My name is Christopher Scott, or Crisco, which is a nickname I got a few years back. I'll tell you how I got it in a minute, but first, you should know, I've lived a very interesting life so far.
My number was 19865411 over at Folsom State where I spent three years for possession and intent to sell. I guess you could say that I liked to hang out with Mary Jane, the only lady I'd ever want to touch. But what the fuck, right? Three fucking years? Who the fuck gets three years for a little pot? I tell you who, whoever has my fucking attorney, is who. The fucking douchey prick!
All while I was laid up in the pen, I swore every mother fucking day that when I got out, I was gonna find him, rip his fucking Calvin Kline's off then take my fist and pound it up his ass, one time for each and every fucking night I was laid up in this shithole; although, you gotta know, not every night was bad, but he don't need to know that.
I've been out now for a few years and I still ain't done what I promised I would yet. The white collared pin-up boy might like my fist too much, you know? He's got this wife and all with some kids, but I could tell what he really liked. I knew by the way he was always eye fucking me. He ain't really my type though, but I don't know… maybe I'll still teach him that lesson someday. We'll see.
So, maybe you could tell already that I like guys… men really. Actually, I don't just like them, I fucking love them. But I ain't into those little twinky boys, I like muscle and meat with a little scary hairy. And I always knew I liked that, even when I was a little boy. I had the choice to play tennis or football when I was ten, and I chose football. Not because it was the more manly sport to play and I was trying to hide my urges or some shit like that, but because I wanted to knock around with the other boys. Then when I was fifteen, I dropped football when I watched my first ever high school team's wrestling match and those skin tight spandex with their big bulges pushing out between their legs, just giving me a hint at what was underneath. Whoever invented wrestling had to have been an ankle grabber like me. They made it so easy to rub my cheek against the other guy's package or get a good whiff of his sweaty ass-crack, and the sweatier the better. Football was getting too difficult to cop a feel anyway; too much fucking padding.
Needless to say, I didn't win much; always too distracted, but I learned how to keep the game going for as long as I needed it to, so I made sure I felt every inch of my opponent's body. That's when I met this guy named Mark Gorman, he taught me a lot, but he's not want I wanted to tell you about. He's a story for another time.
What I wanted to tell you was about my time over at Folsom and how I got my nickname, Crisco. You see, no one ever called me that until I was doing my time. And to tell you the truth, prison wasn't really all that bad for a guy like me. I got so much fucking cock in that joint, cock I'd never get on the outside either. Not because I'm ugly like some quazzy-looking mother fucker. It's only because most of the guys really liked the ladies and weren't really into men, but they learned to adapt and took what they could get. I bet you some of them even liked it better than they thought they would. And I wasn't the only one givin' it away either.
But like I said, I ain't ugly. In fact, my shit is pretty fuckin' hot! And if you saw me, you'd know I ain't lying; five foot nine with light olive skin, green eyes, a 32-inch waist with 48-inch biceps. And my ass is a nice firm bubble that I like to have pricked.
I got a little bit of body hair on me too, just enough to entice those bear lovers, but not enough to get a rug burn off me if you know what I'm saying. And I got one of those treasure trails too that leads down to my extra something special. And let me fuckin' tell you, my cock is definitely extra special. It's my most favorite part of my body, and I ain't just sayin' that. I love my cock. At seven inches, it's big without being too big, and it's pretty too. Nice and clean cut, and the harder it gets, the prettier it looks. God, I really do love my fucking cock. I always wished I could suck myself like I've seen some of those skinny cunts do, I'd do it to myself all day long. Just keep sucking myself until I came into my own mouth and swallowed every drop of my own sweetness, and then do it all over again and again. I've drunk my own cum before, but I'm sure there's nothing like the taste of it when it's freshly squeezed.
Sorry, I'm gettin' side-tracked again. I try not to, but it's hard when I got so many stories I gotta get outta me. But this one, my first story, is definitely one of my personal favorites, and it's about inmate 17658944, Jackson Reed.
Man, I ain't never met such a mother fucking bad-ass pretty boy before. The first time I saw Jackson was when I was coming off the bus. He'd already been at Folsom for a few years for assault and battery. Jackson was standing, mixed in with all the other shit-for-brains who liked to yell and heckle at the newcomers. But even though he was in the crowd with the other hundreds of assholes, I noticed him immediately. But after a few days in lock up, I knew better than to ever try to get with him. Word was that you had to watch your fucking back when Jackson was around, and you didn't want to fuck with him… ever! He never lost a fight, or got punched in the face from what I'd seen; which was probably why he stayed so pretty. Rumor was he even killed a man just before I arrived.
You see, Jackson was involved with the Aryan Brotherhood. He didn't have any visible tats, but once, when I was taking a shower with him, I saw that he had one… a huge tat across his stomach of a swastika. It was only me and him in the shower at that time too, and let me tell you, I was fucking scared shitless. Although I'm mostly Irish, it's hard to tell with the light olive toned skin I get from the little bit of Italian I got in me. But that wasn't the only fuckin' reason why I was scared.
Like I said, it was just the two of us in the shower that day. I'd just gotten back from the doctor for my annual checkup and Jackson was just let out of solitaire for beating some poor Jew to his near death, so everyone else had showered and were out in the yard already.
We were a few showerheads apart and I tried not to look at Jackson or think about him because if he were to catch me, he'd kill me for sure, but once he turned his back to me and I watched the water trickle down the curvature of his spine and slip in-between the crack of the two hardest ass cheeks I'd ever seen, I couldn't stop staring. And then there was something else I couldn't stop...
