Prologue:
Hi! My name is Tahoe Joe. Or you can call me El Dorado Joe. Or just plain Tahoe, as most do. They're my nicknames. My prison nicknames, that is. As I'm sure you can surmise, I got them because I'm from the Lake Tahoe area, or El Dorado county, specifically. The following accounts will be about some of the experiences I had while in the California State Prison system during the decade of the 90's. All told, I was in for 7 years, 11 months, and 29 days. I've since gotten out, cleared parole, graduated w/honors from a community college, and am now at a prestigious public university in the San Francisco Bay Area majoring in American Studies.
All true nifty readers. And, for the most part, the stories I am about to tell will be true, also. I reserve the right to change names here and there at my whim, and to perhaps embellish a bit for literary sake, but I promise that the events will be true to their essence. They also won't be in any particular chronological order; I never know what I want to write about when I sit down and don't want to restrict myself. In the end, I am writing this for myself--so I'll have a chronicle of these events--more than I am for any particular reader of them. But I do hope you enjoy them, nonetheless for that.
Before I continue, I should give you a crash course on prison lingo. I plan to use a lot of it in these stories, as it is how my mind remembers the events, plus it adds a little bit of ambience to the account, I think. I'll make a list of terms and phrases with their definitions and paste it in. Please, all you writers out there who try and write prison fantasy erotica feel free to refer to it--I really dislike it when I read one of those and I see the wrong terms being used for things. A pet peeve of mine. Bear in mind, however, that my lingo is specific to the California Prison system, particularly in the 90's. There may be overlap with other eras or states, but for the most part they'll be California specific.
Con: also known as inmate, prisoner, etc. Most guys prefer to be referred to as a Con; inmate has a perjorative context.
C/O: Correctional Officer. AKA bull, screw, turnkey, etc. In California we call them C/O's.
Cellie: This is your Cellmate, your roomate, as it were. The guy you listen to jack-off, who pisses and shits 3 feet from you, who has your back on the yard. Very Important Person.
Yard: This is the recreation area that is between buildings and where the weight pile, basketball and handball courts are. It usually has a track that runs the the perimeter of it that people walk around while they talk. You do a lot of that. Most are about 100yds in diameter and a 1/4 mile in length; at least at the prisons I did time at.
Building: This is where you live. They are the Housing Units. Whenever anyone wants to know where you live they'll inevitably ask, "What Building you in?" Most modern California prison yards have the same basic design with the Housing Units fanned out in a starfish pattern away from a centrally located hub where the administrative offices, dining hall, canteen, and gym are. The older prisons are an exception to this, but with the recent prison building boom over 70% are as I have described. Most of my time was spent on these types of yards. There are some distinctions made between levels of security that I will address within the context of a story as it is needed.
Sallyport: This is usually the entrance to a housing unit. It's a narrow corridor that has a sliding grill on each end and is about 8ft high and 60ft long. You enter and exit the housing unit through the Sallyport.
Wood: slang for white cons. It is derived fron Peckerwood; an insulting name for redneck-types in the South that has been adopted by white cons as a source of pride. If you're 100% Peckerwood it means you're down for your people. It is often found tattoed on cons.
Crips/Bloods: Black prison gangs that have spilled over into the community, but they found their start in the prisons. There are many forms and branches of these gangs, particularly related to locale.
EME: pronounced em-ay. This stands for Mexican American and is one of the oldest and largest prison gangs.
Sureno: A chicano from southern California.
Norteno: A chicano from northern California.
Border Brother: One of the many mexican illegal aliens that are locked up.
AB: stands for Arayan Brotherhood. A white prison gang that is not to be fucked with.
NLR: stands for Nazi Low Riders. Another white prison gang that got its start in the California Youth Authority. They are made up of mostly younger guys.
Fish: a con who is new to the system.
Bitch: usually a con who's backed down from a confrontation or been disrespected by someone (will now be refered to as an inmate) or sometimes the sexual plaything of a more dominant con.
Chester: a person convicted of having molested a child; as in Chester the Molester.
Rape-O; someone convicted of rape.
187: California Penal Code designation for murder.
All Day: being sentenced to life in prison.
3rd Strike: having been convicted of a 3rd felony and been sentenced to 25 yrs to life.
Level 4, Level 3, etc.: These are the various security classification levels for a prison yard. Most prisons have several different ones. Level 4 being the highest Level, 1 the lowest.
Ad-Seg: The prisons jail, if you will. This is where you go if you get into trouble. You're usually celled by yourself and only get 1 hour out of your cell a day, if that.It's used as a form of punishment.
SHU: stands for Security Housing Unit. This is a long-term AD-Seg unit (usually more than 3 months to 2 years). Sent here for violent altercations; stabbing someone, being involved in a riot, threatening staff, etc.
PC: Protective Custody Unit. This is where the victims go after an assault, threat, etc. Usually the same conditions as AD-Seg/SHU, but safer. They have some whole yards (PC yards) that are nothing but people that have been assaulted, informants, cops, lawyers, pedophile priests, celebrities, etc. on them.
Lockdown: this is when they put everyone in their cells after an incident (stabbing, riot, etc.). They usually only last a few days, but I have been on lockdown as long as 6 months. Some yards they are on almost perpetual lockdown because soon as one is lifetd another incident will take place. That's how it is at places like Pelican Bay, High Desert, Calipatria, etc.
Shiv: a prison-made weapon. Sometimes refered to as a shank. It can be made out of almost anything as long as it will poke a hole, or cut, or slash. Little bits and pieces of metal squirreled away from the workshops or kitchen do nicelly, but you can also melt a disposable razor blade into a toothbrush handle in a pinch and have yourself a nice slashing weapon.
Kite: messages that cons pass between themselves. It could be a kite from cell to cell, building to building, yard to yard, joint to joint. Didn't matter.
CDC: California Department of Corrections.
The Desert: High Desert State Prison (HDSP) at Susanville, CA. Level 1, 3, and 4 prison. I was a founding member of B-yard in '97. No one had ever slept in the cell when I moved in--there was still concrete dust on the floor leftover from construction.
Suzie's House: California Correctional Center (CCC). Located in Susanville, CA and is across the street from HDSP. Level 1, 2, 3.
Jamestown: Sierra Conservation Center (SCC). Located outside Jamestown, CA. Mainly a level 1 fire camp prison (it has 30 or so satelitte camps around the state), but it also has a Level 2 yard and the Level 3 Tuolumne Yard.
The Q: San Quentin. Mostly Level 1 and 2 now. It has too many blind spots for any higher level custody prisoners--it would be a blood bath. They do still have death row, but those guys never get out of their cell. Quentin is used mainly for reception/intake from the county jails. Then the con ois sent packing off to whichever prison they are going to be housed at. The process is usually 1-3 months and while there you are basically on lockdown. I was there 2 months, before being shipped off to Suzie's House.
Canteen: blanket term for snacks and supplies purchased at the prison store. Also used as a name for the prison store; as in, "I got it at the canteen".
Car: this is the group you hang around with--sort of a mini-gang. Usually made up of members who are from the same county, but can include friends, as well. The person who leads the group is said to have the 'keys to the car' (See Shotcaller).
Shotcaller: The alpha male. Usually the toughest of the group or the meanest. A little bit older, they are usually doing long time. They hold the 'keys to the car' (see above). It's their responsibility that no one in the group is disrespected or disrespects and has everything they need; canteen, job, good cell, etc. And if a problem needs to be dealt with they assign who should do it.
D.O.M.: Department Operating Manual. This is the big book that has all the procedures and potential violations for running the prison system.
115: CDC Form 115. This form is used to write you up for various infractions; making pruno, disrespecting staff, late to work, tattooing, drugs, assault, murder. It all starts with the 115. Sort of a prison police report.
Pruno: Prison wine made by fermenting fruit, sugar, water. Usually oranges are used, but grapes and raisins are popular, too. When I worked in the kitchen at Suzie's House I was able to get a hold of some dole pineapple and that made great pruno. It takes from 2-7 days to make a batch and, though it usually tastes god-awful, it will get you hammered.
Well, that's certainly not all of the lingo, but it will do for now. The rest you can pick up while reading, I'm sure.
Now for the disclaimers: If you're not supposed to be reading this because of age or locale you should stop now. Or at least be prepared to face the consequences of your actions. If you'd like to share the stories with friends or loved ones, please do. But, I reserve any and all copyright to the material (it is my life, after all). If I find it posted somewhere else, I'll be highly upset. 'Nuff said.
If you find me or the story of interest, feel free to drop me a note at gaystorywriter@yahoo.com ( I set up the account for just that reason).
Remember kids, just say no.
Tahoe
2005
Prison Tails
Tommy 1
I'd immediately woken upon hearing the tell-tale hum of the electrical lock as the door opened 2 minutes ago. I wasn't terribly concerned by this, but some things in the joint get your guard up, and one of them is the cell door opening when not expected. I've seen enough shakedowns and assaults over the last few years to know better. But being the infinitely cool customer that I am (at least as I present to the world) I just continued to lay on my bunk waiting patiently, and ready for anything to happen. The first thing you learn in the pen is to not worry about those things you can't change; there is plenty enough to worry about as it is. Truth be told I had been expecting it. We'd been on lockdown for a few days now after the incident on B-yard between the Woods and the Crips. My cellie, John, had gotten caught up in the mix and been hauled off to Ad-Seg. I knew I wouldn't be seeing him anytime soon and was expecting them to send me a cellmate fairly quickly. California State Prisons are nothing if not overcrowded and I had actually been a little surprised that I'd gone 3 days without one. Not that I minded; in here you take any chance for privacy you can get, but with c/o's wandering by and peeking in the little window in the celldoor 12 times a day privacy becomes somewhat relative, I suppose. So, when the door popped at this time of night,it was around 11, I immediately assumed I was about to get a new cellie. I was correct.
I sensed right away he was nervous. Not the normal nervousness we all feel in the joint when entering a new, unknown situation, but the borderline scared nervousness that any self-respecting con would never put on view to the world, no matter how terrified they might be. It just wasn't done, and was an invite to be taken advantage of in all sorts of ways. He was trying to be cool, but it just wasn't happening. I couldn't so much see his nervousness; I could feel it radiating from him like heat does off asphalt on a hot summer day. "Great," I inwardly groaned to myself, "just what I need, a new fish to train!". But I really wasn't displeased. I have always preferred younger cellies (I was 33 then) and this kid looked to be in his twenties--his early twenties (I'd later learn that he was 20). He was dressed in that formless bright orange jumpsuit that the CDC uses for transporting inmates around and I figured correctly that he had just gotten off the bus from reception. All I could really see of him was that he was about 5'8", weighed about a buck-fifty, and had quite a mop of unruly hair atop his head. I didn't have the cell light on, so I couldn't tell you at this point what he really looked like. I just got flashes of him as he walked further into the 6' by 9' that was going to be our shared house for awhile--never call it a home; homes are on the streets. There was enough light coming from the 13" TV set up on my locker to allow functioning around the cell. I tried to keep the ceiling light off as much as possible to keep down the heat. I don't really believe a small flourescent light puts out enough heat to notice, but there is the psychological factor to consider.
All these impressions happened in the first few seconds. It doesn't take long to size someone up after you've been down for awhile. I also immediately decided I was going to be gentle with him. I suppose because I instantly identified him to be a potential sex partner, but also because I could tell he was scared and I'm just a softy that way. Really, I am! I don't have, or never have had, a mean bone in my body. I've acted like I did on quite a few occasions, particularly here in the joint, but that's survival; truth be told I'm a lover. And this little fish might just be the next recipient of those loving feelings. The first step is to be gentle.
"Hi, I'm Tahoe."
"Tommy" He had to try twice to get it out. I think his mouth was dry.
"Welcome to our house, Tommy" My voice smiled at him as much as my face did. The use of the encompassing 'our' was intentional.
"Thanks"
I could tell it might be awhile before I would get him to string two words together. I decided to hold off on the twenty question game and give him time to get settled. I stood up and walked the two paces to the switch by the door to turn on the overhead light. I wanted him to have enough light to put away the few belongings he had, and I also wanted to get a better look at him. As I approached him to get to the switch he scrunched himself over next to the wall--to get out of my way or to get away, I wasn't sure. Except for the Q, all the prison cells I lived in were of the same design: a 6' by 9' concrete box. There were two bunks bolted to the wall on the left that were 3' wide and 6 1/2' long. The toilet/sink was a one piece unit made out of stainless steel that had no moving parts on it--just 3 buttons; 1 each for the hot and cold, and 1 to flush. There was a desk at the rear of the cell; it was just really a piece of metal bolted to the wall with a steel stool bolted to the floor in front of it. The desk was 2' by 3' and there were two lockers that hung off the wall parallel and even with the bunks. They were each about 2' high, 4' wide, and 1' deep. They were atop each other. This left a narrow strip 2' wide and about 7' long ran down the middle of the cell; our community space, if you will. There was also an additional 3 square feet of floor space just in front of the door and before the lockers started. It was in this space near the door that Tommy was now huddled. I turned on the light and quickly moved back onto my bunk without trying to get a close-up look at him. I wanted to relieve some of his anxiety as soon as possible. There would be plenty of time to look at him later anyway; I was expecting to be on lockdown for at least two months this time because a couple inmates had been killed during the latest incident (it later turned out to be almost 6 months long and I was transferred to Jamestown just as it ended).
"I thought you could use a little bit more light so you can get your stuff put away and make your bunk." I grinned at him as I started the process of giving him the once over.
"Thanks." He replied as his eyes began to rove over the stuff in the cell. Much like mine were doing over him.
I could tell he was impressed with my stuff. As far as prison goes, I was set-up about as well as you could be. I had a 13" color TV and a Sony CD/Radio player with 24 CD's, mainly metal and hard rock with a few mellower ones tossed in. My locker was full of canteen items: Folger's, Bugler (cigarette tobacco), tuna, roast beef, jalapeno's, tortilla's, soup's (slang for top ramen noodles), etc. I had baby blue cotton blankets on my bunk with two pillows, and a Creeping Charlie in a wicker basket on the desk. There were some perks that went along with being a building porter and I took full advantage. Plus, my family on the streets took pretty good care of me; I always got a quarterly package and had the full $140 to spend at the Canteen. All in all, I lived about as well as you could in the joint. Over the years more than one youngster wanted to be my cellie because of my living style. And I was only too happy to share.
While Tommy was looking over my stuff I was looking over him. My initial impression was correct, he was about 5'8" tall and 150lbs. That unruly hair turned out to be a golden blonde color, leaning a little towards white. It was hanging down past his collar in the back and was over his ears. In front it barely hung down into his eyes and he would give his head a little shake every now and then to get it out of their way. I wouldn't call it curly hair, but it certainly was wavy. Spicolli hair, if you get the reference. I moved further down past his eyes, I wouldn't be able to see them until he actually looked at me, and he hadn't worked up the nerve for that yet. His skin was very pale. Most fish coming in had been in county jail and then reception for the last 6 months and rarely saw the sun, so they were usually pale. His skin looked very smooth. It was without any hint of a beard shadow and I knocked a couple of more years off my age estimate. His cheeks each a rose-colored tint to them as if he had just come in from the cold. I guessed this to be a permanent fixture though, considering the temperature had been in the high 90's all week and even at night hadn't fallen below 80. His nose was narrow at the top, flaring slightly down to the bottom ending with thin delicately shaped nostrils that were just a little too wide. I glanced at his ears briefly, but wasn't able to get that good a look at them as they were covered by the aforementioned hair. What I was able to see of them appeared to be small and close to the skull and each possessed the tell-tale holes of prior piercing. I then let my eyes wander to his mouth. Against the backdrop of his pale skin, his lips looked too red to be natural and it made me imagine that perhaps he'd eaten a pomegranate recently. They were a little thin, but, because he had such a small mouth, the overall effect was that he was pouting slightly. Continuing my inspection, I moved onto his chin. It wasn't a man's chin; it wasn't square, it wasn't pointed, it was rounded and the image that came to mind was the way a boy's chin looks just as they are beginning puberty. That transition period between child and man. Tommy's chin hadn't gotten the signal to grow up and looked to be stuck in his past youth. The effect of that childish chin, the small pouty lips, and thin delicate nose was one of infinite cuteness. Tommy was just cute as hell.
That is until he finally looked up and into my eyes. Then I understood he was beautiful. Cute? What the hell had I been thinking? This boy is beautiful! They were gray, those eyes. They were light gray, in fact, and as I peered in to them I got the impression that the irises were surrounded by a halo of gold. I would later find that they were, indeed, and when he became upset, his eyes tearing up from anger or sadness, that the golden ring around those beautiful gray eyes would sparkle as if they were solar flares. They were eyes that could fill or kill one's heart. They were encased by the longest lashes I'd ever seen. Lashes that almost reached his eyebrows as he slowly blinked while looking at me.
"My God, you're handsome!" My mouth blurted before my mind could get a grip on my tomgue. Thankfully I said handsome amd not beautiful as I was thinking.
And he then did the most extraordinary thing. Something I hadn't seen anyone do in the joint for 5 years. He blushed! Amd I can tell you, with his pale coloring and golden hair, it was quite dramatic that blush. It started somewhere deep down inside that orange jumpsuit where I couldn't see and spread across his face like a flash fire. His eyes darted away to stare at the floor for a few seconds before they rose again slowly. He looked at me as a shy little smile started tugging at the corners of his mouth. Mind you, he'd only been in the cell for about 30 seconds by this time, but as far as I was concerned I was ready kill any one who even so much as thought a bad thought about this boy. Yeah, I had it bad. Of course, none of this would have been apparent to Tommy. Beyond the comment about his appearance, my expression hadn't changed, and when first meeting people that is usually a slight scowl. He had no idea what I was thinking or that he'd just become the best protected young man on the yard.
Tommy 2
I didn't say anything else to Tommy after that last comment and he hadn't responded verbally in return. I think the blush and shy smile had fullfilled any need for that. I went back to watching the TV while Tommy busied himself with putting away his meager belongings and making up his bunk. I was only pretending to watch the television, of course. I spent this time trying to get a better look at his body as he moved about the small space putting away his things. With him still wearing the bright orange jumpsuit, and it about 3 sizes to big, I couldn't really tell what he'd look like naked (which is how I wanted him). Being the enterprising fellow that I am, it didn't take me too long to solve this dilemma.
"Hey Tommy, did they give you any clothes when you came in?" I knew the answer to this before I asked because I had seen what he carried in.
"Nah, they said because of the lockdown the C/O's would have to bring me laundry later." He answered.
"Well, take it from me, don't hold your breath. The C/O's are already pissed off that they have to feed us and clean up after themselves. The last thing on their priority list is getting a fish something to wear. They don't plan on letting us out of the cell for a couple of months, except for a 15 minute shower a couple times a week. If you want, I have an extra pair of gym shorts you can wear. They might be a little big, but they should fit alright. I know personally I've always hated wearing those damn jumpsuits." Without waiting for his response I started rooting aroung in my locker looking for the shorts.
"I don't mind the jumpsuit so much" he said, "it's not that bad."
I guess someone had warned him about accepting gifts in the joint and what trouble that might lead to.
"Look, Tommy" I smiled at him, "you and I are cellies, now. And we're going to be locked up in this box together for god knows how long. You're going to have to get used to me helping you out, sharing with you, or this is gonna be a long, fucking summer. You ain't got any juice with the C/O's to get what you need, and you certainly aren't going to the store anytime soon, either. As you can see, I have plenty. And it's always been my policy with cellies that what's mine is yours. All I expect in return is that you don't disrespect me, yourself, or anyone else. Now, if I offer you something that I know you could use, or might like, and you don't take it, I have to ask myself, why? Are you too good? Am I some kind of piece of shit cellie you don't want anything to do with? Do we have some kind of problem?" If my little speech seemed a bit practiced it's only because I'd given it before. I did actually believe what I was saying about sharing with cellies, mainly just because I'm uncomfortable living well next to someone who isn't, but Tommy didn't know that. He thought I was getting genuinely angry with him. I could see his eyes, those beautiful eyes, getting larger and more frightened as my little speech continued.
"I'm sorry, Tahoe! I wasn't trying to disrespect you! I just don't want to be a bother to you is all" he said, his voice wavering.
I guess I should interject here that prison is just one big fucking mind game. It starts in county jail, where all the punks and lames who aren't going to the joint tell horror stories about what it's like (usually stuff about being raped and made someone's bitch if you aren't tough enough). Almost invariably these stories are bullshit--I was in for 8 years and never saw or heard about a single con being raped. I saw quite a few beatings, stabbings, and people shot, but never anyone's ass taken against their will. Most of the major shit starts over drug debts. Drugs are plentiful and expensive in the joint. Best way to do clean time is to avoid drugs like the plague in here. Do that and you'll be fine. Of course, fish like Tommy haven't learned that, yet, and are expecting everyone to attack them at the slightest provocation. They learned all about in county, right? And that's the way it's portrayed on TV and the movies, isn't it? Too funny.
Anyway, I've got Tommy all worked up and thinking I'm about to snap on him. That was my intention, but I didn't really enjoy it. I just needed to set the stage if we were going to get along as I hoped we would. I can be such a fucking predator, I'm sometimes ashamed of myself.
"Whoa, whoa. Don't trip, little dude. I'm not mad. I don't think you were trying to disrespect me. Relax. I'm just trying to school you on being my cellie. From the looks of you, I figured this is your first time down. You'll never be a bother to me. O.K. Kemo Sabe?" I said, putting as much tenderness in my voice as I could.
"O.K." I could almost feel the tension leaving his body, now that the danger, in his mind, seemed to have passed.
"Fantastic!" I gave him my best smile. I even reached over and ruffled his hair. I'm incorrigible.
I tossed him the shorts I had retrieved and laid back down on my bunk. I went back to pretending to watch the TV, while keeping an eye on him. I also began thinking how innocent he seemed, It always was a shock when I ran into these innocemt kids in the joint. Most people think cons are all a bunch of animals that have been out raping and pillaging the land before finally being subdued and locked away where they can do no harm except to each other. Well, that might be overstating it a bit, but you certainly don't expect to run across youngsters like Tommy in here. I mean you have to do something illegal to get in the club, and most people with the stones or stupidity to commit a felony usually aren't the sweet, boy next door type. At least that was the case until the WAR ON DRUGS (capitalization added for effect). Now just have enough coke, or speed, or weed on you and you to can be locked up with the rest of the predators! Nevermind that you've never hurt any one in your life, except yourself, perhaps. Let's just say that's which category Tommy falls into. I never talk about any cons case, you'll have to ask him about it, but I know he's never, ever, hurt anybody. He's just a sweet, lovable, not terribly bright kid who now finds himself locked up for the next five years with me. And I'm laying here on my bunk with a hard-on, thinking he's beautiful, as he changes out of the orange jumpsuit into the gym shorts I have just given him. Poor kid.
To be continued...