Boy, That's Convict Pussy You're Playin' With:
Life on Death Row
Written by:  Winterle Farlane

There's not many women on death row.  Women tend to manipulate, not murder.  Plus, when they actually do kill somebody, it's usually chalked up to menstruation and the case is thrown out of court. 

I'm the exception.  (I wasn't menstruating, I did more than "manipulate," and I'm not a woman.) 

I tried to pull off one of those "Tootsie/Mrs. Doubtfire" type deals where the guy dresses up as a girl to better himself, or see his kids, or get out of a murder charge, or whatever, but all that came out of it was a sitcom deal which I am not able to reap the benefits from due to the fact that I'm rotting in jail.  I also had a few nights in bed with the judge, in hopes that I could fuck my way to freedom, but only ended up feeling used. 

So, here I sit, trying to get my message out to the world.  Sure, Mumia Abu-Jamal may have it bad (is he dead yet?), but he ain't no cross-dresser and he isn't a male stuck in a woman's prison (I'll explain the disadvantages to this, in a moment).  He did have a good book, though.  Good read if you ever feel like taking on a gigantic downer.    

How did I get placed in a female penitentiary, if I'm a male?  It was sort of a fluke.  The judge, refusing to let himself believe that he had just been humping 220 pounds of pure man meat sentenced me to death in a woman's prison.  "That's where she belongs!" He said.  Never in my life have I seen a man regret not using a condom more than the judge did that very day.  And I still laugh when I think about the first time he went down on me.  "Wow, you're really hairy," he exclaimed.  "It doesn't taste bad, does it?" I asked, doing my best "insecure female" impression.  "No, no, it isn't that, doll.  It's just all the hair that surprised me."  "I know, I know," I returned, "I should go back to waxing."  What a night. 

Anyway, maybe it was all the mouth wash and Colgate, but that judge could not be convinced that I was a man.  The lawyers got a real kick out of it.  They actually started placing bets on whether or not they could keep the judge believing I was a female.  They bought me the most expensive dresses you could find in a JCPenny's catalog and had me professionally made-up by the local news crew each morning.   Both the defense and prosecution had a field day; the jury was in on it too.  It wasn't more than 3 seconds after someone addressed me as "ma'am" that half the courtroom busted out laughing.  Yet, the judge remained fooled (or self-deluded) and I was sentenced as a woman.

The sentencing was on January 3rd, 1985, the day President Reagan, a good friend of the judge's, decided that AIDS was for "fags" and "junkies," and demanded that the production of needles, even those manufactured for medical reasons, be put to an end, and all "Culture Club" records stopped being imported immediately.  Of course, this didn't really go over well with top presidential advisors, who knew they were pretty much dealing with a full-fledged loony, and a compromise was made where Mr. Reagan simply ended up bringing the race to find a cure for AIDS to a screeching halt by cutting off federal funding, denying heroin addicts access to clean needles, and insisting that no one but vermin and gutter-trash ever got AIDS.  Especially not "normal" people such as Reagan, and his fellow antiquated commie-bashers out there in the "straight" capital of the world, Hollywood.  "Culture Club" remained a pop phenomenon.

So, off I went, dressed in a mini-skirt, to await my execution (which was initially scheduled for March 17th, 1992, but was delayed until January 1st, 2000, when I claimed to have the solution to the Y2K problem, and vowed to take it with me to the grave, if I wasn't around to share it with the rest of the world at the turn of the century.)  "Boy," I thought, "this is gonna be great!   So much pussy, and no competition!"

How much wronger could I have been?

On death row, pussy goes after pussy and a dick is only a small peeing device that is meant to be ridiculed and violently tugged on during showers.  I'm stuck with 300 Lorena Bobbits!  (Excuse my misspelling of her name.  The state took away all access to any reading material other than Oprah's "Book of the Month" club books.  It was then that I felt myself using words such as "wronger.")  You can only imagine what it's like during "that time of month" when all 300 women have "that time" together! 

You've heard the rumor, right?  That a woman's period slowly moves itself into a new timeslot so that it can be just like all of the other women's periods that surround it?  Eventually, women that work together, live together, spend time in jail together, etc., all start having their period at the exact same time.  Imagine what this is like for me!  A bunch of violent offenders all going on the rag at exactly the same time, and all of them wanting to take it out on one thing . . . the male.  It's a fate worth than death.  Well, not really, but it's a fate, nonetheless.

What's more degrading is that my cellmate, Tuffy, has made me her "bitch."  This basically means that I'm her girlfriend.   Yes, much like in the brief relationship I had with the judge whom sentenced me, I'm playing the female.  This is, of course, made all the more awkward by the fact that the person playing the male actually has a vagina. About once a month, she pees on me to show her dominance.  During the other 29 days, she just pees along the lines of her cell, to mark her territory.  She's rather protective of her "bitch."

I can't deny that I am slightly flattered when she begins growling if another inmate comes near me.  I was downright complimented when Tuffy howled straight through the night when I was thrown in the hole.   Unfortunately, she stopped, early in the morning, when I pulled out.  Oh well, at least I don't have to worry about dropping the soap in the shower.

There it is, my story.  A man on a woman's death row.  Living the last years of my life with 300 women who all happen to be stronger than me. It's a lonely, degrading existence.  Sort of like being pet by your dog.  

I hope I have shed a little light on why Capital Punishment is wrong, while, at the same time, disguising the fact that I am really just Alex Sandell making all of this stuff up under a different name.  You can send cards and flowers to alex@juicycerebellum.com, I'm sure he'll find a way to get them to me, somehow.

ęCopyright 1999 Alex Sandell [All Rights Reserved].  Copy this, without my permission, and "Winterle" won't be the only one getting fucked by the judge. 

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