Debt, Death and Fake Genitals by J.L. Chaffin

Debt, Life, and Fake Genitals
by J. L. Chaffin
I know what you’re thinking: Whatever happened to sex, drugs, and rock and roll? Now it’s debt, life, and fake genitals? Sorry, but, yeah, I sadly don’t have time for sex, I don’t do drugs, and I’m more of a country music kind of gal. And this is my story—not yours—of how I, a female (born and raised), wound up doing time in a men’s prison. Doesn’t sound logical? Well, it’s true.
First, I’d like to let you know that I’m not a criminal. I grew up despising people who lived
outside of the law. Before I could remember, my father manipulated my mother into robbing a bank with him, and during the getaway, they crashed the car. My mother didn’t survive the accident. My father was sentenced to life in prison. I was raised by my mother’s parents. They told me my mom had never committed a crime in her life until she met my dad.

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t believe criminals were selfish animals. You know, my dad never once wrote, called, or sent me a birthday card. If he doesn’t even care about me, his daughter, how could any criminal empathize with the victims of their crimes? Thoughts of the ripple effects they’ve had on communities don’t cross their minds. How could they? And for
anybody who believes some criminals must love their families, I’d argue that if they did, they wouldn’t risk going to prison and leaving them heartbroken, alone, and having to fend for themselves.
As a teenager, I hated miscreants so much I worked as a secretary for the lobbying firm
Universal Explorers, who largely dealt with private prison companies. We pushed hard for politicians to support “tough on crime” policies. People complain about mass incarceration, but crime rates are lower than ever. It’s a small sacrifice for safer communities. And prisons aren’t as bad as people think. The fact is, rapes and murders in prisons are rare occurrences these days. Nothing like the ’70s and ’80s. Studies show the vast majority of prisoners haven’t even seen a murder in prison, and it’s much lower for rapes.
Now you might be asking yourself, “If this is where she was mentally, how did she get locked up in the first place?” We’ll get there. Be patient. Let’s start with the catalyst that got me sent to a men’s prison. It was January 2017, the end of the HOPE-filled Obama era, and the beginning of Trump’s demagoguery-filled one. I’m not trying to get all political on you, either. I’m for Democrats AND Republicans. They BOTH are supposed to be for us and both have solid points from time to time. Anyways. I’d say my story begins with all of this worry over student loan debt. I was in college, and ALL of my friends were being “proactive” about it. I hated that word: proactive. I’d thought it was a great word until I got to college. Because I was more focused on my studies, I felt shortsighted. Like I wasn’t being kind to my future self. I didn’t have the forethought to act
now while I wasn’t burdened in debt. The more talk I heard, the stupider I felt. The problem was many people in the United States had been paying off their student loan debt for 10, 20, and 30 years or longer. It’s ridiculous. The stories circulated our dorms, and it got to me. Even worse, a bunch of my friends had become proactive by obtaining a “sugar daddy” or “sugar mama” on the internet. I personally knew numerous people who were doing it, but when Jessica, my best friend, fell in with that crowd, it hurt. Her sugar daddy would have sex with her practically whenever he wanted and little by little pay her tuition. My first reaction was

Chaffin Debt, Life, and Fake Genitals 3

to tell her to abandon this idea, but all it did was cause us to argue. Seeing that my disapproval
was putting our relationship in jeopardy, I stopped voicing my opinion.
A website recently posted that in a mere three months they had millions of students on their site specifically looking for sugar daddies and sugar mamas. My question is, What will the U.S. look like 50 years from now if we do nothing about the growing problem of student loan debt? I mean, one of my friends actually turned to crime. She started loansharking to fellow students.
I bring you this full disclosure at the risk of sounding like a total hypocrite, but it’s all
necessary in telling my story. So, are you ready to know my way of being proactive? I became a stripper. Done rolling your eyes yet? Yeah, all the shit I told Jessica about objectifying herself, putting herself in a vulnerable position, and being a victim of student loan debt turned around to bite me on my exposed stripper ass.
But it was my stripping that led me to a plastic surgeon’s office, to my meeting Alice, and
eventually to an all-male penitentiary. All of the girls I worked with who earned thousands of dollars a night had at least C-cup breasts. My A’s were only leaving me with around $800 a night.
To me, the faster I could get my tuition paid, the faster I could drop this shit show. And in one weekend with breasts, I was able to pay off my new C cups.
After my boobs healed, I went back to see the doctor for a checkup, and that’s when I see a
beautiful young woman with jet black hair in the waiting area. She didn’t look older than 18. That could have been due to her skinny frame and lack of any curves, though. Regardless, deep down, I knew she was in the same industry I was in. Call it a sixth sense, a stripper’s intuition, whatever. But I knew. My long legs brought me over to her with just a few strides.

“Hey,” I said, tucking a strand of my dark red hair behind my ear. “Name’s Brooklyn. Mind if I sit with you?”

She smiled. “Sure. I’m Alice.”

I sit, and I’m still almost a whole head taller than she is. My long torso and legs gave me an
unfair advantage in any conversation. I’d look down on people like some parental figure, and I
always played right into it, seemingly oblivious.
“What are you doing here, girl?” I asked. “You are too beautiful to be at a place like

this.”

Alice shrugged and the corners of her mouth rose to form little devil horns. “I doubt you really
want to know.”
I gave her a wicked grin of my own. “Well, how about this: I’ll tell you why I’m here, and if it
sounds crazy enough, you can tell me why you’re here.”
“All right.” There’s challenge and curiosity in her eyes now.

“Okay, well, I’m a stripper who got a boob job because it’ll help me pay for college.”

She stared at me like she was waiting for me to say more. When I didn’t, she smiled apologetically.
Apologetically! Like she was embarrassed for me. My back immediately straightened, giving me more height over her. Every muscle in my body tightened, especially the muscles in my face. I couldn’t wait for her to tell me her stupid story so I could say, “What?
That’s all you’ve got?” I waited above her like a hawk awaits its prey.

“I’m a hermaphrodite,” she said. “I obviously look more like a female, but I’ll feel more like a female, and feel more comfortable in this flesh sack, I believe, when I actually have breasts.” She smirked. “I’m not sure if having this surgery would’ve helped me make more
money working as a stripper—and I don’t care, either, since I’ve retired—but it’ll feel like the body I was intended to have.”
After stumbling over a couple “uhs” and one “so,” I got to “how.” I probably should’ve added more to it, but she must’ve heard the question I wanted to pose before and helped me.
“How did I strip? Was it an all-female strip club? A male strip club?” She grinned as I nodded. “Neither. It’s a fetish club called the Blue Cat. People come from all over the world to see us. People with a lot of money.”
I shook my head, still trying to get over my shock. “I hate to ask,” I said, “but . . . how
much did you make as . . .”

“As a hermaphrodite stripper?” Her eyebrows rose. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. There are
a couple girls at the Blue Cat who’ve told me what most strippers make. What is it? A thousand, two thousand a night?”
“Yeah, on Fridays and Saturdays.”

She leaned toward me. “What if I told you that if your clit were as long as a dick you’d be making five to ten times that on Fridays and Saturdays?”
I gaped. “I’d say I got plastic surgery in the wrong place.” Alice laughed. “Are you fucking with me? Where exactly is this Blue Cat?”
“In Miami.”

“What are you doing out here in L.A.?”

Her visage turned incredulous. “Uh, hello? Everybody knows L.A. has the best plastic surgeons.”
A door opened and the doctor called Alice into his office. We parted respectfully, though I was still trying to digest this new world Alice had introduced me to and may not have been

fully cognizant of her as we said our goodbyes. I vaguely remember saying thanks for some reason.
Damn! I just now realized I jumped on my smartphone to research these fetish clubs after the doctor opened the door. Never really gave much thought to our parting until I put pen to paper. What the hell’s wrong with me? That was rude.
Well, I found out there were only three fetish clubs in the U.S. At least three that I could find. One in San Francisco, another in Denver, and the Blue Cat in Miami that Alice spoke of. Seemed like all the information Alice gave me was accurate, too. Meaning, they made bank. That was the only thing I really cared about.

Next, I discovered there were three different kinds of hermaphrodites. Some with long clitorises that produced higher levels of testosterone than the average female. Some that had testicles up in their vaginas. Then there were some that had hanging testicles and a penis but produced higher levels of estrogen than the average male due to having female organs. I’m really dumbing down what I actually read because I don’t want to put you to sleep. But, ultimately, I wanted to go with the rarest hermaphrodite. Something that would make me stand out in a fetish club, and the intersexes (that’s the term they prefer over hermaphrodite) with a penis and testicles usually leaned more toward masculine features, so I figured I’d really stand out with my feminine characteristics.
Now to find the parts that’ll have my plan work like a well-oiled machine. A special effects guy out in Hollywood made prosthetic genitalia for actors who had to expose themselves for scenes in upcoming movies. He was able to see me, take measurements, and design it so that I could even urinate while wearing it. I’d have my new dick and balls within seven to ten business days, he said. And I did!

The last thing I had to do was more difficult. Well, it was more difficult morally. There came a time when I realized that if I were really going to pull this off, I’d have to create a new identity. And to do that, I had to think of what I was doing as a victimless crime, but I hated the term. A crime is a crime. Period. I hated people’s excuses to commit crimes, and I hated mine,
which was that I was already a victim of student loan debt, and if we lived in a democracy
instead of a plutocracy, I would’ve never had to do what I did in the first place.

The worst part about obtaining my fake identity was the way in which I had to do it. All I was doing was following the directions of a how-to article online titled “How to Change Your Identity.”
It said to search the internet for soldiers missing in action, find a guy around my age, and call the hospital he was born in and tell the clerk there that “my mom recently passed away, and I was wondering if there were any chance I could get a copy of my birth certificate since my mother had mine.” I applied for a new social security number and got a driver’s license. And just like that, Jerome Leonard Chaffin became my second identity.
With all the paperwork finished, it was time to try on my package. I learned over time

that it was a lot simpler to not shave when I put it on. I wasn’t great at making sure the seam of
the prosthetic blended in with my skin well, but hair covered all that up quite nicely, though it hurt like a sonofabastard taking it off.
By the way, I now know why guys are constantly adjusting themselves, and I apologize for judging. I was one of those women who thought it highly inappropriate for guys to grab themselves before sitting, before walking, or before doing anything, really. And I was wrong.
After learning how to walk with Bob and the Boys, I tried to get a job at the only fetish club hiring—the Onyx Lounge in Denver, Colorado. And wouldn’t you know it, after all I’d done, I couldn’t get an interview with the owner, Mr. Cambridge, who happened to also be the hiring manager. I told him over the phone I was an intersex, and he replied that they already had two and hung up on me. I rang him again a few days later to claim I was a transgender. Didn’t work, either, so I decided to buy a plane ticket to Denver. I was going to meet with this dude one way or another. I didn’t go through all this shit for nothing.
Eventually I found myself in a Denny’s watching the Onyx Lounge’s parking lot. Thanks to Instagram, I knew what he looked like (trimmed beard, bald, and overweight) and that the Mercedes in the parking lot was his. I sat there waiting for hours before he came out. And I rushed him when he did.
I mostly went over what I was going to say to him in that Denny’s, but I guess I should’ve thought better of rushing him, because as I raced toward him, he turned around quickly with his fists raised, baring his teeth and the whites of his eyes.
I skidded over pebbles on the asphalt before coming to a stop. “Sorry to have startled you, Mr. Cambridge,” I said. He still looked ready to fight, so I tried again. “I sincerely apologize. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
He straightened and regained his confidence. “You didn’t frighten me,” he said, “just startled me is all.”
“Look,” I took a deep breath, “I’ve been trying to get an interview with you, and I feel like
you’re about to miss out on the kind of intersex I am. I’m rare. I look like a woman, but I have a penis and testicles and all the female parts, too, though you can’t see my vagina.”
Mr. Cambridge studied me. “My hermaphrodites are much different than you . . . You know what? Walk with me.” He turned from his car and walked back toward the Onyx Lounge.

We entered the Onyx, and I was instantly impressed. First, loud music didn’t smash my head in as soon as I walked through the door. Instead, Sade’s soothing voice caressed me. And the scent of cinnamon went well with the walls and ceiling, which were a smooth, seductive red that flowed down to the carpets like molten lava. The color scheme suggested the deeper you came into the Onyx, the hotter you’d get. It felt like a promise. Only the baseboards and crown molding were nearly black with their deep, dark red. The ambiance Mr. Cambridge had created here was so alluring that I could see myself not wanting to leave this place. Unlike a strip club’s party atmosphere
where you need a break from it at times.
He led me into his office, and I was doubly dazzled by the ornate upscale furniture in it.

Just his desk alone likely cost more than my car, but the chairs were equally as grand.

“So,” Mr. Cambridge said while having a seat behind his desk, “to work at a club like mine, you have to be willing to take off all your clothes. Please get to it. I don’t have much
time.”

Normally I would’ve removed my clothes sexually, but his tone was strictly professional.

He was all business and just wanted to see what I had to offer the Onyx Lounge. If I had anything to offer.
Undressing was easy enough. I’m sure he had to have noticed I was undaunted by the task he requested, but he said nothing. He was more excited to see Bob and the Boys. They moved him enough to get him to lean forward in his chair, rise out of it, and walk toward me to get a better view of them.
“Yes,” he said. “You are different from my other hermaphrodites. Please turn around and bend over.”
I did as he asked. “My, there’s no hint of a vagina at all, is there? Okay, turn around.” He then examined every inch of me. “Everything is purely feminine on you. It’s
remarkable.” He suddenly gave me a disapproving look. “You got breast implants, though. If you are to work here, you will get my approval for any physical change you wish to acquire—from piercings to dying your hair to plastic surgery. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” It was almost like I wasn’t standing there naked in front of him.
“Go ahead and put your clothes back on.” I did as he ordered. “I’m glad you came to me.
You’re much different than I would have imagined. I have one hermaphrodite who’s more masculine, another feminine—she merely has a long clitoris. And now . . . you. If you’re still
interested.”
I smiled.
Jerome Chaffin bought an apartment in Denver, and every weekend I’d fly out and work at the Onyx Lounge. Originally my objective was to make enough money to pay for college and avoid the burden of student loan debt. But good God, Alice was right. People came from all over the world to see us and paid incredible sums of money to do so. On average, I took in around 10 grand a weekend, and it was
such easy cash that I found it hard to stop. The money was addictive. After I racked up enough funds for a degree, I thought, “Why not earn some more cash for a better car . . . or a house . . .or a retirement?”
It was equally difficult to refuse the gifts all my clients wished to throw at me. One gift- giver was a certain kind of person I loathed. He didn’t obey the dress code at the Onyx, and nobody seemed to mind. He wore baggy sweatpants most days with stupid T-shirts that had black people holding chains, bats, wearing brass knuckles. His shirts were always ridiculous. A few times I couldn’t help but tell him they made my blood boil—they perpetuated a stereotype. All he said was
that he liked me “all hot and bothered.” I hated his “gangster” guts. Yeah, gangster. The fool
admitted to being one when I asked him how he got away with wearing

whatever he wanted. I hated getting naked for this criminal. I hated that he was allowed to touch me. And I hated having to pretend I didn’t want this thing sitting on death row for some crime he’d gotten away with.
He did offer me all kinds of gifts, though—jewelry, a car, a gun. I accepted the jewelry.

Everything else I always said was too much, but he continued to pressure me about the gun. “Come on, girl,” he said. His dark hands caressed my pale waist as I sat in his lap. “Lotta weirdos come here, and you need protection, you feel me?”

“No, Bugsy,” I said. “I don’t feel you. I can’t accept this. I could get in trouble.”

“Not having one can get you in even more trouble.” He grabbed my hands. “Please . . .

Please, just take it. I don’t care what you do with it, but knowing you got the joint will help me sleep at night, you feel me?”
I got into the habit of drinking whenever he showed up, so my next two words were due to my impaired judgment. “All right,” I said. And because I knew he’d like this next line, I added, “But don’t you try giving me a bazooka next week.”
He laughed while I fake giggled. Idiot.

My thoughts were that I’d bring the gun home and throw it away in my apartment’s dumpster. I don’t like guns. Especially handguns. You don’t hunt with them. They’re only meant for destroying lives.
And if you have one, I believe you’re asking for trouble. Law of attraction—look it up. That’s what this fool gave me, though. Said it was a 9 millimeter. By this point, I had been working at the Onyx Lounge for three months and racked up over $120,000, so I could’ve bought my own gun if I really wanted to. So I threw the killing machine in my purse and didn’t even think about the stupid thing until I was driving to Jerome’s apartment after work. I only thought about it when I saw a police officer’s lights flashing behind me. I pulled over, the leather on my steering wheel shining from
my sweaty hands. I didn’t drink much at the Onyx, but I had no idea if the cop would be able to smell the alcohol on my breath. I quickly rolled down my window in hopes to air out the car, if needed.
Then everything hit me all at once. I was intoxicated and operating a motor vehicle, had an illegal gun, and all of the identification I had was in my alias’s name.
The officer stepped up to my open window. “License, insurance, and registration, please.”
I handed him my license and reached for the glove compartment for my insurance and registration. I passed those to him, too.
“Thank you,” he said, staring over my I.D. at me, “Jerome.” “I’m a hermaphrodite,” I said.
His expression was unreadable. “Have you been drinking tonight?”

“Just a little, sir,” I may have slurred. “Nothing that would impair my driving, though.” “Then why did I see your car swerving around?”
I had to think about that for a second. “Maybe I was grabbing something that fell on the

floor?”

“Will you step out of the car, please?” He actually opened the door for me.

Nothing good happened from then on. After failing every sobriety test he had, he placed me in handcuffs and searched my car. Found the gun, of course. Was it mine? Nope.
He pulled on the pistol and a bullet came out. “A bullet in the chamber of a gun not registered in your name is ten years alone. Where’d you get this?”
“From a client.” I sighed. “He was worried about my safety.”

“Know his name?”

“No, I don’t.” And I really didn’t. I only knew him by Bugsy.

The officer took me down to the police station where I was fingerprinted and had my picture taken.
Then he typed on his computer for a while. Don’t you love how cool I was under pressure? Well, I was drunk, but I also had knowledge of what police do to get criminals to take plea deals. They charge people with as many crimes as possible, so I knew I wouldn’t get ten years. But I was nervous about this cop on the computer and possibly finding the REAL Jerome Leonard Chaffin and hitting me with more charges. Like identity theft and maybe impersonating an officer since he was in the military.
I wanted Bugsy to get the death penalty. If it weren’t for that fatherfucking loser, I wouldn’t
have had that gun. Or be under the influence of alcohol. And, ultimately, wouldn’t be in handcuffs ready to spend time in jail or prison. I wasn’t thinking about prison, though. Jerome didn’t have a criminal record. I chose him for a reason. Because this would be his first felony, I’d likely get probation or something. I mean, I know who I am. I’m a good person. I’m not somebody society needs to be protected from by being sent to prison. Really, I could do community service work. Or help people in some way for a year or two. Where instead of lives being ripped apart and destroyed, I’d rebuild communities.
The officer never did discover who I really was, and I was taken to jail. By this point I was no longer drunk I was hardly buzzing. And now I was nervous. Would they put me in the cell with another intersex? What did they do with intersexes? What if they see my junk and just throw me in the cell with another man? A rapist! Would it be better for me to just confess and possibly obtain more criminal charges? I tried to comfort myself with the facts I’d learned working at Universal Explorers: Prisons are less violent and safer because of more guards and more video cameras.
I went through the jail’s own booking process. I was taken out of handcuffs and placed in a holding tank all by myself. The first inmate I saw was a huge biker-looking dude. He had tattoos and a beard. I could see him riding a motorcycle, I don’t know. Then they called me to be stripped out.
A man and a woman escorted me to a room. On the way to the room, I was shaking. How was my prosthetic holding up? The glue could last for a couple days, but maybe all of these unfamiliar movements and being unable to adjust myself because of the handcuffs had my prosthetic coming undone. Not only that, but what if these cops could spot a fake penis? What if they’re trained to spot one? All these thoughts were running in my head when we got to the stripout room.
“We’ve been told that you’re a hermaphrodite,” the female guard said. “We’ve never dealt with anything like this before, so we’d like to know who you’re more comfortable with stripping you out. Me or him?”
I pointed at the woman.

“Me? Okay.” She nodded at the male guard, and he walked out of the room. “All right, strip all the way down and throw your clothes over there in the corner.” I did as I was told. When she saw what was swinging between my legs, she shouted, “Oh my God! Why didn’t you just tell us you were a tranny?! Reynolds! Reynolds?” Reynolds appeared in the doorway. “He’s a tranny. Not a hermaphrodite.” The lady left Reynolds to take over the strip-out.
He glanced down at my junk, narrowed his eyes at me, and shook his head. “Let me see behind your ears. Open your mouth. Lift up your tongue. Run your fingers over your gums. Lift up your penis. Testicles. Turn around. Bottoms of your feet. Squat and cough. All right, put on these clothes.” He reached over, pulled some clothes off of a counter, and handed them to me. I hurriedly put the clothes on. White boxers, shirt, socks, and an orange jumpsuit.
From there, I was escorted to my new home. After walking past a few cells with transgenders in them, I understood why they instantly thought I was a dude when they saw what was swinging between my legs. Some of the trannies looked better than me! With bigger tits and everything! I would’ve thought a few of them were women out on the street.
For whatever reason, they had some policy to not allow transgenders to mix with the males and females, and I did all of my time at the jail in solitary confinement. Which was fine with me. Even though I continued to try and comfort myself with the facts I’d learned working for that lobbying
firm, I was fucking scared of going to general population! I didn’t want to be raped! Who did?
Nobody, that’s who. One thing that did ease my mind was talking with other inmates who had been to prison before. During our hour of free time out of our cells, we could walk up to other cells and talk with inmates. The thing I heard over and over was how many prisoners are homophobes and refuse to live in a cell with, eat at a table with, or even speak with homosexuals. Though I normally hate intolerance, if I’m to be honest, it comforted me like a warm blanket. Because if that was the
worst of it, I could deal with it. But I hoped I wouldn’t even have to go to prison. I was just
mentally preparing myself, just in case.
I was actually given a $50,000 bail. I wanted to make bail so bad, but it was too risky. There were only two people I trusted with all the money I had stashed, and those two people were my
grandparents. The problem was they’re old and not quick on their feet, literally or figuratively, and I couldn’t trust them to not accidentally out me for being Brooklyn Moraine Davis instead of Jerome Leonard Chaffin. It was a risk I wasn’t willing to take. Plus, I knew they hated crime and criminals just as much as I did, and, hell, they might just snitch on my ass!
There was no way I was going to leave that money, though, so I had one of my friends from college call my grandparents and tell them I was incarcerated in another state, that I’m embarrassed and sorry, but I needed them to get all of my property out of my apartment since I was going to be in jail for at least several months. They wound up taking care of everything, which was a huge relief.
After serving six months, I eventually took a plea deal to serve three years for possession of an illegal firearm. My lawyer told me I’d only have to do a year and a half because in Colorado you only have to do half your time for a nonviolent offense. Better than the fifteen years they were intimidating me with.
A few weeks after taking the deal and receiving my time, I was sent to a receiving center for more processing and solitary. While I was there, I found out I’d be going to a medium level 3 facility all because I was written up at the jail for being in possession of a razor. I used the razor to cut up paper and make cards. But I got written up for being in “possession of dangerous contraband.” It’s not like I was going to use the razor to hurt somebody—I was in the hole! That incident bumped my risk level up, unfortunately.
Once I got to my final destination, I dreaded the level 3 medium security prison; I had to go
through their processing as well. I was going to general population, they told me. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. It was happening this time.
I wiped my sweaty hands on my green scrubs. I came in with other people, but I was the only one given a yellow shirt to put on underneath my green scrub top.
“What’s up with the yellow shirt?” I said.

“All transgenders wear these,” another inmate told me. The guard beside him nodded.

Not much longer after that, it happened. The guard began telling everyone where they were going. What unit, pod, and cell. Me? Probably in the cell with some psycho rapist. No biggie. They’re everywhere, don’t even worry about it! You’ll get used to it. Nobody said that, of course, but the guards and inmates were so calm and cool—used to all this!—that it vexed me a little bit.
“You’re going to five unit,” the guard said. “B pod, third tier, cell two. Here’s your key.” He
handed me said key.
Holding up the key, I said, “What’s this for?”

“It’s the key to your cell,” he said. “You know, to unlock the door?” He laughed.

I mock-smiled at his bastard-ass and walked off pushing a cart with my property in it. I had a key to my cell . . . I thought I was going to some deadly medium-security prison. Not
someplace where we had keys to our own cells. Maybe I would be all right here. I mean, if they trusted inmates that much at this facility, it couldn’t be that bad.
When I entered the outside walkway to go to unit 5, inmates were pulling up weeds in the beautiful green grass out there. The grass is as well taken care of as the inmates, I imagined. The chirping birds and warm sunlight strengthened these thoughts of this “prison.”
A guard opened the door to unit 5 for me, and I thanked him as I stepped into the building. As soon as I walked in, I saw three pods. In the middle of the rotunda was a guard tower. The pods had four phones attached to the walls in each of them, and four tables with inmates playing cards, chess, and other games on them. I walked over to the pod that had a big letter B above it. The door electronically unlocked. The guard in the tower must’ve been watching me. I pushed the cart into B pod with me.

If the area outside of the units was some small piece of heaven, inside the depths of this unit was some form of hell. The sulfuric stench of shit singed my nose hairs upon stepping into the pod. The culprits were the bathrooms on each of the three tiers. The contrast between the bright sunlight outside and dim lighting in the pod was depressing. It wasn’t all that loud when I entered the room, but I later found that was only because everybody was too busy observing me. Most of the dangerous-looking guys with tattoos only glanced at me. All the guys who looked at me with interest either wore glasses, were overweight, or appeared to have a screw loose.
I pulled my bag of property out of the cart and walked up the stairs to my cell. The time had come for me to see what hell-raiser of a celly I’d been given. I eyed my new celly through the window, lying on the top bunk reading a book. He wasn’t so stupid or crazy that he couldn’t read. Had to be a good sign, right? I turned the key in the door, and it automatically opened.
My celly, looking to be in his late twenties–early thirties, rolled over and checked me out.

He smirked and said, “Oh, God.”

I stopped my foot from falling in his cell and backed it out. “Is it all right if I’m your celly?”

He chuckled and sat up. “Absolutely not.” He rubbed his short blond hair and looked around for something. He jumped off of the bunk and found a shirt. He had tattoos all over his arms and body. Before he put on his shirt, I saw his chest read “DEATH Angel,” with Angel written in cursive. I thought that he could be a gangster, but it wasn’t easy to tell. He didn’t
appear as hard as the others I’d seen with tattoos blasted all over their faces and skulls. He put on his shoes. “Don’t unpack your stuff,” he said. “Because you’re not going to be here long. Matter of fact, step away from the cell, please.”

He thanked me after I complied with his polite command. Regardless of how he looked (short, innocuous, with a clever gleam in his eyes), he was dangerous. His confidence, even the way he was polite, sent shivers down my back. He walked past me I assumed to go speak with an officer. I stood there, stupidly uncomfortable, not knowing what to do. Everybody was looking at me now. Some of them were laughing.
“Why don’t you get the fuck outta here, faggot!” The monster who shouted that had to be around 6’6” and had a huge tattoo on his face.
A tall Hispanic guy approached me before I even had time to consider leaving like Tattoo Face said. “Sup, girl? Why don’t we go tell the cops you wanna live wit’ me?”
“No,” I said. “I want to find out what’s going on first.” He grinned. “He ain’t gonna live wit’
you.”
All I wanted to tell this guy was that this was my first time in prison, I was extremely nervous, and just wanted time alone to think! Instead of telling him all this, I panicked and walked in my cell and shut the door. Never have I felt more stupid, embarrassed, and scared in my life, and these guys were criminals! I shouldn’t have felt stupid or embarrassed because of them! They were the ignorant ones. Not me.
My celly opened the door. “Go ahead and go to the office. They’re going to move you somewhere else.” His icy blue eyes stared expectantly.
The man was insidious. There was no doubt about it, but I felt like he’d listen to reason. I opened my mouth, and a guard appeared behind him.
“Hall, work with me here,” the guard said. “Let him live with you for one day, and I’ll find him a new place to live first thing tomorrow morning. It’s shift change, man. Give me a

break here. Please.” The guard continued to plead with his eyes while “Hall” stared prison shanks at him.
He turned those sharp eyes at me. “Are you a sex offender? Do you have your paperwork?”
I said, “I have my paperwork,” at the same time the guard told him, “He’s not an S.O. I can promise you that.” All three of us waited for me to find my paperwork. When I found it, I handed it to Hall, my hopeful celly, who began reading.
How could I not be hopeful to have a celly who refused to live with a sex offender? It was ideal for me. Then I knew I wouldn’t be raped. By him at least. At the same time, I was also shocked to know some criminals, especially a dangerous one, actually had a moral compass, a guiding light directing them on what’s right and wrong. Anybody who held to such principles has to care about the victims of those sex crimes. I always assumed criminals didn’t have empathy, and here was this murderer, more than likely, showing me just how wrong I was.
“Tomorrow morning,” my celly said to the guard. His narrowed eyes held onto the guard’s with a firm grip as he handed my papers back to me.
“You have my word on that, Hall,” the guard replied.

“Come on,” Hall said to me. “I’ll move all of this shit out of the way for you. Name’s Monty, by the way.”
“Brooklyn,” I accidentally said. I had planned on keeping my real name to myself for the duration of my stay in prison. The whole situation rattled me enough that I forgot the nickname I had been giving everybody. “I usually go by Natalie, but I figured I’d give you a name that isn’t so girly. I heard how some guys don’t want to call men feminine names. You could also call me Jerome, though.”

Monty didn’t respond, and I felt like such an idiot. He moved his stuff, which was mostly books on writing, English grammar, and dictionaries and thesauruses, onto his side of the shelf and table for me. But that’s all we had in the cell to store our property. One concrete table, one concrete shelf, and bunk beds—in a 6 x 12-foot cell. After he made some room for me, he climbed up to his bed by stepping on the table and hopping up there.
I unpacked all of my property, got myself situated, and lay on my bunk. Boredom didn’t set in. I was thinking about what I could say to Monty to get him to want to be my celly. Other than the obvious. Even though he was ignorantly intolerant of homosexuals, I’d rather live with him than
some rapist. That was my worst fear. It didn’t make sense that he knew right from wrong when it came to sexually violent predators but didn’t know it was wrong to be so cruel toward gays.
“I’m not a homophobe, you know,” Monty said, as if he’d heard my thoughts. “I don’t care what people do behind closed doors. That’s their business. It’s just that I have a life sentence and want to make my time as easy as possible. If somebody calls me a faggot because I’m living in the cell with a gay guy, I’m going to want to hurt that dude. My reputation is all I have in here, and I’m not going to let you or anybody else tarnish that.”
I weighed what he said and replied, “They would call you names even if we didn’t have sex with each other or anything?”
He sighed. “People gossip. People make shit up. There’s not much to do in here, so dudes will invent stories. Even though you’re not going to be in this cell twenty-four hours, I guarantee dudes are talking shit right now.”
“If they’re already talking shit, why not keep me as your celly?”

He laughed. “It’d be easier to show you.” He jumped off the bunk and got out his paperwork. I sat up. “At this point, they’re not going to talk shit to my face because of my reputation, but if I
were in the cell with you for a long period of time, people will think I’ve gone soft.” He handed me his paperwork.
I kept my eyes on him. “If there’s nothing wrong with being gay, why let it bother you?” “It’s not what they say that bothers me; it’s their intent. If they’re trying to disrespect me,
I’m not going to let them go back and tell their friends how they bitched Monty up, and he didn’t do anything about it.”
I looked down at his paperwork before he saw the pity in my eyes. What a sad way to live. The first page showed what all he was incarcerated for. There it was: murder. All the rest of the papers were still-frame photos of him in the act of stabbing an inmate . . . another inmate . . . and a guard? With each page I turned, I felt a growing urge to bolt for the door and get the hell out of there. Why did I want to live with this psychopath again?
“You’re probably thinking something is seriously wrong with me.” I swear, this dude needed to get out of my head! “But that’s not who I am. I’m originally incarcerated because I caught a guy stealing from my girlfriend, and I came to her defense. I first tried talking the guy into doing what was right. It got physical, and I took out a knife because he was a lot bigger than me. And I stabbed him several times to get him off of me. He died from those wounds, obviously.” The regret in his tone and the expression on his face had me almost believing him. “The stabbing on this dude,” he pointed at a picture, “he was a six-foot-six-inch psychopathic murderer who patted me on the ass, and I didn’t want to be raped by him, so that’s why I stabbed him.” He flipped some papers and pointed at another one. “This guy ran in my cell hoping to rob me, but I didn’t know what was going on. I thought I was in a fight for my life. He had a knife!

What was I supposed to think? I took the knife from him and he kept fighting me, so I stabbed him
with it.” He took a deep breath. I could see in his wild eyes that he was reliving that moment in telling me. He shuffled through more pictures and got to the ones of him stabbing a guard. “And
that guard and his partner literally beat the shit outta me while I was in shackles and handcuffs.
I tried going about things the right way by filing a lawsuit on them, but they covered
it up so well there was ‘no evidence to support my allegations.’ The cuts on my face didn’t support my truth. The fact I had feces all over me wasn’t enough evidence that they excessively beat me, either. I also saw that guard assault three other inmates. I was just tired of the abuse going on at that facility and decided to do something about it.”
His head fell farther and farther while he told his stabbing stories. They weighed on him, and he wasn’t proud of them. A part of me felt disgusting for judging him so quickly. I actually got off of my bed to hug him, then I remembered where we were and that I was Jerome, not Brooklyn. Another thought clicked in my mind, too. It was the logical part of my brain, I think. This criminal was likely acting and reciting what he’s repeated numerous times. He probably didn’t even truly care if he lived in the cell with a sex offender. He might just be the same way toward gays. But this small, new part of me that was growing shouted that I KNEW he was going to refuse to live with me if I were a sex offender. It also screamed at me to stop being so close-minded. The truth was, I thought Monty was merely an average Joe who refused to be a victim. And that thought battled my
twenty-one-year-old belief that all criminals were terrible people.
Finally, I said, “Thank you for sharing all this with me.” I wanted to say more. I wanted to tell him that all in the matter of an hour he was shattering my perception of criminals and violent offenders, but mostly I wanted to tell him one thing: “You’re a good man, Monty.” Just the idea of speaking these words to him gave me goosebumps, but I didn’t really know him well enough to say this. I didn’t even know him well enough to say it was true. What was I thinking? Was I lying to myself about this guy because I was in fear of going to another cell and being raped? I did just meet him. But I also desperately wanted to tell him he was a good person. What would that do to him? To somebody who has a record that says otherwise? I’d bet anything he had heard the opposite for many, many years.
“You’re welcome,” he said. He climbed back onto his bunk lethargically, appearing emotionally drained. And I lay back on mine.
I wondered if he had ever shared the truth of these stories with others. Probably so. But I
appreciated his allowing himself to become so vulnerable with me. Could I do the same for him?
Should I do the same for him? There were a number of times I wanted to share my secret with people on the street and inside. I never did, though. It was too risky, but maybe I could do it for him.
Really, it’d be for me. If I’m being honest.
“Monty?” I said. “Yeah?”
My mind raced. Should I really share this with him? If I don’t tell him now, I never will. “Why don’t you want to live in the cell with a sex offender?”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who think they can change.”

“No,” I said. “I’m curious. Because people on the street think criminals have no morals or
principles, and they can’t change, so why do you think sex offenders can’t change but other
criminals can?” And I need to know if this is another one of those situations where your reputation is on the line again.

“All right,” he said. “This is what I believe: People are either naturally straight, naturally gay,
or naturally into both genders. One can’t simply pray the gay away, as they say. And I
believe it’s wrong to think one could. Now, holding to that belief, I don’t see anybody praying the child molester out of a predator who is naturally attracted to children. That’s just the way they were wired. Anybody who believes otherwise is either fooling themselves or is just as ignorant as someone who wants to pray the gay away. Even dudes who think every woman is a whore or every woman wants them is suspect in my book. Their wiring is fucked. They’re not living in the reality of the fact that everyone is different.”
He had a good argument, though it was highly opinionated. But the dude impressed the hell out of me, regardless. I decided I’d tell him. I stood so that I could look him in the eyes.
“Monty, I wanted to tell you something after you expounded on your crimes, and now I just can’t help coming out and saying it—I believe you’re a damn good guy. I know I don’t know you well, but you’ve already surprised me, and I know if we were cellies longer than a day, you’d continue to surprise me.”
That smile he shined down on me was worth telling him that. I’d never forget the power of a compliment from that moment on. He stayed silent for a while, possibly replaying my saying that over and over. Then he said, “I appreciate your sharing that with me.”
“It’s my pleasure.” And it truly was. I gave him a warm smile before standing at the back of the cell so that he could see my whole body. “What if I were to tell you I’m a woman?”
He chuckled. “Isn’t that what all transgenders say?”

“No,” I said. “What would you say if I showed you I’m really a female?”

His visage grew deadly serious. “I’d say you better leave your damn clothes on while I’m in this cell with you. Or you’re gonna see a whole new side of me very quickly.”

Instead of showing him, I just came out and told him my whole story. From my friends in college getting sugar daddies, to obtaining breast implants and meeting Alice, and, eventually, buying prosthetics for the Onyx Lounge. At first his countenance was red and tight. As my story went on, the muscles in his face softened. When I got to the end of my tale, he laughed. “I thought you were about to tuck your dick between your legs like Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs!” He chuckled some more while I laughed with him. “Well? Fuck it, let’s see it.” I gaped at him. “Don’t get scared now. That’s what you were about to do before you told me your story, right?”
I pulled down my pants and boxers and peeled off the prosthetic to expose myself to him.

A tube of glue fell out of the genitals.

“That’s where you keep the glue for that thing?” he said. “Yep.”
He smiled. “This is so crazy.” He shook his head, unable to process it all. “Go ahead and cover yourself up. Thank you for showing me. You really shouldn’t have told me, though. You have my word that I won’t tell anybody your secret, but you can’t trust anybody else.”
“You’re the only person I’ve EVER told about this!” I confessed.

“Good. ’Cause I’ll tell you what happens in here: You tell one dude and that dude will say to
another guy, ‘If I tell you a secret, you can’t share it with anybody else, okay?’ And that’ll be
said over and over with your secret hanging off the end of it like a fake penis.”
“I get it,” I said. “That’s why you’re the only one I’ve told about this. None of my friends or
family knows. I told no one.”
He laughed. “You’re fucking crazy! You just met me!”

I laughed myself. “Put yourself in my shoes. Wouldn’t you rather live with a guy in a men’s prison who hates sex offenders than live with a guy who IS a rapist?”
“Damn,” he said, putting his head down, thinking. “You told me your secret because you want to stay in this cell with me . . .” He stared at his bed, eyes moving from side to side. “Fuck. I’ve been down fifteen years, lady. And I’m going to continue to be here long after you’re gone. All I have is my reputation in here, you know?”
“Please, Monty,” I pleaded with him. I placed my hands on his. “Look, how about I show somebody else you trust my secret the day I leave so you can continue to have good standing with the people in here.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, not angrily. He seemed to be contemplating, weighing whether or not my plan would even work. “Shit! You don’t get it. When you leave again?”
“In ten months.”

“So for ten months people are going to treat me like shit. They’re going to avoid eye contact with me or look at me with disgust. None of my current friends are going to talk with me anymore. People will make indirect comments meant to disrespect me. The list goes on.”
I couldn’t ask him to make this sacrifice for me anymore. How could I? Yes, I was in fear for my life, but I was asking for more than a place to live. I was asking him to change his life for the rest of his life.
He stared at me with morose eyes. “Tomorrow we’ll tell the sergeant that after talking we
discovered you’re a cousin of mine and that I want to protect you by being your celly.”
Although I didn’t want to smile because this wasn’t a joyous occasion for him, I couldn’t help it.
“Thank you, Monty. Thank you SO much. You are the best man I’ve—”

“That’s enough.” He chuckled while gesturing for me to keep going. “No, please stop.” When I opened my mouth to say more, he said, “I’m just messing with you.” He sat there looking at me and shaking his head, still incredulous. Suddenly his eyes grew. “Wait. What do you do when you’re on your period?”
“I have something called an intra-uterine device in me, and I haven’t had a period in over a year.”
“Oh,” he said, obviously never hearing of one before.

I know what you’re thinking. And I’m not going to lie, I thought the same thing as well. When is this guy going to start hitting on me? He never did. Never flirted with me in any way. I mean, here’s a man who hasn’t had sex in over fifteen years, and he wasn’t going to make a move on me? I wondered if maybe he was gay. It took me a little over forty-eight hours to ask him.
“Why don’t you ever hit on me?”

He chuckled and placed a bookmark in his novel before setting it down. He sat up on his bunk. “You’re in a vulnerable position, and I don’t want you to feel obligated to fuck me so that I’ll keep your secret or protect you from rapists or allow you to stay in this cell. It’s borderline rape for me to hit on you, in my opinion.” He took a deep breath. “Now, if you were to hit on me, I’d go for it, as you can imagine.”
His eyes. Those primal eyes latched onto mine like he wanted to rip my clothes off and attack me with the fifteen years of built-up lust that raged within him, but he turned his head, sucked in a lot of air, and blew it out violently. His self-restraint was a real turn-on.
“But I’m not asking you to do that,” he said. He grabbed his book and was likely about to lay back down, but when I put both my hands on his legs, it stopped him.

“Why don’t we get on my bunk and get more comfortable?” I asked him. His hungry eyes devoured me before climbing down.
Monty had underestimated the level of respect (or fear) he had earned in prison over the years. Because in those ten months we were cellmates, I never saw or heard anybody disrespect him. We
didn’t have a single incident, other than my glue running out. He had gotten me a bunch of
different kinds until finally we got our hands on a type of glue that was actually strong enough to hold up the prosthetic, and we didn’t have to cake it on there to make it work, either. Not many guys are like Monty. We laid out one rule, and that one rule was that we would only be friends with benefits so that we wouldn’t ever try to control each other. And he stuck to it. While I wanted something more with him after just a few weeks. But he actually told me no! Amazing, right? He said that we should wait until I was out on the street for several months to see if
that’s what I really wanted. The man had a terrible habit of impressing me.
The only other guys I came across who were similar to Monty had life sentences. And it made me think. What was it about a life sentence that turned them into great guys? Guys who always wanted to educate themselves. Guys who wanted to BE better people. Guys who made their environment better just by being in it. Maybe to get a life sentence was a life-altering experience. Maybe by being considered “the worst of the worst,” they pushed hard to prove to themselves and the world that they could be “the best of the best.” It chokes me up just thinking about it.
I mean, this is the guy who taught me how to write. His immeasurable patience and encouragement are what allowed me to retain all that I did. He pushed me to write this story, and I’m glad that he did.

And can you believe he learned something from me? The day before it was time for me to leave, he told me, “Ever since you said I shouldn’t feel disrespected about someone calling me names, I’ve been thinking a lot about words and the power they can possess. But it’s up to us on how we register those words. We can let them change us for better or worse. And I choose to have your words impact me so that I won’t allow anybody’s words to affect me negatively. So, thank you for that.”

Monty also convinced me to reach out to my father, and come to find out, my dad DID send me birthday and Christmas cards every year. My grandparents confirmed it, too. They said they withheld the letters and cards to protect me, but they kept them all for when I was more mature and responsible enough to judge him for myself. Now my father and I have a great relationship, and I visit him once a month.
Even though Monty had changed his view on how important others’ perceptions of him were, I still exposed myself to three of his friends after some tough convincing to believe I was truly a female.
Of course, all three of them asked for a five-minute quickie. I told them to go fuck themselves.
They told me to go to hell, and we parted laughing.
When I returned to the street, I left my alias in Colorado and moved back to Cali to finish my education debt free. It only required me to be a stripper, steal someone’s identity, and go to prison, but, hey, it’s the new American way. Yay, mass incarceration!
At least I returned to Cali with a name that didn’t have a criminal record, no parole officer to report to, and a life totally different from the one I had left. No longer was I the ignorant prig who judged criminals based on their past. I now formed opinions of others on where I saw them in
the future. I also replaced old facts I’d learned with new ones. Like, did you know lifers who are paroled or somehow given a second chance on the street have the lowest

recidivism rate of any criminal offender? Didn’t shock me at all when I discovered that. Only thing that startled me was the lack of anything being done about it. Where was the humanity, compassion, and morality? People shouldn’t live in fear all their lives when human lives hang in the balance. A life sentence is a sentence of death by incarceration. America has two forms of the death penalty while most progressive nations don’t even have one. We can do better.
I kept in touch with Monty. If it wasn’t clear in the paragraphs above, I love the guy.

Though I wanted to continue a relationship with him, I knew it wouldn’t work. I would never be able to visit him because the guards there would recognize me, so I couldn’t hug him, kiss him, or talk to him in person. It would pretty much be a long-distance relationship. And those never work. Still haven’t even thought of being with any other guy, though. I’m kind of just wishing one day America will come to its senses. I heard Washington state is considering passing a bill
that’ll allow ANY prisoner to go up for parole after serving 15 straight years. I’m hoping that forward thinking will sweep the nation. We’ll see.
I never did abandon the name Jerome Leonard Chaffin, either. We have a history, he and

I. He’s a part of my past, and I don’t ever want to forget how much I gained under that name—a good friend, a better perspective, and a great pen name.