Episode 29 - Sex In Prison

It's surreal how the X-rated antics in the outside world still manage to seep into prison.

During the three and a half years I was in prison I wrote over a million words by hand. Tales From The Jails is a contemporaneous account of my life, and attempts to thrive rather than merely survive, whilst incarcerated.

Most names have been changed. The events have not.

This is a Jekyll & Pride production.

Producer: Trevessa Newton

Title Music taken from The Confession, on the album Crimes Against Poetry (written and performed by The Shadow Poet, produced by Lance Thomas)

Copyright Jekyll & Pride Ltd 2025

@jekyllandpride2023
@theshadowpoettsp

Transcript

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During the three and a half years I was in prison, I wrote over a million words by hand. Tales from the Jails is a contemporaneous account of my life, and attempts to thrive rather than merely survive whilst incarcerated. Most names have been changed, but the events have not. Episode 29 Sex In Prison I'm approaching six months inside Walton, and from experience as much as observation, I can confirm there are three types of sexual relationship in prison. Prisoner to prisoner, inmate and officer and prison officers having affairs with each other. If it was a quiz question, I suppose it would come in the form of which group is having the most sex. There's a trans guy on K Wing who's giving out blow jobs. Mr. H pointed him out on the way back from the stores last week. Apparently he's got a dress back in the cell and no shortage of clients. When I told J, he said it was true. One of the other K Wingers was rejected, apparently, and complained that the head giver was running a blow job business in prison. It's laughable, but serious from the Governor and staff's point of view. We both agreed someone on K Wing is being shipped out imminently. As for the general prison population, gay guys are scattered around the wings. The older ones are more open about it. By that I mean they don't broadcast it, but they're not hiding it either, or afraid to open up about it. These guys don't tend to get much flak, surprisingly. The prison population in general doesn't bully, intimidate, or bang on about it. I've never heard a prisoner being terrorized through the doors for being gay, however, the younger guys certainly don't out themselves. Mr. P loves to throw out the gay for the stay shout. I've got to be honest, he's too fond of K wing and expect he's crossed the professional line at some point, and not with a female member of staff. He's the type who makes your skin crawl and hates prisoners, but I've witnessed far too many times, he never gives K Wingers a hard time. There's plenty of jail stories about sexual abuse or a crew of lads going into a pad on a lad who's plugged, and if he isn't volunteering to drop it, then it's coming out with a blade and a spoon. The depravity and violence from the jail talk know no limits, and it's hard to believe what you hear. I've not witnessed anything like that here in Walton and raping of lads, that could just be jailhouse bullshit to scare other prisoners. Toenails, the prison Oracle loves to talk about anything that is base and provokes a response or instills unnecessary fear. Where I can speak from experience is down here in the workplace. Things are said by officers about other officers. They throw each other under the bus as regular as my fellow inmates. One of the female officers, she's older than me, Ms. W. Long hair, blondish with a pervasive gray. She's old school. Rarely speaks to any of us, and when she does, it's with contempt. I've never seen her smile, laugh, or be pleasant. Mr. B summed her up out of the blue. She walked past us when we were passing through a steel gate. Straight from the hippie smoke. She used to be a looker when she was young, G. Plenty of the longer serving lads have had a go. Then he rattled off four of them. The fifth was Mr... well, I won't mention it. But Mr. B said that it was serious and for quite some time, although he was never leaving his wife. She, Ms. W, well, she's married to the job and then he gestured the bottle. Vodka at home and gin when she's out. I couldn't stop laughing. Yeah, by the time I landed here and settled in, she was too old. I don't know why he chose to offload scandal after scandal to me. Maybe he was seeing how I would respond. My instincts screamed, don't be drawn in. I played it safe with, prison, Mr. B, it's an X-rated soap opera. He loved that. It doesn't end there. Down in reception, there's an assortment of female staff who work regularly or who regularly pass through. I dare not indicate who or what department because their job title alone would be a dead giveaway. But there are two female members of staff who are dabbling with several of the lads. I'm 51, keep myself out of the spotlight and never, ever give off a hint, a flirt or a pheromone to any female member of staff. I don't think it, and my eyes do not wander or linger, and there is no male gaze from me, however, it had been put on me. The member of staff has led all the way. I do friendly, not flirty. Down here, hours of very little to do whilst we're waiting for the court arrivals creates boredom. Boredom fuels anything from snacking to too much tea and coffee and chatting, and that varies from two people to five or six, either the officers or the lads. The kitchen is definitely a hub and so is my workstation. The door to my left is the number one gateway between reception and the rest of the prison. It sounds ridiculous, but I have a counter and a roller shutter, a sort of corner shop, and last chance saloon before entering or returning to the wings. Miss Triple X was bubbly, short, and at least two stone overweight. This is not being unkind, but a description. She wears specs too. She flirts with the lads and they show her loads of attention. She loves to be direct and talk dirty. I've managed to swerve it, although she's stopped a few times and been curious about my old life as in the lifestyle, the partying, and the usual, what was it like? Familiarity and a fondness to be direct. Even blurted out, I bet you've got millions stashed. You must have, I've read about you online. Did you really have a Bentley? There's a fine line in prison with staff. Offend them and there's a consequence. This morning, five minutes after saying, how are you today? She made it clear. I'm in her sights and if I wanted, she could just slip into my workstation and we could have a little play. You can go back later and have a wank over me. That's what she said. I think the more I'd been polite and steered away from the usual prison flirting around her, the more she persisted. Don't get me wrong, Kenko had already had a little tickle, like naughty school kids, and he's been confiding to me about her antics both in here and her personal life outside. It's all crazy. Let me set the scene. I was sorting plastic knives, spoons, and forks for the packs, and she was hanging over the counter of my workstation, like a brassy barmaid who loves dare trips. She fixed herself in her bra, manhandling her supersized balloons. Oooh, you've made my nipples go hard and this bra's rubbing. I'd been a gent. I'm not inclined to be stupid or cross a line, but Jelly Belly I feared was persistent and she'll take risks. The lads flirt with her openly. If she's trying it on with me, then what's she up to with the younger guys? She's not slower coming forward. Her parting, giggling words were, don't go to the gym on Thursday, that's when I'm back in. I want to see the size of your cock. I reckon you've got a proper one. Then she bounced away smiling like a Cheshire cat. One thing was for certain I would not be cancelling the gym on Thursday and 100% I'm not confiding in anyone. That would be suicide. If Toenails found out I'd be fucked, and if an officer had a whiff, I'll be shipped out within hours. I fear Triple X's familiarity with inmates will be her undoing and I don't want to be around when it happens. It's surreal how the X-rated antics in the outside world, still managed to seep into prison. I wouldn't know where to begin explaining these shenanigans to T. It's great content but crazy. Imagine holding hands on a visit, madly in love, and then dropping in this grenade. Nah, there's a time and a place much further down the line for this. But it does not end there. The main scandal in HMP presently is Ms. Too Young, having an affair with Mr. F. She's probably 23 at most, and he isn't far behind me. Never would you have put these two together. It's the classic, he's old enough to be her father. She's attractive and he's ordinary. It's nuts. Apparently, they went camping together last week. He's married and fallen for her. Fellow officers know all about it, but worse, so do the lads on the wing and the rest of the prison. This will end in tears. Apparently his fellow officers aren't happy, especially with the lads knowing. Walton Prison knows about it before Mr. F's missus and family. There is a program on TV, 24 Hours in A E. I'm starting to think about my own called 24 Hours in HMP. Last night there was a demolition party down in the block. The asylum isn't dedicated only to the wings. The block down in the bowels of the prison is next level stuff. It was like the Sex Pistols trashing a place, but without the music. They were wrecking balls to the worst cells in the prison. Reeve and I wondered what was there left to demolish? Mayhem clashed with chaos, and Spice was definitely involved. It went on for hours, them and the alarms. Just as the peace arrived, the seagulls kicked off. By 8:00 am I was coiled like a spring, waiting to be unlocked and speak to T for some love nourishment, all eight minutes, 45 seconds. Just as I put the phone down, it was clear that one of the inmates had indulged in Spice for breakfast as the wing came alive and another bout of the sick entertainment began. The poor bloke i s running around like Quasimodo. By midday, I knew everything. Apparently a lad known as Rigby has managed to bend the steel door to the point he can fit his head through. Officers are completely baffled as to how he did it. Two of the lads off the wing have been down there on the cleanup. Both confirmed it's like a bomb site and flooded. They'd ripped the toilets out and the sinks off the wall. One of the lads has threatened to electrocute himself if the North West squad are brought in. What they didn't tell me over the counter, I heard as they told officers the official stuff for the cleanup. There's blood as well as piss, and the brown stuff's everywhere. Rochdale Rob gave one of the Governors and security officers the graphic version right in front of me as I busied myself with bedding packs. Ironically, the demolition crew needed new blankets and bedding, although they have no beds. It's comical as much as it's serious, and another sign, the place is completely out of control. Thousands of pounds of damage. One of the guys from the demolition party, SG, he's friendly enough, but the lads say he's crazy and loves the gear. J said they were out of control. He'd been called out but turned back once he was down there, 60 seconds was enough as far as he was concerned. There's a song by Fun Boy Three, The Lunatics Have Taken Over the Asylum. I've been humming it all day. Young Dan commented I'm better at humming than I am singing. There'll be ship outs tomorrow, maybe even tonight when they least expect it. It's bad enough being an inmate caught up in this madness, but why would you want to be an officer? I sort of get it if you've been in the job for years, treading water until the pension and those who are part-time are benefiting from the overtime. They're almost like agency workers on three and four times the hourly rate. A whole bunch of them are grazing and earning more than ever before. But if you're young and not on the old school contracts, then it's like going to work to self harm. There was a bunch of recruits in a week ago. It was laughable. Pick the least suitable candidates. Make most of them fat. Definitely they were bullied at school and stick most of them in specs. And none of them looking over 20 years of age. In fact, worse, they were like sixth formers in prison uniforms. No disrespect, but numpties. J said they were annihilated on the guided tour by the lads. They'd been terrorized through the doors as they walked around. Mr. H said he expects half of them to throw in sickies tomorrow and the other half to just leave. I return tonight to a card from T and a legal letter, the latter of which I'm not opening until tomorrow. I fear it is a choice between no good news or more bad news. Jeremy had to drive over to Liverpool and my old solicitors to retrieve my old case files in boxes. 48 of them. Appointing a barrister has being nonexistent in the North West. No one will touch my case, although we both agree that's not a bad thing, as that was clearly part of the problem first time around. When they are on the same circuit as the judges, none of them are crossing or undermining them. Careers come before clients most of the time. Jeremy is focusing on London, and I'm practising patience and tolerance. I cannot deny my enthusiasm and spirit has until now being fuelled by his words, the strongest grounds for appeal I've ever seen, and, guaranteed we'll have you out in 18 months and my name cleared. However, now that I'm in here, one realizes and experiences the gravity of the power shift. I'm trapped in here without a voice or an ability to communicate anything that would move things along more quickly. From the moment I was found guilty, the true force and power of the system has completely disempowered me. Incarceration, branded guilty, a fraudster, and untrustworthy. Everything I have strived for, turned my life around for, and believed in is now obliterated. I haven't given up hope, but sense the forces outside are determined to keep me in prison for much longer than my seven year sentence. The odds are stacked against me and although I press on with the appeal, I'm also now fighting case number two, POCA. Worse still, the judge who put me in here is also at the helm for that. If it wasn't so serious, it would be laughable. Jeremy's fear is that the machiavellians, CPS, the prosecutor and the judge are, well, it's not good. I'm being hit with a 6 million pound POCA and potentially I could receive an extra 14 years. We both agreed 100%, the judge will pursue the 14 years. I thought it was bad until this point but Jeremy said he had to make me aware anything over 10 years is fully served, not halved. Basically, we must win the appeal before POCA makes it to court. The bleak reality is I'm trapped in a cell in Walton and seemingly going nowhere fast. I've been preoccupied with writing and deep contemplation, but it is quieter on the wing tonight. We're all exhausted after the demolition crew and aftermath. I tell Big Reeve, I'm just about to read T's card, and then I'm good for lights out.