A prison rights activist who spent decades in jail remembers the longing and fury she felt when sex and touch were suppressed
I am in the heady throes of a new relationship. That buoyant, lusty state that’s so electrified we sometimes mistake it for love. We are illegally in her cell, on her bed, mostly naked, so deep into our lovemaking that we are deaf to the guard’s keys jingling down the long corridor. By the time we realise, she is at the doorway, snatching down the curtain. We are scrambling to put on our clothes and sit up in some semblance of propriety. Sweaty, embarrassed, scared.
“Give me your IDs,” she says, sternly. We hand them to her, knowing she is going to write us up for numerous charges that will lead to our being separated into different housing units, possibly removed from our jobs. “Get dressed, go to your rooms and stay there,” she says.
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