Page 3 of The Casting Couch

Passing through locked gates and security checkpoints, I felt like I was walking a gauntlet—a last parade of humiliation before I was spat out into the world.

The reception area was brighter than the rest of the prison, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead with an anxious, impatient energy.It smelled faintly of industrial cleaner mixed with that unmistakable antiseptic sting that screams, you don’t belong here anymore.

The first blow came before I even had time to breathe.

“Strip,” barked a voice like gravel being dragged across concrete.

You’d think after nearly more than two years, they’d just let me ride off into the sunset with my sagging dignity intact, but no.Queensboro insisted on making sure I hadn’t smuggled a shiv or a souvenir out in my colon.

The room was cold, gray, and about as welcoming as a root canal.In it stood a guard who looked like he’d been carved from nicotine and bitterness.He had a horseshoe of white hair, thin lips pressed into a permanent scowl, and a nametag that said “S.GUNDY,” which seemed wildly appropriate for a man who spent his career inspecting buttholes.

“Clothes off,” he barked, like I hadn’t done this a hundred times before.

I sighed and started peeling.Hoodie first, then T-shirt, then jeans.I hesitated slightly before dropping my boxers, because even when you’ve been in prison, even when you’ve done things to survive that you’d rather repress with bleach and therapy, there’s still something uniquely awful about having to stand buck-naked in front of a stranger who looks like he collects Civil War bullets for fun.

He made me lift my tongue, run my fingers through my hair, wiggle my toes, and then turn around.And of course—of course—came the command that haunts men across penitentiaries nationwide:

“Bend over and spread ‘em.”

“Really?”I muttered.

He didn’t even blink.“You could be hiding something.”

“Like what?A harmonica?”

“Bend.”

So I bent.And spread.And tried to leave my soul somewhere outside my body for the duration.His gloved hand did what it had to do, and I tried not to imagine the therapy bills.

When it was over, I stood there blinking back the sting of shame, butt cheeks clenching involuntarily, while Gundy snapped off the glove like he was bagging evidence.

“You’re good,” he grunted, like I’d passed a test.“Dress.”

“Thanks,” I said, voice dry.“Always dreamed of being validated by a man wrist-deep in my ass.”

He didn’t laugh.

Shaking, I dressed with slow, deliberate movements, every fabric fold reminding me how small and vulnerable I was.

A guard handed me a plastic bag containing my belongings.My wallet, my phone, and a few worn photos taped inside a small notebook.

“Let’s go Mitchell,” a CO snapped.“Don’t got all day.”I followed the guard out of the room and down a long hallway.

The room they led me into looked like a community college office: beige walls, motivational posters curling at the corners, a desk littered with manila folders, a dented coffee mug, and a tiny plastic cactus.The fluorescent lights above buzzed with the kind of judgment only government buildings can afford.

Behind the desk sat a woman in her early thirties.Ponytail.Wire-rimmed glasses.Smart outfit, professional, but not stiff.She wore a navy-blue blazer over a maroon top that was modest and pretty at the same time.There was something open about her face.Kind.Alert.Like she actually gave a shit.

She looked up and smiled.Not the bureaucratic kind, either.It reached her eyes.

“Bradley Mitchell.”She said my name like she’d been practicing it.“Take a seat.”

I dropped into the vinyl chair across from her, bag resting on my lap like a shield.She picked up a folder with my name on the tab and scanned it, eyebrows lifting as she read.

“You look better than your file photo,” she said.

I blinked.“Uh… thanks?”

That blush started in her cheeks like a slow sunrise.She cleared her throat.“Sorry.That came out weird.I just mean, your file’s a mess.You, though… you look like you walked out of an ad for second chances.”

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