jailbird letters 2 and 3

Everything is wet. I went to New Orleans last August and thought "there is no word for the weather; it is beyond humidity." The same is true here. Having gone from dry desert heat to tropical wet heat, I can now say - and I know I'm early into the summer and it may be too soon to make such a declaration - but I prefer the wet heat. It is sexy. Sultry. I think "Streetcar Named Desire" and Marlon Brando and glistening skin. I'd like someone to cling to in the Sea of Cortez.

Clarification: When I wrote about meth sex in the fellatio entry (and I don't know how to put in a link), I was referring to the jailbird on meth; not me. Hell, I ain't no sissy when it comes to drugs but I've seen what meth can do. No way, Jose. As much as I'd like to be skinny, that's not the way I want to do it. The jailbird, who I think is one of the cutest guys I know (think Imogen Heap: "Why'd you have to be so cute? It's impossible to ignore you"), when he was doing meth he was no longer cute. He looked old. He looked scabby. He looked Rwanda skinny. He talked too much. He was mean. Nope, no meth for me.

The Jailbird's on a writing binge. He was able to get the necessary supplies in order to maintain contact with the outside world. I like his letters, the way he zooms in on small details, daily happenings without being so wordy (I know, I could take a lesson from him. I'm trying). Like:

"It's about 1:30 in the morning and two of the convicts (black) are having a heated argument about the social benefits of crack cocaine versus heroin. Very informative."

"We just got back from breakfast. Today we had grits with scrambled eggs, 2 flour tortillas and some delightful red stuff (yum)."

"I got an even 3.0 out of a possible 4.0 on the competency test. That ties me for first place with one other guy in a field of close to 65 other convicts - I think the key word here is 'convicts'. I believe a junior high student would've smoked the field."

He's getting mushier. In my letters to him, I'm caring but I rein in the lovey-dovey stuff. He scares me. His bad side. His meth side. Can he stay away from it? I honestly don't think so. After our first kiss - and this is how he kissed me: He removed his cowboy hat and held it so that it blocked the sun and any prying eyes - after that first kiss, he said "You scare me. I've never been involved with a liberal." In a way he turned out to be right - not that I was scary, but that I did challenge him and his beliefs. And not only that, but no woman's ever 'quit' him. I was the first. A fact he couldn't seem to get over.

In a few days, jailers willing, he will be inundated with letters. A couple from me. Four from his son. One from Stoner John. He will squat against the wall in the exercise yard to read them, the sun burning his already sunburned nose which "looks like I skidded face forward on a concrete sidewalk". I can see him laugh as he reads, the way his dimples deepen into vertical gorges on his cheeks. He will also cry, this tough jailbird, with no cowboy hat to hide his tears. (hehe, I feel a country/western song comin' on...)