Being a fag under blue skies meant secrets, hostility, hate. Wouldn't recommend it. All that sniffing, jumping in and outta nameless beds, you either became nothing more than a collection of parts, or let it build up 'til you had to see some blood. Keller'd never seen those happy, cheery, "normal" queens who decorated the big-time magazine covers. Most of the better-bred ones were too busy tryin' to cover up their wedding ring lines to be cheery.
Being a fag under prison ceilings ain't much easier, but there's an out. If you stay on the giving end of the cock, people accept it more. You got the power. Besides, the need is unspoken. Can't just snap your wrist back into place and sniff for pussy.
Now Murphy, he was a fag, born and bred. Easy to see by his walk, wide steps to hide any boners caused by peeks in the shower room. Why not take the opportunity for free blow jobs, prime pieces of man-meat, a space to shove his nightstick? Nobody'd find out. If they did, he's a hack; hacks always win. Unless you're packin' a shank, or Beecher-sharp nails.
Beecher. Been doin' this dance for months, still haven't forgotten the steps. He ain't even that attractive, not the best lay in the world, and he made Kitty's breakup behavior seem normal. Since she fucked each of Keller's pals and mailed him the Polaroids, that was saying a whole lot.
Problem was, Beecher was Beecher. All he had to do was shoot a faraway stare with those lost-at-sea eyes, and Keller had to decide between shoving a fist into that sad Toby pout, or a healthy dose of protein down Beecher's bitchy, teasing throat. Maybe both.
If Beecher was old unfaithful, Murphy was a fresh challenge. Never took the time to notice Keller. Keller always wanted people to see, fear, admire. Murphy wasn't some fucking god who had the right to ignore him. Who the fuck'd he think he was, Sister Pete with a walkie talkie? If the mick kept an invisible eye on McManus' sagging ass, he could spare a few other body parts for Keller.
Masculine but not for show. Sorta burly. A butt that would lose it's charm if it were tightened up. Probably didn't go to a gym, liked contact sports better. Groping without the fucking body oil and steam room stench. A bear without a belly, broad shoulders, pants that hid way too many features. Grunted instead of yelled when he sprayed, cursing through that lower lip that you wanna tear into each time his voice booms through it. Had that untouchable top style, hunting his prey so much he loved the rare bottoming out even more.
Breaking hearts was so much more fun than breaking cards. Nobody around to shuffle with. O'Reily had to go help his brother keep his third leg away from his zipper. Hill was talking to...Beecher.
Murphy looked out over the masses, not keeping eye contact. Never did. Any attempts at being on the prisoner's level were pissed away somewhere around Y2K. Thought he was so much better. Hah. A few low blows by fate and he'd be in a different uniform, waitin' for the first chance to suck O'Reily's cock.
"Zanghi, Bismilla, break it up or both your asses are takin' a trip to the Hole!"
Keller let his teeth flash, cards tossed on the table, slowly standing up. Ever since he'd killed Beecher's johns, long-term mindfucks weren't the same. Loved that *look*, the shock of being trumped and never bein' able to get your jizz back.
Scratched his head, getting ready for the pose.
"Hey, Murphy? You sure you got room for two more cocks up your ass?"
Didn't have to wait for the applause, a few chuckles and claps from each table. Shit, nobody appreciated good jokes nowadays. Made sure he didn't look at Beecher, cause he knew Beecher was aching for that eye contact, ready to show off the concerned, how's-this-about-me stare.
Murphy never let his hack face drop. Had to keep that on, cause if he didn't, people would remember he was just a man, tissue and skin ready to be sliced.
"Alright Mr. Stand-Up, you just smart-assed your way into Oz's first and most popular nudist colony. Good thing for you it's all-expenses paid."
Grabbed by the arm, by Murphy himself, musta poked at the right nerve. Meaty hand real tight, digging into his flesh hard enough to bruise. More catcalls as they left, Keller giving in and smirking at Beecher. No big surprise to where they were going. Stride in his step, Keller strutted down the halls of shame, finally seeing that familiar spic hack at the desk.
"Got another customer for ya, Cruz."
Keller pushed Murphy away with his hand. He let the smirk die, slipped into a more bored look. What had that fag called it? Detached, smoldering intensity. Smart. Shame he had to drain the life outta him, scream by scream. Had to kill him, cause...fuck, humping over every psycho-snapshot was for people who were too chickenshit to live their lives.
Slipped off his grey wifebeater, flexing, nipples hardening under the shift to cool air. Knew Murphy was watching, never met a man or woman with a pulse who didn't. Kept his eyes on Cruz, easier to string Murph along by the dick if the hack could convince himself the show was for everybody and nobody in particular.
Ran a few fingers down his abs, thumb popping the snap open. Zipper down, kicked up and off with his shoes. Two thumbs in his elastic, down, slowly, letting the chill embrace instead of rape. Briefs off with socks, he licked his lips, dick sandwiched between five fingers. He pushed it up, other hand knocking his nuts together like those tock-tock balls on the doctor's desks. Cock freed, half-hard, he turned around, bent over, spread his cheeks as wide as possible.
"No concealed weapons, Officer."
Blood started rushing to the head that kept him outta trouble, kept him away from Beecher. Same thing. Pushed the smallest glint into his eyes, tilted his head a little toward Murphy's gruff pose. And Murphy had to have caught that signal. Signals some dumb chico with a wedding band and busted balls could never understand.
While Cruz fumbled with keys, Keller let Murphy stare at the back of his head, time to make up his mind. Door opened, Keller walked in proudly. Some pussies were scared of this place and how much time they'd have to spend in their own mind. Keller had never cared, he'd learned to shut out what he had to years ago. And he preferred being bare-ass, almost wished he had the audience Em City gave him.
"Yeah, go take your break Pablo, I got this covered."
This was getting better and better. Counting his steps as he walked into the room, Keller picked at his bullet scar to keep him centered. Hated being shot by that snail-sucking merde, but the idea of an ugly mark was classic. Under the chest he spent so much gym time keeping nice and toned, he was human waste, lost soul, crushed heart. All he had to do was look at his chest and have a permanent reminder, like a little name tag. *Hi, I'm a piece of shit.*
He stood against a wall, scratching a nipple, didn't bother hiding the smirk when Murphy joined him. The door closed, leaving them all alone.
"Wanna get a permanent separation from your girlfriend? That it Keller? Cause, I'm tellin' ya, you're real close to sharin' a cell block with some of your old Nazi pals."
Keller wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, walked a few steps, bare feet stained with dried-up piss and shit.
Stale air in here, calm breath from Murphy. Course Murphy wouldn't let himself get scared. Hack had to keep the confidence. Besides, under that hot little uniform, Murphy was a fighter. But in a fair fight, Keller'd win, given time.
Too bad they didn't have much time.
Keller stepped back, hearing Murphy's relief. Then he took a swing, knocking the hack dazed against the door. Before the recovery, Keller jumped behind him, cock hardening against black slacks, bicep snaked around his neck. Gritted into his ear, squeezing tighter for effect.
"We play by my rules now Sean."
*Here's another fine mess you've gotten us into.*
Strange thought to have when he was on the verge of a cracked windpipe. Pop had always loved those movies. He'd be ashamed as all shit to see Murphy in this situation. Not as ashamed as Murphy himself.
Fuckin' stupid mistake, let his guard slip, never let your guard slip.
Big scoop of muscle pressed so tight against his throat, words were too scared to form. Not the brawniest sonuva bitch in Oz, but Keller carried the threat of knowing what he was doing. Watching him was watching a ballet. Every muscle, every synapse, trained to act and react at the first scent of violence. That strut, way his whole body jumped into fights, He was fluid, lithe physical perfection.
And toxic to the core.
Shirt torn open under those large hands, buttons falling into unseen pools at their feet, Keller running fingers through the forest. Dank air surrounded Murphy's bare shoulders, left nub trapped between two flat, jagged nails. Pulled so hard, angry tugs at chest hair, rooted pain that shouldn't feel so good. Glacial, electric smirk against the back of his neck, stubble branding singe marks into his skin.
Always wanted to touch Ryan, taste his obsession, swallow the Irish spring and know he was responsible for the surge forward and weak smile, slide into that tight space O'Reily considered his most prized possession. Knew he couldn't, not Ryan, not anyone. Keller helped tip that scale without ever meaning to.
Not too different from the zoo. Don't fuck the animals: They bite. Murphy had seen too many guards shove in and never get back out.
Keller'd never fucked with any CO's Murphy knew of. Didn't matter. His hawk forehead and upraised eyebrows told the tale as good as his body count did. Any poor soul he sized up wasn't ever gonna be the same. No life outside Keller, or maybe no life period.
Palm rubbed the gut he'd never made flat enough, almost leaned back into the touch, gentle and appreciative.
Some guys took one look at a leather jacket and demanded to be hurt. Murphy'd had 'em, slapped 'em around a few times, slammed harder if that's what they needed. Keller did what he wanted, but even worse, he made the fuckin' saps consent, take the first few steps into that never-endin' black tunnel willing. Least that's what he was trying to do to Murphy. Murphy had taken a few long looks at him and decided, once and for all, against sampling the con merchandise. His balls could turn blue enough to make him Murph Smurf, and he still wouldn't take a ride on those lowlife motherfuckers.
Fucking irony. Used Keller to keep his lusts in check, now he was at his mercy. Bodies were locked together in a struggle of choked oxygen and hard cocks, Murphy not even bothering to will his down, every drop of sweat on that forearm slipping onto his tongue.
Nipples inflamed and just about pinched off his chest, Murphy bucked at the hard squeeze on his crotch. Fought as hard as he was able to, squirmed at his belt crashing to the floor. If his neck weren't occupied, he woulda looked down to see where the nightstick went. Instead, that practiced hand slid clothes off his hips until only flesh was left, thumb tracing his brown bed of curls. Heart stopped when the tip of that impossible hardness flirted with his cheeks. How many men had he seduced with that cock? How many men had he killed with those hands?
"Too bad your girlfriend can't be here to see this. Must be hard, seein' him slobber over every cunt he can find, knowin' you're never gonna be good enough."
Jerking on Murphy's shaft, agonizingly slow, pearl drops drawn out in time with the slick, round tip tapping at his ass. Murphy grunted at the unspoken use of that name, hints of a beard scratching behind his ear, flat middle finger distracting his getaway effort by stabbing between his balls, inside of the knuckle bumping over a thick vein.
Keller had to bring up Tim. Tim'd be so disgusted, seein' Murphy gnawing his lip to stop the groan, shifting his hips to keep up with the sharp, angry attempts at burrowing. Tim can fuck up as much as he wants, but any devotees who dance too slow with sin are subjected to a freezeout. Takes and takes, never givin' back 'til he's finished dropping nose blood on you from that sky-high pedestal of morality.
This was so fucking wrong. And part of the appeal, Murph almost never broke any big rules, and here he was lettin' a nightmare fuck him. Couldn't do this. Wrong.
He clamped down, Keller yelling disappointment way too loud. Tried to break away from that arm, knock the back of his head against Keller's nose, anything. Stupidly unafraid of the very real possibility of a snapped neck. Keller kept him close, bending the cock in his death grip into mutated shapes, spitting venom in his ear.
"Been a long time, huh Sean? 20, 30 years since the truck stop toilets. Don't even try stoppin' this. You're no better now. Still just a fag."
Not yelled, said matter-of-factly, one word at a time. Keller pulled back far, shoved right in, past any objections, Murphy tasting his own blood to keep his cries from reaching Cruz.
Shoved in deeper.
Even deeper, way past the spinchter.
Ground glass processed into words. Hurt and bliss melted together, prostate yelling at him to stay there forever, knees shaking so bad he was only on his feet cause of that naked arm clutching his stomach.
If he gave into the semi-rape, he'd be another chump, too stupid to resist Keller's charms. Probably be on that filthy, damp floor, not breathing in the acrid stench. For what? Is this how Ma should remember him?
Waited for Keller to tense up, almost shoot. Feeling him get close, Murphy brought his foot down hard, shoe cracking bone. Jumped away, free in time to see Keller's cock spewing everywhere, in motion with the man himself.
Stepped out of the way, fist connecting to his gut right before he got his nightstick. Place was so dark and dirty, made his vision blur when he tried running and tripped over his own fucking pants.
Back twisting against the floor, ass aching, Keller on top of him. Rolled 'em over, straddling Keller, breathing in their musk. Both breathing so hard, hands holding Keller's wrists over his head for dear life, Murphy half-noticed his dick slapping against Keller's, spurting into Keller's toned thigh while they grappled and kept grappling.
"Th-Think you're better than me."
Murphy had trouble seeing with so much sweat clouding his eyes, but he caught the weirdest look on Keller's face. The smug mask had gone, nothing but raw emotion and two grey eyes. Those eyes, never human, always evil, had...vulnerablity. Never saw that before. Keller never let them see, not even in his games. For a second, Murphy almost envied Beecher, only person who had any type of control over the writhing beast.
Quicker than the human eye, Keller saw the distraction, knee pushed up to toss Murphy to another part of the room. Barely had time to clear his head before Keller lunged, grabbing at his throat.
Murphy blocked his hand, grabbing Keller's own throat. Forced himself to tap into that man he'd buried the first day he'd stopped running with his gang, first day he'd made a choice.
"Nah. Don't have to think, asshole. I know I'm better."
Threw his fist back, praying to Christ Almighty he had enough power in that blow.
Connected, Keller staggering back. Chest pounded past Murphy's rib cage, into his throat and ears. Relying on adrenaline alone, Murphy made it to his nightstick, swinging at the advancing monster. A slam into that muscled, flawless belly stunned Keller, unable to move.
Maybe he was wrong, but Murphy believed in good and evil. People who tried to make their lives worth more than the shit outta their asses, or at least didn't go around killing and hurting for kicks, were on a higher level. People who didn't, too selfish to accomplish more than a rare unselfish moment in-between years and years of destruction, were goin' straight to Hell.
Murphy let himself grin, tracing the alloy against the hardening cock, the balls trapped in their large, fleshy sac. Smelled the tension in the air, seconds frozen into some sorta eternity. Had a flash to him and Joey Kilpatrick behind Muldoon's corner store, knockin' his front teeth out for threatening to tell Ma about the time they snuck smokes and lifted Pop's Guinness. Sudden case of the morals. Funny how immoral Joey got once it was time for a hand job.
Lifted the long, slender weapon up, cracking against the side of Keller's huge head. Watched him fall, lost eyes shut when he landed on his side. Murphy gulped, saddened for some dumb reason when he saw the Jesus tattoo, sloppily spread out on the arm, but beautiful nonetheless.
The slumbering giant, bearin' the emblem of Christ on a cross. Strange sense of wannabe from this unconscious lug who'd probably never had the serenity of a Jesus.
Murphy'd turned his back on most Catholic guilts years ago, even if the strands had never left his head. Best thing he'd done was bury it, purge and walk away from the rosary of shame.
But here he was, resisting temptation, tryin' his best to lead a good life. Closer in spirit to the Son of God than a guy with the picture stained on his arm had ever been. Course Jesus didn't pull as many acts of superiority. He'd offer a hand to Keller, not beat his head in. Murphy slammed the front of his hands into his eyes, gouging the perspiration away with tiny stings of pain. It was a fucking joke, comparing himself, the guy who spent weekends fixing his toaster and chuggin' cheap beer, with a guy who died for the world.
He sank against the wall, pants still around his ankles. Put his head in his hands, rubbed his raw lip. Wondered why a man he barely knew hated him so much. Wondered why he still looked so hot, knocked out and bleeding, arms in wildly different directions, cock draped against his thigh. Wondered what he was gonna tell Doc Nathan, Cruz.
Only thing he wasn't gonna let himself wonder about, what made him draw in ragged lungfuls of that dirty air, was what Keller wanted him to worry over. His own place in the world. He was queer. He was a son, a brother, an uncle, a prison guard, a man who'd done absolutely nothing with his life. He was in love with a guy who could never own up to how much he liked sittin' on a dick.
But Murphy was a good person. He tried. The invisible line between what Keller was and what Murphy would never let himself be had stayed put.
That line was all he had. And for the moment, it was good enough.