Life in prison is a strange existence, especially in the SHU. Living in conditions worse than death row inmates for an extended period can be a true mental struggle. The only true companionship you find is with the person you share your cell with. I spent my first eleven weeks in the SHU with Mitch, also known as PrisonBirkin on TikTok, and we became very close. I plan on writing a second installment of stories about my SHU cellmates that will focus on him, but first I have to tell you about a story told to me by a cellmate we’ll call “Sarge.” He relates this story to me as we sit on our prison cots, eyes trained on the featureless ceiling as he recalls a snapshot of his life before his incarceration.

The year was 2015 and Sarge had been back from Afghanistan for a year. He was married, but that didn’t stop him from seeking adult companionship online. When I’d asked him what dating apps he used, he told me he’d downloaded Tango when he was in Afghanistan and had since used it to talk to women all over the world, which is when he told me this unfortunate yet hilarious story.

“I believe it was Tango. Plenty of Fish doesn’t have video chat, does it?”

I’m not sure if he’s 100% positive Tango was the app in question, but I confirm that I don’t believe Plenty of Fish has video chat capabilities. During our discussions, I learn that he has slept with two different girls from this Tango site, and more than five from Adult Friend Finder. I honestly had no idea that Tango even existed, let alone that Adult Friend Finder actually checked out as a legit place to meet people. I have always been more of a Bumble, Tinder, or Hinge type of guy, and after hearing Sarge’s account of his tango with Tango, I believe I’ll just stick to what I know.

So Sarge messaged this beautiful blonde girl with hair that reached slightly past her shoulders and wide, innocent-looking blue eyes. Seeing that he was a 47-year-old and she was an attractive 25-year-old, he was extremely excited when she responded to his messages. They began talking on a Monday and progressed to video chat. She lived nearly six hours away in Nashville, Tennesse while he lived in a town an hour outside of Asheville, North Carolina. He decided to take a sick day and drive the company car to Knoxville–halfway between the two of them–to meet her on Thursday. She’d flashed her tits on video chat, and he estimated them to be between an A cup to a small B cup in size. Not a dealbreaker, so what the hell, right?

Sarge arrived at an Irish pub with a bar in the middle, pool tables and dartboards on one side, and a classic restaurant with tables and booths on the other side. It was eleven in the morning and there was a guy doing pool table maintenance, the bartender doing opening shift duties, and a single female bar patron straddling a bar stool. The woman at the bar immediately threw her arms up in the air and waved as if she was waving to him in a busy crowd. She quickly shimmied off the stool and walked around the bar to greet him. She was practically vibrating with excitement.

She was wearing a long trench coat with pretty laces that trailed down on each side, and as she opened her arms to embrace him, the coat burst open…

“Boom, there it was,” Sarge says, getting off his cot and stretching his arms to roughly double his width to give me an idea of the truth girth of this Tango chick.

I would be lying if I said that I haven’t found myself in a similar predicament, so I asked, “And what were you thinking at that moment? Like, what was your mindset?”

“Well, I decided pretty quick that I drove three hours for this meeting, and I couldn’t be rude and be like, ‘Damn, you’re fat,’ and leave.”

Sarge remembers that over the next hour he downed six Crown and gingers with a lemon while she long-distance drank two vodka cranberries followed by water. He brought up that he had to get back to work at the same time she casually mentioned that there was a motel next door. Instead of getting out while the getting was good, Sarge decided that after a three-hour drive and six drinks, he was just too nice of a guy to simply leave, so he agreed to get the motel room if she paid for the drinks.

“How much did the motel room cost?” I ask.

“$65.”

I pause, hesitating, before I continue, “So is it fair to say you paid $65 to fuck a fat chick?”

On the edge of his prison cot, swinging his legs back and forth, Sarge nods his head in somber and regretful agreement. “I reckon that’d be a pretty fair assessment.”

So Sarge entered the motel room with a sense of commitment and urgency. He had a mission to complete, dammit. In the space of 30 seconds he’d ripped off all of his clothes and was laid out naked on the bed with everything at attention. Ready for action, as it were. Tango chick had other plans, however. She started to strip herself slowly, flipping her hair around in what she thought was a seductive manner, trying and failing to slip her shoes off without fumbling. Sarge decided he wanted to hurry things along, so he got up out of bed, grabbed her from behind, and threw her on the bed. He attempted to pull her jeans off of her.

“To be honest, compared to the bed, she didn’t look that large,” Sarge admits.

But the jeans would not cooperate. They were simply too tight, stuffed with her body like she was wearing a second skin. Frustrated, she got up off the bed and attempted to get the jeans off herself.

Here Sarge demonstrates her attempt at struggling to pull each side of the jeans down her body. As the jeans finally gave way, he says, “Shit just started flying everywhere.” His words, not mine. Apparently, she’d been attempting to wrap her size up to conceal it as much as possible.

I feel extreme deja vu as I imagine Sarge’s experience. “So,” I ask, trying to conjure up the details in my head, “what was going through your mind then?”

“Fuck, I wish I’d turned the T.V. to SportsCenter before she started undressing!”

Men really do have a lot in common.

So, with no sports to hold his attention, his resolve slowly ebbing away, Sarge decided it was time to get things moving. She announced they needed to get under the covers, so Sarged pulled himself together, climbed on top of her, used his thumb to guide himself inside of her, and tried to make it quick. To no one’s surprise, things didn’t quite work out that way.

“So you couldn’t finish because of the six Crown and gingers? Or because she outweighed you by like 100 pounds?”

“Honestly?” Sarge says, shaking his head, “I’m not too sure myself.”

At some point, he decided that maybe a view from behind would increase his chances of success. False. Sarge describes the view as “flat, wide, and with a thunder thigh ass.” Switching positions got him no closer to his intended goal, so he turned her back around. Sweating profusely and exhausted, he informed her that he was sorry, but he wouldn’t be able to cum.

Her response to his statement? “‘If you want me to cum, you gotta get down here and eat this thing,'” he deadpans.

“And what did you do?” I ask.

“Hell, I’m here to please!” Sarge says with the enthusiasm of a soldier with a soldier’s duty. He punctuates this part of his retelling with hand gestures, getting up and down from his cot to demonstrate his and her positions.

So he hopped on down there where she promptly threw the covers over him and lifted her substantial belly. She spread her legs, and he got to work. After a couple of smaller orgasms while he learned how she liked being pleased, he could feel her building up to the tsunami. Suddenly she grabbed his head and shoved it hard against her “sideways catcher’s mitt vagina”–again, his words, not mine–threw her legs around his neck, and squeezed him to complete immobility.

I don’t know how many people reading this have ever spent much time eating girls out while under blankets, but air is hot and already at a premium in this situation. Having a girl who easily has 100 pounds on you drowning your face between fat rolls and body fluid is downright terrifying. A veteran of two wars, being shot at by nearly every weapon on Earth, and years of a thankless marriage… Sarge now found himself about to die between a fat chick’s legs.

He prayed at that moment, “Please, Lord, don’t let me die here.” 

And the good Lord heard his prayer.

Her orgasm subsided and she released him from her death grip. “I popped out of those covers like a damn jack-in-the-box,” Sarge nods.

She asked him why he was in such a rush. Apparently, she wanted to go shopping with him. What the actual fuck.

Sarge reminded her that he needed to get back to work. He slapped her on the ass and told her he would text her tomorrow as he made his exit from the forever tainted motel room.

He deleted Tango on the drive back to North Carolina and never spoke to her again.