Naked Hysteria in a Cum Lacquered Cell

This is the second chapter of the misanthropic adventures of a junkie named Smith (now reread that five times fast), titled: “Naked Hysteria in a Cum Lacquered Cell”. If you haven’t already read the first chapter, you can find it on my blog titled: “Sick and Longing for a Walgreens Bathroom”.
DISCLAIMER: NOT FOR CHILDREN (or for the hyper-sensitive… JUST KIDDING! I don’t give a shit who reads it. Enjoy!!)

I awoke three or four days later, naked, and curled in a wash of sweat next to a cold steel toilet on the slab of a ten by eight cell. It was dark, my vision was terribly comatic, my brain became inundated with its struggle to filter through the optics. The air was uncomfortably warm, and humid. Old musk- thick nostalgia aged between the rolls and clefts of unwashed flesh- clung to the memory of the room until it too, became indiscernible between scents.
The chills of the kick had long thawed their nerve-biting, marrow-strain, but I soon became aware of a terrible pit in my stomach, and when I rolled onto my back this pain shot through my body, reeling me into contracting fits. There was a fierce ache in my ribs for each gasping breath, and in the strain of balancing these efforts my ears suddenly popped, and a head-splitting frequency rang out. It pierced through my eardrums, rising to a nauseating pitch- before filling my throat like a vibrating hum, until, as if resounding back out my ears and into the hollow, it faded altogether. But this was it.             A few days of hard sleep, and 20 years marriage to a drug had been reduced to a deep head full of ache, and shot in the gut for each struggling breath.

After an eternity of hard squints, my eyes were finally able to catch gifs of data for my brain to digest- and the surreality of the scene flooded my brain like a terrifying rebirth.
The walls were a peeling grey-blue struggling beneath a Pollack of human waste. Rusted rebar lined a 1’x 1’ hole high on the opposite wall, where intermittent wafts of a counterfeit freedom teased up from the city’s bowels.
The floor was tepid- sweaty from untold polishes of waste- and it dipped toward the center where a drain waited like a grated mouth belonging to some dejected fetishist. Its feel beneath my nakedness unnerved me, and I suddenly became aware of a cool, wet sensation on the side of my head. It gobbed in my ear and pooled in the dimples of my eyes, and nose. I sat up wiping at the liquid to examine its smear; but my muscles were too weak, and my head swam and throbbed with a flush of blood. My head hit the concrete with a gross, melon “plop”; and the last thing I remember, was bloody ejaculate running over my eye with the sticky texture of a cold egg.

I awoke again to the sounds of a large, naked man heaving into the toilet. In his strain, his whole body pushed against the toilet and because of his enormity, his stomach and arms shook with a grotesque roil. His bald head was flush, spider webbed with varicose veins that flexed with his stretched jaw, and then blended into the fat of his neck- until he resembled a violent mass unconducive to the human form. After many furious episodes of dry-retching, only a weak spittle of pale-yellow drooled into the steel orifice, and when it finally had, he quickly resumed his efforts.
“Ginsburg made you his bitch!” a deep, southern drawl choked behind me. The graveled nature of its age illustrated the idea that he had since tried to scrub the slack from its inflection- like a steel pad scrapped over Teflon.

I looked up to find a young man sitting upon the top steel cot, while staring down with a wide toothed grin. His nakedness fitted with the attire of the room, and his long, hairy legs dangled up and over the side of the cot; giving the impression that he only had to stand to reach the ground.
“Who the hell is Ginsburg?” I growled, sitting up much slower, and digging a gob of cold semen from my ear.
He pointed gangly at the fat man, who was now snoring loudly with his face smooshed onto the vomit spattered rim.
“Jack Ginsburg. Been like that ever since he arrived ‘bouta’ week, now.” He arched a brow as he spoke and nestled back into his slouch. “The moment they threw his pasty, fat ass into the cell, I could just tell he wasn’t right. Came in smilin’ an’ hardly ever stopped. Sometimes his eyes’d get real big an’ he’d hug himself tight, like he was scared; but then he’d start rubbin’ his body an’ start smilin’ a’gin. When he did talk- man, it was always ‘bout some fucken cartoon, or toy action figures- ya know? Real kiddy shit. Now, I’m usually real good at readin’ people, you understand? I was born in prison, know that? Yessir! Right upstate! So anyway, I’ve encountered probably ‘bout ev’ry kind sumbitch you can encounter in present day U.S.A… nuh-uh.” He shook his head, sucked his teeth and then leaned in with a straightforward tone.
“‘Bout middle o’ night second day, that fat pig fucker wakes me up from a nice dream, I mean, nice, son! An’ he’s just achin’ an’ moanin’- an’ th’ vomit was jus’ pouring out ‘im! No shit!” As he spoke, his arms acted out the events like he was giving a physical summary of some Avant-garde drama, thus creating an Avant-garde performance of his own.
“That’s when I knew- Pedioton-pedi-pediodonto…aw, whatthefuckever! Motherfucker’s comin’ off a heavy dose of the shit is what matters.” He broke into squealing laughter. His voice had shed its graveled tone for the indulgent delight of swine, filling the cell with a piercing ignorance. Then, as quickly as he started, he stopped. He sprang forward in his seat- stretching a bent, wiry finger- and then added in his best efforts; “Then- whew! He stands up, lifts his gut an’ starts rummagin’ fer his dick- all while I’m watching, you understand?”
No. To this day I don’t understand why anyone would entertain such a scene, but in the spirit social ques, I nodded for him to move on, “an’ then starts rubbin’ his balls- moanin’ an’ beating his dick, the pasty bastard! ‘Bout six days a’ cum in that spot you was pass’ out in. When they brought you, guards placed you directly in that area. Yessir! Laid you out all neat like, cracked ya mouth just so, then they patted ol’ Ginsburg on the back an’ told him t’ ‘have fun’.” He paused and stared for a moment, and then looked at me assuredly before adding, “In his defense, he did aim away from you for the most part. Towards the end though, he musta’ shot his shit dry- cuz he’s just been cumin red, like an Appalachia sow on Christmas eve.”
Jesus Christ! What the fuck was this guy talking about??
“What the shit is that shit he was on? What’s it for?” I winced, tilting my head in sudden deep pain. Sonofabitch gave me swimmer’s ear and it was starting to ache.
He straightened his back matter-of-factly announcing; “It’s a medication designed purposely for chemical castration. It doesn’t get you high, but- it zombifies th’ shit outta’ you! Worse, it depletes yor’ testosterone so you don’ even wanna have sex! Ya’ gain a lotta’ weight, grow tits, an’ when you ain’t smilin’, it’s ‘cuz yor’ cryin’ o’er the dumbest she-it.” He counted on his fingers as he spoke, bending, and stretching their dexterity. He stopped with the middle finger; squeezing, and shaking it for an excessive amount of time, as if realizing this one doesn’t belong, and so it must be removed.
“But that ain’t the wors’ part, son!” he finally resolved to endure the presence of the appendage, and glanced down, and then up to me, and then to Ginsburg before returning back to me with a quizzical grin and sighed.
“The lack of sex gives you blue-balls from hell, son! They swell, an’ sometimes they get so backed up with juice they lose circulation an’ become all necrotic, an shit- then they gotta’ be removed. But this ain’t that common, an’ half th’ time, they don’ notice th’ pain, they’re so goddamned neutralized. So, whenever these fuckers miss a dose, the pain hits ‘er balls like dead weight from a twenty-foot drop onto a buckin’ bull.”
“Why the fuck was he on that shit?”
“Gee, I don’ know. Why would they chemically castrate a grown man who hugs himself for comfort an’ only talks ‘bout G.I fucken Joe’s?”
Oh. My face fell with the realization that my ear ached with the pain of a pedophile’s bastard now rooted inside its canal. I remember looking back to the floor where I’d lain for the past few days; the outline of sweat and a once large, ejaculate puddle was now all but saturated into the thirsty concrete- adding to the general lacquer of filth. I remembered the cum mask I woke up with, the splash of vomit in my hair and upon my body. I was reminded of the fecal crust hardened over my lower back and legs like an aboriginal mosquito repellent, and a deep anger welled inside me. I rose me to my feet in a consumed rage and like a mechanical operation, shuffled three numb steps toward the door before collapsing back in a heap onto the floor. At that moment, all my anger gave way to an epiphanic sense of ‘fuck it!’, and I broke into a raucous fit of laughter.
I sat up again, muttering, and waving in nonsensical gestures to play out the theatrics of my hysteria. I began to imagine the scenario as if I were a wealthy client at some five-star resort. Offering cum masks, and shit baths- while pedophilic swine retch out soundscapes into a hollow, steel drum.
A thundering exhalation snapped me back, and I felt a strange acceptance ease my heart and mind. I was neither enraged, nor hysterical- I simply, and truly did not give a fascist’s wet (or dry) turd about anything.
This was an alien state. Never in my life had I felt the truth of such an emotion, and experience warned me against its brief, and exclusive climax. Another roar sounded from behind me, and I turned to find Ginsburg’s large, cellulitic butt rising and then setting with every labored breath.
I slapped it.
I don’t know why I did this, other than at that moment it just felt like the right thing to do. It was a weak, and pitiful slap, and in my fatigue my hand slid off his flesh with dead weight. I slapped the other cheek. Again, I don’t recall thinking the action, and indeed, the scene itself played out as if I were merely an observer.
Immediately, I began punching and slapping one cheek, then another, but then- the cold check of reality crept back. I felt the unnerving irritation of sobriety, and I was again reminded of my environment and present condition.
In this realized state, I suddenly became aware that my efforts had been wasted on the natural equivalent of body armor against such pathetic blows. In his enormity, his body was also fitted with this armor, and his face smooshed in such an awkward position out of my current reach. But there was one part of his body still vulnerable- and so with nothing else to do, I decided anything worth doing, is worth doing right.
I pushed all my weight upon a large, fatty cheek- holding my face just above the flesh- and then began hitting and slapping wildly for a testicle.
As I did this, he didn’t budge. His snores remained constant, with an occasional grin, and inappropriate chuckle between. This slumbering indifference angered me again, so I drew my arm back to muster every ounce of strength, and then let it fly.
This was stupid.
My fist missed his testicles, and instead disappeared inside his sphincter with an unforgiving push. Ginsburg shot forward, locking his muscles around my wrist while releasing a Wilhelm squeal, and then expelled a sour, malodorous gas before falling back to sleep.
“Now look what ya’ gone did!” the man on the bunk accused with an outstretched arm, and all at once I remembered his previous words; “All while I’m watching…”
“You got yor’self an anger prob’m. I jus’ told you the man couldn’ help it…”
“He’s a fucken pedophile!” I barked while flipping over to sit on the ground. To which, he sucked his teeth and then conceded thoughtfully, “Well, yes. I s’pose that’s right. Nevertheless, you should take a class, or sumthin’- ‘cuz You ain’t never gettin’ outta’ here with that attitude, son! Never!” he repeated shaking his head with an air of finality. “What they get you for? Junk? You look’s likea’ junkie- all covered in shit… Yor’ own shit! Ginsburg ain’t do that. I watched ya’ kick!”
“A three-day kick for a 20-year habit? How many kicks have you seen in the past… or am I the only one?” I sat there with my arm raised, laboring with hard, quick tugs to pull free, but in these efforts- Ginsburg moaned and then inched slightly forward, pulling about two more inches inward. At that moment, a grotesque irony sunk to the pit of my stomach- in some reverse act of digestion, I was slowly being consumed by another man’s asshole.
“I prefer crystal.” The man on the bunk replied, wholly ignorant of the growing urgency of my situation. “That said, we all got our kicks, son. An’ while mine ain’t necessarily as fucked up as yor’s, I’m tellin’ you what I saw. Jus’ b’fore they left they stuck ya’, then emptied the syringe right there in that arm. The entire syringe. That’s when they tol’ Ginsburg ‘t’ have fun’.
“Fer all th’ nex’ day an’ night, you was sweatin’ like a sumbitch! Sweatin’ an’ shitin’, an’ achin’ an’ shakin’ like you had th’ legion in ya’! Th’ vomit, an’ cum, well, like I said, them’s all Ginsburg. But this shit here- man, I know you’ve been caught-up b’fore, ain’t you never learned how t’ manipulate th’ system? Control yor’ fucken anger, moron!”
His words resounded intermittently between anal flexes and thoughts of tribal Amazonians, half-digested in the belly of some lumbering snake. I had just finger-combed a gelatinous balm from my hair, when a tiny door-latch slid open and a rich, sensual mix of expensive perfume spritzed over a week of peak pheromones flooded the room.
The scent was absolutely intoxicating, and caused my penis to flush, and swell like an unruly appendage. The little window slammed, and all at once, there was a loud Buzz, and then *click*, and the old mechanized door rumbled open.
“QUEER-RAPE!” the man on the bunk squealed in a terrible fit. He was pointing and drawing his long, hairy limbs up to his chest and so resembled a large arachnid backing into a corner. “Ohhh She-it! Thank Gawd you arrived when you had, aw’ficer Friendly! He jus’ raped Ginsburg, said he was gunna’ get me nex’! Don’ know what happened, he jus’ woke up in a sexual rage an’ started rapin’!”
The large, ominous silhouette of a man in full riot gear carved through the sterile flood of light like cheap special effects in a 1980’s horror film. Before entering the cell, he struck, and then raked an electric rod across his riot shield, sending a menacing current across its surface, and then struck it again demanding; “Remove your hand from inside Resident G9081214!”
“Best do what th’ man says” the man on the bunk warned crossing himself with an exaggerated “Halleluiah! Amen!”
“Wait!” I pleaded, tugging much harder now. “This isn’t rape! Please! I need help…”
The guard threw down his shield and marched forward. “Oh, I understand! That’s why I’m here! To help.” He towered above me with an aimed hand and then jabbed the rod into the pit of my arm.
Pain. Sharp, unyielding pain.
It shot through my arm and bit at my nerves with hungry precision, while my muscles writhed in rhythmic convulsion. He struck again, and then again before I had recovered from the initial attack; until finally, he prodded into Ginsburg’s sphincter.
Now, to this day, I’m not 100 percent sure whether he missed on purpose, or if it really was just an accident, but after he had, I soon regretted it.
Like an angered bull, the large man bucked forward emitting a terrible grunt, while releasing my hand with one powerful jolt. My arm dropped as if in slow-motion and now free, I instinctually curled away from the guard. Unfortunately, this shock also released Ginsburg’s bowels, which then sprayed onto me like a terrifying, yet unstoppable force.

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