’s left shoulder is what looks to be a man, wearing a pair of jean dungarees and a straw hat, who is instructing the transformer’s every move. . . Tamara Sequence, BBC news.” 

Jonathon, you crazy son of a bitch, I mean Wang. But credit where credit’s due, because he is living the life – total world domination.  

Fuck, my conquering dick is hard. . . I should have stayed with him and formed an alliance, couldn’t have been any worse than this dump.