FRESH YARN presents: My Lesbian Love Letter from Prison (Or So I Thought)... by Jill Morley

FRESH YARN presents:

My Lesbian Love Letter from Prison (Or So I Thought)
By Jill Morley

Fan letters come in spurts. When you act in a play or a film, or write a widely publicized story, they come in bunches -- usually. But, sometimes there are strays. Not like I get a whole lot of them, mind you, but when you put your stuff out into the world, people are bound to respond... from all walks of life.

A few years ago an article I wrote for a national magazine, based on a documentary film I made about working as a stripper, created interest from VH-1, an interview on a popular New York radio station, phone calls, letters from long lost friends, and a few "fan" letters. One of them, I received a year after my article was published. My "fan," Catalin, wrote in girly red cursive, excused the delay in responding to the article, but told me to look at the address, which would explain why she was out of the loop. She was incarcerated -- a federal prison in Pennsylvania. It was an eight page hand-written letter mostly ranting about the prison system and how our country was becoming a police state full of "rats, snitches, and stoolpigeons" -- you know, normal stuff. Normal for an inmate who had the time to write such a letter. Literally a lifetime.

I have been a magnet for these people. Having dabbled in several underground worlds, besides stripping, including undercover work, nightclub life, participating in a fetish video, and training as a boxer/martial artist, they could smell it on me. Very extreme people have crossed my path and for a long time, I would get involved with them to an unhealthy degree. Some people call it an addiction to danger. I just thought it kept life interesting. I never knew why I couldn't get involved with a guy who wasn't an alcoholic, a player, or just a plain old loser. But I guess I didn't care. At least I had fascinating stories to tell.

After about three pages of ranting, Catalin asked me to consider writing about the prison system inequities. Then she said that if I didn't like that idea, she had another one. She pitched me a feature film involving an average Joe who couldn't keep a job and had a miserable love life. Things just didn't seem to happen for him. While sitting in a topless bar, Joe has an epiphany. He decides to work as a female stripper. He gets breast implants, waxes his body, and gets himself a luxurious wig. Joe becomes wildly successful, makes tons of money and gives blow jobs for $300 to $500 a pop.

The blow job prices made me think that this was coming from personal experience. Perhaps, Catalin was a high-class hooker who got busted one night because she didn't suss out the undercover cop who came in for a BJ. She probably gave him one before he busted her. I think that because I watch Law and Order obsessively, I can make assumptions like this.

So one night Joe gets drunk and high, and decides to take off his G-string while performing. His tape comes undone, his "thingie" comes out and he urinates on the stage and the audience. Due to the closed circuit lighting on the stage, he is fatally electrocuted. This scene, according to Catalin, should be scored by Madonna's "Like A Virgin."

Most definitely.

Catalin goes on to compliment me on my article, the pictures of me, and apologizes for not being able to see or read any of my other work in the last few years, or to take me out and promise me "undying love." She tells me I "have a nice (ass) smile." She draws a Smiley Face, as if it were an email...but it's not. It is a handwritten letter from a federal prison.

"But please, don't let my sense of humor or lack thereof, scare you. I am completely harmless (am I?) Yes ma'am, especially now (Frown Face). Although I could have typed this letter, I chose to handwrite it so you could take it to a writing analyst and find out whether or not I am some type of psychopath (Smiley Face). I assure you I am not, but just in case, don't trust the analyst either ...my sense of humor again ...partly responsible for why I'm here."

Poor thing. Jailed for having a dark sense of humor. That could easily be me. I wonder why she overuses the Smiley Face thing, but figure she is in prison and it probably makes her happy to see a smile, even if it is just a flat one drawn on paper.

"Take care and enjoy life. Be kind to others. Trust no one. (One or two exceptions allowed). Love animals, children and the elderly because they are cute, innocent and harmless.
Best Wishes,
Catalin

PS. Please write back."

She wrote her inmate number neatly beneath her name.

Awww. My first lesbian love letter from an inmate. I was honored. And excited. Having never been to prison before, I find it intriguing and kind of sexy. This was untapped danger territory for me. Criminals who were actually imprisoned have been tough for me to get to before this.

Yes, I have been working on getting myself back "into the light" as far as my interests go. Having lost two friends to their over-explorations into dark territories, I have been looking to find the joy in life above ground.

But ever since seeing Chicago, I find the idea of women in prison glamorous. I picture Catalin in a glimmery beaded costume and a short dark bob. All of the other prisoners are gorgeous trained dancers who sing about how they committed murders, counterfeited money, robbed banks and exacted revenge. They dance together in the jail yard, leaping over picnic tables during their recreation period, and possibly dance on cars. I know I am mixing the film Fame with Chicago but it's my fantasy, dammit.

I bragged about this letter to all of my friends. I carried it in my purse with me wherever I went for the next two days in a manila folder as proof of my newly found street cred. I was so tempted to write back, establish a correspondence with Catalin, bring her brownies, nail files baked in cakes, and fine lingerie sewn into stuffed animal heads. I wanted to know more...

My friend, Lucy, a dominatrix and professional Bettie Page impersonator, decided to do an Internet search on my version of Catherine Zeta Jones. Lit cigarette dangling out of her mouth, Lucy, typed Catalin's name into the Google box and hit "enter."

Several articles came up with Catalin's name in it. I get even more excited. Roxie Hart, here I come!

"Looks like you hit the jackpot here. This is one famous bitch," Lucy exclaimed, her ashes dropping onto the keyboard as we read the articles.

But things turned ugly. To my horror, we find out Catalin, who was involved in an infamous case in the early '90s, is, in fact, a man. A 40-year-old day trader who lived with his mother in New York City. Apparently he lured a 14-year-old judge's daughter to a motel, gave her alcohol, had sex with her and taped the encounter. He is the first prisoner serving a life sentence for child pornography charges. That's what happens when you target the judge's daughter (Frown Face).

But he never even got the sex act on tape. He only filmed for 11 minutes. The tape stopped because he forgot to rewind. This is who is sending me fan letters. An incompetent child pornographer -- getting life for a sex act he didn't even get on tape. Pathetic. No wonder there were all the Smiley and Frown faces in the letter. He had met her on the Internet in a chat room. I wanted to throw up.

The letter took on a whole new meaning. I read it again, but instead of seeing a heavily made up moll with a dark bob and beaded dress with a pout, I envisioned a sleazy, straight, middle-aged white man.

Please write back, Clarise. Eek!

Lucy thought Catalin was getting a really bad deal. She told me that 14 is just like 16 and that 16 might as well be 18. "If you are old enough to get pregnant," she says, "you are old enough to decide who you want to sleep with."

I reminded her that this man lured the girl to a motel room and gave her alcohol.

Lucy actually told me that he is probably good looking if he got a 14-year-old to come see him. He probably sent her a picture of himself. I wanted to smack Lucy. She then encouraged me to answer his letter to see "if there is anything there."

But then I remembered that Lucy has a high tolerance for the eccentric and insane. As a professional dom, she's had clients who were kinky businessmen asking her to do things to them that most of us couldn't imagine, let alone pay for. Her primary slave at her dungeon is a Japanese businessman who brings four boiled eggs, for each session. After giving him an enema, she tells him to strip naked and shove the four eggs up his ass. Then, she calls the other mistresses in and yells that he had better "lay those eggs like a good chicken!" With a very serious expression on his face, he squawks like a chicken and lays those eggs. At the end of the hour, she's $300 richer, he's properly humiliated, and Lucy is just a little more twisted.

As the years have passed, I have been working diligently on untwisting. I notice that life is becoming less dramatic, but more livable. I am married to a wonderful man who is stable, has a job, was never incarcerated and is still interesting. I don't know as many people who are in life-or-death situations, and don't worry so much about myself going down the rabbit hole to uncertain depths. I don't even associate with Lucy anymore, let alone incarcerated people who I don't know.

In the end, my lesbian love letter from prison was stripped of glamour, infused with reality and now sits in an old filing cabinet somewhere, reminding me of where I don't want to go anymore.