Sticky Fingers – Alternative sexual practices in prison.

“I’m starved for love. Not ordinary love but real love. The love that’s like music or something.”
(J.P. Donleavy, The Ginger Man)

What are the alternative sexual practices in prison? This is one of the most common questions from curious women who have written me over the years is.  How does a man serving a long sentence in prison go so many years without a real intimate experience with a woman?

I’ll be frank. A man either turns homosexual — catching or pitching (getting or giving fellatio) — entirely forgets about women out of religious or some other belief, abstains or becomes asexual, or manages to get hold of some good porn to masturbate to, what we call “hitting it.”
In a world so regulated, where either possession of porn or getting caught “hitting it” can earn a man extra time on his sentence, a man has to be clever, manipulative, careful, when planning the perfect time to fantasize and “jerk it out.”
A man goes back to being a teenager, hiding his porn stash under his mattress from mom; lusting over women he will never actually meet; sharing skin flicks and porn mags as if they were trading cards; accumulating a collection of porn, categorizing it all by ass size, breast size and hair color.
A prison psychologist told me that “hitting it” is healthy for the mind. A prison medical doctor said it’s good for the prostate. Of course, the prison chaplain told me it’s a sin. A jail babe once told me, “You better be hitting it ONLY to my photos!”
The prison canteen doesn’t carry Astroglide, perhaps one of the world’s best personal lubricants. They only sell Vasoline and cheap one dollar lotions. These will have to do.
Hold on tight as I take you inside the jailhouse to explore the bottom line of desperate, testosterone driven convicts taking care of their sexual needs.

Homosexuality
Hollywood movies and television shows on prison life usually portray prisoners as hot and horny men, willing and eager to butt-rape the next incoming fresh meat arriving off the prison bus, coming into the cellblock.
In reality, homosexuality is not accepted in prison. If a guy is gay or a flaming queen, he gets his respect as a man and fellow inmate, but is told not to come around. Homosexuals, whether flamboyant or not, hang out in their own cliques much like in high school, where goths had their own area, and jocks hung out in a different area.
Most men will refuse to allow the prison administration to move a homosexual into their cell. They would rather beat his ass on the spot and go to the hole, rather than lose their pride or dignity over any suspicion that something “may” have happened while the homosexual was housed there.
Some men get weak over time and need some type of human intimacy, while others give in to homosexuality as a “hustle,” to survive.
“Hey Frank, what the fuck are you doing moving in with Lolita?” I asked with the great concern of a father looking out for the best interests of his son.
“Homie, I got to do what I got to do. To come up! No one is taking care of me on the outs,” he said in a desperate tone, as if he didn’t have a choice.
Frank was a youngster, 22 years old, Hispanic, 6 2, 175 pounds of lean tan muscle, washboard stomach, had the overall GQ look. He was doing a four year stretch for grand theft auto.
“Damn dude, you could spread your hustle, do someone’s laundry, draw cards, do some kind of hobby, anything else to earn a buck, why move in with that fag and totally ruin your reputation? You are losing it man!” I said, trying to motivate him NOT to go through with the move.
“It’s easy for you to say. You got women who visit you, who send you packages, money. I hate to walk the yard and see other people have things. I feel envious. My release date is in six months. All I gotta do is let this guy suck my dick here and there. Let him give me a hand job, and he will take care of me.”
Frank didn’t listen to me. He moved in with Lolita. Immediately, no other Hispanics wanted to hang out with him. If Frank came to the chow table, people got up and left. He was outcasted, like a convicted child molester. Started to chill out with the homosexual clique. People believed he turned homosexual. Some guys wanted to shank his ass for disgracing the Hispanic race.
Within three months, Frank had everything he could ever hope for. A thousand dollars on his prison account. New personal clothing. Jewelry. He was living large.
Lolita was a Cuban inmate, mid 50s, who looked more African American than of Hispanic origin. About 6 3, 250 pounds, always smelled of the latest women’s perfumes, a flamboyant wannabe queen. He was by all means a man, not even plastic surgery could ever turn him into a woman.
He was rich, owned a software company, was doing life for killing his gay lover.
Lolita was obsessed with young Hispanic men. He could be seen every day in the shower, “peter gazing,” lusting over men’s endowments. He would try to lure a young man under his wing, with offers of gifts and money. He was perceived as a sexual predator who succeeded often in getting exactly what he wanted.
Frank put in work. Compromised his dignity and pride. When he paroled months later, Lolita kept his promise to buy him a new car and allow him to work at his software company.
Frank’s sacrifice paid off. It was a win win situation for the both of them.
There are not many Lolitas in the system who can lure in a straight guy by paying him. Usually, the men who seek “services” have to pay the homosexual.
There are many homosexuals willing and ready to provide services. Capitalism exists to prison too.

The religious prisoner.
I’m not against religion. I believe it really is the “opiate of the masses.” Religion gives a prisoner meaning, direction, hope, whatever his faith/belief may be.
Belief in a religion can cure addictions, destroy criminality, build self esteem and character.
“Hey, cellie, check out this hottie, she has a better ass than FHM model Vida Guerra,” I said as I presented an old 1999 issue of the porn mag Club to my cell partner, John.
“Nah, man, I’m alright,” he said as he pushed the magazine away, uninterested. “Jesus said to not defile the temple, this body, with such immorality. First Corinthians 3:16 17,” he said with the confidence of a Sunday morning televangelist.
“Come on, dude, you are a man, you have to love women! There ain’t no harm in checking out hot naked babes. It’s not like you are sleeping with them, fornicating,” I explained, trying to show him that even Christians are human beings.
“Jesus said not to lust. It is better to marry than to burn in lust and be cast into the lake of fire.”
John went on to share the scriptures with me. I should have known better, I opened the door for him to “witness” to me, the Word.
He went on to tell me he never jerks off. He relies on nocturnal emissions from dreams.
“I’m not committing sin when I have a wet dream,” he rationalized. “I have no power over the dream world. If I have sex with a woman in my dream, it was God’s will.”
I wasn’t about to argue with him my theory on dreams. I kept my opinion to myself.
Every person has power over the dream world. For over a decade, I’ve studied and practiced astral projection, remote viewing. I’ve ventured into higher and lower planes of existence, engaged in threesomes with the hottest babes from my own imagination. Tonight Angelina Jolie, tomorrow Jennifer Love Hewitt.
I don’t buy that God could condemn a prisoner for jerking off.
“Hey, man, it’s 4:30 in the morning, what are you doing?” I said. I could see John naked near his locker, changing his boxers, while using a wet washcloth to wipe down his privates.
“I had a wet dream, man. Damn, it was awesome! Thank you, Jesus!”

The quest for porn.
Any day, at every prison in the United States, men are on a quest to find the latest porn available. Every man has his own tastes and desires, so what may be one man’s trash, ends up another man’s treasure. Anything sells, from the horrendous naked photos of obese women, to the young college coeds posing as high school cheerleaders, to the sickest sadomasochistic photos displaying bestiality and S&M.
Living in a place where there is nothing but men, one seeks out a change of scenery and that escape comes from porn mags or skin flicks.
Porn mags are a hot commodity since you get more bang for the buck. Pages after pages of naked women performing everything and anything. Hot looking eager women looking at the camera, who draw you in with their eyes, especially the angel in the centerfold.
For a man whose natural survival instincts are utilized by sight, he can easily delve into the magazine spread, as if the woman was right there in the cell. Men are physical creatures, we don’t give a rat’s ass about romance novels or soap operas. Forget the foreplay, we want action, right here, right now. Perhaps that is why there are more female prostitutes in the world than male prostitutes.
“Hustleman, let me check out the latest you got on redheads with big racks,” I said, eager to check out what was on the market today.
Hustleman was a 40 something, skinny African American convict, who is the man when it comes to getting what you need or want. He opened his state-issued jacket, exposing many inside pockets, and from the lower right quadrant, he pulled out an envelope marked “Redheads.”
“Aw right, dollar a holler. Take your time, amigo, I’ll be right back.”
Hustleman moved aside to show another inmate another pocket with the latest merchandise. I could hear him in the distance.
“Gentlemen, the latest on the market … CREST® WHITESTRIPS® … get ‘em while you can, five dollars for a three day supply. It will get your teeth white, you don’t have to go to the prison dentist.”
I flipped through the little stack of 50 glossy 5-by-7 photos, considering each as a possible purchase. Some of the photos came in sets where one model was shot in different positions. Some of the photos were old and beat up, originals taken in the ‘70s, probably photos a guy finally let go from his collection. Other photos stuck together, signaling they were recently used. Others were in perfect condition.
I called Hustleman over so I could make the deal.
“Hey man, how much do you want for these?” I held up three photos of one hot redhead, who reminded me of a chick I once went out with in college.
“For you, amigo, three for two dollars. You going to the canteen by any chance today?”
“Yes, in about a half hour, what do you need?”
“Just give me a bag of nacho chips and two soups.”
Hustleman went on his way. I got in line for the canteen.
An hour later, I paid him.
Getting the porn is the easy step. Being able to “hit it” is the biggest obstacle.
Many cell mates lounge in the cell all the time, watching television or reading, so it’s hard to get cell time alone. Guys who live with a cell slug have to wait until their cellie falls asleep to quietly hit it into a sock. When a prisoner gets cell time alone, it presents the perfect opportunity to come out with the porn stash.
But there is another obstacle.
Guards do their rounds up and down the tiers, looking into the cells, unannounced. At any given moment, they can peep into the cell window, and catch a guy in action. Particularly embarrassing if it’s a female guard.
So the solution is to put up a piece of cardboard, blocking the window, which says, “DO NOT DISTURB.” Most guards know what time it is: Either a convict to taking a shit or hitting it.
At 12:30 p.m., my cell partner went out to the yard. Minutes later, I had my opportunity and way with the set of photos of the hot redhead. What a relief. Ah, I felt no stress afterwards. In fact, I felt like taking a nap.
As soon as I took the piece of cardboard off my window, before I had a chance to wash my hands, a buddy who lives on the top tier came by within seconds, looking into the cell, curious, trying to spot if I had any porn.
“I know you were hitting it, man, the cardboard was up for 45 minutes, let me check it out. Do you got any porn I can use, my cell partner is going out to yard tonight. I’ll let you borrow the new 2006 Celebrity Sleuth has a photo of Alyssa Milano from Charmed laid out completely naked.
Through the crack in the cell door, I spoke with him further.
“How did you got the new 2006 Celebrity Sleuth?” I said with the tone of excitement that an adolescent has when he just found out his best friend got laid.
“Hustleman, who else? Bought it for twenty-five dollars.”
I slid the three photos under the door to him. He picked them up and dropped one, as if it was fire burning his fingers.
“Damn, Holmes, the photos are sticky. You didn’t even wash your hands. You ain’t right, dog!”
“Damn, you came to the window just seconds after I finished, what do you expect? I still had sticky fingers,” I said, trying to explain the situation clearly, so he wouldn’t think I was a sicko.
He returned later, sliding the now 2006 Celebrity Sleuth inside a 10-by-14 manila envelope, under my cell door. As I picked it up to check it out, another prisoner come up to him, saying, “Hey, ese, is that a fuck book, let me check it out. I got cell time later on.”

Written by anonymous while doing time in California.