A gay story: Legal Self-Realization Steven was the youngest judge ever appointed to the Circuit Court. The job would involve travel to the five outlying counties in the circuit, and that meant he would be away from his beloved Marina for two weeks out of each month. Not optimal for their marriage, but the Circuit Court appointment was only for three years and if all went well he would then almost certainly be promoted to the Main Court bench.
* *
Steven sighed as he put down the prosecution’s brief. Were they serious? The brief included the infamous “Special Restrictions Form,” which could temporarily suspend a prisoner’s constitutional rights.
Already legal challenges to the Form were starting, and Steven was glad that this test case had been assigned to him–involving shocking events that had allegedly transpired at one of the outlying counties in his Circuit.
The prosecutor argued that the recently legislated Special Restrictions Forms were a mockery of justice. She argued it was unbelievable that in modern civilized society a prison Warden could use a one-page Form to strip a man of all his rights. It was a clear abuse of power–including sexual abuses of power, as in the multiple allegations summarized in her prosecutor’s brief.
Personally, Steven agreed with her. But his legal training had taught him not to use his subjective reactions in reaching his decisions. The law had its own logic.
The prosecution’s list of witnesses, Steven noticed, contained the name of another judge, Robert “Bobby” Fields, currently on an unexplained leave of absence. Until Steven’s appointment, Bobby Fields had been the youngest judge in the state. In light of some of the strange rumors about Bobby’s private life swirling through legal circles, however, Steven wondered if Bobby shouldn’t be testifying for the defense instead.
The air in Steven’s chambers seemed warmer than usual, and he rose from his chair thinking to open a window before remembering that they had all been sealed when the building’s new heating and cooling system had been installed. He didn’t like it, as not being having access to fresh air whenever he wanted made him feel, paradoxically, a bit like a prisoner rather than a judge.
He returned to his desk.
* *
Steven frowned as he turned to the defendant’s documents. On top was a list of “hired-gun” expert witnesses, headed by the infamous Dr. Brantley. In Steven’s opinion, Brantley was a suspect human being. Yes, he was a highly qualified psychiatrist–but one who seemed always to find justifications for the darker things human beings did to each other. The mere sight of his name seemed to bring an alien smell to the air to Steven’s judicial chambers.
The defense attorney’s brief referred to Brantley’s latest scholarly article–“Incarceration Power-Submission Therapy as Exemplified in the Person of ‘the Warden,'” by B.H. Brantley, M.D., Ph.D., published in The Journal of Psychiatric Jurisprudence, cited as directly on point. He scrolled the text down his computer screen and read the first highlighted passage:
“It is inaccurate and simplistic to dismiss ‘the Warden’ as the stereotypical, corrupt law officer. We would better view him as a sort of therapist who uses the penal system to provide therapy for men whom he judges would benefit from it.”
Steven took a deep breath and moved on to the next highlighted portion:
“It has been our observation that many of today’s urban, professional men have devoted too much time to artificial careers. Such careers have diminished their capacity to engage in traditional masculine work–with their hands, outdoors, and using their physical bodies.
“Modern artificial man has also come to rely upon fancy food and drink, rather than healthy basics”–Steven glanced at the iced mocha latté on his desk– “and to enjoy wearing unnecessary fashion.”
That hardly seems fair, Steven thought. Good clothes were necessary in the legal profession. Especially now that he was a judge, his spending the extra few thousand dollars for new suits, one for each day of the week, was entirely justified. It lent dignity to his person and his higher position.
“Such a man has become almost feminized,” Dr. Brantley’s report continued, “in coming to value accessories and even scents and hair products.”
Well, Steven granted, his fingers unconsciously touching the smooth silk of his tie, I didn’t start liking that fancy hair conditioner until Marina gave me some for my birthday last year.
“Overall,” the report summarized, “many men have become less than fully developed. They have neglected to create a well-rounded life-style or to develop their fully masculine potential.”
Ha. Who has time for all of that? His daily hour of workout at the gym was about all his schedule allowed. Still, the comment stung Steven’s pride. Was something perhaps lacking in his life?
“At the same time they are aware that other men have not been so self-restrained and have realized their full male potential.”
Steven wondered who these fully male men were supposed to be. He knew plenty of masculine men in the legal profession and in the city more generally.
And what of Brantley himself–wasn’t he just another nerd intellectual with a string of fancy degrees? Then Steven remembered that Brantley was ex-military, having served overseas, and that he’d put himself through medical school while working nights for the Sheriff’s department in one of the nearby counties.
Another highlighted passage:
“For the less-fully developed males, however, the self-recognition of the gap between the two types of men typically operates at the subconscious level. Deep down, they often harbor an almost pathological need to submit to some ruthless authority, to undergo experiences that are totally beyond their control. Paradoxically, it is for them a liberating experience, as they are forced to break through their limitations.”
Steven felt a bead of sweat materialize suddenly on his back. He shifted in his chair and felt it trickle down his spine.
“Such men may seem–to the untrained eye–to be happy in their careers and their marriages. They have the conventional satisfactions of good pay, a nice home, social standing, and erotic pleasures with their wives.
“And yet they feel, in the right circumstances, powerful urges that threaten to overtake their minds and bodies. Particularly when they are (a) outside the reach of conventional civilization and (b) in the presence of fully male men.”
Steven granted that there was an internal logic to Brantley’s line of argument. But surely that could only apply to a tiny percentage of men. And certainly not to normal men such as himself. His eyes scanned to the next highlighted portion:
“Part of the Warden’s training is to develop a knack for spotting such men when they first arrive at his prison. Initially, of course, all new arrivals are required to strip down and submit to a cleansing shower. The lesson proper then begins with a subsequent nude search (including a cavity search). The new arrival’s reaction to his nudity and the cavity search are carefully monitored.”
Steven squirmed in his chair.
“If the new arrival’s reaction is hostile, then it can be ended in perfunctory fashion. If, however, his reaction indicates a receptiveness, then the search can be extended. Often the Warden can introduce a teasing atmosphere into the proceedings, with words and gestures underscoring the therapeutic power dynamic between the males involved.”
Steven read those words again: “teasing”… “receptive” … “power.”
“Psychologically,” Brantley’s report continued, “this dynamic between the two kinds of men enables a determination of the proper ‘therapeutic’ placement of the new arrival. As one warden has observed based on his professional experience, ‘The harder the cock, the more effective the lesson.’ Crude words, but their very crudeness underscores the blunt methods necessary for proper therapy in such cases.”
Steven’s chamber seemed to be getting unusually warm, and his suit began feeling constricting and clinging to his skin. Was the air-conditioning again not working properly?
“Initially, the Warden will merely tease his charge at length and give him ample opportunity to resist. He will introduce mild instructions–and mild penalties if they are not followed immediately. The prisoner’s reaction to the penalties will also be monitored.
Then followed a short list of possible penalties.
“But, if the Warden determines to his satisfaction that a man really does need to submit, then he obliges him. He will carry on, ratcheting up the intrusions and penalties for the subject male, through intermediary stages, until he ends by assigning him to a special section at the county prison farm.”
The defense’s attorney then stopped quoting Dr. Brantley and reached his own conclusion:
“Such is the rationale for the Special Restrictions Form, which allows this final stage to be accomplished most efficiently, as it eliminates the need for further slow, expensive, and often doubtful judicial process…”
* *
Steven’s reading was interrupted by a knock on his door. He shook himself. “Come.” The door opened slightly, and his bailiff peered round the edge.
“Pardon, Your Honor, but I thought I ought to warn you that the A-C in your courtroom is out again. It’s about 85° in there now, but Maintenance say they won’t be able to get to it until next week… at least. And there’s no other room available.”
Damn! “Okay, Dave. Thanks for the heads-up. At least the room won’t be packed with spectators. See you in a few minutes.”
The bailiff left, and Judge Steven Hill rose from his desk, heaving a “Why me?” sigh. He stared at himself in the tall mirror with the lacquered hardwood frame. For a moment he admired his appearance–the line of his suit and the perfectly complementary silk tie. He’d just had a haircut yesterday, and it looked great.
Then he blushed slightly, realizing that he shouldn’t be vain. Instead of focusing on physical attractiveness his mind should be thinking about the day’s weighty legal matters.
He remembered the bailiff’s warning about the heat and sighed again. How would he survive the many hours ahead in a hot courtroom? Why hadn’t I at least chosen a summer-weight suit today? He’d have to dress down.
He took off the crisp grey worsted suit… set aside the cufflinks that were a present from his wife… and removed his starched white 100%-cotton shirt. He was now reduced to his socks, shoes, wristwatch, and silk underwear. Fortunately, he’d worn briefs instead of boxers. They were cooler, at least.
He donned his black robe. Posing again in front of the mirror, he satisfied himself that he looked suitably judicial: his robe covered everything between his neck and his feet, and those were covered by his custom-made leather shoes. No one need know he was mostly undressed underneath.
A cynical thought occurred to him that he might even be a metaphor for the whole legal system–outwardly seeming to be proper… but something very different under the surface.
He glanced at his wristwatch, picked up the stack of files, and swept out of his chambers.
* *
“All rise! This court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Steven Hill presiding,” the bailiff announced.
Steven took his seat on the bench. “Be seated.”
He looked with mild distaste at the contending attorneys: that ambitious Julia Smith whose feminism had some good points, Steven believed, but seemed to be driven by some sort of strong anti-male animus. Any case involving powerful men seemed to bring out an under-current of hostility in her.
The defense attorney was not well known to Steven. Anderson Garrison III was partner in a law firm he’d been groomed to take over from his father. He seemed only to take exclusive cases for a select clientele. How the defendant Warden warranted being on that select list Steven did not know.
The Warden had been charged with allowing a variety of offenses to take place in the prison he oversaw. Most of them involving sexual abuses and humiliations. Of course there were always rumors about what went on in the county prisons. Yet the Warden’s prison had featured more frequently in the rumor mill and, finally, explicit charges had been filed.
Judge Steven would be deciding whether the allegations were true and, if so, whether the Special Restrictions Form legislation authorized them, making the Warden and his staff immune from prosecution.
* *
The hearing proceeded slowly. The witnesses for the prosecution seemed to be a lackluster group, especially given the explosiveness of the charges. They mostly spoke in monotone when asked to give evidence about what the Warden and his team had allegedly done.
Judge Steven noted that the prosecution’s parade of complainants were all quite similar: 25 to 45 years old, educated, already successful in their careers–doctors, a TV personality, businessmen, two socialites who ran a non-profit, lawyers, civil servants, and even one academic.
It was surprising how many such individuals had been convicted, all of them of quite minor offenses. Steven also noticed that all had been sentenced to very short amounts of prison time. Why hadn’t they been given fines instead?
Also interestingly, Steven noted, they all seemed to be above-average in attractiveness. Some were quietly resentful, but most were curiously subdued.
Prosecuting attorney Julia Smith was obviously frustrated at how little information the male witnesses were providing. Clearly, she had expected that they would willingly recount what had happened to them while in the Warden’s care.
Even Judge Bobby seemed hesitant on the witness stand, almost sheepish, in describing his alleged experience. Prosecutor Smith seemed especially upset with him. She asked him leading questions in explicit language, reading a list of demeaning and obscene actions that she clearly expected him to confirm had happened.
But Bobby’s responses were low-key and downplaying. Steven had never known Bobby to tell even a white lie, so his hedging and avoidance was suspicious. Did they have some sort of hold over him?
There was one exceptional witness, though, who seemed more impassioned and perhaps braver than the rest. He was a sophisticated younger career man who recounted a horror story on the witness stand, claiming that in the one short week he had been incarcerated he’d been subject to numerous degrading strip searches and forced to service five men sexually, two of them at a party outside the prison. He had been blindfolded, he said, and did not know the party’s location.
This witness’s detailed telling caused Steven to declare an early lunch. He especially needed to wipe himself down with a cooling towel and to change his wet underwear.
* *
When the court resumed after lunch, cross-examination of the witnesses began. Defense attorney Garrison had little trouble in establishing that the claims of “humiliation” and “whipping” of “innocent victims” could just as easily be seen as “embarrassment” and “spanking” of “men in need of an attitude adjustment.” They were, after all, guilty and had been convicted and sentenced to prison.
The constant recital and arguments about what allegedly had happened to these men was affecting Steven. The words were not just abstract but seemed to be causing vivid images to persist in his mind.
He took another quick recess in the afternoon, as he was sweating under his robes. It wasn’t just the un-air-conditioned courtroom. It seemed like inside his body had become a slow-burning furnace. The parade of claims of humiliations and unusual sexual activities was affecting him strangely.
Yet in Steven’s private judgment, the prosecution’s case was weak.
She had been able to prove only that the Warden had made the prisoners work in the fields and pick up trash beside the country roads. There was no compelling evidence that the men were made to work in the nude.
Nor had the prosecution proved that some of the men had been put to work in a strip club owned by a friend of the Warden.
Nor that they had been taken to special parties at a remote luxury ranch or to a corporate retreat at an unknown location and made to service the men there.
Nor that the Sheriff of the county in which the Warden’s prison was located had provided security services for the outings.
Nor had it actually proved that the Warden was a believer in Dr. Brantley’s theories or that he had consulted Dr. Bartley himself.
Aside from the testimony of Judge Bobby and the one impassioned witness, the prosecution’s case was surprisingly lacking.
Late in the afternoon, Steven told the court that the defense would get its turn the following day. Attorney Garrison promised to be quick, so Steven instructed both attorneys to be prepared for closing arguments in the afternoon.
* *
The defense opened its case by calling the noted (or notorious) Dr. Brantley, whose scholarly testimony about male power dynamics left the prosecution apparently bewildered. Attorney Smith tried, but she had no coherent counter-argument that submission-to-power therapy was not useful to some men in such circumstances.
Defense attorney Garrison then entered a copy of the Special Restrictions Form, reminding everyone that the legislature had authorized its use. Additionally, he provided a copy of the Form that each complainant-witness had signed after entering the Warden’s prison.
That seemed especially important.
Steven reviewed each form, noting all of them showed the prisoner-subject’s name, mug shot, fingerprints, charge and specifications, sentence (usually no more than 30 days), along with signatures of the judge and the Warden.
The most telling feature, though, was that each form had the signature of the prisoner-subject, formally consenting to the program and formally waiving his rights, including that of appeal.
Why had they signed? Steven wondered. Why? He tried to imagine himself in their position–being a prisoner, subject to the nude searches, and then signing a waiver knowing what sorts of things might follow. What would induce him to sign?
Again, the courtroom was unbearably hot. Steven felt like his wet, sweating skin was sticking to his judicial robes. Steven handed to forms back to attorney Garrison, who entered them into evidence.
Garrison then paused for effect… and rested his case. Prosecutor Smith attempted to object, but Steven over-ruled her. He was now anxious for the day’s proceedings to be over.
Fortunately their closing arguments were concise. Smith used heated rhetoric about human dignity and abuses of power, but that did not strengthen her argument. Garrison said little, simply underscoring the points he’d already clearly made.
Steven grimaced and announced that he’d announce his decision the following morning.
He was grateful for the early end, for he desperately wanted some privacy to get out of his robes and to give his overheated body some relief.
He also want to read and re-read all of the testimony again–not with the hope of discovering some overlooked legal aspect, he admitted to himself. He now simply wanted more fuel for his increasingly heated fantasies.
* *
In his mind, Steven had already reached the only possible verdict: judgment for the defense.
As he re-convened the proceedings the next morning, Steven noticed a spectator sitting at the very rear of the court room, a big, wide-at-the-shoulders man with a distinctive shock of straw-blond hair. He recognized him immediately–the Sheriff of one of the outlying counties, whose job included transporting convicted men to the prisons.
There was no need for the Sheriff to be there that day, so Steven beckoned his bailiff and was told that the Sheriff had said he wanted to see Judge Steven Hill after the proceedings finished.
His penis lurched. Why did it do that? he wondered. But he collected himself sufficiently to render his decision and adjourn, before hastening to his chambers.
* *
The trial’s proceedings were still firing Steven’s imagination, so once he was back in his chambers he wanted to lie on his couch, touch himself and give himself some relief. He’d done that late yesterday upon reading the more explicit parts of the testimony again, but his body and mind were still aflame.
But within two minutes his fantasies were interrupted by a knock on his door.
He pulled his underwear back up, and hurriedly pulled on his robe, stealthily unlocked the door, slipped behind his desk, smoothed his hair, opened a random file, and called, “Come.”
It was the straw-haired man from the court room–wearing a khaki uniform and a badge. He was the Sheriff of Cain County.
He touched his cap. “Judge Hill? Personally, I’d like to compliment you on the acumen your verdict displayed today.”
He was not entirely unknown to Steven. A couple of years ago, Steven had attended a law-enforcement seminar here in the city, and for two days he’d sat in a seat directly behind the Sheriff’s. The Sheriff was so tall and broad that it had been hard to see the presenters at the front of the room so had spent much of the time staring at the Sheriff’s broad back and powerful shoulders.
Steven shook his reverie away, and shrugged. “I had little choice.”
The Sheriff nodded. “Understood. But allow me to say why I am primarily here. I have an official duty to remind you that, legally, you are considered to have fled my jurisdiction 26 months ago.”
“What?!?” Steven exclaimed.
“You left the county to avoid prosecution for a parking violation.” He maintained a bland expression.
Steven remembered vaguely having gotten the ticket.
“Well, be that as it may, Sheriff, it’s a minor matter, surely. No need for drama. I’m surprised that wasn’t just withdrawn out of ‘professional courtesy.'”
“Sometimes we do that,” the Sheriff said. “But since you’re such a public figure–and now an esteemed public figure–an exception has been made. We must set an example.”
“Oh come on,” Steven said. “Failure to pay a parking ticket isn’t exactly an extraditable offense.”
The Sheriff smiled. “You’re the big-city judge and I’m the rural county sheriff. But I do have some … advantages at my disposal.” He removed some papers from his pocket and separated them into two portions.
“I’m prepared to offer you a choice.”
He held up one batch of papers: “An order of extradition–perfectly drawn and signed–for one Steven Hill to answer charges that have now escalated into several felonies. There’s also a draft press release, a formal letter to the bar association, and related documents.”
“Wh-what… what’s the… choice?” Steven croaked.
He held up a single sheet. “Your alternative is quietly to accompany me back to Cain County, where I will deliver you to the Warden’s prison, where he will formally acquaint you of this document.”
It was, of course, a Special Restrictions Form.
“But… um… my case schedule,” he began.
“Already cleared with the clerk,” the Sheriff answered.
They had planned everything, Steven realized. “C-could our departure be kept… low-key? No… no handcuffs?”
“That would be my preference, but it ultimately depends on you.”
Steven realized that any argument would be pathetic. “Very well.” He cleared his throat and stood a little taller. “If you would just step outside for a moment…”
The Sheriff shook his head. “No, I couldn’t do that. You’re a flight risk. You have a history.” He said that last with a smile.
“B-but…”
“I said, No.” His voice was harder now. You had a choice, and I’m not going to nit-pick details. Remove the robe and come along, or I’ll be forced to cuff you.”
“Ummm,” Steven said hesitantly, “I should tell you that … because of the heat … I’m … under my robes … I’m practically naked.”
“Immaterial. Just do as I say.”
Steven sighed and slipped adroitly out of his judicial robe, then held it in front of him to shield himself from the man’s eyes. “I’m uncomfortable with this, Sheriff,” he said.
“Drop it,” he ordered.
Steven flinched. How dare he speak to me that way… and in my own chambers, he thought, indignantly. But the consequences were… unthinkable.
He tossed the robe onto his chair and stood in just shoes, socks, and underwear. His nipples felt sensitive–from where they’d been rubbing against the robe, no doubt–and his penis was half-erect.
The Sheriff stared for a few seconds but kept any expression off his face. Weirdly Steven felt a slight disappointment.
“Dress,” he ordered.
Steven put on his suit pants and shirt efficiently–without haste, but also without dawdling. “It’s too warm for my jacket…” so he left it draped over a chair “… and I’ll have to ask my secretary to let my wife know I’m going … out of town.”
The Sheriff stepped back and let him go first. Was he merely being courteous, or keeping me under observation?
A few minutes later, they were in the Sheriff’s official van and headed toward the road to Cain County.
* *
They drove in silence for about an hour. Steven was lost in thought, speculating on what the next week (or whatever) might bring. The intellectual part of his mind was resentful that he was being imposed upon this way… but, physically, he was squeezing his thighs together, rhythmically, in time with the throbbing of his penis.
The Sheriff grunted and Steven looked up to see a big “Entering Cain County” sign ahead.
As soon as the van passed the sign the Sheriff pulled into a byway and said, “You know, those expensive clothes are suitable for the big city but not out here in the county. And if you show up at the prison wearing those fancy shoes, the staff and the other prisoners might single you out for special treatment.”
That makes sense, Steven thought, but didn’t say anything.
“I can offer you a change of clothes, courtesy of the County.”
Steven thought that his good clothes would be stored away and less likely damaged. “Okay.”
The Sheriff indicated a small bag on the floor. He said, “Slide into the back of the van and change. You’ll have enough privacy there. I’ll put your clothes in that bag and give you the replacements.”
Changing clothes in the van was awkward, but Steven had undressed down to his underwear when the panel in the compartment’s front wall slid open with a clatter. The Sheriff squinted at him, zeroing in on his crotch. “Are your underwear wet, Steven?”
“Well…” he knew there was no use lying. “Yes.”
“Then they’ll have to be bagged. Hand them over.”
He wanted to demand privacy, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, red-faced, he wriggled out of his soaked silk briefs and with downcast eyes handed them over. The Sheriff expressionlessly observed Steven in his naked state for a moment, took the silk briefs and in exchange tossed a few items of clothing at Steven’s feet.
“Carry on,” he said, dryly, and shut the panel.
Steven found that his new clothes were a t-shirt, shorts, and thin flip flops. That’s it.
Not even underwear.
The t-shirt was a pale red, and the shorts and flip-flops were white.
The clothes did fit… barely. The t-shirt was tighter and the shorts were more like micro-shorts. He slid his feet into the flip-flops and, feeling very self-conscious, moved from hot and airless back of the van up to the front seat again, but now seated on a towel that the Sheriff had spread across his seat.
* *
Steven wriggled, uncomfortably. It was cooler here than in the sweltering rear compartment, but he felt a sheen of sweat all over his body. His nervousness grew as he glanced down and saw how tight the t-shirt was. It hugged the contours of his pectoral and allowed his stiff nipples to be noticeable. The shorts squeezed his genitals uncomfortably and the seam at the rear seemed to want to ride up between his buttocks.
When he glanced over, the Sheriff almost seemed to have a smile on his lips, but that may have been a trick of the light.
A few minutes later the Sheriff said, “Prison food’s not the best. I can offer you a meal at a restaurant. The county’s budget can stretch that far.”
Steven noticed that the man’s accent was growing more rural the farther they went, but what he said did make sense.
“Y-yes… good idea.”
A last meal before prison. But the miles rolled on with no sign of a restaurant, and Steven’s mind drifted back to the courtroom trial and the list of allegations of what happened at the prison.
Eventually, he was roused from his fantasies when the Sheriff turned off the road and into a truck stop–a dozen parked big trucks, some gas pumps, a service station, and the “Hard Times” bar and grill. On one side of the truck stop was a strip of motel cabins and on the others was a building with no windows and one door with a neon sign above it that said “Adult XXX”.
“Best if you wait here,” the Sheriff said, “rather than me taking you inside in a place like this.” He cuffed Steven’s wrists to the sturdy hand-grip above the passenger door. “Especially the way you’re dressed.”
Steven had not wanted to mention it, but he blurted out, “I really need to use a restroom.” The pressure from his bladder had become uncomfortable, and he had no idea how much further it was to the prison.
The Sheriff looked at him for a moment, and said, “Okay. But we’ll make it quick.” He un-cuffed Steven and stepped back to allow him to get out of the van.
The cooler air outside was a relief, and he felt a breeze move gently over his exposed skin. But he was now doubly aware of how thin his t-shirt was and how little his micro-shorts covered the curves of his groin and buttocks. As well, the cheap flip-flops on his feet offered hardly any protection from the sharp gravelly surface of the parking lot.
“You’re bound to get some attention and comments from the customers inside. Just ignore them,” the Sheriff advised, taking Steven by the elbow to guide him.
The crowd inside the Hard Times fell silent when the two of them entered, the door swinging closed behind them. The Sheriff was of course a big and noticeable man in a distinctive uniform, but after taking him in everyone’s eyes focused on Steven. He saw a dozen pairs of eyes scanning him up and down, and he became especially aware of the contrast between the Sheriff’s official uniform covering almost all of his body and his own scanty clothes covering almost none.
The Sheriff guided him over to a counter with a man behind a register, and Steven felt like he could still feel the eyes now watching his backside.
“Give me two burgers and fries,” the Sheriff ordered, “and two bottles of water.” He slid a bill across the counter to the man. “To go. And make it quick.”
With that he turned, still with his hand gripping Steven’s elbow, and guided him firmly through the scattered tables and watching eyes towards an illuminated sign said “Toilets in Back”.
A long slow whistle sounded from somewhere across the room, joined by a couple of catcalls. “Who’s your girlfriend, Sheriff?” a man’s voice shouted out, and several others laughed at his joke. A female voice piped up, “With an ass like that, he’ll learn what being a woman means up there at the prison.” More laughing.
Steven wondered if the Sheriff was known here or only by his uniform. Not that it mattered, as the grip on his arm tightened until they were through the crowd and standing outside the toilet room. “You go on in and do your business,” the Sheriff said. “There’s no window or way to escape, so I’ll be right here until you’re done.”
After attending to his pressing bladder, Steven took a few minutes to compose himself, staring at the image he presented in the large mirror above the sinks. It seemed already a long time ago that he had been recently showered and dressed in his bespoke suit and silk tie, hair groomed. The man he saw in the mirror had skin that shone with a sheen of moisture, mussed hair, and … he had no words to describe the nearly unclothing he wore.
The toilet room had no air-conditioning to speak of, and he started sweating again. It stung his eyes and dripped off the end of his nose, trickled from his armpits down his sides to be soaked up by his t-shirt, ran down his stomach and under the waistband of his shorts to seep between his legs and join into the … activity … that was already there.
Since he’d been young, Steven had taken pride in being clean and well-groomed, and this was making him miserable. He knew again he would have to cross the crowded bar again and hear more vulgar words … and yet… his imagination was busy.
The Sheriff gave a rap on the door. “Time to go.”
* *
Back in the van, the Sheriff handed over a paper bag with the food and a large bottle of cold water. The burger and fries were surprisingly delicious, and the entire bottle of water was soon a memory.
Within ten minutes, they were turning off the main highway and onto a smaller paved road. A minute later Steven caught a glimpse of a sign that said “County Prison” and then the van was pulling into parking lot and coming to a stop in a parking slot place-marked: OFFICIAL VEHICLES ONLY.
For some reason, Steven felt a chill.
* *
The gray stone building was large and undistinguished. The Sheriff guided Steven into a room marked ‘Receiving.’ Two male deputies were waiting on duty. The room had a large glass window through which another room with an examining table could be seen. Beyond that was an open shower area.
“Hey, Thomas and Terence,” the Sheriff said to them. “Let the Warden know he’s arrived.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the deputies replied. “I’ll call him right away.”
The Sheriff released Steven from his cuffs and handed him the bag of clothes.
“If you can just sign here on the delivery record,” the other deputy said, “I’ll counter-sign, and then we’ll take over and get him processed.”
The Sheriff signed.
“Don’t forget this,” the Sheriff said, laying the Special Restrictions Form on the table. “The Warden will want to add his own signature, just to make it official–supposing of course that after … processing … our prisoner agrees to its terms and signs too.”
He gave Steven one more expressionless look up and down, as if filing the image away in his memory, and left.
* *
While they waited for the Warden to arrive, Thomas and Terence were making a series of appreciative noises and comments as they checked out Steven’s good looks and his slim athletic body in his tight shirt and micro-shorts.
A side door opened, and Steven saw the solid form of the Warden’s body enter the receiving room. Their eyes met, and they remembered that it had only been earlier that day that they’d seen each other in the courtroom. Then the Warden’s eyes looked downward, scanning Steven’s body.
The Warden’s voice: “What the hell is he wearing?”
Terence replied: “That’s how he arrived, sir. We haven’t processed him yet.”
“The man’s a judge, not a 20-dollar prostitute,” the Warden said, “so why is he dressed like that?”
“I don’t know–that’s how he arrived when the Sheriff dropped him off.”
“Ahhh, that explains it,” the Warden said, with a smile cracking his normally impassive face. “Sometimes our Sheriff likes to play his own little games with the men he brings in.”
He gave a short laugh, and then said, “Well, strip him down and get him into the shower.”
* *