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I was a gay man, convicted of a sex crime. But I had one thing going for me: I was big, weighing in at pounds, a fair amount of which was muscle. For the most part, other inmates left me alone. That is, until the other gays and trans found out about me. Like I said, they pretty much avoided me—preferring to go after the smaller and weaker.

For a while, I went along with it. But I tired of being used, and wanted real companionship, so I eventually started hanging out with just one cute little guy who seemed to have genuine affection for me. I was devastated when I saw him kissing someone else in the gym bathroom. After that, I almost totally withdrew.

A few were actually honest about wanting to hang out with me for protection. I found the boy adorable, and did want to spend time with him. When Peter started to be affectionate prison me, I pushed him away. As had become my practice, I told him that his problems were not mine, and that I was not real to fall for him only to be used.

Then, one day at the gym, as we were walking out to sex rec yard, a couple gang-bangers called out to Peter, saying they wanted to talk to him in the bathroom. Again, I said no. I advised him to ignore them, but, beyond that advice, I just continued on my way out the door. Halfway out to the small ballfield where my friends and I usually spent our time, I realized that Peter was not still with us.

I was concerned, but shrugged it off and sat down on a little grassy hill on the edge of the field. But it was never given. Instead, a few at a time, we got escorted back to our units, and locked in our cells. Later that evening, we finally got out and were allowed to go to the day room. It was there that I learned what happened.

I totally lost it. Gay went back to my room and cried for a long time. It was my fault that Peter was dead, I thought.

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I could have prevented it. I could have either gone with him, or taken him by the hand and insisted that he stay with us. For a few days, I did nothing.