Tara Isabel Zambrano
Prison Bitch A S M R
They are moving me again, to a safer place, they say. On the prison bus, I catch the hairy arm of the driver on the wheel and I think of words that would make him go nuts.
Kisssss,
Suuckk,
Bouuunce,
Stripppp
nakedddd
You are watching me, your cold-gray eyes that look like they’d be calm even when you shoot someone. A blooming pimple on the chin, the heat of your breath reaching me.
I recall the cigarette I smoked last week after I slipped a $10 bill to Dawn, a guard, during lunchtime. She brought a half-used one in the evening. Clove-flavored, she said, expensive. I told her I was in awe of her good taste. Start your thing, she said.
Prison bitch ASMR, I whispered, and let out a sound of as if I were snuffing a candle. Hi there, what would you like me to do today? My voice was raspy, noisy. Hush, the guard said, Girl, you used to be soft like you’re walking on eggshells without breaking them, the light bouncing off her yellowed teeth. I gulped water, cleared my throat. Ssss . . . I let out my S’s, smooth as honey. I blinked my eyes, moved my head to the right side. Do you want me to do your makeup? Massage and tingle your scalp or just gently suck your clit? She grinned and shook the cigarette from me, the smoke that twirled out of her mouth was the sexiest thing I had seen in a month. Peace, she exhaled.
I made the sound of tapping feet, then whispered a few of her favorite words.
Still, still, still, still, still,
Lollipoppp, lollipoppp, lollipoppp, loliipoppp, lollipoppp,
Swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe,
Her gaze was soft, cloudy.
Bubbbble, bubbbble, bubbbble, bubbbble, bubbbble,
Relax, relax, relax, relax, relax.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
I asked her to follow my index finger: 99, 98, 97, 96, 95 . . . She leaned against a concrete pillar, her left hip jutted out. I felt tempted to whisper: You’re wearing steel-pointed black heels and a matching velvet necktie that sticks like a partition between your gibbous-moon-like-boobs wanting to bloom after a caress.
56, 55, 54 . . . Above us, the thin ribs of fluorescent lights flickered. She jolted from the trance and drew in a sharp breath. The scar that ran along her left cheek deepened. I took a small comb out of my pocket (courtesy of a cellmate with whom I did a makeup artist/hair stylist roleplay) and ran my finger pads over its teeth. Trrrr. Trrrr, trrrr. My mind wandered: The necktie opens, the heels remain, your legs dangle on the edge of her bedside. She handed me the cigarette. Trrrr, trrrr, Dawn, honey, sugar, you are a vision. You are an anthem, I said. Trrrr, trrrr . . . Big words, eh? she guffawed. I winked, aimed the butt at the trash can.
You know, two days ago, one bald bitch kept banging the other girl’s head on the wall because the girl boasted that she got a deal from you. Ten minutes, eh? In exchange for $10 and three crayons. The baldy only had five minutes for the same. I remembered the one who was shaved down to her scalp, her face a ruin with broken teeth. Spleen, shards, bleed, ash, burn, knife: her favorite words. I had to come up with a soothing story of watching a body cut open: rushing blood, the pink guts turning blue. I shrugged, creative is expensive.
What do you do with those crayons, girl, Dawn pushed me. Makeup, I giggled like an idiot, my reds and blacks ran out, orange is running low. Whore, she roared. Then she coughed, her face serious. The superintendent doesn’t like all the commotion. He’ll move you, she said, her sharp eyes dissecting me. I gave a disappointed look. Prison bitch, she sighed. Her wedding ring threw a harsh glare. Not looking forward to going home tonight, but it’s all for the kids, man, just for the kids, she confessed and adjusted her belt, pulled up her pants. Fucking prisons, everywhere, she said, walking away, stomping her feet, her frustration like a shadow following her.
The bus stops with a jolt. A guard gets on the bus, calls out names. Esha. You don’t raise your hand like others but look up, your eyes look unworldly. Esha. The guard is irritated. You slowly raise your arm, punctured by needles, a tattoo of a twisted knife on your wrist. A gang member, the inmate next to me whispers. You look at us, smile. In line, someone yells. I get behind you. Your steps are careless, your nails crooked, dark, like they are ready to dig into someone’s heart and pull the dirt out. Dandelions sway on the side. I want to pick wildflowers, make a bouquet for you with a proposal:
May I massage your shoulders, rub your ass without touching you?
Steeeel,
sharrrpp,
seeearr,
stooonne,
stattticc,
might be some of your favorite words. Free in the beginning, then a cigarette, a few dollars, or whatever you can offer to pass this goddamn time, turn this hell into something else. The electric fence runs to the horizon. Guards come and go. I inch forward, thinking of the possibilities with them, with you, staring at the door that slams behind us: its sealing sound, my favorite, the one that floods my veins each time, the one that keeps us in, the one I can’t seem to reproduce. I practice and practice:
Sssss
Sssss
Sssss . . .