The vibrant mid-afternoon air molests my plump lips, snaking gently through the narrow opening in the window frame.
Inertia tangoes with my buttock-jellies as I sway atop a vinyl pew, my destination fast-materialising as this life changes irrevocably.
A cacophony of tattoos, scowls and heinous scars masquerading as rehabilitative flesh surrounds me, simultaneously dreading and developing strategies to combat the iron hell that awaits us all.
On that day, the finality of a gavel violently meeting the charred block beneath was as enthralling as the warmth of my pulsing blood gushing into my erectile tissues, stiffening the most lurid of my flesh with rude irrigation.
Fresh within my palate remained the thrillingly diverse flavours of the 84 men whom had succumbed to my dystopian love over the preceding months, and brewery-fresh in my mind remained their multilingual screams.
I often wonder whether it was always my intention to be incarcerated and removed from the society I preyed upon at will, and whether that fateful night merely served as the precursor to avenging my own loneliness which had manifested in trawling the various concubines of this town, amassing pathological trophies the envy of the irredeemably ill and those that aspire to such depths only to remain as avatars on Internet Forums forevermore.
Countless nights of soft kisses and brutal killings – often within moments – passed by in a kaleidoscopic-blur.
Night after innumerable night I sat expectantly at the Harbinger of Sweat Sports Bar, patiently awaiting an unknowing incursion from a bold and curious Lothario whom had been seduced by my deadly lullaby, remaining but another distant admirer until my pheromones and glazed-thigh oasis bonded with 18 standard drinks and thus hastened their approach.
The uncanny predictability of human nature reduced the formalities of meeting each object of dispassion to a connect-the-dot pastiche, devoid of any insight beyond trivialities uttered as a foil for the trouser-tango each was to experience for the last time.
There I sat, patiently absorbing the most monotonous details of their cellophane lives, shifting my posture slightly at times to expose a previously-concealed portion of golden skin, allowing briefly my tongue to reveal its sensuality as it wet my upper-lip with not so much suggestion as hot demand.
“You make me hard, boy - but I ain’t no queer” was the most frequent call-to-arms, usually uttered but minutes before the suggestion that we take a walk around a nearby recreation park as my victims invariably found me at turns mysterious, eloquent and physically overwhelming and sought to decipher precisely why social-conditioning and conservative rearing battled unspeakable desire as an angel and devil on each shoulder – the howls of both growing with every atrial flutter.
As we walked, the evening became my audience as I further disarmed each successive companion with fabricated tales of high-tea with A-Listers, exfoliation weekends and sports-car blitzkriegs along the Iberian Coast, when in truth I had my own 40-hour working drudgery, rent and utilities, and of course intra-family tedium to tend to.
I was the everyman, and thus I feasted at a buffet which provided neither thrills nor a specials-board.
Nearly every encounter progressed in the same manner; tonight’s lover-boy seizing upon my deliberate pause with extended eye contact as the intended invitation, moving in close with a powerful hand immediately thrust between my irreproachable thighs as a convulsing tongue plunged without restraint into my liqueur-accented mouth in one fell-swoop.
Primal lust quickly took hold as time after time I yielded to the sexual frenzy - fuelled by confusion and India Pale Ale - without delay finding myself pressed against a bench or tree, hot breath now in my ear as stiff flesh entered me with the subtlety and forethought of a burning sermon.
Having parachuted into the most dangerous concubines of the Amazon in my youth, armed with nothing more than a smile and my own sickness, I had become unstoppable of anus and the wilds quickly came to learn servitude.
Snake after vicious snake came at me – oftentimes in unsporting ambush – however they all experienced the same warrior’s fate, which consisted of an epic battle in a clearing, and culminated in a forward, back, forward punch fatality and one-way voyage into the rippling abyss of my colon.
Victory became flawless; I became an insatiable main battle tank.
Each bar-serpent I encountered never once warranted this honour, instead feeling their meat pulped unceremoniously in a karmic moment, before asphyxiating helplessly between my unreasonably toned thighs – their muffled screams stimulating that which dare not be given credence.
The same rose-tinted aftermath confronted me as I turned in each instance to collect various anatomical trinkets for storage in a jar of formaldehyde; the calm of death concealed by the twisted expressions etched on each face, suggesting both unparallelled pleasure and terror.
The thrill of each trophy allied perfectly to the incompetence of the constabulary, enabling my reign of unsheathed terror to continue unabated for an aeon, my frequent patronage and direct links with each victim dismissed in light of a god-fearing existence and impeccable manners.
And then, from the mists of dissatisfaction he rode on the vinyl wings of unfathomable want from my subconscious into my very being.
Saturday began as any other, again I found myself casting wanton shadows onto the walls as I enveloped the bar, awaiting any and all incursions against my dignity with the poise of a gilded bear trap.
But something was different; amiss, even.
I waited an age, utilising each seductive trick in my armoury, however each prospective Romeo would not yield unto the spell.
And then I saw him.
Abstract machismo clashed volcanically with a dignity honed through trials; a most unreasonable pairing, and a severe danger to any remnant heterosexuality.
In the most uncomplicated terms, I needed him inside me - stat.
As we conversed, the 90 degree angle between us became a geometric harpoon, drawing me surreptitiously into this very different sting.
His hand brushed my cheek as he disciplined a recalcitrant hair with a firm stroke that revealed his tremendous strength and resolve, leaving me utterly defenceless, and when last drinks were called it was I who seized the opportunity to stride with this behemoth en route to a grudging execution.
The humid night air filled my nostrils headily, whispering unspeakable possibilities in quivering tongues, yet these hopes were dashed as the chill of steel abruptly cascaded around my wrists and I thus found myself on my knees before this hulking giver-of-laws.
Flashing lights and the roar of frenzied sirens fisted the night air as my captor fixated me with a juxtaposed oppression and lament, his eyes imbued with both satisfaction for having both protected and served an unappreciative public, and yet solemn with realisation that we were not to copulate; my flesh thus remaining an unripened fruit, not once plucked from the lowest branch.
As I lay thighs-asunder in the holding cell some time later, a sensation most foreign entered my stream of conscience without even a figurative balaclava to conceal its true intentions.
Remorse washed over me for the first time in decades, having evaded the noose of my personal qualities for so long with the sudden realisation that Mr Right, and not Mr Right Now had evaded me probably forever.
The opportunity to both consummate and converse with an equal now torn unexpectedly from my fabric, I drifted into slumber uneasily, with a bitter taste borne of oral thrush and profound disappointment coating my flaccid tongue.
Justice was served in diametric opposition to that of the continental breakfasts I had once enjoyed, my guilt laid bare as I stood before the glorified toupe whom was to cast me unceremoniously into a cage.
Having declined legal aid, there I stood before mahogany and disapproval as an autonomous organism, rhetoric bubbling in my veins as I disrobed this miscreant with a brief summation - "Can you not appreciate that I did it for the LOLs?"
Our vehicle now halts with an almighty jolt as we arrive at this grey fortress.
Barbed wire crowns the perimeter, and my mind races with improper thoughts of impaled testicles crafting satay sticks where no well-adjusted soul could surmise such a thing nor operate the inevitable franchise restaurants profitably.
Guard towers jut into the sky around the perimeter, with a huge undulating block forming the centrepiece, its exacting lines a precursor for the discipline that lay in wait.
Home is what you make it, and Feng Shui is no longer merely my milk bar pornographer and tobacconist. Innocence is lost.
These thought carriages, however, are derailed by 3 words.
"Get out, cunts".
Our corrections officer now seeks to offset years of submissive behaviour enforced by his wife in the foulest manner, however we rise as one in good grace and begin the treacherous walk along broken cement into the jaws of this collective, the warmth of the sun on my neck contrasting with the sudden chill of institutional cold slapping me silly as I enter the holding area, the gravity of the moment reducing some of my unwanted brethren to puerile tears already, as others silently contemplate their prospects of survival, not to mention Cable TV packages.
A figure appears before us, clad in an inappropriately expensive suit and sporting a recent scar which runs from her left earlobe majestically along her upper lip, ascending suddenly at a 90 degree angle through her eye-patch, terminating at her receding hairline.
This, I surmise, is a woman to love.
"You are pigs; I am the blade, offal sack, oil and fry-pan. My rules are the oregano and novelty-breasted apron" she commenced, "you will abide or you will come to know my small-intestine".
A stern, yet pantomime expression materialises upon her porcelain mask as she concludes - "You may call me Ma'am".
And with that succinct introduction she pivots with both the grace of a ballerina and menace of a Sherman Tank, her gait purely business with not a hint of pleasure.
My admiration is violated by the tannoy.
"Number 493-781, present to cubicle 3"
I approach the gormless shape behind the perspex window, receiving at once precisely each mandated item on the correctional checklist, my mind racing as I examine the toothbrush in my hand, the handle enhanced by beaded rubber and as thick as the milkshakes of my formative years which prepared my taste-buds for the sweet boy-nectar that was to follow.
A sneaky foot assaults both buttocks suddenly as I am enticed into a small room.
I display tremendous initiative in removing my clothes with grace and lightning speed in good faith that whatever awaits me is worth my trouble.
Words pierce the gloom - "You may now remove your.... oh".
I am pleased to hear the sharp hiss of water, and to feel the chastening force of this elemental delight slapping my nude form with ferocity as I render this delousing a party.
My nipples stiffen, my breathing becomes shallow and suddenly I am happy again, contorting my limbs into several suggestive positions, receiving an improvised enema as this pressurised H20 thrills my evacuation zone, yielding unmentionable smiles.
The delicious torrent subsides, as does my dilation. A zip ascends once more from the shadows, appraising this performance with moist applause - the very least this symphony of grace and testosterone warrants.
I march to my cell in a deflated convoy, waving to the ruffians baying within their own slice of heaven en route, many yelling unrepeatable things at odds with their repressed desire to be held firmly with male biceps and nurtured by groin-follicles, all of which compels the turgid niblets beneath my cloths.
A large tattooed man greets me chastely at the door as I alight at my new abode, his sweat hanging in air already swimming with faeces, countless ejaculations and curiosity.
Suddenly its bloated mouth comes alive.
"My name is Gorgazzano, and you now belong to me", he says in an overcompensating tone that belies his imposing physical stature and litany of tattoos.
One on his forehead helpfully suggests that I as a spectator to his charms enjoy direct prostate-stimulation from other men.
Enchanté.
Before I can make sense of the transaction that has just occurred, his sweaty hand is wrapped like a vice around my throat and my back is against the cell wall as if he had read my mind.
"Did you fucking hear me, boy?" he bellows into my now smirking face.
Our eyes now lock as my fingers twist around his supple scrotum, seizing violently on the firm nubs within and we gently descend to the linoleum floor together, his blood-curdling screams subsiding into a pathetic whimper as I abruptly release his burst gonads and kiss him tenderly on the mouth.
I then assist him onto the bottom bunk, a fresh warmth now etched on my face as he enters the foetal position and gently sobs, his scrotum undoubtedly swelling with blood and semen, and now a mass of burst vessels, shredded nerves and shame.
I pause to urinate on the back of his head and thus mark my territory as animal lore dictates, when I am rudely interrupted by the intercom.
"All prisoners, please report to Communal Room 3 for meals"
We reconvene in a central position and follow the starched derriere of a nubile young guard, all the time wondering whether he feels my eyes incinerating his chaps.
The newly-indoctrinated Miss Gorgazzano is dragged off into the opposite end of the hall having lost the ability to walk without the suffocating pain of a thousand knives, assuring solitude tonight.
A great white hall greets us, with stainless-steel benches in exacting rows in front of a servery.
I am partitioned into a small group of 3 other inmates, 2 of which are so gripped by the weight of their situation that they stare blankly at the sterile canvas beneath them.
Thankfully, the third member of our group - a lithe yet dangerous looking young man with damaged teeth and a hook-nose elects to break the ice, which by the second resembles the Antarctic more and more.
"Faggot, you're gonna get me some extra today, understand? We ain't having no quarrel right now, cos I'll choke you out, bitch".
I nod calmly, welcoming the extra attention and riveting wordplay, hoping that at last a rapport had been established with another human being for the first time since my entrapment.
An assortment of cornbreads, peas, carrots and gravy greets us as we shuffle along this melancholy conveyor, and I oblige in filling my plate with each morsel I can scavenge.
My new friend and I sit together across from our non-verbal companions - one of whom has has lost control of his bladder with impressive volume - when my chum decides to elbow me briskly in the face.
The tender heat of my own plasma comforts me as my nose voices its displeasure, dumping copper essence into my mouth and thus altering my stream of conscious.
The delicious wet of my own bloodstream permeates my nostrils as my assailant fixates me with an expectant gaze, awaiting a sign of weakness.
"Don't make me fucking tell you again, boy. You're really goddamn testing me; now, hand me them grits before I lose my temper".
I turn 45 degrees, my incandescent eyes alive to his demand.
My tongue cleans my teeth of the rouge carnival, and I deliver a precisely angled crushing stomp to his left achilles-tendon, savouring the sweet voluminous crack as it ruptures.
The next sequence plays out in slow-motion as he falls grimacing in unmeasurable pain to clasp the debilitated area, and as his head passes my navel I deliver one swift chop to his throat, crushing his windpipe immediately and assuring his respectful discretion.
He rolls around helplessly in abject silence before the entire cast of this Shakespearean tragi-comedy, pulverised beyond all reason.
Mercifully, guards appear and drag him along the floor undoubtedly to the infirmary where months of embarrassment and rehabilitation await; my search for camaraderie begins anew.
Hope springs briefly in the eyes of my table-mates, whom are now emboldened by this happening.
"It's going to be OK", I tell them, stroking my immaculate chin with a new vigour, knowing acutely that they are but sperm-receptacles-cum-punching-bags as the dawn approaches.
I survive the remainder of this reconstituted meal, pausing at the last bite to ponder where this day may veer to next, when our Warden appears again - this time in a leather-fedora, her reapplied foundation merely accentuating the scar I had come to love, but not to know intimately.
"You worms all have an hour to exercise, three times per week. Your first session is today, do not fuck this up."
"I am watching", she added, and again she was gone having gazed not once in my direction. She had become a matriarch, and I her disciple.
Our procession once more gathers momentum as we lope from the eatery into a long passage, terminating eventually at the peeling facade of a red iron door.
The sun overwhelms my eyes briefly as we pass through this gateway, before us all is a great expanse of patchy asphalt with a small grassed area and a brick perimeter.
Cliques quickly disperse to their zones, leaving me alone beneath a raging sky; liberty hanging above as a diorama to an infant, both heartening and desperately unattainable.
The random din of conversation fills the air, isolating me as a separate entity within this discount jigsaw puzzle.
I stroll to the sole patch of grass, ironically lush in such a disparate locale.
I remove my standard-issue shirt, sighing immediately as the sun embraces my turgid skin, providing humanising warmth and carcinomas promptly.
My spine becomes concave as my quadriceps stiffen, each sinew elongating as my pelvis-party begins.
A waterless synchronised-swimming routine begins, my legs gyrating as if manipulated by an octopus gripped by Parkinson's, each exaggerated movement delivering a keen thumb to the sphincter of humility.
An abrupt silence validates my gyroscopic mastery as a crowd gathers, each zippered fly in the 160 degree visual field now protruding, as hands clash in dissonant applause.
I perch upon my elbows and gaze expectantly at the others, only to hear a disapproving voice.
"That was the gayest shit ever, man", one says.
Nanoseconds pass, my blink concludes, and he too begins applauding, this time with flamboyant vigour.
The tannoy derails any prospects of genuflection and bukkake as an announcement regales - "493-781, report to the Warden's Office immediately".
Howls of disappointment batter the air as I am dragged to my feet by guards with the subtlety of a shower of cinder blocks, hands gripping my already-enraptured buttocks with impunity.
The shrill friction of my shoes becomes white noise en route to this stronghold; an enticing uncertainty fills my veins as we approach this Draconian outpost, a hospital-blanc and single-windowed booth.
I am thrust through the plywood door, alighting delicately upon a leather bench before the lady of my platonic dreams.
"You absolute fucking cunt", she says before I have adequately fixated her with my hollow eyes, "yes, I noticed you the very moment you strolled in here and transported these filthy convicts to a place of leisure. My authority is now forfeit, you complete and utter fuck-face".
I wipe her ballistic saliva from my brow, gripped by the impeccable side-part in her slick hair, her leathers now as the torso of a god.
Her eyes absorb my smile.
"In truth, there is nothing I love more than sweltering cunt, and you have become the conduit, sparing me from the lust of these deplorable scrotums. You have allowed me to flourish without threat of lust for you are now the glory-hole".
I feel at ease, immediately accepting this improvised Knighthood.
Our chairs align, our faces meet, our delectable hair finally unites as one entity as I smell her seasoned breath for the first of what I hope will be many times.
My face at last nestles in the small of her neck, Eau Du Femme of absolutely no description infiltrates my nostrils.
We disengage unceremoniously, the fine veins in her cornea assuring our bond.
"Get the fuck out", she intones.
Shower time now approaches, our harem now regroups in Bathroom 4, our guard having debriefed us exactingly.
Soap will remain on chains in principle, but practice makes perfect as so many war-criminals will contend.
Lavender-imbued steam invades my nostrils, my crisp nudity now enclosed in a field of undulating buttocks. Some are speckled, others resemble first-harvest, an alarming number bare stretch-marks - all scream my name.
Pretty boys elect not to acknowledge the predator in their midst, slapping each others' posteriors as a physical manifestation of ironic banter.
I purse my saturated lips in a display of petulance, when I am interrupted by the bulging, nude pre-morbid form of a muscular beast of a man.
Introductions become a triviality, and one-way street instantly.
"I run this joint, corn-hole. You will take what I'm going to give you, and you will enjoy it. Kneel before me now".
His goatee is earnest, his slick mane a vineyard, his tattooed biceps a road map of assumed supremacy.
I slowly drop to my knees as the others disperse, completely aware of what is to ensue.
A twitching charcoal truncheon greets me, apparently aware of my prowess despite the unknown quantity that is my suck-hole.
A dazzling array of pumping veins entwine the shaft; it is time.
My lips envelop his now quivering meat as a monsoon smashing a coastal town, the essence of budget soap battling valiantly against the almighty dick-cheese accosting my senses.
His groans of bliss intensify as my lips pass back and forth along his insubstantial penile highway, his tortured cream but moments away when I plunge 3 fingers without warning into his oddly obliging colon, pincing his g-spot in the luckiest of dips.
He collapses as a rag-doll biffed from a couch, smashing his head with a sickening thud on the tiles.
His neck is obviously deformed, the vertebrae strive for different coordinates as his throbbing penis erupts, spewing molten reproduction into the roaring drain between us.
Guards drag his pathetic husk down the corridor as inmates gasp, assuming misadventure to be his nemesis, their colossus now an also-ran; a vegetable ripped from the crisper that enabled it.
Bare chests and bright eyes surround me in the change-room, joy sprouting in the undercarriage of each towel as far as the human eye can see as I splay my moist thighs, my towel a metronomic saw along the breadth of my fresh genitals.
I hold their gaze until the sting of my eyes refracts the light, reducing them all to a hairy smear.
I have won their love.
As I lay in the tranquil surrounds of my concrete cage that evening - free at least in my profound nudity - the corners of my mouth rise of their own volition, forming a winning smile borne not of destruction, but contentment.
I'm finally home.
