Frank sees his beau Gerard for the first time in years -- if only it wasn't behind bars.
The Conjugal Visit
An obese prison guard walked in front of me, leading me down a grayish, dimly lit hallway. The movies and televisions shows did not exaggerate when they portrayed prison to be depressing, I noted.
My heart was pounding anxiously against my chest, and I tried to calm myself. It had been quite some time since I had last seen him, and I could not help but wonder if he looked any different.
Were his black locks still the same length, trailing just below his shoulders? Was his skin just as pale? How much weight had he lost? Did his hazel eyes hold the same mischievous glint?
At the very least, I knew he likely did not have any tattoos. I doubt he'd be less afraid of the makeshift, unprofessional tattoo needles that prison would offer than he was of those of the tattoo parlors in the regular world.
I wondered what he would smell like.
What I was most afraid of was that he would be such a shell of his former self, such a corpse, that I might not be able to love him the way I was expected to. I feared I would be so shocked, disturbed, or dismayed by his appearance, that our meant to be happy reunion would only reduce me to tears of horror.
Gerard was in the state prison for unarmed robbery. It was a five year sentence -- not as bad as the potential six years, but long enough to have a lasting effect. For two of those five years, I had been too sick to get out of bed. I had developed leukemia, and only recently was able to afford a bone marrow transplant to be rid of it.
Gerard had been arrested for stealing funds from our old workplace, in order to help with the costs for treatment -- which is bullshit, because our band had been the ones who helped them "earn" that money to begin with.
I never really knew exactly what went down. Gerard's younger brother Mikey was the one who filled me in on everything. I'll never quite forget the anguish on his face after the trial, when he came over to tell me the verdict. He insisted that it was no one's fault, but I can't help but feel like he blamed me at least a little.
It made sense to me, because I blamed myself a lot. Of course, I never told him to do it. He gave no indication that he was going to do anything. He just did.
And just after we had finally been granted a domestic partnership, too.
Gerard's former wife, Lindsey, had died of an aneurysm three years before any of this had gone down. I suppose it sort of explains his actions. He just did not want to go through the pain of having to lose someone again. And Lindsey's death had indeed hit him quite hard. So hard, that our band of over ten years came to an abrupt end. So hard, that he sank back into alcoholism. And guess who had to pull him back out, again? Yet in doing so, we rekindled a love once thought to be dead.
When I came home that fateful night, to tell Gerard my diagnosis, I remembered thinking of him more than myself. I didn't want him to have to go through this again either. But what else could be done?
Mikey tells me they tried to use that argument in court --- still didn't work.
So there we were. The news and media did not care much to include the back story. All we saw on the internet were articles about how former rock star Gerard Way had ended up in a life of crime and desperation, stealing because he had gone bankrupt. After a while, I simply stopped going on the internet at all.
I have my friends to thank for being able to afford enough medication and the transplant that got me where I was, walking behind this prison guard, being led up some winding stairway. They were patient, and fundraised money the legal way. They didn't panic like Gerard did. They were patient, although I had to spend a longer time in pain, and they scrounged together all their funds, some even dipping into their life savings.
I'm sure Gerard will be thrilled to hear it -- I have to imagine he was worried as to how Mikey was going to do on his own. In fact, Mikey was the one who wrote to Gerard about my recovery and organized this whole thing.
It was such a shock when I was mailed the forms and instructions for a conjugal visit.
"Here we are." the guard said in a gruff voice, snapping me out of my thoughts.
We were standing in front of a nice looking wooden door, which was in a hallway full of similar doors, the differences being the black numbers on each one. The guard took out a key and unlocked the door. As he opened it, I felt frozen in anxiety.
The room I entered was an entirely different atmosphere than the prison I had been walking through for the last fifteen minutes. It was cozy, with white colored walls instead of gray. There were no windows, but it was much better lit. It was large, with what looked like a bathroom and a kitchen area. The bedroom was slightly off to the right, beyond the kitchen. There were towels and a variety of nice things set up around me, but my eyes scanned around for the only thing I came for.
I saw him sitting on the king sized bed, sketching on a drawing pad with a nubby pencil. He was hunched over, his same length hair covering his face, so I could guess that he had not seen me right away.
For a moment, he looked up, and I caught a glimpse of the corpse that I had feared I would see. The same one that cried out to me in my nightmares, begging for my help. Sunken eyes, sickly complexion, and pouting lips. But when those dead eyes met mine, they suddenly glowed with life -- his whole being radiated with happiness, and a smile came upon his mouth.
I could feel my eyes already flooding, but they were no tears of horror.
I shed them of relief --- my baby was okay.
Jumping to the bed and in his arms, we both began to cry. I wish we could have just held each other and cried until the night and the morning after, but we had such limited time. I had so much to tell him, and then there was the purpose of conjugal visits to be tended to.
So, with my arm still around him, I got off of Gerard and sat next to him, immediately going off about all the things I had rehearsed before I came. I was so excited, I ended up either saying things twice or leaving something out and having to go back to it.
He listened patiently, seeming contented to just be with me. His eyes scanned my face as though he were trying to process me --- process the fact that I was, at this moment, far more alive than either of us could remember.
It was mid sentence that I abruptly stopped, looking at the digital clock by the bed stand. Thirty minutes spent, and we only had four hours. The sense of urgency overcame me, and I asked:
"Enough about all that. How are you sweetie?"
Gerard spent the next thirty minutes talking about life in jail. It did not seem as bad as I had pictured it in many of my night time horrors --- but I don't know if he was sugarcoating it because he knew I'd worry otherwise. At one point, we joked about how he was too pretty to be in prison, and how foreshadowing our song You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison had been. But then when I ask him seriously if anyone had touched him, his smile faltered and he changed the subject subtly, but still noticeably.
Three hours left and we both decided it would be best getting to the fucking, and more talking can be done if we have time left over.
I undressed Gerard like a kid unwrapping a present on Christmas morning.
He had gotten skinnier, no doubt --- but I also think he had also built some muscle. I find myself surprisingly turned on by this. I undressed myself and found myself already hard.
We licked each other like complicated popsicles and stuck our fingers wherever we could reach. We pinched and grabbed each other, caressed and squeezed. We sucked one another like the sweetest lollipops to have ever existed.
And finally, I got to top as we had always done. I think I was more hungry for this, as my illness had made it so I've been sex deprived even longer than Gerard. As I pushed myself in, I feel relieved that he is still relatively tight, and I am further aroused by his scream of both pain and pleasure.
The prison guards called in every hour to remind us how much time we have left. Since we can read clocks as well as they can, it's obvious they were just making sure Gerard hasn't ran off somehow.
And while he hasn't escaped physically, I don't think he could remember quite where he was as I pounded into him. Just like myself, I think his mind was back home where he belonged -- back when we had just gotten our place together, and we were ready to start life over again. We were back to those nights as a new couple, doing nothing but having fun --- eating out, having constant sex, bathing in indulgences.
Way too soon we got our third call, which meant we had one hour left. I tried to finish up so we could have that leftover time to talk.
Drilling into him harder than ever, I stretched so my hands could find his nipples. I fingered them lightly, causing him to writhe with joy. When I pinched them, I felt him come. His muscles contracted, and his buttocks clenched while my dick was between them. He screamed an "Oh!", and that combination of events was just what I needed. I blew my seed into his asshole, pushing into him almost too deep as I did.
I broke away from him, and we both collapsed onto the mattress. He moved so that he laid on top of me, and I stroked his hair from root to end. Despite our agreement to talk more after, neither of us found we had anything to say.
All that lingered was the remorse felt for time lost, and still the hope for times yet to be found.