An About Face

An

About

Face

A Novel by

M.W. MOORE

M. W. Moore Publications, 2009

Production by Axess Printing at Smashwords

www.axessprinting.com

Copyright © 2009 by M.W. Moore

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the

publisher’s consent.

M.W. Moore Publications

P.O. Box 61242

Houston, Texas 77002

www.mwmoore.com

Library of Congress Control Number:

2009902338

ISBN-10: 0-9776116-1-2

ISBN-13: 978-0-9776116-2-1

Printed in the United States of America

Cover Illustrator: Daymond E. Lavine

Cover Photography: Clayton Branch

Although loosely based on some actual episodic events and geographical

locations, this fact-based work chronicles embellished tales with fictionalized

names as part of the author’s creativity. There is no intent to disparage likenesses.

M.W. Moore Publications

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Chapter 1

It is never easy being the one who takes the first step. But if we want things to mature in our lives, we must fight for them relentlessly, without compromise or excuse.

– M.W. Moore

"STAY down, inmates! Stay down!" Lieutenant RideOut shouted these panicked commands in the darkened laundry room as his voice and footsteps quickly faded into the darkness.

I tried to stay awake, alert and not become hysterical as I lie wounded on the floor from a heavy blow to my chest when a body fell atop me. I struggled not to focus on the horrible pain and smell of blood that steadily flowed onto my body; I was sure death was coming upon me at any moment. Before long, I blacked out – uncertain where my spirit would rest if I didn’t survive. Fear came upon me at once due to all the havoc I had inflicted upon others with my sick behaviors from the past.

"What goes around comes around" was a phrase I knew to be true because now I was experiencing it.

*****

Having been rebellious for nearly 40 years, I had adopted a disobedient mind-set that had taken me to the furthest point of my futile thinking. Despite that, I survived the laundry room attack, but my memory was still fuzzy about exactly what had happened last evening. Now here I am stuck in another dilemma in, of all places, a prison infirmary. At first thought, it all appeared to be a nightmare that was made worse by the scorching heat, the stench of foul blood and being haunted by signs of impending death. I fought vigorously to eradicate these thoughts. Subconsciously, I began to recall and relate to the warnings of God to Cain. (Yes, I was still deeply rooted in the Bible, and why not? I had tried everything else, with failure. So why not go back to the familiar and claim my redemption? I had nothing to lose, not even time.) Like Cain, sin was creeping at my door, too, and the enemy desired to sift me like wheat just as he did to Cain. But the main phrase that caught my attention within the passage that God conveyed to Cain was this: But you must master it.

That is the ultimate accomplishment — mastering my sexual rebellion. But how was I going to master it? Fleeing from the very things that had held me captive for so long — those very things were so overwhelming at times. I couldn’t decipher the difference between real pleasure and selfish lust.

As I dug into my spiritual subconscious, I tried unsuccessfully to erase yesterday’s incident from my thoughts. That was when I realized that the images were so deeply etched in my memory it would be virtually impossible to forget my past sexual behaviors. But then, anything is possible. Once again, I found myself caught up in the prison den of immorality — taken captive by unscrupulous misfits who would do just about anything to keep secrets from being exposed, including lying or murder.

It was now close to noon as I lie uncomfortably against a hard, worn blue plastic mattress on an iron bed in the infirmary. It was the time of season when a snap of intense heat developed in the atmosphere and moisture formed on just about everything, including window panes, bed sheets and all over my dark chocolate shirtless body.

As amazing as life can be, one can be made to feel like an outcast, especially if you are one of those people who fail to confront failures. I was presently in that frame of mind, and I knew that feeling like an outcast would cause me to be one of the loneliest people on the planet if I allowed this attitude to consume me.

Now, let me rewind the clock to explain how I got into this hot dilemma that caused me to be bedridden. The cliffhanger in Internal Chaos (www.mwmoore.com), the sequel to For What I Hate I Do, showed me stuck in a dark, heated laundry room engaged in a scrabble with bad-ass Lieutenant RideOut, a fearless high-ranking correctional officer and his two imprisoned nephews, Cajun Red and Judas, whose real identities and biological relationship were kept secret from practically everyone so as not to jeopardize their stay on the same unit.

Judas was my former cell mate and ex-lover who had me all caught-up in his swagger and style; Cajun Red was his high-yellow brother who often brushed against my buttocks during basketball games on the prison recreation yard. The other person involved in the melee was my current cell mate Clear, a Crip gang member who, oddly, had slept with my first prison lover, Sheldon. At any rate, I had passed out from the scuffle and the excessive heat when I was jolted in the chest by the knee of someone who fell on me as I struggled with my legs to retrieve a shiny object, perhaps a shank, which had fallen from the hands of Cajun Red. I didn’t know if he had planned to stab me, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

But now, just a day after the laundry episode, I’m fully conscious in the stifling, humid infirmary as I try to recall the violent incident. Unfortunately the unit captain who stood over me made it even harder for me to remember all the details of that evening, due to his badgering. He displayed no mercy or empathy. We were on lock down once again. And this time we were also under investigation from Internal Affairs for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice Institution Division (TDCJID) in Huntsville, Texas.

Not surprisingly, the AC unit was still on the blink, and the temperature in the infirmary had risen to around 90 degrees. The only escape from the heat was a series of fans that officers placed in strategic locations. The appliances, however, made matters worse because they were blowing only hot air, much like the crap the captain was attempting to feed me. He sarcastically began his interrogation.

So you were helpless, huh? His jet black eyes were beady and intensely cruel. The worst thing you’ve ever experienced in life, huh Morris? His patronizing tone didn’t bother me a bit, it only amused me because I was up to par on the head games these jerks played in prison.

I finally defended my claim, despite his condescending words. The lights went out, and it was dark, Captain. Someone fell on top of me and that’s when I blacked out. I didn’t see anything after that. I studied the disdain on his face and was just about tired of his nothing-ass attitude. Besides, nothing compares to the feeling of looking out into the darkness and not knowing what the next moment might bring, especially when your life is in jeopardy.

Was that before or after the blood was smeared on your shirt, Morris? Sweat dripped from his brows.

I blacked out, Captain! I don’t know anything about any blood. And what are you trying to accuse me of anyway? In a split second I recalled feeling a sticky substance on my chest when someone landed on top of me like a falling tree in a dark forest. But, who was bleeding yesterday evening? That was the question of the hour. I had wished for a moment that the blood was that of Lieutenant RideOut. For many reasons, my disdain for him was so strong that I despised his existence.

The captain abruptly slammed his fist against my plastic mattress. I was somewhat startled. Damn, Morris! Don’t ever question my authority. The Bureau of Prisons, Internal Affairs, or whatever you guys in here call them, is down my throat. And I want answers now! An inmate is dead! His anger turned hostile. I can make this very hard for you, Morris. It’s your choice. I couldn’t give a shit if you rot in this place. You’re the last to be questioned, and somebody cut that Forté fellow and I’m aiming to find out before the shit hits the fan." He stared intently into my eyes as sweat cascaded from his brows, thin lips and forehead as if he were in a sauna.

My throat knotted after hearing that one of the Forté brothers had died violently. Was it Judas or Cajun Red? With an unofficial code of silence, I wasn’t about to ask which brother had lost his life. Even if I knew, I wasn’t the one who would sing like a cat on a hot tin roof. And since I didn’t know the answer, I offered a suggestion instead. Maybe you should address that question to your Lieutenant. RideOut … Before I could say another word the captain grabbed me by my right bicep and gnashed his teeth in anger.

Before the week is over, I will have an answer to this mess, regardless of the consequences or human sacrifice. I want answers, Morris. You figure out the rest. His voice was even harder this time around. Somebody stabbed that Forté boy to death, and I aim to find out who it was … at whatever the cost. Is that clear enough for you, Morris? Frustrated, he slammed his fist against my mattress, determined to intimidate me.

*****

For much of my life, survival generally hasn’t been a problem because there wasn’t a person in the world I couldn’t impress. That is until I met Lt. RideOut, a snake who couldn’t be charmed.

Days later, I was back in my cell with 38-year-old Clear, who didn’t look a day over 30. He and I had addressed the issue of him sleeping with my ex, Sheldon, behind my back, and it was now water under the bridge. Besides, Sheldon was only for the moment even though he was a damn good lay. But what caught me off guard about Clear was his claim after we became cell mates:

If you want us to team up, I’m sorry, dawg, but I don’t play well with others.

Of course that was a bunch of crock, because before I knew it he was all over my jock like stank on crap.

Now we were faced with a new problem. The inmate population was on lock down and had been deprived of basic necessities for multiple days. The torment started off gradually. Aside from being on lock down, denial of clean clothes was the other indication that all wasn’t well at the Ramsey Correctional Facility. Next was the denial of showers, cool water and sleep, because the lights were left on within the cell blocks all night. They called it a security measure. We all knew that was bullshit. Instead, it was an attempt by the administration to break us into a confession concerning the death of Judas.

Now this may sound prophetic, but Judas had finally met his fate with the devil. It’s so ironic how he and the Bible’s Judas Iscariot, who betrayed Jesus with a kiss, fell into their own traps that were set for their targeted victims. How interesting that the same Judas kiss more than 2000 years ago is just as deadly today. I was so taken by Judas’ smoothness and looks that I was blinded from the evil in his heart and by the lust in my own.

Also during the lock down, the administration intentionally disabled the toilets so they would not flush. Unfortunately, many cell mates had bowel movements, and the stench was nauseating. This was the breaking point for some, but I seemed to have had an abundance of bottled water to use for flushing inside my locker box. But I knew my supply could become depleted quickly if this mistreatment continued.

Word spread that Lieutenant RideOut was back on duty. Given that he often searched the unit waste treatment plant for contraband, I was sure he was behind the toilet scandal that aimed to break our silence about the murder investigation. Luckily, Clear and I had already used the toilet on this sweltering day in July that was hotter than hell. The temperature was well over the century mark, and the smell from the feces and urine was unbearable. The white paint on the walls in our cell began to peel from the South Texas humidity and the cement floors became dangerously sweaty.

*****

On Day three we had had just about enough of this nonsense. Many inmates began to mentally crack and screamed like irritated infants in soiled diapers. I’d had enough, too, especially since my bottled water supply finally ran out and commissary was prohibited.

It wasn’t long before Clear and I were in the same stink boat as everyone else. Our toilet was now full of crap, and all we could do was to add bleach and cover it with newspaper and magazines to lessen the odor. This was a classic case of prison abuse, and inmate wit writers — so called because of their intellectual stories and columns, literary activism and human-interest pieces printed in the prison newsletter — vowed to report the abuse to Internal Affairs once the lock down was lifted. The screaming from inmate wit writers about reckless endangerment, failure to administer proper care and torture got the administration’s attention on Day .

At 4 a.m., the cell doors swung open, and we were met by guards dressed in riot gear. They ordered us to strip down to our boxers and footwear to get ready for showers. Because I was so ready to scrub my body with soap and water, the guards had to tell me only once. I wasted no time undressing. I was up and out the door like a ferocious, panting bull. And so was Clear, who followed closely behind me as if he were my shadow.

Before I got in the shower, I noticed Lt. RideOut observing me with his loathsome eyes. He stood by an exit door without riot gear attached to his body as if he were immortal. I disregarded his hatred of me but instead focused on the hurt in his eyes. Obviously, he was still mourning the death of Judas, a nephew of his who prisoners or staff, generally, knew nothing about their biological relationship.

I studded up at that point, showing no pity for his emotions. Then, I collected my soap, towel, clean boxers and other clothing. Clear was still on my heels, reminding me of a stray dog clinging to its rescuer after being fed and nurtured. I had rescued him on many occasions since he was indigent and needy. The thing that baffled me the most about Clear was that he was so eager to please, submitting to me as though he were my gal. His hard-acting role quickly vanished when he eventually embraced the fact that he had become my sex slave.

After the showers, the cell blocks slowly began to be restored to order, with functioning toilets as one of the first signs. But even though lights were turned on in strategic areas of the cell blocks, the administration still was purposely stalling other privileges.

The next sign that human conditions were being restored was when an SSI (Social Service Inmate) delivered hot meals and a mop so that we could sanitize our cells. Following the meal and cleanup, many others like me had something else in mind when the lights went out at bunk time.

Call me sex-crazed, but I had a hormonal itch that couldn’t be cured by tough actin’ Tinactin. What I needed was to get my rocks off. Since I was stuck in this -foot by 9-foot cell with gang member and convicted murderer Clear, who wasn’t the man he pretended to be, I was ready to get my freak on. I wasn’t quite ready to give up banging that bubble butt of his just yet. I wanted to break him down like a cowboy riding an untamed horse. Much to my delight, I sensed he wanted to do the same with me.

The handsome, jet-black Clear never discussed the murder that landed him in prison. He had thug-like characteristics that I’d become accustomed to and found quite attractive. I’d given up the goods a time or two, allowing him to momentarily enjoy a man on top position. That was until he started hitting me from the back as if he’d lost his damn mind.

I know the booty is good, dawg. But damn, get a grip! I said in a hoarse tone from the floor of our cell many weeks ago.

Not many brothers our ages look like we do. We both were full of vitality and still possessed 0-something looks, even though we were 8 and 40. Most people marveled our youthful physique and demeanor.

Clear is a straight-acting, homo-thug black man who scares most Anglos. They see him as strong and angry, powerful and criminal. Yet they’re unaware that he can be weak and, most of all, intriguing. I’ve since learned that many people, men and women, seek out this type of roughneck. And when they do, they eventually pay the price later down the road when they discover behaviors that cause regrettable and enduring pain.

In observing Clear, I see that he has deep secrets and emotional hurts from his cowardice act of murder. I see it every day displayed in his eyes and demeanor. He has never actually dealt with the mental pain after all these years. He is like so many of us imprisoned men who medicate ourselves with sex and self-pity. And often that behavior comes with no boundaries.

I was OK with him being a confessed and reformed murderer because we all are ex-something … whether free or in bondage. But what repulsed me the most about him were his habitual masturbation during times when female guards were performing an inmate roster count. He proved to be an exhibitionist, crying out for attention or merely feeling a need to exert his masculinity. It was clear that he wanted to convince himself of his interest in women. Publicly, he hasn’t fully recognized bisexuality as a fact of life.

It appeared that masturbating in front of female guards validated his manhood. It was this very act by him that made me hot under the collar.

About six months ago, I was asleep on my bunk at 2 a.m. when I was startled by a yelling female guard who demanded that Clear hand over his ID. Why? Well, it meant that Clear was being given a sexual infraction case.

The next morning, I was steamed. He and I swapped a few unkind words, and I was on the verge of beating the dude down for disrespecting and disrupting me and every other inmate who heard the turmoil during the wee hours as we tried to sleep. Yet, somehow I mustered up the strength to restrain myself from violence because I actually liked Clear, if that makes any sense at all. We had a connection, even if that connection was only sexual. I was tired of living in personal solitary confinement with no one else in my life but me. Besides, all thug-acting men aren’t bad. I can attest to that. I was there once.

As for the Judas situation, eventually the Internal Affairs investigation into his death was completed, but release of the results were still pending.

When Clear walked into our cell at 8 p.m. Friday after dayroom recreation was over, I could smell the life he was living through the pores of his skin. His scent was so familiar — the street smell of cannabis and fermented prison wine were all over him.

All of this became evident as I sat on my bottom bunk, relaxing from the breeze of my fan while practicing my drawing and observing him closely. I then wondered why I hadn’t taken the time to actually talk to him, man-to-man, about our past ills and same gender attractions.

After being distracted by the slam of the cell doors closing, I decided to lay aside my artwork and finally talk to this dude.

Clear must have seen the concern in my eyes. After he washed his mouth of the cannabis and homemade alcohol and rinsed off his body parts, he sat next to me on my bunk half-dressed. Without hesitation, he started off the conversation.

What’s up, dawg? he said, removing his white socks to enjoy the breeze from the fan as his pants slightly sagged off his white boxers and bubble buns.

The sight of his hairless, muscular, upper body caused my stomach to tighten. I often experienced that feeling when an attractive half-dressed man was near. I also gave close attention to his nipples, which appeared hard as rocks. The desire in his eyes was strong.

Any other time I would have taken advantage of this dude. But this time I decided not to yield to my lust because I knew Clear was half intoxicated.

You good, man? I asked, genuinely concerned. Then I thought about Lieutenant RideOut, but he hadn’t been prowling around like before. I wondered if he had picked up the shank that fatal night and inadvertently used it on his kinfolk Judas during the laundry room scuffle.

As I thought about that, Clear continued the conversation.

I’m straight, he said, using an expression developed by peers in prisoners. I want some of that.

He grabbed my crotch and held on to me, caressing me mildly. I kept my focus, wondering why guys such as Clear, who loved the sexual company of other men, maintained the facade of being straight.

Let’s talk first, I said. We got plenty of time for that after the lights go out.

Actually, for now, I wanted to get into this dude’s head and not his drawers. I was tired of crying out for sincere intimacy and wanted a relationship that wasn’t just defined by sex.

I then watched Clear lean his shirtless back to the white wall that surrounded our bunks. His brown eyes were glassy and sexy at the same time.

What do you want to talk about? he asked, licking his thick darkened lips that had become a familiar habit of his.

Ever heard the story about the Eskimo and the wolf? I asked, leaning toward the bars to look out for the guard, who was nowhere to be seen. I then removed my shirt to enjoy the breeze from the fan in the corner next to the bars and soon realized I was enticing Clear. But he fought the urge, and so did I.

Nah, man. What’s up with it? Clear asked.

Whenever the Eskimo goes out to hunt for meat, wolves in particular, he plants bait in the snow. That bait is a sharp knife with blood that forms an icy covering. Later in the night, the wolf comes along craving the smell of the blood and begins licking the ice-covered blade. Before long the blade becomes exposed, but the wolf never recognizes that the taste of the blood is his own.

So he keeps licking like it’s a lollipop, huh? interjected Clear, flashing a smile when he detected that I was going somewhere with this.

Yep. He never saw it coming.

Saw what?

The deception caused by his craving and his own lust.

Clear was curious at this point, even a bit anxious.

Lust kills it? he asked.

Lust and greed, I answered. The wolf bleeds to death, deceived by the bloody knife, and the next morning the Eskimo celebrates his kill.

Hmmm. He hesitates, in deep thought, for a moment.

"So, what’s the moral of the story,