As I’ve read the accounts of the prisoner mistreatment at Camp-X-Ray at Guantanamo Bay, I’ve had an odd feeling in the back of my mind. Somehow, it all seemed hauntingly familiar, as if I, too, had suffered much as they had. And last night, as I slept, my subconscious finally made the connection.
It was dark and the air was foul as the two led me to a small room. I was placed in a chair, while the first — a woman — explained exactly what was going to happen to me. She leaned in very close to me, almost shouting in my ear to be heard over the painfully loud music. She also told me that I was not allowed to move from the uncomfortable position she put me in, with the second — a very large man — stood by, a silent threat of force that would be used if I violated the rules.
Then my suffering began in earnest.
She teased me. She tormented me. She taunted me. She repeatedly violated my personal space. I could see the contempt in her eyes as she progressed, flaunting her tawdry ways and mocking my own personal convictions. And all the time the big man loomed mutely behind her, never letting me forget the penalty for not cooperating.
It went on forever, it seemed. Finally, she stopped. She leaned in to me, her lips nearly brushing my skin, and whispered THE QUESTION in my ear, the one question this whole torment had been leading up to. I marshalled all my remaining strength, all my remaining will, all my remaining dignity, to resist.
“Would you like another dance, sweetie?”
It was no use. I broke. I nodded and reached for my wallet.