No sleep that first night I lay awake expecting to be buggered at any moment, I really did. "Indecent exposure", my friends, gets you a shared cell in the wing reserved for others who offences are of a sexual nature, any of them. I didn't know what my cellmate was in for - when I asked he didn't say, which hardly calmed my nerves. I tried again and again to conjure up some comforting gloot-based images. None came to me, and so I lay there, imagining bad bad things, staring at the ceiling, clutching my rough blanket to my chest as if it were a protective cloak. Longest night of C. Moore's life.
Freedom, denied.
Group therapy, compulsory.
"If I could only show you what I'm talking about..."
The laughter. Even our therapist couldn't resist a smile.
What was it exactly about me that they found so funny? I was here to co-operate. That first night had scared the bejesus out of me. I wanted out asap. Sooner than that even.
Slowly, the laughter subsided.
A hand went up.
"Yes, John?"
"I was just wondering, Miss, maybe we should see some pictures of these women he's on about," he started to air jack. "You know, see for ourselves how f***ing irresistible..." He cracked up the room followed. I was surrounded by fools.
I got a pal to print and send some adornments for the cell.
My cellmate - not as scary as I'd imagined - didn't object.
"Not my cup of tea, mate, but it's live and let live, innit."
He even gave me a bit of alone time in exchange for a few quid.
"Yeah, knock yerself out, mate. Mind yer mess though."
Group improved as well. They'd stopped laughing anyway.
Still, it was far from pleasant first few weeks.
Time seemed to stand still. How C. Moore yearned to have unlimited internet access again, and how I despaired at all those brand new muscle butt images I was missing out on. How I longed to go out to the streets and search for new, tight and toned targets.
"Am I making good progress, would you say?"
I collared the therapist, our "Miss", after session one morning.
"Are you...?" She looked genuinely shocked. Was I standing too close? I'd seen others talk privately to her, surely I wasn't breaking any rules... She composed herself.
"Take a seat, will you?"
The next thirty minutes or so were the second most life-changing minutes I have ever experienced. She spelt it out, and - I now realise - for the first time since that big lock in that big door had gone "click", and what's more probably for the first time for many many years - C. Moore listened, really listened. And I learned.
I hadn't actually made any progress at all, she told me. As long as I continued trying to blame the women for my predicament, without even a hint of responsibility for my own actions, no progress would be made. "If you actually listened to the others in the group," she said, "you'd know that already. They've been where you are, blaming their victims. Sooner or later you have to realise it's your fault and you have to change."
C. Moore spent that night lying awake. And the next, and the one after that.
I lay awake and imagined a different life. A number of them in fact. A life without muscle butts, cold turkey, total abstinence, would be, I knew, a life not worth living.
If I was to change, that was not an option...
And so I began the private, hermit-like existence I live now. Occasionally I do have to venture out, and I'd be lying if I said there haven't been a couple of moments when certain urges have had to be resisted, but so far, so good. The memory of my period at Her Majesty's Pleasure with just 18 images, just 36 glorious glootz for company has proved the ultimate deterrent. I've even found some (albeit temporary) employment!
Private worship only. I'm with the majority now.
It feels more comfortable than I ever thought it would.
C. Moore's MOST WANTED, an 18-month 2018-19 calendar containing all 18 images that kept our anti-hero company in his cell through those long dark nights of the soul is available now or postal order from FMS. Send a SAE and a cheque for £25.00 payable to FMS, Inc. to the usual address. Hurry while stocks last!
No comments:
Post a Comment