by Salome Wilde
“Of course.” She looked toward the clock. “I’d really like to talk with you some more, but I have a long drive ahead of me, so we’ll save it for the letters. It was nice meeting you, Clinton.”
“You too, Girard. I would shake your hand, but—”
“Right.”
The guard made his way over and Girard stood up. “I really am going to write you. You have my word.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” I smiled despite myself. I was quickly realizing it was hard not to give myself away around Girard. I’d spent so much of my life pretending to be someone else, it was comforting to be myself again with someone who wanted to get to know me.
When I got to the door, I looked back to see she had already left the visitation area. I didn’t know if I really expected her to write, but the possibility was enough to occupy my thoughts as I was led back to my cell.
* * *
The first letter arrived two weeks later. I folded it in half, stuck it into my back pocket, and refused to let myself read it until I was back in my cell. My cellmate—a self-proclaimed straight woman called Palmer who crawled into my bunk more nights than not—was sitting on the top bunk with her feet dangling. She looked up as I came in and gestured at the table by the door.
“Stoney said you’d been waiting for that book from the library, so I picked it up for you.”
“Thanks, Palmer.” I picked it up and used it to conceal the letter as I dropped onto my bed. The ladies I lived with now were reasonable enough, but I didn’t feel like explaining who was sending me letters. I could try to keep Girard’s identity to myself, but prison was dull enough that even a hint of a secret was enough to make the gossipmongers circle like wolves. I’d already formed a few strategic alliances, and I wasn’t going to risk them for some correspondence that might not even go anywhere. “I’ll have to thank Stoney, too.”
I stuck the letter under my pillow until Palmer wandered off. I retrieved it and unfolded the paper against the page of my book. The note was printed off a computer, but it had been handsigned.
212714,
I have no idea what I’m doing. Before I first wrote, I didn’t even know if it was legal for us to talk to each other, so I asked my lieutenant about it. He said that since the trial was over there was nothing to prevent me, but I should be careful. He probably meant I shouldn’t write you letters. Or maybe he meant I shouldn’t see you in person. Either way, it’s too late now. I’m still grateful you were willing to see me when I came to visit. I couldn’t have given you any good reason to agree. What in the world do I think I’m going to talk about in this letter? Cases? Yeah, right. Mundane nonsense like grocery shopping? I hardly think that’s the kind of thing you’d want to read about. So, though I definitely want to write, I’m a bit at a loss. I don’t have a partner or a pet that I could talk about. I do have a stray cat that I sometimes feed, but just typing that makes me feel pathetic, so let’s just forget it. Maybe you can suggest a topic. That’s how conversation works, right?
I hope things are going well for you inside. You may have broken the law, but that’s no reason you should suffer unduly. I don’t know if you’re a good person, but I’m willing to find out. At the very least it should be interesting. Well, I’m going to go feed the cat and you’re going to forget you know the cat exists, and I’ll wait for your reply. You’re under no obligation to continue this correspondence. But you know that.
Until the next time,
Girard
I folded the paper along its creases and closed it in my book. I had a pad and pen, I was free for the next hour or so and I found myself wanting to write her back. I wanted to reward her openness and honesty with some of my own. No character to play or prize to be gained other than honest communication. I thought back to our face-to-face conversation and realized I hadn’t given her anything of myself in return for her admissions. It was just my nature. I put up walls with everyone so they only saw what I wanted them to see. Girard deserved more than that. It seemed odd in the age of email that we were actually exchanging snail mail, but it was all I had. I thought about the stamp collection I had stolen a few years earlier and wondered what Girard would say if a couple of those pieces showed up on envelopes I sent her. I smiled and used the book as a writing surface.
Girard,
Your letter was exactly what I was hoping it would be. Despite what you might think, I would love to hear about grocery shopping. In here we stand in line and get what we need from a terse woman in a cage. No searching or thrill of discovery, no lingering and reading the labels before you decide on this brand over that one. Just reading the words “grocery shopping” made me picture the bread and coffee aisle. I love the way it smells there. The blend of all the breads mingling with dozens of coffees…It’s a funk that can never quite be replicated, isn’t it? Just one of those things you know the second you experience it.
In fact, anything you think of that’s mundane or boring, share it. Those are the things I miss after less than a year inside. Going out to check the mail. Waiting at a red light. Tell me the boring shit! Remind me what real life is actually like. You may think that’s not a lot to offer, but you’d be surprised how much it helps. I don’t have anything to share from this side, unless you want to hear random gossip about other inmates you (probably) don’t know. If it doesn’t happen in the shop, the library, or the cafeteria, I don’t know about it.
Sorry if you were hoping for some kind of confidential informant situation, but I got nothing. And you know what? Even if I knew something, I wouldn’t share it. But I doubt that’s what you’re after. I’d have known it when we met.
We started this relationship with total honesty, so why not keep that going?
I’m not going to “talk” your ear off. To be honest, writing this much has made my hand hurt. I guess we’re all out of practice with penmanship. I would hate to even think about using cursive. Hope my fifth-grader scrawl isn’t too hard to decipher.
I’m looking forward to more exchanges. As far as I’m concerned, this is an ongoing thing. You, on the other hand, can decide whenever you want to end this.
The ball’s in your court,
Clinton
P.S. The cat thing makes me like you even more. Give him (her?) a scratch behind the ears from me.
I looked at the letter for a moment, considered scrapping and rewriting the whole thing to cut out some of the more vulnerable admissions, but finally folded it into thirds. I had a write-out saved, and I would address it in the morning to go out with that day’s bag. The write-outs were stamped envelopes that could be purchased from the prison store. They weren’t inordinately expensive, but they also weren’t just handed out on a whim. I made a mental note to make sure I had one or two on hand when I needed them.
I didn’t know exactly how long it would take to go between us, so I checked the postmark on the envelope from Girard. Eight days. Didn’t seem too outlandish. One letter a week at most seemed remarkably skimpy when we could have exchanged a dozen emails an hour, but I liked the idea of having a little distance between us. Email would be too intimate, too close. If the letters were just something that came unexpectedly, then I wouldn’t get too dependent on them. Maybe when we had a few passes under our belts we could graduate to something speedier, like phone calls.
I put the letter in my book, returned it to my nightstand and stretched out on my bunk. I stared at the underside of Palmer’s bed and thought about amazing things, not sex to block the limits of my life, but shopping for groceries and sitting on a park bench to spend an hour reading.
212714,
Is it okay that I start the letters that way? “Clinton” seems too formal, and “Dear Anything” would be a bit awkward. So I’ll settle for the numbers right now and we’ll see how things go.
You want boring? You want dull? You asked for it. I live in an old run-down two-story home on the outskirts of the city. Big front yard, tiny backyard, loads of bushes and weeds crowding in on all s
ides. In the summer the rain kicks up all the smells in the ground. Blackberries get knocked off the bush and smashed underfoot so that odor is in the air. Last weekend it rained so much that the gutters were hanging off the back of the house. I had to drag out the ladder on my day off and get it back in place. I tried to clear some of the blackberries off the back of my property and ended up with nicely scraped arms for my trouble.
Work is work. Like you said, I’m not looking for a CI, I’m looking for a friend. Being friends with other cops is boring. We have all the same old stories, the same problems, just from someone else’s point of view. Maybe I need someone completely different from me.
Maybe a bit of background…? I’m really just sitting here staring at the screen wondering what the hell I have to say to a woman in prison. I’m the only sister in a family of boys. I think that’s one reason I’m still single. The house was way too full growing up, so when I got my own home I wanted a lot of space, just for myself. That means no relationships that last long enough to get to that key-exchange phase. And being friends with civilians is almost as bad as friendships with cops. Everyone is tense. Everyone is worried that I’m going to be playing Hall Monitor, busting them if they have a little pot or don’t fasten their seatbelts when we get in the car. I can let my hair down. I can have a drink or two. But if I make everyone else uncomfortable just by being there, how can I relax?
Most of the time I’m alone, not lonely. There’s a difference. I like alone. There are days when I need solitude. But otherwise, I just want what everyone wants. Someone to talk with, to share things with. Someone who won’t worry or judge. You and I both know exactly what we’re getting from square one, so it makes sense in a weird way.
So. Family. We weren’t a cop legacy, so my decision to sign up was a bit of a shock to Mom and Dad…
The letter went on, describing her life as a uniformed officer and a detective, but my eyes kept ticking back up to the description of her yard work. I was lying on my back in my cell, feet planted flat with my knees bent. I pictured her climbing the ladder in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up…but no. I could make up my own fantasy Girard. So she was in a white tank top, tanned and muscular, sweat beading on her biceps as she worked the gutter back into place and secured it to the house.
I let the note fall onto my chest and closed my eyes. Outside the cell, I could hear voices raised in passion. Anger or joy, sometimes in here it was hard to tell. But I was alone in the cell. I lifted the hem of my shirt, stroked my fingers over my stomach and then pushed my hand under the waistband of my ill-fitting pants. I squeaked quietly, holding back the full-throated moan I wanted to make as I pictured Girard with her hair falling over one eye, a wrist pressed against her forehead to block the sweat from dripping down. Her shoulders were burnt by the sun; her badge was shining on her hip. I indulged myself further, having her wear her gun as well. I liked strong women, and I wanted her to have her shield and her sword, as it were, when I imagined her.
I let my knees fall apart as I cupped myself and teased with two fingers. I was already wet. Masturbation was a decent placeholder and it got me to sleep, but I hadn’t had a satisfactory orgasm since I was incarcerated, and it was starting to become a problem. The nights with Palmer thrusting her hand between my thighs were fine, but she was an awkward and twitchy lover. It wasn’t that she simply didn’t know what she was doing, although she didn’t. She spent the entire time justifying her actions, rarely bothering to make sure I had finished before she quickly peaked then scrambled back to the safety of her own bed. I got more out of my exchanges with Girard than the actual sex I was having with Palmer.
One thing I hadn’t counted on during my incarceration was how horny it would make me. All these women, all these available beds and little to fill our time. My field of potential lovers had shrunk from any woman I fancied to the women in my cell block, and the thrill of the hunt was muffled by the fact we were all caged up together. Generally, I preferred anonymous encounters in the back room of a bar or waking up in an unexplored apartment and trying to profile my new lover before she roused and ruined the mystery. I handled cons best when free from entanglements.
I turned my mind from Palmer and prison hardships to Girard and the brief moment she had been on top of me in the alley. In my fantasy, the scene stretched. She straddled my hips and sat, holding me down as she rubbed herself against my ass. I was handcuffed and she held the chain between the bracelets as she rode me. I could almost hear her soft grunting as she moved back and forth. I wasn’t the submissive type, but with her, it was exactly what I wanted. It was what I needed. And Girard was the one I wanted it from.
Other inmates wandered past my cell as I indulged myself, but none of them commented beyond a quick laugh or a shouted “You get it, girl!” of encouragement. I gripped the sheets and arched my hips against my hand, using my middle finger on my clit. My T-shirt brushed over my hard nipples and made me tremble at the thought of having them teased and licked. I held the image of Girard in my mind as steadily as possible so that I would be coming for her, baring my teeth as I pushed two fingers inside and pretended they were hers, then used the wet tip to circle my clit again. The touch was electric. The cry I’d held back broke free.
I loved the thrill I got from imagining Girard this way. She was the enemy, classically speaking, but after reading her letters I felt as if I knew her. I admired her intelligence and her beauty, and the letters revealed a lonely woman. I thought about her lips parting as I pressed mine against her neck, and the way her hair would feel against my palm as I pressed her against the wall and pulled at her clothes with my other hand. I came then, my bottom lip trembling and the mental image of Detective Girard frozen with her clothes askew and her eyes half-closed in anticipation of another kiss. My entire body twitched with the force of my orgasm and I sank back down to the tangled sheets with my thighs closing protectively around my hand.
Afterward, I stared blindly without focusing on anything in particular, my thumb hooked on the waistband of my pants, my other hand resting on my stomach. My fingers and thighs were still trembling, and I curled my toes as I shifted to a more comfortable position to ride out the aftershocks.
I waited until I had steadied my breathing and felt the sweat drying on my face before I finally put my feet on the floor and stood up. Girard’s letter, forgotten on my chest, tumbled to the floor. I picked it up and smoothed it against the surface of the desk so I could look at it as I wrote my response. My note was short and direct.
Girard,
How honest are we going to be with each other?
Clinton
Some might have called it a waste of the stamp, using such a precious commodity to send only one sentence, but I couldn’t write anything else until I knew the answer to my question. A lot was riding on what she said, so it was more than worth the expense.
When the reply came, six long days later, I could barely stop myself from tearing it open on the spot.
Clinton,
A hundred percent. Otherwise, what’s the point? In that vein, I assume you’re asking if my interest in you is purely platonic. It’s not. I know from your file that you prefer female lovers. One of the reasons I was drawn to you is because I thought you were attractive. I spent hours staring at your mugshot, but seeing you in court really set things off. It wasn’t until we started sharing these letters that I realized that was the real reason I came to visit you. I wanted to see you up close. I hope this was the response you were looking for. It’s the thing I wanted most to get off my chest, so maybe I read into your question incorrectly. I hope my attraction doesn’t turn you off the idea of exchanging letters. Getting your letter was the high point of my day, and I was looking forward to more. Hopefully this won’t ruin it.
Girard
Girard,
Okay, then.
You could say pretty much anything in your letters and I wouldn’t want to stop writing to you. Reading your words makes being in here almost bea
rable. I thought you were attractive, too. I noticed it during the trial, of course, but it only grew when you came to see me. As I’ve read your letters I’ve pictured you and found myself even more intrigued with every word. The visual of you working on the gutters of your house was so arousing that I had to stop reading and masturbate. Hopefully admitting that is not over the line.
I said I wanted all the cards on the table, so there they are. I meant what I said about your letters being my saving grace. Not just for the obvious reasons. Talking about the smells after a rain and the blackberries, fighting the weeds and the mind-numbing chores? God, I miss that. Hearing them secondhand from you is the next best thing to actually being able to experience it. Thank you for that.
I don’t know if the prison censors will even let this letter through. I’m sure they’ll let me know if not, and then I can rewrite the whole thing so it’s nice and clean. How boring.
By the way, you never told me if that stray cat of yours is a boy or a girl.
Clinton
Clinton,
You’ve broken out of jail. I don’t know how, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give you tips. You make your way to my home. Because I had to use my real address in order to send mail to an inmate, I pointed you right to me. You watch until the lights go out, and then you slip in through the back door. The shower is running while you’re downstairs in the dark, and you move to the bottom of the stairs when you hear the water shut off. You catch a glimpse of me walking from the bathroom to the bedroom, drying my hair with a towel so that I don’t notice you.
When I go to bed, you finally come upstairs. Once you’re in my bedroom, you can’t risk hesitation, so you push the door open, cross the room, and cover my body with yours in an instant. I struggle, and you put your hand over my mouth. I bite your fingers, but you’re wearing gloves. I try to buck you off, but you tighten your legs around my body until I decide it’s futile and that I’m wasting valuable energy. You stay on top of me, both of us breathing heavily. You tell me you don’t want to hurt me, but you will if you have to. You tell me to nod if I understand, and I do. You ask where my handcuffs are…