The caged bird

I've always liked the feeling of bars, of being caged in. I don't know when it started, when I had that first feeling of the virgin bars enticing me. I think it probably began the first time I was taken to the shops by mother. A long time ago. I used to pick up a basket, place in my own shopping, acting like I was a mother, too.

I always put the same products in, the items from the shelves that I like are the same; never swerving from the same list, even if we were in a supermarket I'd never been in before. They always sold the same branded products.

1. Greek yoghurt


2. One small tin of baked beans


3. Tampax Super, one


4. One green pepper


5. One red pepper


6. Olives


7. Pitta bread


8. Bread (loaf)


9. Milk (skimmed)


10. Woman's Weekly Magazine


11. One item that's not on the list.

The last item was the one I looked forward to most, the one I took my time over picking from its place on the shelf. Sometimes, I would purposely leave this until last, making the final item in my wire shopping-basket a chocolate sweet, or something similar available from the till. I always picked up a copy of Woman's Weekly magazine, just so I had something to read while I waited for the cashier to total up my purchases; it made me feel like a real mother.

When I'd emptied my basket on to the conveyor belt (a job my own mother would have to help me with, until I grew a little and became tall enough to reach it myself) I would pull the wire close to my face, pushing against my skin so that it left red marks in straight, parallel lines – marking me. I loved the feeling of being penned in, being behind something strong and containing.

I never suffered from claustrophobia, not ever. I could be held tightly behind metal bars and I wouldn't panic or feel my heartbeat quicken from the fear. My heartbeat only ever quickened due to the sexual excitement I felt.

There was a reason for this, too. My own mother liked to be locked in a cage. Men used to pay her just so they could watch her confined. Sometimes I would sneak downstairs to watch through the crack in the door, or through the keyhole. The men would be beating themselves in the groin, moaning; my mother just stood there, naked. I wanted to be behind the bars, just like my mother. I wanted to be a mother, too.

Now, looking back, it makes sense of my present situation, the place where I now find myself sitting. Bars surround me – a series of strong steel lengths, welded together. I might only have a bed, a toilet and a small basin, but I am where I want to be.