I was 19 when I first had full-on sex with another man. I was at college, living in dorms, and the experience—aside from the usual horrifying awkwardness and somewhat spontaneity of the occasion—was completely and utterly unremarkable aside from one thing: the guy I slept with identified as straight. It was late or early, depending on your outlook on the world when I was joined by the boy who was living in the room next to mine, way back on the other side of the building. He was clearly intoxicated, but it was a party after all and who was I, quite drunk myself, to judge. The minutiae of exactly how things developed from us being together in that room to us having slightly unsuccessful sex in a bathroom in a different corridor have since escaped me.
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The group was composed of ordinary men, men who worked hard throughout the week and made their sanctuary away from the hustle and bustle of metropolitan life. Rand was not himself a part of the group but an outsider, allowed into the inner circle for a few days. He came in knowing hardly anyone, but in those final weekend hours, the men had become accustomed to him. He will always remember peering through the lens at three men luxuriating on the lawn. The sun was setting, and as he pressed the shutter, he understood that he had captured an indelible moment. Looking back on the negatives he made in the s, now digitized, Rand feels only gratitude for the motorcycle run. He may not have been a member of the group itself, but something about the intimacy and togetherness of it all strikes a chord within his now-faded memories.
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Three years ago, the young man who would later be known as John Doe 1 shuffled into the Richard A. Handlon Correctional Facility in Ionia, Michigan. It was still wintery in April, and his state-issued jacket was poor protection against the drafts coming through the broken windows, shattered by men who had passed through before. The rituals of intake were familiar. But he also noticed that he was one of the youngest prisoners on the block.
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