Excuse Me, Mr. Officer

When I arrived at Perryville, Warden Judy Frigo, now retired, was present to see me through the process. Staff didn't know what to expect. The media had grossly over-sexualized me and the local ABC affiliate had even reported (falsely, of course) that I was going to try to become pregnant.

In a dramatic response to this fake news, Frigo decreed that no male officers were allowed to be around me for the first several weeks while female staff monitored my behavior to see if I left actual snail trails in my wake. (Don't let any sperm get near her! She might be laying an egg!)

The juicy lie that I flirt with "prison guards" (they're called officers, by the way) still persists in tabloid trash rags, but it long ago dried up at Perryville because it's the antithesis of my real-life conduct. However, I had to work harder than most women to build my credibility here because I lacked the advantage of anonymity and was saddled with a salacious reputation manufactured by legacy media using disinformation.

How is this lie harmful? Let me count the ways. Flirting with an officer can trigger a cascade of problems for that officer. It can also cause major fallout for the woman who got mixed up with him or her. The officer may go under investigation and even be terminated. The woman is reviled by her peers for getting caught and by staff for getting their coworker fired.

I've seen it happen. An officer makes the mistake of treating Perryville like a harem of horny femcels who are eager for the chance to be with a man. Guys who come on board with these delusions crash and burn, sometimes landing in jail.

Despite the risks, there are men with a predatory mindset who pass the application process and gain entry into Perryville. They know they are walking into a population with a high percentage of women who suffer low self-esteem and have lost everything. Maybe they want to feel like rock stars, maybe they're drawn to the thrill of illicit sex. Whatever motivates them, they use their positions of power, privilege, and authority to prey on desperate women.

A byproduct of the once-pervasive rumor that I flirt with officers is that sometimes a new officer, or a seasoned one new to Perryville, will try to flirt with me. Most are male and many are attractive. Some of them even look like they're in their twenties and all I want to say to these young bucks who try is, "Bro, can you go somewhere? I'm old enough to be your mom."

The last time a female cop flirted with me, I was so thrown, not just by her tone and her "So what's up?" but by the way she looked me up and down. The vibe of undressing me with her eyes, I'll put it like that. I laughed it off while rooting around in my social toolkit for the words to politely exit stage left.

This might be hard for some people to imagine, but I have other priorities than useless flirting. I can think of few things that are more time-wasting, low-leverage, and irrelevant to my goals.

At this point in my life, my priorities are PCR (post-conviction relief), my art, and my writing, including some manuscripts I may or may not ever publish. My creative projects amount to a lot of irons in the fire, and not a single one of these irons is "flirt with a cop," or flirt with anybody, for that matter. I stay busy, time is short, and this type of banter simply doesn't interest me.

That said, I am nice to officers, both male and female. I'm respectful and good to them, not only because this is wise and it serves me, but because it makes their thankless jobs a little easier.

I have moments I'm not proud of, however. Recently, I was woken up by an officer on graveyard shift because the air-conditioning stopped working. But it had stopped over nine hours earlier. I went to bed knowing this, so I prepared: I stripped down to my bra and underwear, covered myself in a thin sheet, and blasted some fans. I was sleeping quite well this way in my too-warm room until an officer opened the door and loudly announced that she had to temp the room.

She stood there with the door wide open, letting waves of hot, outside air roll in. Understandably, I was not my jovial self. I was annoyed to be jolted awake while she stood in the doorway letting the room grow even hotter, and I let it be known.

Despite rare moments of grouchy half-consciousness, I treat each officer the way I want to be treated: like a person. I'm friendly, not flirty. It would be a mistake to confuse my friendliness with flirtation. And yet: I've been misunderstood most of my adult life. Nothing new.