I lean forward in my desk chair and buzz my assistant to let in Lem Ingrun. Lem is such an attractive young man--blond hair, blue eyes, delicate features, slim physique--that I'm fearful for how he'll fare, for the long, even short, run, here at Maltese Boys' Reformatory. This isn't an easy environment, to be sure, for any young man, but the good-looking ones always have particular problems among so many other boys, all less attractive and tending to be bullies. Then again, Lem should have thought about that before he and those other two drunken teenage hoodlums took that cop car on the joy ride that ran down that poor innocent man (father of three) and fractured his right leg in three places.
"Whoa!" I say when Lem is in my office. "Keenly give you that shiner?" Keenly Roofin is Lem's cell mate; although better behaved than most, he does have occasional fits of bad temper.
"I slipped in the shower and hit my face on the tile," Lem says. Not surprisingly, of course; in a place like MBR, where being a snitch can bring on all sorts of retribution, it's no wonder so many prisoners come off falling-down clumsy all of the damned time.
"Well, I'd be careful with those slippery shower-room floors," I say and motion him into the chair across the desk from me. There's little point in my trying to get to the real cause of his black eye if he's not volunteering. I've been at this job for quite some while, now, and I know that these kids are tough nuts to crack.
I wait for him to settle in.
"So, what shall the two of us discuss today, do you think?" I ask when it becomes obvious that, as usual, he isn't going to be the first of us to fill the pregnant silence.
"I had another dream," he says. "A nightmare, really."
"In which you did a lot of screaming to get Keenly upset, in that he was trying to sleep?" This is useless "fishing" by me, and the kid looks at me as if I'm the lame asshole I am for having tried so ineptly to pull a fast one. "Okay, so, tell me about this dream."
"It starts out kind of sexual."
"I doubt you've anything to say, even of a sexual nature, that I've not heard before," I assure; sad but true. "So, proceed at will--until you see me cover my ears and beg you, to please, not to proceed."
He smiles slightly; a nice smile, by the way, although it looks as if it hasn't been used much lately and probably hasn't. He says, "In my nightmare, I'm married--to this guy." He pauses as if that last revelation, in this hotbed of testosterone-hyped males, is something I might still find perverted and/or strange--not! He continues, "My lover, Carl, and I, live in suburbia, in a white house with black shutters, complete with white-picket fence."
So many of MBR's disturbed teens yearn for the false normalcy that's found only in television sitcoms.
"Carl is fucking me on our bed, nice and easy, gently ... and I'm feeling really good about it. I mean, he's screwing me like I've always wanted to be screwed, by someone who really and truly loves me, and who really and truly gives a shit."
So far, the symbolism of his dream has to be as obvious to him as it is to me.
"He's screwing me up close and personal, from behind, and he reaches around and takes hold of my hard dick and lets it fuck his fist. All the while, he's whispering in my ear, telling me how much he loves me, how lucky he is to have found me, how we are made for each other, and how our bodies, after all of our years of marriage, still fit together like a hand in a rubber glove.
"His cock does this really neat thing inside of me ... kind of like a half turn ... that twists it against my prostate and makes my dick leak precum into his hand, and my balls do a little dance in my compacting scrotum.
"'I'm going to come, lover,' he says breathlessly into my ear; I can feel his lips moving erotically against my earlobe. 'Shall we try to come at one and the same time?'