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Prison Bitch

If variety is the spice of life, then this poor bastard has

one long salty evening ahead of him

Prison Bitch by Patrick O'Neill



Teddy was one of those white boys that sagged. Checkered shorts sticking out from black 501's tucked into big ass white K-Swiss sneakers. Hella old school, and shit, with a stained wife beater and a beanie. And then that walk. A cold yard stroll shifting shoulders as his feet hit the ground. Word was he'd just gotten out, finally made the streets on high control parole, and his presence was not going unnoticed.

Luanna, working the ho-stroll, looked up from inspecting her nails and there was Teddy large as hell, all buffed from working out nonstop that twelve-month stretch he'd just done up in Corcoran. Luanna thought Teddy a dead ringer for Eninem; all muscle, blonde buzz-cut, and blasted with penitentiary tats. She'd gone all goofy when she'd seen him. Something twitched inside of her. Like deep inside. Made her wet imagining his hands on her. Hard taut muscle rubbing her pussy lips totally stretched out, and he hadn't even said a word to her yet.    

But the night had barely started and Luanna had business to conduct. If she didn't get to it, she'd be left out in the cold with no scratch to even pay her overdue motel bill. So she turned a trick, and kept her mind on business, and then Teddy slid up next to her and said "hi." It was all she could do not to go full on goo-goo eyed.  She wanted him so bad. But apparently he didn't want to just do it. He had other plans, and they talked while sharing a forty outside the liquor store on Third Street.

"Baby-doll, ya ever fuck a tranny?" He asked.  

"Now baby, whys I gotta be fuckin' a he she?" Was Luanna's response.

"Not you," he said. "Us."


But that was before they'd made it back to her motel and Teddy pulled out an eight ball he'd scored with his Department of Corrections gate money; two hundred plus the cash off his books from that little job making office furniture in prison industries.

He'd popped a gram and a half of speed into two rigs and hit Luanna like her veins were still the same as when she was fifteen years old. Slamming that meth into her brain at hundred miles an hour.  And when Teddy jazzed his issue, his face went all red, eyes bulging and sweat pouring out from everywhere on his body.

"Nothin' like a good lookin' bitch with boobs an' a dick," he said, stroking the front of his boxers.

Luanna saw his pud stiffen, fell to her knees in front of him, and pulled down his shorts. Teddy didn't even miss a beat, grabbing her head and pushed into her mouth until she gagged.

Later, sharing a cigarette on the bed, the covers tossed on the floor, an open tube of lube on the nightstand, FOX network blaring COPS reruns on the color TV across the room. Luanna wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and rolled over. Her face inches from his.

"Y'all wanna tranny, I get ya one," she said.


Shuantae saw her coming, skinny-ass white bitch bee-lining straight for her. She was on a mission, and that mission was obviously Shauntae. That much was plain as hell, but what Shauntae couldn't figure out was why, or even what this bitch wanted with her. Shauntae didn't do bitches. She was strictly man meat. Her dick got hard for boy abs and tight buns of steel. Not pussy and tinny bitch tits.       

"Got's a proposition for you," cooed Luanna.

Something about this white girl made Shauntae's skin pucker up in goose bumps, and not the good kind either. She had a creep vibe coming off of her like a child-molesting counselor on a three day run at a YMCA summer camp.

"Don't do snatch," said Shauntae.

"Not for me silly," purred Luanna as she waved the last of Teddy's dollar bills in Shauntae's face.

"Gotta boy, just got out. Needs your special attention."  

"Where he be at?" Asked Shauntae.

"Room 104. Sunset Motor Inn."

"Show me the way, lil' girl. But it gonna cost y'all a lot more than what ya got there."

Luanna laughed, and grabbed Shauntae's hand, pulling her across the parking lot. Something about this wasn't right, thought Shauntae, but she went along anyway. Money was scarce and it's been a slow night. Maybe her luck was about to change?


Luanna looked up at the blade pressing into Shauntae's throat, and reached down to guide the tranny's dick inside of her.

"It's still limp, baby," she said to Teddy.

"Best be gettin' hard," whispered Teddy into Shauntae's ear.

His arm wrapped around her waist, body pressed up against her ass. In his other hand he held a knife against Shauntea's adam's apple, a trickle of blood dripping across the blade. Shauntea closed her eyes. A teardrop ran down her cheek.

"This ain't how my fantasy was workin'," said Teddy. "S’posed to be fuckin' you, while you're fuckin' her."

"Told ya… don't do pussy," sobbed Shauntae.
              

An unmade bed in an empty motel room, a "do not disturb" sign hanging from the doorknob swings in the breeze outside. A siren echoes off the surrounding buildings, fading as it goes further away. The morning sun just now rising over downtown waking the winos and junkies early so they can get a head start looking for that first fix of the day.


Teddy had shot the last of his speed while waiting for Luanna to show up with Shauntae. His two-day meth binge coming to a screeching halt, just in time to report late to parole or be listed as absconding. His PO's on the spot piss test violates him in thirty seconds flat and before he can say "what the fuck?" Teddy is weighed down in chains on the grey goose heading north on a one way return ticket to Corcoran.

Luanna, back on the ho-stroll trying to make up for last night's lost revenue, shifts her eyes at the battered blue Ford Maverick as it haltingly pulls to the curb beside her.

"Wanna date, sugar?" She says to the fat man behind the wheel. His dick already out and in his hand. Which normally would have set Luanna off and she'd of cussed him out. But all she's thinking about is Shauntea's perfect set of fake boobs in her face when she finally got hard.  


Patrick O’Neil is the author of the memoir, Gun, Needle, Spoon (Dzanc Books), and the excerpted in part French translation, Hold-Up (13e Note Editions). His writing has appeared in numerous publications, including: Juxtapoz, Sensitive Skin, Salon.com, The Weeklings, Razorcake, and Fourteen Hills. He is a regular contributor to the recovery website After Party Chat, and has been nominated twice for Best of the Net. Patrick lives in Hollywood, California, and teaches online and at a local community college. For more information please see www.patrick-oneil.com