The Yuma Prison warden made light of my release on December 24, 1889. “A fine Christmas present,” he said.
I wanted to remind him I’d done my time so there was no gift about it, but in my five years inside his hell hole I’d learned to keep my mouth shut. “Yes, sir,” I said.
“You stay out of trouble, Roy Shuster,” he counseled.
“Yes, sir.”
“You can go now.”
At last I was out of prison duds, wearing new pants, shirt, and coat, but still in prison issue boots and without any hat. Or gun, of course. I felt somewhat light in going about without pistol and rig, but knew I’d best get used to it.
When I walked into Yuma proper, a town of little consequence, but paradise to me, I knew folks would spot me being a released convict because getting on the other side of the walls doesn’t take away the look of a man who’s been inside. I suspect we all appear hungry, too hungry maybe, but I didn’t care on this as I could walk around free. I had five dollars honest money and I bought myself the first whiskey in five years, threw it back, and got a second which I drank with care. I then turned to look about the room where men played cards or stood joshing one another, all free as birds. I had planned on this moment the whole of last year, time when I could go about among men, but had no idea I’d want to tell them how lucky they are.
It’s easy to spot an accommodating fellow, and that was what I was looking for, my first act of freedom a drink, the second a fuck. Catch a fellow’s eye, hold his gaze, and if that goes, then drop a hand down to the privates. A nod is all it takes. Follow him out, usually back near the privy, and do the deed. I’d had me a time before I shot that fellow and went to prison, getting the nod often because I’m fine looking. And I don’t believe my prison years ruined that. Just made me powerful hungry.
There he was, off to one side, talking with some men who he looked past to catch my eye. He was a rough sort, big and full bearded, and when I held his gaze and grabbed my privates, he left those men and came over. I finished my drink and he surprised me by heading out front instead of out back. He said he had a place.
It was little more than a shack out toward the prison, as rough as the man, but I cared not. He wanted full naked so I did that and worked my cock as he revealed a body so furry he looked more bear than man. “You just released?” he asked.
“Let go this afternoon.”
“Then you’re hungry.”
“That I am.”
He dropped down and sucked a load out of me in about two seconds and I issued all manner of whoops because a man in prison cannot make a sound when he’s getting off, even by his own hand. I now squealed like a pig, and when the fellow pulled off and stood up, he introduced himself as Abram Dorn.
“Roy Shuster,” I returned. “Pleased to meet you, Abram.”
He drew me to him, his hard cock getting in between my legs, but he didn’t hurry toward tending it. He petted me a bit, running his hand through my curly hair, and looking upon me with what seemed affection. “Lay down,” he finally said.
He took me rough the first time, gentle the second, during which he kissed me. I’d never had this as men always just fucked and ran, so I got how Abram was more than most. And I liked this mingling of tongues. Tasting a man a whole new way.
“You’re not like the others,” I told him as we lay together later on, my head on his chest. “Nobody ever did it slow like or petted me.”
“Lovemaking is what it’s called, Roy. You young bucks are hurried where an older fellow appreciates the whole of a man and takes his time.”
“Well, I am much obliged.”
“My pleasure.”
“How is it you come to be in Yuma?” I asked.
“I served ten years for killing a man,” he told me. “Went in at sixteen and when I came out a man took me in, helped me, loved me. Older fellow who’s dead now. I meant to move on, but never did. I try to help a fellow now and then. I make my living doing this and that, such as things come my way.”
I took this to mean criminal activity and I couldn’t help but smile. “You take in other convicts?” I asked.
