“I wrote this while interning for a comedy magazine in 2005. I submitted it and was given detailed notes on why it was not up to their standards. I believe instead they printed someone’s long rant about being given a jaywalking ticket. This magazine no longer exists.” - Alex Kane

I was Martha Stewart’s Bitch

By Dot “Stewart” Frye

As told to Alex Kane

When I first arrived at the federal women’s prison in Alderson, West Virginia, I was terrified. Tall as oak trees and just as tough, the women there glared at me with hate and lust. In prison for a crime I did not commit, petite and fragile, I felt there was no way I would survive a week in that place.

I did not sleep at all my first night. Screams and moans filled my ears. At times I questioned whether I was imagining them. I knew I would die in that place.

It was in the shower on the second day of my incarceration that my life changed forever. I was adding shampoo to my long, vivacious scarlet hair when I heard numerous footsteps echo throughout the room. I had shampoo in my eyes, so I could not look to see just how many surrounded me. Suddenly, I felt a bar of soap press against my back. It smelled just like a gentle mix of lilac and mango with a hint of mint (which I would later find out had been created using only normal items from the prison kitchen).

“Pretty thing like you could have a lot of problems in here,” a familiar voice said.

I was too terrified to speak. The soap glided perfectly around my back to my silky white breasts. Even though I knew I should be terrified, I felt safer than I had since I set foot in that place.

“I’ll be around,” she said. With that, she dropped the soap. I waited to hear the thud as it landed against the filthy shower floor. Instead, I heard it softly land in a simple yet elegant basket designed from a cafeteria tray and part of a uniform painted gold with etches of dolphins on the side. I love dolphins!

I looked back, but she was already gone. That was the first time I met Martha Stewart, who would own me for the next few months.

Days passed, and nothing happened. All of the other inmates avoided me. They would not even look at me anymore, as though they would be punished severely for even the slightest glance. I felt so secure already.

Exactly one week after our first encounter, I was running laps around the track. As I finished my third, a group of five inmates, all the size and shape of an NFL linebacker, stepped in front of me. I did not fear, however, because I knew she was protecting me. The biggest one said, “She wants to see you.”

They took me to a sweet smelling cell decorated in Victorian prints. A single rose in a translucent blue vase rested on a marble end table. Martha sat on the peppercorn-colored sheets wearing her perfectly unwrinkled prison top which shined the brightest shade of blue I had ever seen (a laundry trick she later taught me). Her pants were folded neatly on the floor. Her naked legs were spread wide apart, and there was a line of cocaine stretching from her inner thigh to her clitoris.

“You know what to do,” she said.

I did, but I was afraid. I was a simple girl from a simple town. I had never tasted alcohol in my life (I am only 19) and I have never even got passed second base with a boy. I’m just not that kind of girl, but something about Martha made me believe this was the right thing to do.

I approached and she pushed my head down. Nervously, I snorted and I felt an immediate rush. I knew there were other reasons my head was down there, so I started to work.

“Oh!” she said. “Yeah! That’s a good thing! That’s a good thing!”

Pride flushed over me. The thought of being with a woman like this had always seemed perverted, but now it felt natural. And she liked it! She really liked what I was doing!

“That’s the kind of insider trading I want! Right there!”

I could not tell if it was the drugs or the exhilaration of pleasuring Martha, but I felt powerful and free. Everything felt perfect. Never in my life had I felt such a sense of accomplishment as when she came right on my face. I had no idea so much fluid could come out of a woman.

After that, we were inseparable. She helped me in the yard, turning my meager, dying plants into a vivacious, colorful garden by showing me how to test pH levels. She helped me fashion a tea towel pillow to make my cell seem more like a home. She demonstrated how a mixture of mineral spirits and denatured alcohol could be used to remove blood stains from sheets after she broke my hymen with a thirteen inch dildo.

I treasure those times we had together. Every single day was filled with sweet caresses and ingenious housekeeping tips and every night was filled with illicit drugs and hot lesbian sex. I was not only discovering how to add a personal touch to gifts by designing my own wrapping paper. I was also discovering the real me.

Martha is gone now and I have never been lonelier. She told me, however, that she was going to do everything she could to clear my name. She is going to find the men who set me up. Soon, I will be free and they will be behind bars. Then Martha and I can be together again. I know that will happen. I have not knitted my last headboard slipcover with her. Once again I will feel the warm smack of her hand against my ass while she yells at me to stop squirming so she can inject an unknown fluid into my arm.

We will be together again soon, Big Marty. I love you.

*Festival Performer