Page 45 of The Trailer Park Twink

I shrug, trying to downplay my excitement. “There’s an extra bedroom. You slept there.” I glance over at Bubba. “With him.”

As Ezra blushes, the warden clears his throat. “That’s quite enough. My boys have been waiting ages for this show. We have a countdown calendar and everything. You can discuss living arrangements when the show is over.”

I give Ezra a hopeful look. “We’ll figure something out. Promise.”

Along the wall to my right, spread out amongst four levels, there are about roughly forty cells, each with a large floor-to-ceiling window.

The rooms have pink walls, hot-pink bunk beds, and flatscreen televisions.

Some rooms have desks with computers, while others have makeup stations that look to be filled to capacity.

Probably. I mean, it’s pretty far off, and I can’t really tell, but with stations that chic, it would be a crime to leave them empty. Then again, this is prison.

Prison. Is this where Daddy’s tax dollars are going? Because if so, I wholeheartedly approve .

“Austin,” the warden says. “I’ve talked to the boys in advance. They know they’re not allowed to make you feel uncomfortable. There will be no caressed crotches or firmly squeezed buttocks. Not on my watch, son. You have my word.”

Fucking weirdo.

There’s movement ahead of us, and I look up to see heads poking out of their cell doors, watching us. There are men of all ages. Most are younger, some are older. It’s a little bizarre, because none of them are coming out of their cells. They’re just staring at us like frightened fawns.

One by one, their eyes find mine, and there’s a collective whisper amongst them. I’m feeling a little self-conscious, because they won’t stop looking at me. Did I accidentally get cum on my face when Daddy made me shoot in the lobby bathroom?

Maybe it’s just because of my new hair color.

I dyed it pink at Ezra’s insistence after he claimed it would give me a Jem and the Holograms vibe.

Despite being born in the early aughts, Ezra has always had a fondness for Jem, even when we were little.

His mother had a collection of Jem dolls from when she was a child, and once she gave them to him for his tenth birthday, his fondness forged the flames of obsession, and now his entire bedroom is drenched in neon-haired cartoon icons, each more lovely than the last .

I hear a couple of people whisper, “It’s him,” but I’m not sure if they’re talking about me.

The warden leads us to a small pink stage in the corner of the common room that looks freshly painted, and he flips a switch on a small, mechanical console beside the platform.

It’s not a very tall stage, just a step up off the floor.

Beside it, there’s a retractable banner plastered with all our faces.

Ezra must have had it commissioned and delivered before we got here.

There’s a single microphone stand, and the warden taps his finger on the mic, testing it, I guess.

“Dust in the wind,” the warden sings in a rather sultry voice. He sings a few more bars before giving the microphone a proud nod, like he’s praising it for doing its job.

Again . . . fucking weirdo.

Much to my heart’s content, Daddy continues softly singing the song into my ear, whispering the melody just for me.

“Hello, Daddy, my old friend,” I sing to him. “Nice to fuck you in the ass again.”

He snorts so loud the sound echoes off the hot-pink concrete walls. “That’s not the same song, baby. You’re mixing up Simon and Garfunkel with Kansas.”

I shake my head. “I’m not going to Kansas. Ever.”

“I hate to correct you in front of your boy, bro,” Bubba interrupts. “But ‘Dust in the Wind’ is actually a Bette Midler original composition.”

“Boys,” the warden says in a calm, peaceful voice.

“It’s alright, you can come out. We talked about this, remember?

These are the men we invited to sing for you.

The group is here, and they’ve got some great songs planned for you.

I’ve told them all about you, and they’re just dying to meet Papa Bear’s good boys. ”

“ Papa Bear ?” Ezra mouths to me.

“Come on, little guys. Come introduce yourselves.” Slowly but surely, the inmates shuffle in.

Like the concrete walls, their jumpsuits are hot-pink, and most have been cut off to create hotpants and crop tops.

As they move closer to us, the warden leans in, whispering, “They’re skittish around new people, but just give them a little time and you’ll never be able to shut them up.

” He smiles at them as they approach. “We had an issue a few months ago. Four inmates lied about their sexuality to stay here, and one of them hurt one of our boys. It really shook them up. We’ve been trying to heal from it with our group therapy sessions, but it’s been a hard-fought battle. ”

“Okay,” I say, because I didn’t really ask for a lore lesson.

“They’re even more nervous than they normally are, but that’s just because of our newest inmate. He rejected the advances of one of our boys. It tore my boy up inside, and he let the feelings fester for weeks until he finally snapped.” The warden snaps his fingers for emphasis .

I look at Daddy. “What the hell is going on right now? Who asked for any of this information?”

Ignoring me, the warden continues. “Now he’s got three-fourths of Pretty Boy Prison believing the new inmate is, in their words, a fake gay.”

I open my mouth to scold him for boring me to half to fucking death, but the men are getting closer, and they’re all staring right at me.

Well, aside from the man leading their charge.

He looks to be in his mid-thirties, and unlike the rest of the group, he’s not paying me a single second of attention, focusing his attention on Dallas.

He’s making fuck-me eyes at my Daddy, but I don’t call it out, because who can blame him?

Dallas Johnson is a snack, and this man has been in prison for God knows how long.

It doesn’t hurt anything to let him appreciate the view.

“I love your work,” he whispers, blushing as he shakes Daddy’s hand. What work? Has he seen the stuff Dallas welds at the machine shop? Is this man an undercover oilfield fabricator?

Before I can ask my terribly important question, he shuffles away, taking a seat at one of the more-distant tables on the other side of the room, as far as he can get.

Next, a tiny man who can’t be much taller than five feet rushes toward us, blushing just as much as the last guy.

Thankfully, this one’s attention seems to be focused only on me .

“It’s so good to meet you, Austin. I really love the new pink hair. It was cute when it was blond, but this makes you sparkle.” Without consent, he reaches up and feathers his fingers through my hair, just letting his hand rest against my scalp, his thumb slowly massaging into me.

“I don’t know what’s happening right now.”

“I’m your biggest fan, sir,” he whispers to me, and then, just like the one before, he rushes away like a scamp.

For the next ten minutes, it happens this way, over and over.

Most of the cell block ignores my bandmates during the impromptu meet-and-greet, focusing all their attention on me.

The twinks all tell me how much they admire the bond I have with Daddy, which leaves me in a state of bewilderment, because how do they know so much about me?

The more masculine inmates pat my head like I’m a fucking poodle, offering me ridiculous variations of good boy, Daddy’s boy, and sweet boy, all said whilst staring at the bulge in my hotpants.

By the time they’ve all taken their seats, my entire group, sans Daddy, is staring at me like I’m Satan himself, but it’s not my fault that I have a dazzling smile and people-pleasing attitude.

Perhaps if they took note, they, too, could be swarmed by gay fans one day, even if I don’t know how the hell these men know me.

Bubba cups Ezra’s cheeks. “I’m real fucking proud of you, Ezzy. Now, get that perky ass on stage and sing Daddy a song. ”

Ezra scowls at him. “Again, you’re not my Daddy.” He tugs the tail of his crop top like he’s trying to stretch it down so he’s not so exposed. He’s got one cheek sucked in as he stares down at the floor. “I’ll give it my all.”

Bubba kisses his forehead. “That’s my sweet boy.”

Ezra walks on the small stage and stands in his starting pose; head tilted up to the ceiling, one fist lifted high to the sky, his other holding the microphone at his side. As we join him, the warden hands the rest of us hair brushes and permanent markers.

“Sorry, we only have one mic. You’ll have to share.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Fine. Fucking fine. I’m not going to waste time on unwinnable battles. Instead, I focus on the things I can change, and say a silent prayer for the courage to change them.

“Oh, baby, baby,” Ezra sings, his voice echoing across the room, but every face in the crowd contorts like they’re listening to the scraping of metal on metal.

I don’t know what the disgusted looks are for, but as Ezra waxes poetic how he shouldn’t have let his lover go, the crowd looks like they want to go anywhere that isn’t here.

They’re still eye-fucking me like no tomorrow, but I feel the unearned support they gave me moments ago as it starts to slip.

Maybe they just don’t like Ezzy’s voice, but that’s just stupid.

He’s got more talent in his pinkie than I do in my whole penis.

Luckily, Deirdre is poised to take the lead next, and she’s got a really pretty voice.

Deirdre storms forward like a one-woman typhoon, twisting to the side and popping her ass to the rhythm of Britney’s blessed beat, accompanied by Jamie’s unmatched beatboxing skills.

Through the wondrous words of Momma Spears, she pleads for her lover to show her how he wants it to be, but the plea goes unanswered as the boys in the crowd stare confusedly at us, mumbling to each other under their breath.

The song goes on endlessly, but the only time we get anything close to a round of applause is when a housefly lands on a twink’s cheek and his well-intentioned buddy tries to slap it away, resulting in the newly slapped twink clutching his face like a drama queen and sobbing loudly.

The warden marches over to the twink and kneels in front of him, cupping his reddening cheek.

As he consoles the poor boy, Deirdre, Ezra, and the other guys do a twirl.

I try to keep up with them, but I’m absolutely useless, because the warden keeps looking over at us with a disapproving frown.

As Jamie belts out the second verse, the warden stands and walks toward us.

He’s got an apologetic look in his eyes and a smile that doesn’t seem very genuine.

I’m the only one not dancing, too busy watching him reaching for the system’s console.

The moment he touches it, the music and microphone both shut down.

Deirdre and Ezra are still dancing up a storm, and it takes them a second to realize what’s happened.

“I’m sorry,” the warden says. “But I think that might be enough for now.”

My heart cracks right down the middle, and as I look around Pretty Boy Prison and see the sympathetic, awkward smiles the inmates are giving us, I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this humiliated in all my life.

There are over thirty gay men staring at us like they were just forced to sit through a La Toya Jackson concert or something.

I watch as it hits each of my friends, creating the world’s worst snapshot of the moment they realize we must be awful, because why else would the crowd be looking at us like that?

I thought we sounded good, and now it’s like my dreams are dying right in front of me.

The queens of cell block C are darting their eyes away, cheeks flushing, warming up the room a little too much for comfort.

Deirdre’s eyes lock on mine, and she has this horrified look on her face. “Wait. Do we suck?”

I shrug, because I’m not really sure. I know it has to be true, because there’s no other reason for them to stop the performance.

“But we didn’t get to finish,” Ezra whispers to the warden, his jaw trembling.

“We practiced, sir.” He focuses on me, silently pleading for me to make this right, but how can I?

If they don’t like our performance, there’s not a whole lot I can do with that.

I can’t magically make them like us. I can’t tailor our music to suit their preferences.

We’re artists. Maybe not all-too-talented artists, but artists nonetheless.

The rejection stings, and there’s a tear in my eye, but I quickly wipe it away.

Bubba marches forward and drives a finger into the warden’s chest. “You think you can break my boy’s heart and get away with it? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

As the warden squares his shoulders, bucking up his chest like a hard-ass all of sudden, it feels like the whole world is watching us walking a wire without a net, and all it’s going to take is one strong gust of wind to send us flailing out of the clouds and back to reality.

Click, click.

The sound is small, but it sounds like an earthquake, and when I look up, I have to do a double-take, because headed our way, glammed to high-hell, stands local drag legend, Sukki Cox, AKA Brandon Beauchamp.

She’s got a tall, blonde wig styled in an updo, and she’s the only person in Pretty Boy Prison not wearing a refashioned prison jumpsuit.

No, her gown could rival Deirdre’s, a fact my friend must realize, too, because she’s staring at Sukki like she’s the second-coming of Cher herself.

“Jesus,” Deirdre whispers. “Teach me your ways. ”

Sukki snickers, tickling Deirdre’s upper arm as she moves past, pausing in front of me. She touches my cheek, letting her soft hand rest for a moment before wiping away my tears. “Never fear, Mother’s here.”