"Times change politics, politics change laws, laws change the justice system, and the failure of the justice system changes times." -- Katja Pumm
Just because something has always been done a certain way, and is socially acceptable by the majority of society and state laws, does not make it morally or legally right.
For example, if we were to look into the rear-view mirror of our nations brief 240 year history, these are some of the atrocious actions that were legally being committed by some of our ancestors that would be crimes of the highest order today: Slavery. Segregation. Public executions. Not allowing non-whites to vote. Not allowing women to vote. Allowing kids to work in factories, railroads, and manual labor jobs. Dumping toxic waste into the watter supply.
The above major civil and human rights violations, and numerous violations against kids, the elderly, people with disabilities, and teh environment, that were corrected by legislative laws and court decisions, demonstrate, as higher intelligent beings living in a modern, civilized society, how we are evolving towards perfecting equality, fairness, and humane treatment towards all people.
In a 6-3 majority ruling in January of this year, 2016, and for the fourth time in this relatively new Century, the Supreme Court took another jusicial step towards giving juveniles a second chance. Before I give my two-cents on the subject, let's recap the other Supreme Court rulings in the 21st century.
2005 -- Barred the Death Penalty for capital crimes committed by juveniles at the time of their crime (anyone under 18).The retroactive ruling forces states to commute all Deal Penalty sentences given to juveniles into Life Sentences.
2010 -- prohibited states from giving juveniles Life Sentences for crimes that weren't a homicide.
2012 -- blocked states from giving juveniles mandatory Life Sentences, including for murder
2016 -- extended a chance for freedom to some 1,500 now grown adults, who were given Life Without the chance for Parole sentences for murder as juveniles -- some who were as young as 13 at the time of their crimes -- in several states that did not treat the 2012 ruling retroactively.
The latest Supreme Court ruling in a string of second chance court decisions in favor of juvenile offenders give people like Henry Montgomery (17), now 69; Trina Garnett (14), now 54; Damien Jenkins (17), now 41; James Porter (16), now 50; and several hundreds of other juvenile offenders who have been locked up multiple decades, instant parole eligibility and at least a chance at being released.
I understand that giving a teenager a second chance, who say, wrecks their parents' car, and giving a teenager a second chance who commits cold-blooded murder, are two totally different moral circumstances that can't be weighed on the same scales of justice. A human life that was taken can't -- and shouldn't -- be compared to a replaceable, demolished car. In my comparative example, both teenagers are immature, underage adolescents who exercised poor judgment (one to a greater extreme), and yes, their egregious actions have deserving consequences. I get that. I really do. Even a kid should be punished for murder, but condemning a kid for the rest of their natural lives for a crime that was commits when their thinking proceess wasn't fully developed is beyond excessive punishment and should be a crime itself.
After 20, 30, 40, and even 50 years of being in prison, their comes a defining moment in time when juvenile offenders deserve a second chance at life as a free adult, which is something they have never experiences because they were kids/teens when they were arrested/incarcerated. I know the deceased victim can't be given the same second chance in this life. Unfortunately, that isn't possible. It is possible for juvenile offenders, who committed murder, to be given a second chance, so why not practise that we preach -- forgiveness -- and after a more that reasonable sentence has been served, allow said juvenile offenders to redeem themselves as free adults. At least the rehabilitated, mature adult (juvenile offender) can contribute some good to society, but destroying two lives in this lifetime is not justice and not a solution to deterring murder crimes by juveniles.
Shawn Ali Bahrami (17), now 39. Yes, I'm a juvenile offender. Because I've been locked up for the past 21 years, since I was 17, juvenile justice adn reform is a sensitive subject for me. I can't wrap my mind around how everyday, church-going people can be so cruel, hateful, and vengeful towards kids and teens who commit aggravated adult crimes.
The 84th Texas Legislature (2015) struck down a bill last year that would have treated all 17 year olds as juveniles instead of as adults. The Federal government, and most states, use 18 as the standard age for the start of adulthood. Texas, however, wants to get a year head-start on "plucking teenagers out of society just as they approach adulthood and surrounding them with hardened criminals."(TIFA Newsletter, Vol. 20 No. 3, July 2015, tifa.org)
In compassionate-conservative Texas, all 17-year-olds, no matter the crime, are tried, convicted, and sentenced as adults. Think of how much prison budget money would be saved, how much incarceration numbers will be lowered, and how many teenagers would be saved from an adult criminal record, through using treatment and rehabilitative programs, if the adult age in Texas were increased to one year to the 18-year old standard.
Sometimes I can't believe, as a 39-year old man today, I've been living in a prison cell since I was 17. Though I have learned, gained, and accomplished a lot during my two-decade prison journey, I'm stunned by how fast the sands of time and my life have elapsed through my mortal hourglass. In his book, Long Walk to Freedom, Nelson Mandela (Rest in Peace) said, "In prison, a day seems like a year, and a year seems like a day." That's so true.
I have seen the faces of several men return to prison for the second, third, and even fourth time while I'm still on my first and only time. Some of their names I know, most of them don't, but I have a photographic memory when it comes to faces. While I'm still here, I see them keep reutrning. Damn, all I want is one chance. Not to save just myself and to succeed as an adult, but to be the solution by using my knowledge, gifts, and talents I have acquired in prison to save as many misguided, troubled juveniles as I can from following down my institutional path.
I'm dead to society, I'm alive to myself
Dead to the world, alive to my girl
they can't take my eternal wealth
and they be asking me, "bro, how do you do it?"
and I tell them, bro, it's not me, but He that lives inside of me
Get away from me . . . I'm dead to society
Get away from me . . . one-of-a-kind, original, successful G
Get away from me . . . can't you see, I'm dead to society
I never saw it coming
they snatched and they kidnapped
a blindfolded injustice attack
jacked me of my youth and innocence
by two crooked detectives strapped
used the, "we only want to ask you a few questions" trap
at 17, Texas plucked me off the streets
blasted my ass off the freeworld map
on top of that
a $750,000 bond-ransom was asked
traveled the hardknock life track
straight-down the cell-life path
buried alive in bricks and bars
R.I.C., resting in chaos
on a pastic mat, where souls are stacked
trapped, in a concrete purgatory
slash, also a judicial laboratory
housing human rats, mostly minorities
the convenient excuse was crack
but we know it's bigger than that
social genocide on brown and black
I'm the system's invention
a 40 year sentence experimentation
man meets wrongful conviction
so close to death
at night, on the prison tiers
I can hear the Grim Reaper whisper
tempting me to go down deeper
must have mistook me for a follower but I'm a strong-minded leader
see my finger, it's pointing up
I'm a Believer
what you meant for bad
God meant for good
I became a new creature
my enemies fled and fell in 7 different ways but they'll never get away
the law of Karma is a bitch
I'm on a Man-on-Fire mission
I've been gone for 20 years too long
I'm an experiment gone wrong
you gave me superpowers
Shawn Ali "S" on my chest
my struggles made me immortally strong
I was mute,lost,and broke
but my painfuljourney
gave me song after song
gave me definite purpose
it's inevitable, you can't stop it, it's on
freedom, exoneration, success, money long
I'm dead to society
I'm dead to society
I'm dead to society
but I'm alive to YOU
Thank you for believeing in me
"Change is not something we should fear. Rather, it is something that we should welcome. For without change, thing in this world would ever grow or blossom, and no one in this world would ever move forward to become the person they're meant to be." -Anonymous
My eyes flick open. Nothing. . . again. No more dreams. For 21 days, sleep has equaled a lonely darkness and existence without being able to dream of my baby. Not being able to see her has been a nightly nightmare.
I can only hear her distinct voice, brief utterances, calling our to me in the dark distance as she speaks to me in our unique love language. "I miss you so much Shawn Ali, please dream of me soon", her sweet voice cries out to me, then there's silence and darkness. Each word I hear makes my heart leap with joy/hope, and I find myself smiling and wiping tears from my eyes. Her words are like tootsie -pops, words with more meaningful words on the inside that I'm somehow able to hear clearly and decipher at a time when I can't see her.
Each time I hear her voice or I look into her eyes, I feel something. Foreign and fuzzy feelings have seeped through the crumbling cracks of the tall walls that surround my heart. The more time I spend with her in my dreams, and the more I get to know her, the more bricks fall from my wall and the closer I feel her to my heart.
I've never felt like this for a woman, so the way the woman from my dreams, my Beautiful Black Widow, makes me feel, scares me sometimes. It was supposed to be a wet-dream, a game of seduction. I wasn't supposed to get my feelings involved, but I -- we -- did. She makes me weak and emotional at a time when I need to be strong. I don't like that she is so close to my heart and makes me emotionally vulnerable, but then I do like it because it feels so right. I don't know what it is, but even when I try not to, I can't stop thinking about her. My heart wants nothing more than to meet my elusive dream-woman and to explore the something-special connection that exists between us.
They say, we don't know what we have or how good it is until we lose it. At this moment, with me not being able to dream of my Black Widow, the truth of this statement has a new and deeper meaning to it. I miss you, baby. O, what I wouldn't give for a glimpse of your cute face right now. To gaze into your eyes, just once. Damn, how I wish I could redo one one of our last dreams together, so I could give you more than I gave you.
I'm laying down on my bunk inside inside of the fabric cocoon of the makeshift tent that I make every night by tying up the four corners of my outstretched sheet. When I lay down inside of my sheet-tent, I sleep and dream better. I'm able to block out the visual realities of prison life without blocking them out entirely because I can still hear the sounds of the prison machine clicking and clacking all around me.
I have to try to sleep in order to dream, so I can try once again to see her. I can't give up. Or should I? Maybe I should just leave her alone and let her go. If it's meant to be, one of these nights I'll dream of her and we'll continue to our amazing love-lust adventure.
"She doesn't care about you. She's only using you for dream sex and she has several stud spiders just like you", says a wicked, slutty female voice. "Dream of me baby. I won't kill you like she did".
There is nothing you can tell me to turn me against her. I know you're lying. They can try, but there isn't another spider like me. Only I can do what I do to her and only I can make her feel the way I do. Now go away. I don't want to dream of you anymore.
I lay inside my sheet-tent and listen very closely to he swirl of sounds as I will myself back to sleep. ♫♪This time, I might not make it . . . this time, I might not make it ♫♪. I hear the new song by the Weekend playing out of someone's homemade, contraband speaker out onto the tier. A tear slips down my face as I think about her and what I'm going through. I like the melody of the song but I can't say the same for the words. I don't know what the hell he's talking about. I'm going to make it. I have to. I will.
The sounds, noises, and voices continue spinning all around me: A metal door slams shut. Telephone rings several times. Toilet flushing. A walkie-talkie squawks, and I think I recognize the feminine voice. There are also incoherent female guard voices chattering away in the hallway. Meanwhile, three guys from the same side of Houston are shouting an annoying conversation about their playa and hustlin' glory days in the freeworld. A Ramen soup is intentionally slammed down hard to the ground to break-up the noodles into pieces. "L and L call the desk", the intercom announcement.
I glance at my clock-radio -- 1:43 pm. I rub my eyes, and when I look again it's 9:11 pm. I check my calendar, but all the numbers are missing except February 3rd. Either I've gone back in time, or I'm dreaming.
February 3rd is one of the déjà-vu days in my life. It was the unforgettable day 21 years ago I was wrongly arrested on this case. The day, 2 years ago, I arrived on the Eastham Unit. It's the day, 21 days ago, I last dreamed of her, my Beautiful Black Widow.
I'm innocent of Attempted Capital Murder, the case I'm unjustly doing time on. However, I'm guilty as charged for being a persistent passionate man, full of fire, in a coldhearted place. Guilty of loving women and wanting to be with a woman. Guilty of dreaming of a woman I have never met, but I feel like I've known her all my life. Guilty of being crazy about her and maybe going crazy in the process. I'm guilty for being a man.
Even when I can't see her and spend time with her in my dreams, and even when I don't hear her familiar voice, I can still feel the power of her presence. In spite of the barriers, obstacles, and challenges that we face in our dreamworld, we're intimately connected -- our hearts, minds, and spirits. When two people are deeply connected -- emotionally and want the same thing -- to be together -- like we are, our hearts won't allow us to stop until it happens. And it's like, the more obstacles that separate us, the more I find myself wanting to be with her. And only her.
Yes, I have unshakable, unwavering faith, and I believe dreams do come true, but I have to admit, it hurts like hell that she presently exists only in my dreams. Hurts that I can't talk to her and get to know her. Hurts that we can't exchange letters and phone calls. Hurts that I can't hold her hand, pull out her chair, and cuddle with her. Hurts that I can't wrap her in my warm embrace and give her all the romantic passion that's been boiling inside of me for two decades. That I can't sing to her and make her melt in my muscular arms. That I can't fuck and stimulate her mind with thought-provoking conversations. That I can't inspire her strongest inner desire and bring out the best woman in her. That I can't do all the little, everyday things with her that the average couple neglects or takes for granted. It hurts. Damn, it hurts, and now that my imagination is failing me and I can't dream of her, it hurts more.
I'm probably wasting my time dreaming of her. What if she doesn't exist and/or already has a husband/family. Even if she doesn't exist as I see her and have come to know her in my dreams, I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by dreaming of her. If and when we do meet one day and it doesn't work out in reality because she has a husband, what have I lost? Nothing. If nothing else I may have gained a lifetime female bestfriend.
Wait, who am I kidding? I have a lot to lose. My time, energy, love, heart, future, goals, and my destiny. So I do have a lot to lose, but the truth is, right now, she is one of my main motivations and keeps me going on my most difficult days. Plus, I enjoy her company and the way I feel when I'm with her. That's why I need to dream of her and to see where my dreams will one day take us.
I don't know if it's the same woman that I see in my dreams, but I do know this: out there somewhere lives my soulmate and one day real soon I'm going to find her. Everything I do right now to become a better, balanced man and to prepare myself for my eventual release is not just for me but for her, too. I want to become the best man in my prison present, so I can be the best man for her and our family in my freeworld future.
O, by the way, I know the main reason I can't dream of her. In fact, it's all my fault. I cheated on her by dreaming of another spider, Mandy, the head-hunter, trailer-park hunting spider. What can I say, my Black Widow wasn't around and I was super horny. And cheat may be the wrong word to use because, well, we're not officially "together", but it's the only way I can explain it.
My Black Widow cheats on me, too. I mean, if she enters into my dreams, why wouldn't she enter into another guy's dreams to fulfill her sexual needs and wants when, like now, I'm not able to dream of her. I know she cheats on me. O, I know where she goes, and I know who he is, or rather, who they are since there's more than one. Most guy spiders talk too damn much. I can't lie, it makes me jealous, but who am I to talk (smile). I don't hold her natural spider desires against her because I know she's mine and they can never make her feel the way I do. Her and I share something that's greater, special, and lasting. Something that feels pure.
though we haven't met and are not together, in our dreamworld we are emotionally involved and invested in an extremely unique relationship that arouses jealousy when one of us "cheats". When my Black Widow is around and in the midst of one of my dreams, I only want her, to be faithful and loyal to her. Even when she's not around, but other female spiders are, thinking of my Black Widow makes me not want to mess around with them because I feel bad when I cheat on her, especially if it's one of her spider spy friends.
The problem is it's harder for me to resist temptation when she's not around and I'm not able to dream of her. There are some seductive, sexy spiders, who know my tendencies and who go out of their way to enter into my dreams. As a sexually passionate man with 21 years of cell-life living, I eventually give in to the temptation and cheat on my baby.
Over our many amazing dreams, as our sexual interest grew more into an emotional interest, I told myself it would be all about her. I told myself I wasn't going to allow teh seductive devices or jealousy of some crazy, insecure spider to take me away from my Black Widow or to take her away from me, but I have . . . temporarily. No matter how hard I try, I can't dream of my baby. Now this time, I feel like the one who has betrayed her. I'm sorry. I tries, baby. You have no idea how hard I tried to dream only of you.
♫♪ I miss you, I'm talking to you baby . . . I miss you ♫♪, the R&B classic by Aaron Hall is the next song I hear out on the tier. Damn, I love this song. But why this song? Why now? It's too much. I can't stop them. The flood of dream memories of my Black Widow and I makes a flood of tears fall down my face.
I glance at the clock-radio again. 8:37 pm. Our dream date is supposed to start in three minutes. I have to keep trying to dream of her.
I kiss my fingertips and extending my arm, I reach out and touch my fingers over he picture of my Black Widow that I have taped to my wall. She's wearing a white, oval-shaped mask that hides her facial features, but I know it's her. It's the same picture that I stuffed into my pocket in Part 2 to Creative Reflections. Suddenly the picture transmogrifies and comes alive. Her facial features appear and she's smiling really big. I love her smile, so beautiful. Her long hair begins to grow and flow wildly out of the picture. Moving her hand slightly, I can see her pretty nails changing and reflecting from one color to the next of the rainbow.
Damn, I miss her so much and if I could talk to my dream-woman, this is what I would tell her: No matter how long we're apart or how many days I'm not able to dream of you, I'm always thinking of you and part of you is always with me. Take care. See you soon.
by Shawn Ali
Sweating profusely in my sleep from sensual seduction, I toss and turn in my bunk as I travel telepathically with the exotic, beautiful-hair, cute-faced woman from my damn-this-feels-real dreams. That’s it girl, take my mind so far away from this prison, so that I temporarily forget about my harsh reality . . . please baby, take away my pain by enticing me like only you can..
When I shut my eyes and go to sleep, I no longer see this prison – no bars, no barriers, no blockades . . . I see her. I call her my Black Widow because she preys on my 21-year-prison-journey weakness and deprivation – sex – and then kills me while we’re both still enraptured in the body-tingling, mind-numbing throes of our simultaneous, stratospheric orgasms. More times than I can count and recall, she keeps killing me over and over again. I give her heaven and she gives me death. My mistake, as I look back at some of my earlier dreams with her, was me violating one of my long-standing principles by becoming emotionally attached to a woman who I only had a sexual interest in . . . at first. That’s why I feel pain and hurt when she kills me because her companionship is deeper than a wet-dream.
The pain my Black Widow makes me feel by betraying my trust makes me forget the pain of my incarceration I have felt for too many years now. You know, it’s kind of refreshing to feel a new type of pain inside my heart that has the potential to transform butterfly-like into something great because I actually like her . . . A LOT. I’ve never met her formally and I damn sure don’t know her (only in my descriptive dreams), but I’m a sucker for suspense and the unknown. What if she really does exist and what if she is The One.
Therein lies the power of my mind and wild imagination; meaning, I believe anything is possible. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll accidentally bump into her in the real world when I least expect it. I’ll be in the produce section of a supermarket or something, and when I look up, I’ll see her. That’s if there’s even a woman who exists on planet earth who even remotely looks like her. I seriously doubt it, since in my eyes, she’s too beautiful to be human. But, maybe, there’s a 1 in 9,000,000,000 chance she does exist, dreams of me too, just happens to be reading this blog and is smiling right now as she deceptively devises the next unique way she can first tempt me then kill me. If so, I’ll be available for one of our dream-dates this Tuesday night – no, Thursday is better – at around, oh say, 8:40 pm when I go to sleep, don’t be late (wink).
In all likelihood, my Beautiful Black Widow doesn’t exist and is just a feminine figment of my fertile imagination (frown, sniff-sniff) . . . but, that’s cool, because while I’m living in a prison cell, fully intend to milk all the escapism and entertainment I can out of my detailed dreams with her. I’m getting better at making myself dream of her, by the way. My mind is like Netflix, that’s right, before I take a nap or call it a night at rack time, I concentrate really hard and force-feed my subconscious mind vivid images of her adorable Bratz-doll face and her wild, black hair. Damn her hair drives me crazy. What? Huh? Oh…um, sorry (smile), I got a little distracted by her photographic image that got stuck between my neurons mid-thought as I was trying to write my next sentence.
Our storyline is simple but spectacular: we have incredible sex and then she kills me in dramatic fashion; we experience pleasure and then pain (we both do because she feels terrible about killing me each time). The crazy thing about it is the intensity of our connection is so great, and so strong, that no matter how many times we go through the difficult, emotional cycle of sex-death, pleasure-pain, I can’t get enough of her, and I know she can’t get enough of me (wicked grin). I can’t stop thinking of her and she can’t stop thinking of me, even though we get mad at ourselves for thinking of each other. Crazy, I know. Let’s just say we have one of those love-hate relationships and deep down she knows she will never meet a man who can make her feel the way I do. Don’t worry baby, I don’t kiss and tell, so I won’t tell of our naughty secrets . . . just a few.
I can light her fire and make her feel some-type-of-way just by giving her a certain look. To touch her inwardly so profoundly in a way that makes her natural spider scent linger wet in the air – I have a strong sense of smell – without even touching her, oooh, that makes my dream. I know - I know. I’m playing with fire, but when she burns me, the pain she, Ms. Trouble with a capital “T,” makes me feel, also makes me feel soo alive. Thank you, baby. I know she’s dangerous company and I know what I’m up against, but I love it, damn, I LOVE it; the thrill of adventure and forbidden pleasure I feel when I’m with her. Plus, when she kills me, though it’s agonizing and feels real, my eyes flick open, and I’m still alive to dream of her another day. I dream of the day/night that when I wake up, she’ll still be there in my cell with me, but if she were my cellie then I would never want to go home. Just kidding (smile). Sorry, baby, but I have bigger life dreams I’m chasing too besides you.
The last dream I shared with you was just one of the many dreams I’ve had of her. My recollection of that particular dream was so clear and crisp that I decided to share it with you in Part 2 to Creative Reflections (Black Widow). To be fair, to you the reader, I did use my creative imagination and creative writing to fill in the fuzzy gaps of my dream where my subconscious memory failed me, so that you the reader, would have a seamless story to follow. What I share with you via these blogs is a special, personal part of my current confined existence because dreaming and writing are the two main bridges I cross daily back into society that makes me feel free and alive while I’m in prison.
Who is the mysterious, mesmerizing woman I keep dreaming about? And why do I keep dreaming of her? Why do I like her so much when I don’t want to? Is she real or fake? A blessing or a curse? Someone hidden behind the scenes of my past or someone I’ll meet in my future? Or is she my omen like the many Santiago in the book The Alchemist. Is she my Elizabeth Malet that the Earl of Rochester, an adventurous ‘Rake’ like myself, married in the Rake chapter in the book Art of Seduction. I don’t know who she is and why I dream of her, but I do know when I gaze deep into her eyes, she makes me feel free and alive in, to borrow the phrase from one of Rihanna’s lyrics, this “hopeless place.”
If you’re wondering what happened when I drove off with my Black Widow in the Spyder BMWi8, one of my dream cars because it’s the baddest, fastest hybrids on the streets (screw the big oil companies and their crooked politician buddies), I’ll tell you in this continuation to Creative Reflections: Black Widow Returns. But first, let me pour you a steaming-hot cup of coffee with a few chocolate chip cookies on the side. Please . . . I insist. There’s nothing like a hot cup of coffee to compliment this cold weather. A cautious, burning-lip sip, then the hot liquid touching your tongue and trickling down the center of your body creates an inner heat that is the perfect contrast for the outer chill on your skin. So, now that we have our cookies and coffee (smile), turn off the lights and enjoy the featured presentation, shhhh. Parental discretion is advised.
___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___
The sun is quickly setting with fast-forward speed. Darkness conquers the light, the moon triumphs over the sun in the dark, starry sky as we whizz down the deserted, empty highway with the highbeams dispelling the pitch-black darkness in front of us, the top and windows are up, the radio is off, and it’s just my Black Widow and me all alone in the cramped interior of her Spydermobile. I don’t know where she’s taking me, and I don’t care so long as I’m with her and she’s temporarily taking me away from prison. I relish every moment I’m with her because I know when I wake up and my mind re-orientates to the loud clanking metal and chorus of yelling voices that are the disturbing, all-too-familiar sounds that comprise the machine of incarceration, I’ll be back in prison and back to the same-old bullshit. Doing time.
By comparison, it’s so quiet and peaceful in this silent-engine car, I can hear her every breath and heartbeat as if they are being broadcasted on a speaker system. She’s deaf to the audible details of my dream so only I can hear the inner-workings of her body with crystal clarity. I think I’ll have some fun with her to entertain us on our little road-trip. “It’s night-time now baby, you can take off those silly sunglasses.”
“I like my sunglasses, thank-you-very-much,” she turns to face me with her beautiful smile, but I can’t see her. I can but not the way I want to because I don’t want to look at her, I want to look through her.
“You know you can’t hide from my eyes. If I’m determined to see you, I will, and I’m not going to allow any obstacles to get in my way, especially some plastic sunglasses.” I squeeze her hand tighter and bring her hand to my stubbled-face, then I give her that light-her-fire look before kissing the back of her hand, “mmTSK!” I hear her heart skip a beat, breathing increases slightly, but her flower remains closed. No fire. “You don’t do drugs, do you?”
“No, hell no!”
“Good, because I hate drugs, they destroyed my Dad’s life, and to an extent, mine too.”
“I’m sorry to hear that - mmTSK!” She kisses the back of my hand. “The only drug I’m addicted to is you Shawn Ali. I can’t get enough of you, baby,” she licks her tongue over her lips.
“And I can’t get enough of you, mm” I bite on my lip “stop hiding from my eyes then.”
“I’m not hiding from your eyes, I just ---” before she can invent an excuse, I reach for her sunglasses. “No, don’t” she tries to duck and dodge me, making the Spyder-car swerve.
“Give me those damn sunglasses” but when I snatch them off, only the tinted front-piece snaps off. Now I can look through her, but I’m gazing into her captivating eyes through clear, prescription lenses. She wears glasses.
She’s frowning. “I didn’t want you to know.” Once we lock yes, she can’t look away. “I look so stupid.” Our optical connection intensifies with each tantalizing second that passes. I give her that same look and kiss the back of her hand again. Her heart beats rapidly, breathing accelerates, and the wet petals of her flower begin to bloom open from the warmth of my seductive stare. I can hear her flame flickering. That’s it, her fire is lit.
“If you only knew how beautiful you look to me right now, you would never say something so stuipid.” One of her loose black hair tendrils has fallen in front of her face and she’s biting her sexy lips nervously. No make-up. Natural beauty. The black-framed glasses, if anything, add a naughty sophistication to her sex appeal. “That hair hanging in front of your face, please do something with it. Here, I’ll do it” I tuck her loose hair lock behind her ear.
“Why?” she’s smiling now and brushing her hair with her hand.
“Because it makes me want you really bad, and I’m not trying to rush our time together. I’m trying to prolong our time together because we both know how this dream is going to end.”
“Do you really like me with glasses?”
“Girl, you could put a paper bag over your head and I would like you, mmtsk,” I kiss my fingers and touch them to her lips.
She blush-smiles really big. “Aww, than you, baby.”
I place my hand on her naked inner thigh and a pinkish hue briefly brightens the dark sky as I caress her gently with my fingertips.
“Sss-ooh” she gasps “not too much. Why do you like me so much anyway? I mean, there are other female spiders who won’t kill you who are curvier and sexier than me.”
“You obviously don’t know what I like and look for in a woman. Plus, I don’t like easy women; I like smart-mouth bitches like you. Because you are designed by nature to kill me, I love the challenge of being the one to change your disposition.”
“That’s pretty deep, but it still doesn’t tell me what you look for in a woman” she asks indirectly as she innocently tilts her head to the side. So damn cute.
“I would tell you, but your head is already big enough from all the B.S. the other spiders tell you, so I don’t want to blow it up anymore.” We laugh at this half-true joke together.
“Ugh, I know you didn’t, my head is not big.” She playfully punches me in my arm. “C’mon, tell me.”
“Well, besides your obvious physical features I’m attracted to, I will tell you that I like your confidence, your femininity, and your potential. You have so much potential and you don’t even know it. But don’t worry baby, if we ever meet in this lifetime, I’ll bring out the best in you and there’s so much I want to teach you. And . . . ”
“And what?” she lays out her pouty-face trap.
“Okay, you win, I’ll tell you. I’d rather be with a sexy-cute woman like you than with a sexy-fine woman. There, that’s all I’m telling you for now, bighead,” I pop her lightly on the back of her head, then caress the back of her neck where her hair starts.
“Stop saying that” she says with a laugh “my head is not big, oooh-damn, that feels good, but I won’t let you seduce me off the subject.”
“What are you talking about?” I play dumb, digging my fingers into her hair and massaging her scalp. She briefly closes her eyes and leans her head back as a purring cat would.
“You say you’d rather be with me, but I know you dream of other female spiders when you’re not dreaming of me. Then when I try to come see you, you block me out so I can’t interfere with your dreams with them.” She opens her eyes and now she’s the one looking through me.
“Yes, I’ve done what you’re saying, but it’s only because sometimes I want you” I point my finger at her heart “to feel the same hurt I feel when you kill me. I know when you want to see me. I can hear the sadness in your voice as you call out to me and try to come into my dreams. I wanted to break weak when I went awhile without dreaming of you, but I said no, she, meaning you, has to hurt too. So, how does it feel to hurt?”
“It sucks. I hate it. I missed you more than I ever thought I would.”
I touch my hand to the side of her soft face, run my fingertips over her lips “I missed you, too. When I didn’t dream of you, not a day went by that I didn’t think of you.”
“But it’s so unfair, you only dream of me, like now, when you want to see me, and if I weren’t here, you would be dreaming of some other bitch. Damn Shawn Ali, you can’t be mad at me forever.”
“When I dream of other female spiders, it’s strictly entertainment, but when I dream of you baby, I give you my body and my heart. About being mad at you. You may not believe this, but I’ve never been mad at you for killing me. I was extremely hurt with many tearful moments, but never mad,” as I say this, the emotion that’s linked to my statement from reflecting back on the many deaths she’s executed against me makes a tear fall from my eye. I recall to mind some of the hurtful words she uttered to me that felt like a dagger in my heart. She mimics me and a tear streaks down her face. Our heartbeats become synchronized, beating together as one loud heartbeat. I cradle her doll-face in both hands and stretch over the console. I’m so close to her that our noses are touching. “Baby, the only thing I’m mad about is looking into your eyes.”
“Why would that make you mad?” she asks nervously. I can hear her heart racing past mine, but my heartbeat picks up speed too.
“Because I wanted to be free and single when I’m released, but now…mmmtsk!” I kiss her hard on the lips “I just want to be with you, mmmtsk.” I kiss her again. “And I know this is just a dream, but I believe dreams can come true, so now my heart is on a quest to meet you. And I won’t stop until I find you.” As we gaze deeply into each other’s eyes, an electric, romantic silence elapses between us. I want her so bad. So bad it hurts.
Her teethy smile is bigger than I’ve ever seen it before. She touches her hand to my square, stubbled chin and now she initiates the kissing “mmtskmmtsk-mmmm” she gives me her wet tongue, passionately and deeply “mmmmtskmmmm-mmmmTSK – I remove her glasses, kiss her eyes, then push my tongue back in her mouth “…mmtsk-and I’m sorry-mmtsk-TSK-mmmm.” I tongue her deep “TSKK!” then pull-bite her bottom lip” for when I don’t let you see me.”
“Shawn Ali baby, will you hold me in your arms?”
“Of course, baby, I want nothing more than to hold you and get to know you.”
My Black Widow climbs coquettishly over the computerized console and melts into my open arms, laying her head on my muscular, hairy chest as I wrap my arms protectively around her. When we embrace, the sky responds by glowing with a romantic red hue fading into black. The bright star constellations begin to move autonomously, spelling out our names together and twinkling like Christmas lights. The Spyder car is self-driving itself and even DJ’s picking the perfect song four our tender moment. “Let’s Chill” by Guy starts to play softly.
“Promise me you will never give up until you find me?”
“I promise you” I bury my nose into her hair and take a deep breath as I inhale her alluring hair scent. “But maybe you’ll find me first.” I look down at her face and she’s grinning.
“What if you don’t even exist?”
“Don’t say that” she says angrily. “I have to exist” she lifts her head off my chest and narrows her eyes “why would you be dreaming of me if I didn’t? Don’t you see, our minds and souls are somehow connected.”
“Then I’ll find you” I pull her back into my warm embrace and she returns her gorgeous-hair head on my chest.
“I want you to know how much this time with you means to me, to be sharing this pure, special moment with you before take you to my web, and . . . well, you know what happens once my body-heat passes the pleasure point of no return” she says while stroking my arm with her pretty nails.
“Any time I spend with you doing whatever is time well spend – MWAH!” I give her a big kiss on the top of her beautiful hair. “I have faith in you, girl.”
“Why? You know there’s a 99.9% chance I’m going to kill you after we have sex.”
“Then there’s still a .01% chance during one of my dreams that you won’t. That you’ll defeat your nature. The fact that you are spending quality conversation time with me like this is progress. Major progress because before it was all about the sex and then death for me.”
“You’re right, maybe there is hope. But you know I’m violating the Black Widow Spider code bigtime by spending time talking to you and getting to know you, and… getting emotional. If the other female spiders find out what I’m doing with you, they have legal grounds according to the laws of nature to enter into my private web and kill me.”
“I won’t let that happen,” I say sternly and squeeze her tighter.
“But” she laughs “you can’t even stop me from killing you, much less a gang of spiders.
“You’re right about the first part, but I have some secret tricks and powers I haven’t shown you, so don’t tell me what I can’t do.”
“I knew you were holding back on me.”
“I have to, or I would be killed instantly every time I dream.”
“You have a point, but I’m getting used to you now, so I hope you give me more.”
“I plan on it, but here’s what I want to know, why are you going against your nature by being with me in personal ways that are outside of the Black Widow code?”
“Because I like you A LOT too and I guess I believe it’s possible one day for us to be together without me killing you. You have this controlling effect on me that I really like, but then, I don’t like it. Damn, I’m so confused,” she bangs her balled fist against the dashboard.
“Calm down baby, mmmtsk” I kiss her sore hand and rock her body in my arms. “What makes you believe it’s possible for us to be together post-sex. Where did your sudden belief come from?”
“Well, I have this spider friend named Mango, do you know her?”
“Mango . . . Mango, hmm, I don’t think so.”
“She’s an orange and black fruit spider that loves Mangos, that’s why we call her that, and her bubble butt looks like two mangos,” she giggles.
“Oh, that Mango, yeah, I’ve dreamed of her a couple of times. Damn, she has one of the best spider butts around and a mean, twist-walk to go with it.”
My Black Widow moves so swiftly with her super spider-speed, I don’t see it until I feel her slap across my face “You’re mine” her eyes burn with rage and she clenches her teeth. This arouses me and she can feel my Beast spasm against her.
“You sound like you’re just a little jealous of me, are you?”
“No – yes Yes I am, okay, I don’t want to be, but I am.” Her face softens. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I love it when you’re jealous. Say it again.” I grab her hard by her hair and crane her neck back, reciprocating the pain she gave me with her slap.
“You’re mine,” she says with a wicked smile “why do you love my jealousy?” she asks.
I release her hair, then I softly caress the front part of her neck with my fingers. “Because, other than being your stud sex slave, it shows you really care about me. So look, what does your friend Mango have to do with any of this?”
“Mango has a distant cousin who is a Black Widow too, and Mango, who is a therapist, taught her cousin to go against her Black Widow nature. So, now she’s teaching me and lacing me up on how I can be with you without killing you. Isn’t this great?”
“Great, baby, it’s a miracle, no wonder you’ve been making progress, why are you just now telling me?” From her neck down her sexy body, I patiently caress and touch her sensitive erogenous zones.
“Oooh, mm-yess, I wanted to surprise you during one of our dreams, but the reason I haven’t told you until now is because it’s such a difficult process, oooh-shit, ssss, I didn’t want to get your hopes up for nothing because what if Mango’s treatment doesn’t work with me?, sss-oooh.” Her thick intoxicating scent fills the airtight interior as I consistently dip my fingers into her wet-nectar flower.
“It will, I believe in you, baby.”
“Oooh-damn-baby, I know you do, mmm, or else you wouldn’t keep dreaming of me and letting me kill you if . . . ” she takes a deep moan-breath “you didn’t believe I could change.”
“When you do change, and I dream of you, will you take me away from my prison life and show me all of the amazing, adventurous places in the world, and can we do fun stuff together?” She opens her legs wider and smiles seductively “Besides sex. I’ve been in prison my entire adult life, so there’s so much I haven’t done that my heart aches to do.” I pause the pleasure, and I don’t want to waste her liquid love so I put my fingers into my hungry mouth and suck them clean. “Mmtsk-mmtsk, damn, you taste like freedom and smell like heaven.”
She pivots her worked-up, on fire body and faces me with the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever looked through. “Yes-yes---mmtsk!” she kisses my lips “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go baby, and we can do anything you want to do,” she runs her manicured-nailed fingers through my curly black chest hairs and over my rock-hard muscles “mm, damn your chest drives me so crazy, “ her eyes light-up and widen with desire.
“That’s why we’re violating principles, codes, and the laws of nature we both live by, because we are truly, madly, deeply, crazy about each other.” I gently twist her fiery, erect nipple between my fingers.
“Dance for me baby, please…dance for me.” I recognize the sultry and slutty drastic change in her voice and I know we’re beyond the pleasure point of no return.
My Black Widow brushes her sexy butt against my pain then crawls back spider-like into the drivers seat to give me room to dance for her. Before turning around to face me, she teases me with a brief dance of her own that visibly motivates me.
“I like it when you tease and seduce me” I tell her with sexual-rage in my eyes. She sees the impact of her motivation, so she dances for me again. With her back to the driver’s side door, she faces me with lust flames blazing in her eyes. Fluidly and feverishly, her hand is moving.
I dance one time.
“Oooh, you got me” her entire body shakes and shivers with pleasure.
“Do it again---ooh boy, you are something else. Again. Again.” I dance for her several times as the movement and hunger in her eyes empowers my performance. “You’re mine,” when she says this, I dance faster and fiercer for her, dance until she is overwhelmed by an inner orgasmic implosion that has her body convulsing and cursing.
“Are you okay over there?” I ask her.
“No, I’m not okay” her breathing is rugged and hard, skin glowing “I’m incredible. Baby, sing me one of your songs before…” she doesn’t say it, but we both know the end is near for me and this dream.
Gotta Be by Jagged Edge is playing on the car stereo system. That’s my song too, but I touch the off button and cut it short.
“Come here baby and sit on my lap. I want you to straddle me while I sing to you, so our physical connection will be one and I can gaze into your eyes one more time.” Stealthy and sexy, she sits comfortably and perfectly on top of me. My hands caress her soft hips and butt while her hands explore my buff chest. Our flames become one fire as our bodies burn together. “I wrote this song for you…when our eyes lock” I start to sing and serenade her “time stops…everything around me keeps moving, but nothing else matters to me . . . except you … except yooouuuu” I repeat the chorus while my greedy hands touch her intimately and her rhythmic body moves with me in wet harmony. “When I look into your big-brown-beautiful eyes, I see the best of me,” I sing-rap “now look back into my eyes and see your destiny clearly . . . the moment we met, was serendipity . . . a romantic epiphany . . . no words spoken, but the windows of our souls, knew instantly,” then I sing with louder melodies “baby, your long, black hair is glory . . . now, translate what’s in your eyes to your mouth, and tell me your story” I switch back to a rap tone “you’re so exotic looking, you’ll never bore me … baby, I could stare at you all-damn-day, you’re more entertaining than Maury, oooo, slow down girl.” I stop my song because the intensity of our union soars to pleasure heights that distort my concentration. Drunken love. Our bodies conform and collide chaotically. Hands brace against foggy windows. The car’s light-weight chassis begins to rock. Freak Me Baby by Silk starts playing. Faces contorted by immeasurable desire. Her hair flings and flies everywhere.
We’re so caught up in the powerful, passionate moment that we don’t see it. Traveling at 100 mph, the car speeds over a physical cliff and free-falls for what feels like an indefinite period. At the same time, our bodies reach a different cliff, the emphatic edge of ecstasy, and we dive over into the ocean of orgasm together.
“Please dream of me tomorrow, mmtsk” she kisses me on my lips then stabs me in my heart with her stinger.
She stabs and stings me repeatedly. I try to wake up to avoid the pain, but I can’t move, my muscular system is paralyzed. I’m in the car by myself. Still falling. The jagged rocks below approach faster. Death and destruction are inevitable. I feel so alone and abandoned. So used. So empty. I can feel the full impact and explosion of the crash. I can feel my bones breaking and my skin burning as I die another dream death, but nothing hurts more than my broken heart as I open my tearful eyes.
by Shawn Ali
Every man or woman in prison has a story, usually starting from their childhood, about how they went from being a free person with a name, who could have done or become anything and anyone they wanted to be in life (just like you), to being an incarcerated inmate identified by a number and caged in a prison cell like an animal. If you don't mind, please have a seat with me on my bunk - yes, right there is fine. Now let me tell you one of these stories.
There once was a boy named Johnny, who lived in a home that, let's just say, wasn't in the best of conditions for raising a child. Before that, he was convicted in the womb of his mother, and his life of struggles began with his first breath. You see, little Johnny was born prematurely, a crack-baby, sickly and weak, a breath away from death, but he escaped a one-way trip to heaven and was instead rewarded with a new life of hell in the ghetto.
by Shawn Ali
A warm Friday afternoon. I pushed myself extra hard on my workout today, so I'm laying on my bunk, resting and recuperating, and yes ... dreaming. I intentionally skipped last chow (dinner) as I have been doing for the pats three months now, and probably always will; unless, that is, I'm trying to go to the commissary (wink). They could be serving t-bone steaks, and I wouldn't go to last chow. Man shall not live by bread alone. I eat to live, I don't live to eat. Here lately, I have lost my appetite for carnal pleasures. What I hunger for my virtual cellie, I can't have, and my soul - not my stomach - growls from the emptiness I feel inside. My heart's appetite is ravenous, but I'm starving and hurting because I can't have what I hunger for. This too shall pass. I know, trust me, I know everything about patience and perseverance, but getting there in practice, to my desired destination, is the hard part. Damn, it's so hard sometimes. Why does it have to hurt so much?
We - I can feel someone with me - cruise down the highway in the BMW Spyder i8 with the top down. The crisp wind of freedom feels like heaven on our faces. There is a woman with me, but I'm not sure who she is because she is faceless. She's wearing a smooth, oval-shaped featureless mask that fits and disguises her face perfectly. But I can see her glory. That is, her hair - black and long, blowing back wildly in the wind.
she takes the time to get her nails done. I reciprocate, touch for touch, by brushing my fingertips over her thigh. The voice interjects, sounds like Mother nature is speaking seductively from the cloudy, blue sky and louder than the music.
Her voice. From my sleep, I can hear her voice. It's back. Even in my sleep, it's so recognizable. From her heart, her lips are calling out to me, but from where? "Here I come, Baby, I'll find you." The voice disturbs my dream and wakes me up, but when my eyes flick open, I'm not caged inside my tiny cell. Where am I? I look around as her voice fades. I'm somewhere else, a different dimension in my descriptive dreamworld. The backdrop is binary, black and white, with no color. everywhere I look is white, just like in The Matrix movie. I'm wearing all black (shorts, tank-top, shiny boots), and I spot a single black door in the distance. I've been here before during another dream. Where is she? I know she's somewhere.I can feel her eyes watching me.
"Shawn Ali, are you looking for me?" Her soft, silky soft voice casts a spell on me as soon as I hear it. I know it's her. Damn her. I turn around slowly. There she is, my beautiful Black Widow. So sweet, yet so deadly. Her mere presence arouses me instantly. Damn her again. I don't want to like her, but I do. Damn. I do, and she knows it.
"I don't want you dreaming about some other bitch, only me," she says petulantly, arms crossed. She is so cute.
"For all i know, that was you in the car with me, in human disguise."
"Maybe ... maybe not," a wicked grin betrays her words, "how did you know?" She surrenders fully to her broadening smile.
"There's nothing you can do without me knowing, I know all your tricks."
My Black Widow takes a few sexy steps closer to me. This is when I notice the only other color besides black or white that is showing in this dream is blue. Blue gemstone earrings in her cute elf ears. And there's a blue band holding her hair up. She reads my thoughts. Lifting her hand to the back of her head, she snatches the blue band out and throws it to the white floor. Ravishingly, her hair falls down. Reaching up with both hands, she tosses and flings her wild mane provocatively, which pushes out her perfect, petite breasts that are swollen into hard, painful points, aching for my touch and tongue. "Are you ready, Shawn Ali?" She gazes down lustfully, knowing that I'm always ready.
"Just go away and leave me alone." I turn away from her and ignore her. Because she likes me so much, avoiding her is my secret weapon and it's the best way I can get back at her for betraying me and killing me.
"No, I won't go away. You're mine!"
I hide my smile from her because I know it's true. I can avoid her for a period of time, but ultimately, I can't resist her. We are connected ... I feel it. "I can't keep going through this. Letting you use me for sex and then killing me. Find another spider to kill."
She steps swiftly in front of me and puts her hand on her hip. So cute. "You're mine, now, come on, make crazy love to me."
"No, I can't. In case you haven't noticed, I'm having trust issues right now." I say this, but I want her so bad it hurts.
"But we make such cute babies together, and all the other spiders are so ugly."
"I wouldn't know how cute our babies are since I don't get to live to see them."
"Oh, that's right. I'm so sorry I killed you Shawn Ali, but don't you see, it's in my nature to use you for what I want and then kill you."
"I don't care what's in your nature or what you think you're 'suppose' to do, our trust and how you feel about me should change you because you know you'll never meet another spider like me." A big, blue tear cascades down my cheek and splashes to the smooth, white floor surface. I break eye contact with her because I know if I lock eyes with her for too long I will fall willingly into her lustful, deadly trap again. A vivid dream I keep reliving.
Temptation gets the best of me and I glance up. I'm shocked by what I see. My beautiful Black Widow is transforming right before my tear-filled eyes. Her metamorphosis is magical as I witness my Black Widow becoming an exotic hybrid of a butterfly mixed with Tinkerbell.
She cradles her doll face with her hands and removes her mask. The fake face she was wearing drops to the floor and cracks in half. All this time, she was wearing a mask, and I didn't even know it. Actually, I did know, and I could see straight through it and see her soul, but sometimes I was blinded by the beautiful doll face mask.
I've never seen her like this, her natural, exotic beauty is so breathtaking. There is an innocent, vulnerable glow on her pretty face. I reach out and use my fingers to brush the loose, black strands of hair out of her eyes and I tuck them behind her ears. I have to look into her eyes. I'm mesmerized by her humble humanity, femininity, and smile. Look at that, she's actually smiling, and it looks genuine. It must be, because her cheer becomes contagious and now I'm smiling, too.
She looks different, in a good way, elegant and sexy. For some reason, maybe because I'm dreaming, my vision and coordination skills are acutely enhanced. I see something fall from her beautiful eyes, floating in the air, and catch it with my fingertip before it hits the floor. I hold it up to her, a single eyelash. "You dropped something."
"Make a wish," she says, as she flaps her majestic blue wings.
I stare into her eyes for a few hypnotic seconds, make my wish, and then I blow her eyelash off my finger. "I hope your eyelash contains a lot of power."
"Why?" she asks with happy tears in her eyes now.
"Because I made two wishes." And before she can ask, I go against superstition and tell her. "I wished to be free son, and ... " I hesitate.
"To meet you in reality." I caress her soft face with my hand.
A blue tear streaks down her face and several more follow. "I'm sorry I killed you," she says, and takes flight, flying in the direction of the solid black door that is self-opening.
"No, wait! Please, come back!" I yell, but it's for nothing. It's as if she doesn't even hear me. She looks back one last time and pauses before disappearing into the darkness of the door.
I sprint after her, running as fast as I can, but when I cross the line of demarcation from the all-white dimension of endless space into the all-black darkness of the door, she has vanished. Behind me, the door crashes shut, metal on metal, and starts to flicker white like a neon sign. The horizontal and vertical bars crossing each other is something I see every day: a cell door. I'm now wearing a white prison uniform that glows bright and radiant in the pitch-black darkness. Above my head, a white clothesline blinks and buzzes as if an electrical current is surging through it and stretches as far as I can see. There is something hanging from the line that I can't quite decipher. I take a step and they begin lighting up one by one, big illuminated rectangles that look like still photos developing in a darkroom.
The jumbo-sized photos are surreal and luminescent. The vivacious, liquid-crystal-display of each picture is like looking into a screen, where life in full, real-time motion is being lived out in each one. There she is, my baby. But she's not a Black Widow, not a butterfly, but a beautiful woman. Each motion picture is a different snapshot of her, an interactive portal that I'm somehow able to enter, and become a living part of her existence just by looking at it. Who the hell is this woman?
In the first photo, our eyes lock, and I feel something supernatural inside of me that I've never felt. I take a step to the next pic. Hmm, I want to know more about this woman. Her head is tilted and she's eating crackers with her fingertips in this photo. We lock eyes again, but she shakes her head and looks away as if she's mad at herself for looking at me. Fine, be that way. In this one, her nails have just been done, sparkling and shining, with one nail painted blue. I eavesdrop on her as she writes in her calendar planner book. I wonder what she keeps a record of. I step. She's wearing a jacket. it's cold, but she suddenly becomes hot and takes it off. I stop and enter this photo. It's crazy because I don't even know her, and yet, I'm singing to her as i sway my hips and snap my fingers to the rhythm in my head. She smiles. She likes it. A lot. I leave her, eager for the next photo and encounter.
She's sitting with a female friend. They're talking but appear bored. I think I'll shake things up a bit. This time, instead of singing, I entertain her and her friend with a special, original dance I've been practicing for years. Their eyes widen with surprise and they are captivated by my unique dance moves. They must think I'm crazy. Either that, or extremely talented.
With each step I take, I get to know her a little more through each photo. Most of the photos are self-explanatory, but some of them make no sense. Like in this one, she's standing next to a wooden bookcase. For some strange reason, I remove my shoe, and then she slams both of her angry hands against the bookcase. I step. She licks her finger and turns a page, so I mimic her by licking my finger and turning a page. It becomes a fun game and an agent of communication between us.
In the next photo, she's touching her ear, so I play with my ear. She keeps trying to get me to dance for her and her friends, and though I bust a few sporadic moves just for her, she doesn't realize how sore it makes me afterwards. Since I'm beginning to really like this mystery woman, I feel like it's worth it for her. I don't know what it is, but I can't get her to dance for anything. She's becoming increasingly shy and nervous around me, maybe because she likes me so much. yep, she does.
Here in this photo, she's whispering and exchanging gossip giggles with her friends while she glances in my direction. She's at a shopping mall in the next picture, leaning so sexy against a wall, damn her skin is really glowing in this one. I purposely let my cup slip out of my hand and my drink spills next to her. Our eyes lock and time stops. I tell her how much I love her long, black hair. She tells me how much she loves the contrast of my bald-faded haircut with the two-day stud stubble on my face. In every picture, I want to see more of her and she wants to see more of me.
I keep stepping along the glimmering clothesline with the jumbo motion pictures. Each photo brings another interaction and experience I share with her. We become addicted to looking into each other's eyes and spending time together. But sadly, at some point, I become too much for her and her body can't handle heaven on earth. Because of my intensity and consistency, my intimacy overwhelms her. In a series of photos, I become her drug.
Every day, as soon as I arrived home, removed my shirt, and gave her that look, it got the the point that her legs would begin to move erratically in heated anticipation for what I was about to do to her. She couldn't handle, believe it or not, all the painful, rough sex and multiple orgasms, so we split up. I step. She looks so sad in these photos. I miss her and I know she misses me. There are hundreds of prophetic photos in front of me, maybe even thousands. Damn, when does this line of photos end?
As I'm about to take my next step, a door opens, and a light breeze and a shaft of sunlight shines into my dark dreamworld. The sexy shadow silhouette of a woman stands in the doorway. An irresistible force is pulling me to the door, but i fight it because I want to see the rest of the photos. I need to know what happens. What does the future hold for the mysterious woman in my dreams and me?
The woman is no longer standing in the doorway, but I'm still walking to it against my will. Like over-sized confetti, the hundreds of photos begin blowing in the air and falling to the floor like leaves in an Autumn wind. Without getting a chance to look at it, I snatch one of the photos out of the air, crumble it into a quick ball and shove it into my pocket.
I step cautiously through the door into the blinding light of freedom. My wardrobe changes automatically into some blue jeans, a snug-fitting t-shirt and some Jordans. There she is. Not a Black Widow, not a butterfly, but the beautiful woman in all the photos and who I only know in my dreams. She's sitting in the driver's seat of one of my dream cars, BMW Spyder i8, with the passenger door open. "Are you ready?" she says, in the same sweet-toned voice that always sends warm tingles through my body.
"Hell yeah, I'm ready. Damn, you look so beautiful."
"Aww," she pouts her face. "Thank you. Now get in Shawn Ali, let's go."
I rush into the car, wanting to be with her so badly. Our fingers interlock. I slam the door shut with my other hand. We lean passionately into each other, our lips touch. Our wet tongues fight and twist in a hard, intense kiss that never seems to end. Then I kiss her lips several times, and all over her face, "mmtsk-mmtsk-mmtsk-mmtsk," I turn her head aggressively and kiss and suck on her neck, something I've been wanting to do since I saw that first photo of her and we locked eyes. After I wet and mark her neck real good, I ask her, "where are we going, my Black Widow?"
"Ugh, please stop calling me that," she smiles. "From now on, I want to be your Butterfly."
"Where are we going?" I ask, as I stroke her gorgeous hair.
She flips down her dark sunglasses over her beautiful eyes. "You'll see."
She starts the silent hybrid engine. The radio kicks on, still playing Miguel's Sure Thang ♫ ♪ even when the sun don't shine, I have faith in you and I, put your pretty little hand in mine ♪ ♫. I squeeze her hand and we drive off. On her license plate are ten letters in all capital letters: BLACK WIDOW.
[My eyes flick open. I'm awake and back inside of my tiny cell. "All officers prepare for count. All officers prepare for count," is the intercom announcement I'm hearing as my mind adjusts to reality. Damn, I slept that long, it's already count time. Almost two hours have passed, but it was a good two hours. I felt free and I was with her. My song notebook is still open on my chest. I almost forgot. I was tweaking one of my songs when I drifted off to sleep. I think of the title of my song, Are You Woman Enough For Me? If my mysterious, dream woman even exists, I wonder if she is woman enough for me.]
To be continued
I was wrongfully convicted at the age of 17 and I've spent the past 20+ years of my life in prison.
The FREEShawnAli.com Blog!
Sharing My Perspective About Life, Social Injustices and Prison
by Shawn Ali Bahrami.