Author Archive

If you’ve followed this blog for a few years, then you’ve read many of my stories about the battered women and convicted felons I’ve worked with. I am now writing the book I promised them, many years ago. The book is about Chantelle and myself, and how our two opposite lives came together one day and how we helped each other. I hope you will join me and cheer me on and support me as I write this.

She sat on the edge of her bunk, eyes closed and reminding herself to breathe. She breathed through her mouth because her cell smelled of urine and hot dogs. They must have been serving hot dogs and beans again, along with a piece of bread and cold coffee. Her lips were swollen and her head hurt where she had slammed it on the dashboard of the car the night before. She hung her head down and tried to block out the sounds. The constant talking and clanking and yelling of the people in the ward never stopped. Her cell mate was snoring soundly with her back turned towards her. She was huge and her orange jumpsuit barely contained her massive ass and thighs. The fabric was stretched thin against her back and she could see the outline of the woman’s bra.  The cell mate arrived yesterday and immediately wanted to chat with her. She asked her her name.

“Jane. My name is Jane,” she replied. Jane seemed like a good name to use. It was the name first given to her as an infant and her head hurt too much to be clever or witty. Jane was her fallback name. It came out of her mouth effortlessly.

“Hi Jane, nice to meet you. What they got you in here for? Oh, my name’s Clarice,” she said and extended her large and black hand towards her. Jane remained seated as she stuck out her hand and gave it a limp shake. She didn’t like being touched but it seemed easier to shake hands rather than explain it. Clarice looked at her for a moment and then sat down on the bunk across from her.

“Is that your bunk?” she asked Jane. “I hope it’s OK for me to take this one…”

“It’s fine. I’ve been the only one in here today,” she said. Why was it people could never take the hint when you didn’t want to talk? Jane was tired of talking and explaining herself. It seemed like people had an urge to tell you all about themselves, when in fact, no one gave a fuck. Maybe they just liked to hear themselves talk. Maybe it made them feel important or at least alive. Jane didn’t know and didn’t care. She leaned back and stretched out on her bunk and stared at the stained mattress above her.

The place was dingy, but that was to be expected. It’s not like this was a 5 star hotel. It wasn’t even a 1 star hotel. It was the County Jail and she was being housed, fed, and clothed on the taxpayer’s dollar. She knew that because she had been reminded of it her entire life.

“Oh is that right? Well it’s nice to meet you,” Clarice said and sat down. She looked around but there wasn’t much to see. Two bunk beds and a toilet in-between them. Concrete floors and walls and bars across the front, which looked across to another cell. They were in Ward C. The hallway was long with 30 cells built-in. All of them were full. This was where they brought everyone and stored them, to be sorted out later. Jane couldn’t count the number of times she had been placed here. Four? Or maybe five? It didn’t matter, she knew the routine.

She’d go up before a judge, be assigned a public defender, and plead innocent. This would annoy the judge, but a court date would be set. She’d not be able to make bail because no way Razor had the money to bail her out. He hadn’t done that the last time or two. She was getting older but not too old to keep working. Razor had other younger and prettier girls he would take care of before her. If he bailed her out, great. If not, she was prepared to do her sentence again and wait it out. At least this way, she had a place to sleep and food during the day. It was boring as shit, but it was better than being out in the cold. December was a horrible time to be a whore. Trying to look enticing without freezing to death was impossible. She had her regular customers, but they were home with their beautiful wives and adorable children for the holidays in their warm houses with wonderful food on the table. She imagined their homes as she lay there, listening to Clarice prattle on.

For the rest of chapter, and to follow along as the book is published, go to:

I’m still here

Posted: September 8, 2015 in Uncategorized

Yeah, been a long time, but I’m still here. I am hard at work on my Patreon site:

I’m publishing my book about Chantelle, one chapter at a time. The story is done, for the most part, but now I’m doing the final draft. Once it’s done, the plan is to get it over to an editor and then publish it.

I hope some of you – or all of you – will wander over there and see what I’m doing.

I’m not someone that is trying to make a living as a writer. Sure, it would be great, but that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because I want to tell her story and then the story of others.

I’m also toying around with a children’s book about my pit bull, Blue, and what happens when he meets a dragon. Telling the story of Blue was actually my mom’s idea and I liked it. A lot. So I’ve been throwing that into the mix as well.

I stopped blogging because, as you can see, I never put ads on my site or tried to make a dime out of it. I’m not against anyone doing that, but it’s just not my deal. Plus, in my opinion, there’s too many people blogging without much to say.

So, yeah, not going to do that.

My life is very complete and busy. I didn’t start writing until a few years ago. It was something that I put on the back burner and I only meant it to stay there for a while. Well, guess what?

That “while” ended up being decades.

So here I am and I must say, it’s harder than I thought. Much harder but I like the challenge. I want to leave at least one good book behind me before my short time here on Earth is done, at least for now.

Thanks for being such wonderful and loyal followers. I am here..but I’m not.

If you know me, then you understand what I just said.

Originally posted on I can explain:


OK! OK! I know. I know, I haven’t been blogging but I have a really good reason. Honest.

I’m working on my Patreon site instead. I decided that I REALLY needed to finish my book – the one I’ve been working on for 2 years – and working a full-time job and a part-time job doesn’t leave much room for writing.

That’s also not counting the volunteer work I do every week nor a few other projects that I’ve been doing.

Yes, I keep myself busy. It’s the only way I know not to go insane. Well, that and not have another dipshit boyfriend, but I digress…

Here’s the link for it and I’d love for you to check it out. Sponsor, if you can, or check back for a few random free posts:

I know most of us writers don’t make our living with our writing, but that…

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Got criminals?

Posted: June 22, 2015 in jail
STAFF PHOTO BY MICHAEL DEMOCKER Tuesday, February 26, 2008 Marlin Gusman's tour of Orleans Parish Prison An inmate sleeps in his cell in the 10th floor psychiatric section of Orleans Parish Prison.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Marlin Gusman’s tour of Orleans Parish Prison
An inmate sleeps in his cell in the 10th floor psychiatric section of Orleans Parish Prison.

As many of you know, I work in rehabilitating inmates. Our program is available to anyone who wants it. But what you may not know is this – I can (and do) work with people BEFORE they get into trouble OR have recently been up before a judge.

In many cases, catching the offender and helping them before they go further can halt that path. Judges, parole/probation officers are often looking for a program to send the offender to.

We do offer that service. Many of my students have successfully completed our course and the documentation was sent to the court. This pleases the judge. This makes them happy and often times, they are more considerate of the sentencing.

If you know of someone that could use my service, or if you need it yourself, please contact me privately about the details. Your information will be held in the strictest of confidence, as always.

So before you give up on them, or yourself, it might be worth your time to talk to me.


I know this statement to be true from personal experience. The details aren’t important except suffice to say, if you value your life, don’t ever tickle me.

The interesting part of the above statement are the number of people, once learning of my loathing and aversion to being tickled, take it upon themselves to tickle me. I’ve had it happen so many times that I never tell anyone unless they try to tickle me. If they respect my wishes, no harm and no foul.

If they don’t, they usually try it again.

That is usually the last time I talk to them.

One person at work, years ago, came up behind me and poked me in the ribs. I jumped and swung around. He was a friend and was just doing that rather than tap me on the shoulder.

I told him I hated to be tickled and please not to do it ever again. He said he was sorry and that was that until about a week later.

He did it again, but this time, he laughed. Yeah, he thought it was funny and that I was being dramatic. I once again swung around but this time I was angry.

“Don’t do that!” I said. He smiled and apologized again. He said he forgot. Uh huh….

About 3 weeks later, he did it again, but this time when I turned around, I made a fist and used the full power of my arm and torso to slam it into his sternum.

The look on his face was priceless. I watched him try to breathe. I helped him to sit down in a chair and stood there and waited.

Once he could breathe, I leaned over and put my face up close to his and said “I warned you. You decided not to listen. If you ever do that to me again, I will bring you up on assault charges and the next time, you won’t be able to stand back up.”

I then went to HR and reported what had happened.

He quit a few weeks later.

Predators are patient and calculating. They take their time. They move in, slowly and intelligently. They are aware of everything around them and they know exactly what they are doing. I suppose some of them are bold, but maybe not all. I can’t say for sure, but it would not surprise me to learn that it’s true.

It’s not natural for an adult to want to tickle and play with children exclusively. It’s not right that they always want the child around, to sit on their lap, to always be rough housing with them. This is about extremes. This is about just a bit too much interest in your child. Trust me, as a person who doesn’t have children, unless we’re closely related, I don’t want your kid around if we’re hanging out. Shit, I don’t even want my relative’s children around too long. I love kids and I love having them around, but not the entire time.

I was fortunate that my parents didn’t care for this particular adult very much, so my exposure to him was limited but the one time he was alone with me, he pulled that shit. The tickling was torture AND HE KNEW IT. He knew damn well why I started to cry and would…not…stop. The more hysterical I became, the more he tickled. He only stopped when someone walked in.

Years later, his crimes and perversions were found out. I recall hearing of his death and I smiled.

I am far from an alarmist. I don’t go looking for problems where there aren’t any but I do pay attention to those around me. When I see children, I always make sure they are OK and someone is with them. But I always look to make sure. I look at them for a moment.

Of all the women I worked with in jail, the greatest number had been abused/molested as children and young adults. Many got into drugs. I can’t say that the reason is solely the abuse, but I can say that many of them resorted to drugs to escape and ironically, many became prostitutes to earn the money for the drugs and because they were “taught” at a young age that their only value was to sexually please men. That’s a tough one to “let go” and “walk away from.”

No one has the right to touch me unless I tell them they can.

No one has the right to determine what my emotions should be.

No one has the right to decide how I should look, act, or dress.

My point of view is this:

If you violate my physical body, one of two things will happen:

1) I’ll lay you out and you won’t be able to get up.
2) I’ll die in the attempt.

There are no other options.


Sure, without the pimps, there would be a lot less human trafficking of young girls and boys. I’m in favor of prosecuting the customers and helping the prostitutes. It’s the whole “supply and demand” factor.

But you have to dig much deeper to find out why that child went down the path they did.

What was lacking in their life? How was someone able to grab them and whisk them away?

For each child, there is perhaps a different answer.

I’m often asked “But what can we do? How do we stop this?”

I always answer “What can YOU do in your immediate area?”

Because that’s how this is done. You deal with your block, your neighborhood, your school, your city and start helping individuals.

Don’t expect anyone else to do it. Don’t wait for the government for they are always late on the scene. Laws are being passed, awareness and understanding is increasing, but it’s not enough.

To quote “Truckers Against Trafficking:”

“Imagine if these pimp’s words fell on deaf ears because young people knew they were worth more, knew people loved them, knew they had a future and a hope.

It is very important to be investing in the lives of our own children but also the lives of the youth around us.

Get involved in your community’s outreach programs.

Mentor, tutor, donate much needed supplies to local assistance programs, be kind to the kids in your neighborhood. 

Say hi to the morose teen.

If non-exploitative adults get involved, pimps and exploiters will struggle to get a foothold. Let’s stop allowing this to be so easy for them.” 

Pay attention to your children. Pay attention to the kids around you. Learn the signs. Teach them that they need not look outside themselves for validation. Give them love, too much love. Show them by example, that they are priceless and start with yourself.

Children learn by seeing more than by listening, but they do listen. They watch everything. They miss nothing.


Posted: April 10, 2015 in jail
Tags: , ,

Her cuts were strong and deep. No hesitation marks. No second thoughts. Just clean, firm, and deep. The decision was made and she carried it out. Her room was clean and tidy. What few bills she had were paid. Her laundry was done and placed in bags. She didn’t have money for suitcases, but that didn’t matter. Everything was perfect. Her bed was made. She even fluffed the pillows and smoothed out the blankets

A note had been left to give all of her belongings to her daughter, but she didn’t know where she was or if she was even alive. She had given her up for adoption and never looked at her face. Her daughter was the result of rape, but there had been so many, there was no way to know who the sperm donor was, not that it mattered. She left her medical records next to her note, just to make it easier for everyone.

She had started out as a normal and happy child. Just like most of us, but she was snatched away by an insane and drug addicted mother when she was 5. She was often sold to men to pay for her mother’s addiction. Soon that beautiful child was turned into nothing more than a bartering tool. What humanity she had been born with was soon gone.

I remember her dead eyes and slouched shoulders. But that’s all I remember. She wasn’t anyone who stood out, who said anything, or did anything remarkable except one thing:

She learned how to disappear. I don’t know how she was able to do this, but often times, she would be sitting there and yet you never really saw her. You would forget she was taking up space. Your eyes would scan the room and yet you’d never see her.

On her last day of life, I imagine she may have smiled. I like to think she did. I can’t say what she did was right or wrong, though I wish she had stayed. I wish her life had turned around enough to give her hope. I wish she had called, but I’m not surprised she didn’t.

She was made into nothing at an early age.

She had disappeared years before she slit her wrists.