A few months ago I was on my hands and knees in the showers lubed to Timbuktu and back and a large black mass was entering and exiting me. I am am of course talking about my adventurous three months in prison. How did here I asked myself as torrent of cum filled my man vagina to the point of bursting, “Hold still lil nigga,” Tyrone would say as I struggled against his cementing of my lower intestine. After a few dozen times I was a prolapsed shell of my former self. My anus dropped behind like a limp tube of pasta. I could now poop standing standing up at least, just point my anus as I would my penier. An added bonus was I could fuck myself in the ass by pulling my pasta tube over the head of my mushroom. But something about those three months changed my life that wasn’t just a permanent rearrangement of my insides. Those “experiences” I grew to love as my man bean was furiously abraised. In a funny sense as wrong as it felt it also felt so right. And as my petite little rump was passed around the prison I thought back to an insightful Mike Tyson qoute, “I’m gonna fuck until you love me!. That man is scholar I thought as cheeks were pulled apart to the point of ripping. On my final day I begged the prison guards to let me stay as this ‘lifestyle’ I grew acustomed to was about be taken away, like my virginity on the first day. In short prison reoriented more than just my butthole.