amidst the loose words and catcalls of other inmates.
‘Hey, do you need a screw?’
‘Do you need a hand, Screw?
‘I’d like to screw that —’
The prison lingo is much different to that on the beat. Them making fun of our moniker name is not lost on me. A prison can be a dangerous place for a woman, but I’m confident I can keep my wits about me enough to stay out of trouble. Most of these guys don’t push the boundaries too much with women because of the disciplinary action if they step out of line. Not only can they lose privileges and visitation rights, but they can also have their meal times replaced with Nutraloaf . It’s a dense block of food-like ingredients that gives prisoners all their nutrients and calories but deprives their palate of any pleasure whatsoever. Because of these punishments, most of these guy stay in line when it comes to female guards. Most of these guys only get the Nutraloaf diet if they’re caught masturbating in front of a female corrections officer, but nine times out of ten it’s a matter of circumstance not intent.
Miles ignores their suggestive comments, too.
‘Hey man, how was she?’
‘Was s he a good screw, Saxon?’
We make it to his cell without incident. He walks in, compliant. Then he stands there at the bars, watching me intently, too close as I lock the door. His hands grip the bars between us, his knuckles turning white against the steel -grey metal. I can smell the prison-issued soap on his skin, the cheap shampoo on his light brown hair. It’s kept short, like the rest of the prisoners.
‘Chief?’
‘What is it Miles?’ I don’t look at him, distracting myself with the lock instead.
‘Do you think you could ask Clarence if he can come and see me?’ His voice is distracting . Commanding, without being demanding.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Chief?’ And then I do it . He’s waiting, pausing on purpose. Normal conversation requires you to look at a person when they’re talking to you, it’s unavoidable. Yet I don’t want to look at him, because he makes me feel… something. Something I don’t want to feel or even acknowledge. This guy is a crim. A law-breaking, man-killing, achingly beautiful crim. I don’t want to look at him, but I do.
Lazy eyes are already waiting to dive deep into mine. He blinks slowly , seductively, his lashes moving in a painfully leisurely motion as they close and open again. There’s regret there, but resolve, too. And hunger – a neediness that’s hard to fathom ever being sated from where I’m standing. He pushes his face closer to the bars, drawing my eyes downwards towards the cupid’s bow of his lip. He needs to shave, but in this setting, it’s perfectly acceptable. It’s not like he’s about to put on a suit and tie.
‘Did you want something?’
He licks his lips, suggestive of other things on his mind, his pink tongue working in a measured way across his upper lip.
‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For seeing what you can do … you know, with Clarence?’
‘Oh, well that’s my job , Miles.’
‘Saxon.’
‘How about prisoner—’ I look at the paperwork in my hand, ‘224702.’
It’s not unusual for guards to refer to a prisoner by number but , in this kind of setting, it’s rare. I’m just being cruel, but he needs to know his place. I will not be calling him on a first name basis. There are rules and boundaries within these walls. Boundaries he needs to acknowledge, yet seems fully intent on crossing with zest. His eyes sting me, conveying every little offended thought he’s feeling. Good, because nothing useful will come of me being nice to him. Nothing.
Our close proximity has being going on for too long. I need to move on before I start drawing attention to us. The last thing I need is fuel for any fire.
Walking away from Saxon Miles isn’t easy. I can still feel the burn of his eyes on my back as I go, and long, long after I’ve left the cell block.
‘Hey, do you need a screw?’
‘Do you need a hand, Screw?
‘I’d like to screw that —’
The prison lingo is much different to that on the beat. Them making fun of our moniker name is not lost on me. A prison can be a dangerous place for a woman, but I’m confident I can keep my wits about me enough to stay out of trouble. Most of these guys don’t push the boundaries too much with women because of the disciplinary action if they step out of line. Not only can they lose privileges and visitation rights, but they can also have their meal times replaced with Nutraloaf . It’s a dense block of food-like ingredients that gives prisoners all their nutrients and calories but deprives their palate of any pleasure whatsoever. Because of these punishments, most of these guy stay in line when it comes to female guards. Most of these guys only get the Nutraloaf diet if they’re caught masturbating in front of a female corrections officer, but nine times out of ten it’s a matter of circumstance not intent.
Miles ignores their suggestive comments, too.
‘Hey man, how was she?’
‘Was s he a good screw, Saxon?’
We make it to his cell without incident. He walks in, compliant. Then he stands there at the bars, watching me intently, too close as I lock the door. His hands grip the bars between us, his knuckles turning white against the steel -grey metal. I can smell the prison-issued soap on his skin, the cheap shampoo on his light brown hair. It’s kept short, like the rest of the prisoners.
‘Chief?’
‘What is it Miles?’ I don’t look at him, distracting myself with the lock instead.
‘Do you think you could ask Clarence if he can come and see me?’ His voice is distracting . Commanding, without being demanding.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Chief?’ And then I do it . He’s waiting, pausing on purpose. Normal conversation requires you to look at a person when they’re talking to you, it’s unavoidable. Yet I don’t want to look at him, because he makes me feel… something. Something I don’t want to feel or even acknowledge. This guy is a crim. A law-breaking, man-killing, achingly beautiful crim. I don’t want to look at him, but I do.
Lazy eyes are already waiting to dive deep into mine. He blinks slowly , seductively, his lashes moving in a painfully leisurely motion as they close and open again. There’s regret there, but resolve, too. And hunger – a neediness that’s hard to fathom ever being sated from where I’m standing. He pushes his face closer to the bars, drawing my eyes downwards towards the cupid’s bow of his lip. He needs to shave, but in this setting, it’s perfectly acceptable. It’s not like he’s about to put on a suit and tie.
‘Did you want something?’
He licks his lips, suggestive of other things on his mind, his pink tongue working in a measured way across his upper lip.
‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For seeing what you can do … you know, with Clarence?’
‘Oh, well that’s my job , Miles.’
‘Saxon.’
‘How about prisoner—’ I look at the paperwork in my hand, ‘224702.’
It’s not unusual for guards to refer to a prisoner by number but , in this kind of setting, it’s rare. I’m just being cruel, but he needs to know his place. I will not be calling him on a first name basis. There are rules and boundaries within these walls. Boundaries he needs to acknowledge, yet seems fully intent on crossing with zest. His eyes sting me, conveying every little offended thought he’s feeling. Good, because nothing useful will come of me being nice to him. Nothing.
Our close proximity has being going on for too long. I need to move on before I start drawing attention to us. The last thing I need is fuel for any fire.
Walking away from Saxon Miles isn’t easy. I can still feel the burn of his eyes on my back as I go, and long, long after I’ve left the cell block.
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