Snitch Bitch

In 2004, when I arrived at the Los Putos Penitentiary, I I tried to keep my head down and avoid getting pulled into the gangs and the network of clandestine enterprises where one fit exclusively into these groups: producer, consumer or the consumed.

I knew which camp I would fall into if anyone ever found out who I really was. So, I kept to myself and tried to stay out of trouble. The only problem is ever since my first stint in juvie, I knew there was something about me that made men fixate and obsess over me.

I didn’t think I was much to look at. I was about five foot seven, big brown eyes with thick eyebrows that seemed to have a mind of their own when I was talking. I was a bit on the slender side, never had a six pack but I’d finally been inspired by the prison jocks to start working out although I stuck to push ups and aerobics in my cell. (I didn’t dare go to the prison yard to exercise because it was filled with the kind of predators they warn you about in high school). The working out was starting to  pay off and I could feel my pecs getting firmer to the touch and I noticed what used to jiggle was much firmer when I was rubbing myself down in the morning showers.

The only thing I was shy about was the scar I had on my left cheek. It stretched all the way from my ear to just below the corner of my mouth. My husband had done that to me, a few years back, when he came home to find me getting drilled by his parole officer. I tried to explain that I was only doing it so that the officer wouldn’t report his parole violations but my husband lost his shit. Things were never the same between us after that.

Since that incident, I started to keep my hair just over shoulder length to try and hide most of the scar. When I arrived at Los Putos, my jet black, wavy hair made me effeminate and I was catcalled when walking down the corridors. I asked to be assigned to the library to avoid the crowds, but men who had never read a book in their life started filing into the library and waiting for me to be alone before approaching me.

At first, they would just ask me to recommend something good. Then they started coming at me with romantic gifts, a shiv I could use to protect myself, condoms filled with fresh warm, cum to snack on later. Sometimes they would even fill the condoms right in front of me!

I appreciated the gifts so I didn’t say anything. Then they started to get too comfortable. Asking to smell my hair, telling me how it reminded them of their wives and girlfriends back home, and then the groping started. They said they wanted to check if I had a pussy between my legs. I didn’t mind helping out so I let them. But sometimes, I felt that they took a little too long fingering my ass to make sure it really wasn’t a pussy I was holding out on them.

After a few weeks I decided to cut my hair. I was very self-conscious about the scar on my face but the attention from the other prisoners was starting to make me nervous that someone would recognise me and find out my true identity.