I have been to a number of prisons, and my experience as a gay man has varied. At one, being gay was something celebrated. The compound was accepting, as was staff. We had an outrageous Pride Month. 

At another, there was a decent group of gay guys but no real community. 

And at a third, there were a lot of gays having one-night stands, but not many real relationships.

In one of those compounds the prisoners controlled bunk assignments. The “orderly” would recommend placements to the unit counselor, who entered those placements into the computer.

I had been there for about six months, living in a decent room with a decent bunkmate, when a unit counselor told me to move. Much to my surprise, they placed me in what was maybe the best room in the prison.

That kind of move usually required knowing somebody and having to pay some kind of fee, like  a book of stamps. They are worth about $8 each. Usually a room like this would cost 20 books. I didn’t have a stamp to my name and didn’t know anyone significant, so I was a bit stunned.

The room was bigger than most and much better than previous accommodations I’d had, like the time I lived in a four-man room. My new living space had windows on two walls, and I could see the entire compound. The room even had a nice desk. And it was at the end of the hall, so there was no traffic going by. The only downside was it got a bit cold during the winter and a bit hot during the summer. But I could deal with that.

My cellmate was a rough dude, the kind of guy who hated anyone who was not like him. Whether it was charges, religion or skin color, it didn’t make any difference. We exchanged a few words, but I learned he would leave in a couple of weeks, so I just stayed to myself, mainly on my bunk. 

Then, when he left, I had the room to myself.

On the second night of being alone, a Saturday, I was awakened by the orderly who assigned me the room. I turned off my CPAP machine, which I wore for sleep apnea, slipped off the mask and asked what was up.

“You like the room?” he asked me, a slight slur in his voice.

I knew he liked to get drunk and do drugs. I looked at the clock; it was 2:42 a.m., meaning the 2:30 a.m. count — when guards walk the halls and count the prison population — was over. The halls were empty.

“It’s great, yeah,” I said.

“I’ve come to collect the rent,” he said.

I was a bit naive and didn’t fully understand what he meant. I was also drowsy. I reached for my glasses. Then I heard a noise and turned to see what was going on. He stood there, his shorts on the floor, his erection in my face. Now I got it. He wanted a rent payment.

I quickly connected the dots and realized why I was moved to the room. It wasn’t me or luck or anything else. It was simply that he wanted me to provide him relief, basically on demand. 

People knew I was gay, and I guess he thought I would be the easiest to exploit.

I considered the consequences of telling him “no.” Several scenarios went through my mind. 

One, he was not above violence. I could get beat up with no help anywhere in sight. Two, he could, and probably would, plant something in the room and then tell staff. A shakedown would confirm what he would tell them, my clean record would be demolished, and I would spend a minimum of 30 days in solitary confinement. The third and most likely scenario was that I would be moved again. He would make up some story to tell the counselor so I could not stay there, and then I would get moved into a different room, maybe with somebody violent.

I put the glasses back on the table and did what I had to do. When he was done, he pulled up his shorts and walked out. 

He visited me every other week but completely ignored me during the week. I was grateful for that. I started to be able to predict his appearances by how drunk he was getting and how much he’d been playing cards. He usually showed up on Saturdays, after the 2:30 a.m. count.

Eventually he got caught with some type of contraband and was sent to solitary as punishment. Whatever they caught him with was serious enough that they ended up shipping him off to another compound. Soon after he was out of the picture, I was moved out of the room to a regular room with two bunkmates. I was happy there.

I have thought many times about whether I should have handled that differently. If I should have somehow reported it. I didn’t see a feasible way then, and I still don’t. In that prison, I don’t think I would have been believed, and the attention brought by the accusation would not have been good for me.

Some of his friends probably would have become violent with me. If staff did believe me, I would have been placed in solitary for an investigation, my property bagged and likely lost. Or, I could have been moved to another compound, and I didn’t want that either.

The situation has stayed with me. I wasn’t hurt physically, but it made me more cautious, less trusting. I felt used and coerced, like an object.

I am still happy that I am an out, gay man. I love being gay. It is who I am and once I opened my mind and accepted it, I was open to other things: new points of view, new discoveries, new life. 

The process of stretching my understanding of who I was allowed me to accept others, too. I have met people who are positive influences. I have made it my goal to be positive in others’ lives as well, and to put this episode behind me. 

The whole situation underscores the weaknesses in a prison’s reporting system. For those who would want to make an accusation, there are few paths to positive outcomes. No counseling, no support and very little understanding from the staff. Sadly, for many it is better to keep quiet than to report something.

If there’s one thing I could change, it would be to not move anyone to a room with a view — at least not one with a rent payment.