I used to have a prison pen pal. He was a cholo at High Desert State Prison in Nevada. I started writing to him after watching an episode of "Beyond Scared Straight." I thought it was sweet the way these hardened criminals were trying to disuade troubled teens from making the same mistakes. I didn’t have a dad growing up, and I had always wanted something like that. I needed someone who would always be there for me, and an inmate had nowhere else to go.

Scrolling through the library of prisoners on the WriteAPrisoner webpage felt like browsing a catalog for a new best friend. It was a similar process to adopting my cat from the SPCA. Just as I was able to apply filters when looking for the perfect hypoallergenic cat, I could browse prisoners by age, location, and whether or not they’d committed a sex crime. Growing up in the ghetto, I’ve always been partial to cholos, so Ricardo seemed like a good fit for me.

He was a few years older, so I imagined he could be like a cool big brother. He liked to read and write poetry, and he was into weightlifting. He had been in prison since he was a teenager for murdering a rival gang member, taking a nurse hostage, and shooting up a hospital. He was also born in California, just like me, and he had a passion for collecting baseball cards.

After we’d been chatting for a couple months, Ricardo asked if I’d come out to visit him for his birthday. He hadn’t had a visitor in years, and it would mean everything to him. Besides, with the college school year ending, all my roommates were moving away, and I needed to find someplace cheaper to live.

I left in the early morning when it was still dark, the sky stretching overhead like a black tarp with small tears that revealed the pink of the approaching day. I’d managed to pack my entire life into a backpack and a single duffle bag, which I carried to the train station. From there, I took the train from Irvine to Los Angeles, then boarded a Greyhound bound for Las Vegas.

As we took a break at a rest stop in Barstow, I looked around and thought about how much everything was changing. I had never been this far before; I used to feel nervous taking the bus to the next city, and now I was in the middle of the desert. I felt like Marty McFly in "Back to the Future Part III," stepping into the wild west for the first time.

The desert was vast, stretching as far as I could see, with dusty, reddish-brown dirt and patches of dry, thorny bushes. Rugged mountains lined the horizon, and scraggly Joshua trees dotted the cracked landscape under the blue morning sky. It was bittersweet, as I felt a sense of excitement in my freedom, but a separation from everything I knew.

My Uber driver pulled up to the crack house I would be staying in as the last rays of the afternoon sun turned into the pastel hues of the early evening. My landlord was on crack, but the rest of the tenants were nice. Nancy was fucking him, but she had a maternal affection for me. Cliff worked at the prison, and he had some solid advice regarding my situation. And Chavo didn’t speak a word of English, but he was always smiling, which made me happy.

Unfortunately, our time together was short-lived, as our landlord’s crack addiction took priority over paying his mortgage, unbeknownst to anyone. One night, I went to bed in my cockroach-infested bedroom built right into the kitchen, and the next morning, the constable was waking me up, explaining that the landlord had defaulted, the place was foreclosed, and everyone had to leave. After removing us from the property, the place was boarded up to keep us from going back.

As I sat on the curb with my bags, I tried to consider my options—though really, I didn’t have any. I didn’t have a home to return to or any family support. I thought I might be in Vegas longer, so I had spent my savings enrolling in bartending school. I couldn’t just leave because I had no way of getting my money back. I was desperate. I’d suck someone’s dick if it meant staying out of trouble. Little did I know that some dicks just aren’t worth sucking.

Eddie came limping up the street, leaning on his cane as he shuffled awkwardly like a zombie. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in weeks, his dark hair sticking up from beneath a tilted yarmulke. His black goatee was neatly trimmed, but the long duster he wore was wrinkled, and I could smell his ballsweat before I could smell it. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses and carried a cane, which initially made me think he was blind. But his head darted around, tracking every movement with sharp precision, quickly putting that assumption to rest. He had a jittery, unhinged energy as he approached with his head on a swivel, like he was waiting for something wild to happen.

Stopping in front of me, Eddie tilted his head like an owl, craning his neck before reaching up and casually flipping the lenses of his sunglasses to get a better look, revealing sunken, sullen eyes circled in dark shadows. What a great pair of sunglasses! I thought. They gave him a cool retro vibe, like an old-school pimp, boldly confident in his ability to pull off such amazing eyewear. He reminded me of The Hebrew Hammer. That was a good movie.

I’m a bad judge of character, but even I knew something was off, no matter how cool Eddie might look. His voice was nasal and whiny, but with a rough edge, like he spent his days chain smoking outside the Circle K—which he did. He spoke fast, his words tumbling out one after the other, with a wheeze that made it sound like he was out of breath. There was an intensity to his voice, almost like he too was on drugs.

He knew I was a transient, so he offered me a room in his apartment. Licking his lips in a salacious manner, he promised a large collection of films he was sure I’d enjoy. I’ve always been something of a movie buff myself—I used to have a decent collection: the complete "Harry Potter" box set, every season of "Friends," and a variety of other DVDs I’d gathered over the years. In spite of my discomfort, I acquiesced. A good flick with another movie lover was just what I needed. It was 2015, and we used to say, "YOLO."

Taking me by the wrist, Eddie escorted me onto the next bus, sitting me down by the window while he took the aisle seat beside me. I felt a strong discomfort as his body leaned into mine. His duster felt rough and scratchy as it brushed against my skin, and I watched as the world outside transformed. The familiar sights from the past week blurred, blending into new, unknown surroundings. I saw a topless woman with saggy tits sitting straight-faced on a curb as a cop handcuffed her hands behind her back. Her chin was tilted up, like a petulant child refusing to cooperate. Her areolas were large and freakish.

We got off the bus in the early twilight, the setting sun casting long shadows over the tents scattered among the crackheads. Clutching me to his side, Eddie led me almost protectively through the encampment, the smell of balls now verging on overpowering. We walked through a wide-open alleyway on the way to his apartment. Garage doors lined either side, the walls covered in overlapping graffiti tags, and a dumpster overflowed, spilling trash onto the cracked concrete. It reminded me of home.

Eddie led me up a flight of stairs and unlocked the door to his apartment. The close proximity to the neighboring apartment gave me a sense of comfort—if he tried to murder me, surely someone would hear my screams. I took a final look at the sky, tinted orange and purple like a bowl of delicious sherbet, before following Eddie inside. This could very well be my last time seeing it.

If I thought Eddie smelled bad, his apartment was like stepping into a nutsack. The air was thick and stale, the windows shut tight, trapping the stank inside. Dim lighting flickered weakly, as if the bulbs were hanging on by a thread. Two mismatched sofas formed a right angle in the middle of the room, with a battered coffee table in front of them, buried under an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and piles of junk mail.

Against the far wall stood the impressive DVD collection Eddie spoke of. To my disdain, it consisted of nothing but pornographic films. I like porn as much as the next guy, but I was disturbed by the shameless and depraved behavior on display, as if his collection was something to be proud of. Three TVs competed for dominance: one inside an old DIY entertainment unit and two mounted to the walls. Porn was playing on each of them, apparently running all day to keep Eddie from feeling alone.

The walls were lined with an assortment of sex toys: whips, flogs, paddles, and something Eddie called a cat o’ nine tails. He also had an interest in weaponry and torture devices, and may well have been a movie buff after all: a large, framed poster of "National Lampoon’s Vacation" hung on the wall, next to his katana.

Hanging from the ceiling, meanwhile, was the pièce de résistance: a doll resembling the Grim Reaper, suspended ominously in the center of the room. It swayed slightly, as if moved by some unseen force. Eddie claimed it was made from human bone, and, as much as I wanted to dismiss his claim, something about the eerie craftsmanship made me believe him. I stepped closer to inspect it, but the closer I got, the more revolted I became. I didn’t even want to breathe near it. The gnarled limbs and hollow eye sockets gave off an uncanny, deathly vibe that sent a chill down my spine. Eddie watched me, beaming with pride, as if he’d just shown me his prized action figure collection. I wondered how he could sleep with that thing nearby.

He escorted me to the bedroom, leaving me on my own to unpack as he shut the door behind him. The room was small, with only a twin-sized bed and a closet to store my things. I decided not to unpack, just in case Eddie tried to kill me and I had to make a hasty retreat. The room was cramped, but beggars can’t be choosers. I just hoped that Eddie wasn’t planning on clapping my cheeks.

I sat on the bed and looked out the window, which was covered by metal bars. The soft twilight had turned to night, and I watched as the flickering streetlights reflected my wavering thoughts. Something about Eddie was off, and he seemed to be preying on my vulnerability. His approach was almost methodical and calculated. It was unnerving, like he’d done this before. I wondered if he and my landlord knew each other and if they had been crack buddies (they were). But, YOLO.

My first night at Eddie’s was intense. The events of the day had tuckered me out, and I was out like a light the moment I laid down to rest my eyes. I was woken up in the wee small hours of the morning by the ringing of my cellular. Grandma was on her deathbed in hospice, and my mom was calling so I could speak to her one last time. She was distraught as she berated me for not being there in person, promising to off herself once Grandma passed.

Grandma had always been my favorite person, even though she was a bit of a cunt. She was the type of person who kicked cats for lounging in the walkway, and she refused to let anyone use her parking space, even though she didn’t own a car. So, definitely a cunt. Trying to talk to her while she was sedated was an exercise in futility.

She wouldn’t let me get a word in, using her dying breaths to express disappointment in me. She only slipped in the occasional "Don’t be gay," repeating the mantra over and over like it was keeping her alive. She might have been on her way out, but I knew she was milking it. She pulled the same stunt years ago during her first deathbed, loudly proclaiming "butt sex" whenever the hot female nurse walked in.

Her assertion that I was gay confused me, as it seemed to come out of nowhere. I had never even done anything gay in Grandma’s lifetime. She knew all about my crush on Big Kristi—the widest angle in geometry class—who went on to fuck my brother after prom. She even had her own thoughts on the matter, passionately declaring that I had no right to be angry, and that I would never have friends. Confused, hurt, and a little pissed off, I cut her off mid-rant with an abrupt, "Okay, love you, bye," before ending the call and slipping my phone into my pocket.

As I lay in the darkness and thought about Grandma, I noticed something unsettling. At first, I thought it was a shadow, but then I smelled it—sweaty balls. Eddie was peering around the doorway, his head tilted like he was trying to watch me without being seen. As my eyes adjusted, his features came into focus: the curve of his mustache as he sneered, his big brown eyes leering with a disturbing intensity, and his thick eyebrows in desperate need of a pluck.

Before I could react, I heard the neighbor fart through the wall—a loud rumble that started low and ended on a high note. I laughed, and the neighbor must have heard me because they laughed too. Eddie’s head slowly sank away like a defeated whack-a-mole, and I felt safety in knowing that if I could hear farts from the neighboring apartment, they’d hear if Eddie tried to kill me in my sleep.

Days passed, and my cheeks stayed blissfully unclapped, but my unease only grew. Eddie’s affection was intensifying, and "YOLO" no longer felt like a good enough reason to stay. But I couldn’t afford to leave, and Eddie only wanted to hang out. He wasn’t charging me rent or asking for anything other than my company, so I felt stuck between a rock and a ballsweat-soaked place. I’d always wanted an older brother—like Ricardo. But Eddie was something else. He’d spent time in prison, and I couldn’t help thinking he saw me as his bitch. The way he hovered nearby and talked me up felt less brotherly and more "creepy uncle."

He once beat the crap out of one of his crack buddies for trying to steal my laptop. Normally, it’s nice when someone has your back, but with Eddie, it felt less like friendship and more like he was defending his property. I came back from my bartending course to find Eddie with a crooked grin and a wild look in his eye, proudly showing me the dried crackhead blood on his fist like a cat dropping a dead bird at my feet—only this cat had a weird sexual energy.

Things finally came to a head when Eddie brought another transient home from the bus station. Canelo was in Vegas visiting his girlfriend, a recovering crack whore. He was a stocky guy with a shaved head that gleamed under the dim living room light. He looked like the guy from "The Purge" who tried to rape the mother and daughter. His broad face was framed by a thin goatee that traced his mouth and chin, and his solid build gave the impression that he could take a punch and keep going. Tattoos covered his body, peeking out from beneath a faded button-up shirt that hung loosely over his thick frame. He seemed like a nice guy.

While Eddie was taking a shit, Canelo and I got to talking. He was from California too and planned on heading back after visiting his girlfriend. I was also ready to leave, with my bartending course wrapping up in a few days. Visiting Ricardo hadn’t worked out—I never made it onto his approved visitors list. Apparently, you can’t just ride up to a prison on a bicycle and expect to be let in.

Canelo was uneasy about staying in Eddie’s sex dungeon and wanted to leave immediately. When I told him I’d already been there for a couple of days, he looked at me like I was insane—surely Eddie would’ve clapped my cold, dead cheeks by now. It was time for us to go. Canelo agreed to stay in Vegas with me while I finished my bartending course, promising to have my back if anything happened. In return, I’d cover our meals and pay for the trip back to California with what little money I had remaining.

We left while Eddie was still in the bathroom. To be honest, I felt awful leaving like that. Eddie had never physically hurt me—his damage was the kind you couldn’t see. I didn’t want to give him any more issues than he already had, but I was afraid I would wake up one morning to a strange breeze, only to find him wearing my skin like a training bra. When I was a kid, I was playing hide and seek with a friend. I hid under the bed for a good forty minutes before realizing he’d gone home. I still think about it.

As Canelo and I walked, my phone was ringing off the hook. When I didn’t answer, Eddie started leaving voicemails. As curious as I was, I couldn’t bring myself to listen to them. I wasn’t scared—I felt safe with Canelo—but I felt deeply ashamed for abandoning a man so obviously in need of a pair of cheeks to love and clap. Mine were off the table, but I could’ve helped him find some; my mom had a pair.

Arriving at a park near a baseball stadium, we set up a small camp beneath a tree. Canelo shared his blanket with me and passed out immediately, snoring like a stocky little angel. It took me longer to relax. Eddie was a character, but he was also lonely and miserable. He’d told me I was his only friend, and now I’d abandoned him. I never wanted to hurt anyone like that.

I finally pulled out my phone to see what he’d been texting me. He wanted to gut me, slit my throat, and put a bullet in my head. I put my phone away with a sigh, thinking how unnecessarily rude he was being. Honestly, it made me feel less guilty. I started to relax as I rolled over and closed my eyes. All this over some cheeks?

I didn’t have any more trouble with Eddie, but I did accidentally get him jumped on my last day in Vegas. While Canelo and I waited for the shuttle, I stopped by the Circle K to grab some snacks. The cashier recognized me as she stood by the register, chatting with her boyfriend. She knew Eddie—he was always outside smoking—and casually asked if he was my uncle since she’d seen us together from time to time.

“No way, José,” I said, explaining that I’d only stayed with him for a few days. She must have picked up on something in my tone or the way I looked because she kept pressing, wanting to know what happened. So, I told her everything—about the sex dungeon, the porn on every TV, the Grim Reaper doll made of human bone, and the death threats.

She was taken aback, but her boyfriend was furious. He had kids living in the neighborhood, and he didn’t want a rat bastard like Eddie anywhere near them. Oh no, I thought, feeling even worse than before. I was just trying to make conversation; I didn’t want to get Eddie’s ass beat. I tried backpedaling and taking back what I said about him being a creep, but it was too late—Eddie was going to get his ass beat.

Canelo and I were on the shuttle and out of town before Eddie made it to the Circle K for his beating. Part of me wanted to stay and see what happened, but I’d had enough of him. My grandma was dead, and I had to go stop my mom from killing herself—she might not fuck it up this time.

As the desert highway rolled on, I looked at my cholo buddy and thought how fortunate I was to have found a real friend through all this. I’d gone to Vegas looking for a connection, and even when things had gone sideways, I managed to leave with exactly that. Canelo was my brother and my protector, and he would never try to clap my cheeks.

Or so I thought.

Next Chapter: RoboCock