This is probably the among the most controversial Orange is the New Black pieces published. Give it a shot; rant in the comments if you hate it. It's intended to provoke thought.
"Heroin was the best girlfriend I ever had," her voice, thick with accusation, echoes in your ear as you try to ignore her piercing glare.
"But even the best girlfriends will fuck you over, you know?"
You feel a mixture of frustration and guilt, unable to listen any further to the AA meeting going on at the other end of the recreational room as your patience finally snaps.
"Yeah, you would fucking know, wouldn't you?!," you spit as you storm out the room, ignoring the indignant look on her stupid fucking face.
Superficially, you know how it looks to anyone who knew about your relationship with Alex Vause, a former drug importer and international cartel leader currently serving five to fifteen in federal prison, – with her as the victim and you as the most shallow, superficial cunt who ever lived. And you won't deny, make excuses, or undermine the existence of at least some merit underlying those accusations, after all, the facts – that you one, left your then-girlfriend of four years without any warning or explicit explanation of why and two, did so immediately after said girlfriend's mother died – are true and there's no changing them. But there are two sides to every story. And you hope that anyone to whom Alex has taken it upon herself to disclose her side will one day look past Alex's charisma and sex appeal long enough to consider yours:
It's a cold, January evening in New England. You're a new college graduate and know that you need to find a source of income from somewhere. Knowing that your degree in Theatre precludes most probabilities barring graduate school, you decide to try to secure a waitressing or bartending gig that will at least give you something to do while you attempt to figure your life out. Unfortunately, despite your near perfect GPA and winning smile, the bartender rejects your request for a job application. Brushing off the sting to your ego, you hear a loud, female voice call out to you:
"Hey! Laura Ingalls Wilder! My friends and I are skipping America during the Apocalypse. Wanna come?!"
Confused, you look for the source of this absurd request and find it grinning widely at you: an intriguing raven haired beauty with tattoos cascading down her muscular arm and striking green eyes. Though you no longer have a reason to stay at the bar, you find yourself curious about this woman and decide to order a margarita, kind of hoping she'll continue to pay attention to you. And she does – at the behest of her friends, she actually approaches you, takes the resume you attempted to hand the bartender, and proceeds to mock you. But though you know you should be offended – who is this woman and who the Hell does she think she is? – you find yourself quietly enjoying her flirtatious teasing.
"What else do I need to know about you?," the enigmatic, raven-haired woman who you learn is named Alex, asks you. She looks at you with a sort of predatory hunger that both thrills and frightens you. Not wanting to show the inward, child-like giddiness you feel as a result of her attention, you attempt to play it cool:
"And what do you do, Alex? Besides make fun of strangers in bars?"
She raises a perfectly tweezed eyebrow.
"I work for an international drug cartel." You laugh at this, unwilling to believe something so seemingly ludicrous.
And so it begins. After your initial encounter, the two of you continue to chat and you find yourself growing increasingly captivated by her. So when she offers to take you out to dinner the next evening, you say yes, smiling slightly at the excitement of agreeing to something the wiser part of you knows you probably shouldn't.
It's just dinner you try and tell yourself as you ready yourself the next day, knowing full well that that isn't the case as one date turns into another turns into another. You find yourself relishing her company in an almost alarming manner – it's almost like she's intoxicating; despite having spent so little time with her, you find yourself beginning to crave her presence. But after dating for three weeks and spending hours having late night phone conversations, it hits you: you know almost nothing about her. On the next date, you put your foot down and force her to stop deflecting your questions regarding her employment and it is then that you learn the truth: that she wasn't lying that day at the bar when she professed her involvement in the drug industry.
Run, stupid!, the safe protective part of your being screams in vehement reprimand as your heart beats faster and a wave of panic begins to overtake your body. You feel her eyes watching you, anticipating your fear and waiting to see if you'll flee. And though you know you should, you don't. For reasons unknown to you now, you let the woman in further, not in spite of, because of the clandestine destructive excitement to which she is attached. You tell her your dreams, your secrets, and she, in turn, tells you hers, though whether or not she was being genuine or merely baiting you is subject to debate. It isn't long before you give yourself to her physically, too – you've never been with or thought about being with a woman before, yet the first time you come all over her fingers feels natural, like a life-long routine.
After five months, the two of you are inseparable, caught up in a storm of desire galvanized by lust and specks of love, punctuated by glints of almost obsessive need. Looking back, a part of you thought – no, most definitely knew that what you felt toward her – the physical and emotional dependence, the consuming void of emptiness you felt in her absence, were indicative of the imminent destruction which bordered on the horizon of your relationship. But, in your youth and naivety, you ignored it. You believed her when she said she loved you. You believed her when she said she cared for you. And you trusted her when she said she'd never involve you in her illegal activities. And for a while, she didn't. Things between the two of you were great – physically and otherwise. Indeed, for a while it was almost as though you weren't dating a drug importer and the two of you were just like any other young, lesbian couple infatuated with each other and silly ideas of love.
But then she asks you to carry a bag full of money for the cartel.
"C'mon, babe," she pleads. She begins taking off her shirt and winking mischievously. "You know I'll make it worth your while."
"A-alex," you stutter, attempting to maintain your resolve as she slides her hand up your shirt, sending jolts of electricity through you. "I can't do it – I can't go with you to Belgium."
Alex flashes you a devilish grin, kissing you and snaking her free hand down your pants. In spite of yourself, you feel yourself grow wet for her, a well-conditioned response that's developed as a result of the hundreds of times she's made you come on cue.
"But I want you to come," she says, mimicking the time she first convinced you to quit your waitressing job at a local restaurant and follow her to Bali.
"I-I…" You grit your teeth in frustration as you feel yourself grow closer to orgasm as Alex toys with your clit.
"I want you to come," says Alex again, planting a kiss on your neck. "Nothing bad will happen. It won't happen again – I just need you to do this for me once. I promise."
As you gaze into her eyes. You've been together for nearly two years at this point and you're still taken aback by how fucking hot she is.
You believe her.
"Okay, I'll come," you whisper, begging for her to give you release.
Smiling from ear to ear, she enters you and curls her fingers. Your fingernails dig into her back as waves of pleasure wash tear through out. You cling to her, asking implicitly for her protection that, in that intimate moment, you thought for sure she was agreeing to give you.
At first, it felt like a fantasy – an ethereal fantasy where nothing was real. Sure, Alex imported drugs and you were going to help her by carrying money for the cartel – but what did that actually mean as you sat, curled up on her lap, naked and watching Netflix?
But upon arriving at Belgium, after successfully carrying the bag through the foreign airport despite the sense of sheer terror running through your veins, you began to suspect that perhaps you aren't in a fantasy land where you're infallible - perhaps this is all real. Very real. Too real. You take a deep breath as Alex kisses you and assures you that sexual favors are forthcoming as a reward for your services. You attempt to calm your racing heart and shaking knees.
"Alex, wait," you say, as the two of you walk toward the exit of the airport. "When the bag didn't come at first, I was so scared, I almost bailed."
You search her frustratingly beautiful face for comfort – surely, she'll understand. But there is none to be found as she merely nods and matter-of-factly says, "Well, it's a good thing you didn't. Cooper would have had you killed."
Alex offers to take a taxi to the hotel, but you opt for the two of you to walk, wanting to see the sights of the strange city. You find yourself fascinated by the colorful buildings and hybrid mix of language surrounding you. For a moment, you forget why you're here – that is, until you spot a homeless man with a dirty tangled. grey beard and no teeth, curled up in a ball. The poor thing is in tattered clothes, shaking and in what appears to be a cold sweat, leaned up against the wall of a building. Feeling your heart break, you reach into your purse to put some money beside him, when Alex grabs your hand.
"Are you fucking kidding me?," she asks.
"Look at the man," you reply, gesturing toward him. You know that Alex isn't exactly the sympathetic type, but she isn't heartless either. "He's got an awful fever. Some money wou-
"No!," Alex interrupts, grabbing your arm and dragging you past him. You shoot her an incredulous look.
She sighs and runs her hands up and down your arms. "Pipes, that man is going through withdrawal. He's an addict – if you give him money, he's just going to use it to buy more drugs."
For a moment you say nothing, considering carefully what she just said.
"What kind of drugs?," you ask, finally, dreading the answer.
Alex shrugs nonchalantly. "I dunno – probably heroin. Let's go" She takes your hand her hers and proceeds to pull you in the direction of the hotel.
You take one last look at the now vomiting man before Alex steers you around a corner. Heroin ruined his life. Heroin reduced this man, a human being, to a pile of runs. Heroin. The drug that Alex imports. You wonder how many other homeless people roam the streets, addicted to those drugs, the very drugs that Alex, and now you, had a hand in making available.
But you ignored them. That is, you ignored the nagging voices in your head, telling you to get the Hell out of there, away from the black-haired catalyst of destruction. Stupidly, you allow your doubts to be placated with sex and luxury. Out of love and need for the other woman, you force yourself to swallow Alex's facile assurances of safety and honestly think of her arms as a place of asylum. That is, until the feds learned of the cartel and arrested Meg, a stout, dark haired lesbian who wore dark eye makeup and small gages of whom you'd grown increasingly found as you spent more time around Alex's "drug family."
Despite her unconventional career, Meg was a surprisingly warm and traditional person, speaking often of her partner who she considered her wife and their two small girls, Taylor and Laura. Though you know Alex does not enjoy it when Meg brings out her latest pictures of the two blue eyed toddlers, you sense Alex feels a sort of loyalty to the woman – after all the two of them had been in the business together for nearly a decade. But you soon come to realize the unfortunate truth - that the loyalty you thought, or wanted to think, that your girlfriend felt toward her supposed friend and her supposed friend's family, was strictly imaginary.
"Alex!," you cry in panic, upon overhearing Meg's frantic voice pour through the speakers on Alex's cell phone. The woman is crying and you feel a surge of guilt overtake your body as you hear phrases like "fifteen to life" and "won't be around for their 16th birthdays." You wait until Alex hangs up the phone before going to grab your purse, your mind racing a mile a minute as you contemplate your next course of action. You mumble to yourself, pacing about the room – that is, until you look up to see that Alex isn't at all visibly stressed. In fact, she's smirking at you."
"Alex, what the fuck are you doing?!," you shout, incredulously. "Get your shit! We have to do something or else-
"Or else what, Piper?," she asks, folding her arms across her chest and looking at you expectantly.
"Or else she'll end up in jail! What about her wife and kids?! Isn't there anything we can do?! Pay bail, give her an alibi, anything?! "
Alex shakes her head. "The arraignment's tomorrow. They're not going to release her on her own recognizance and the bail's gonna be too high to pay. She's most likely gonna plead out in exchange for a lesser sentence. The only thing we could possibly do is turn ourselves or other people in – the DA would probably give her less time in exchange for more defendants, but Meg'll probably keep her mouth shut unless she wants a hitman to kill her family." The detached, factual undertones of Alex's voice causes your blood to boil. You aren't an overly compassionate person – not by any means – but could Alex really be this callous?
"Alex, you're pretty high up in the cartel. Maybe you could talk to some of the people under you? Convince them to turn themselves in and serve time in exchange for –
"No," she cuts you off. "We're already short on bodies. My boss will be livid if I send more mules to jail."
You feel your jaw drop. "And you seriously aren't willing to endure his petulant temper tantrum in order to hel-
"Piper," she cuts you off, her tone growing increasingly more angry. "Don't be so fucking self-righteous. You don't know shit. You don't know Meg. I do – and I knew from the moment I recruited her as a mule that it would most likely end like this for her. She was always too stupid to cover her tracks, and that's not my fault. It's also not my fault that she chose to drag her wife and children into this mess."
With those words, you feel your heart – and trust in Alex and all you imagined her to be – shatter.
After that dispute, you felt something in you crumble. No longer do the two of you feel like a team. Rather, you feel like her plaything; her toy, of which she could easily dispose.
But despite all this, you still love her. You love her more than you've ever loved anyone and are inexplicably drawn to her wit, sense of adventure, and sexual prowess. But now there's a new element in your feelings toward her – fear. Complete and utter fear, manifest not only in isolated instances, but, now, in nearly every waking moment you spend with her outside of the United States. No longer is Alex your rock, your shelter, your refuge.
And so, it comes to no surprise to you when she asks you to go to Istanbul alone, breaking every promise she ever made to you. Standing your ground and ignoring her requests for you to stay, you bid her farewell, forcing your feet to keeping moving even after you hear her quietly sob for her mother and the tattered remnants of your love.
And though your heart is broken, life goes on after Alex Vause. You meet Larry Bloom – a nice, wholesome man aspiring to be a journalist to whom you find yourself attracted. As the two of you spend more time together, you find that he feels safe, something you haven't felt in a long time. Unbeknownst to him, he helps you heal. He helps you pick up the pieces that Alex left behind and, for the first time in years, you feel like a whole, autonomous person. And so, when he asks you to be his girlfriend, you say yes. When he asks you to marry him, you say yes. You find that you love him, without reserve and not in spite of a voice in the back of your head warning you of impending catastrophe.
More than that, he loves you; really loves you - even when Alex gives you up, like part of you always suspected she would, and you have no choice but to spend the next fifteen months of your life in Litchfield Federal Prison where Alex is also serving her sentence.
Larry isn't an angel by any means – he uses your life as a springboard for his career and refuses to sympathize with the troubles you endure. He even ends your relationship - for now - after Alex fills his head with misunderstood half-truths when he meets with her behind you back.
But even as his voice trembles as he tells you good-bye, even as you feel both your hearts breaking simultaneously, you know that he still cares for – and would do anything to keep you safe. You know that you're the cause of his choice to end the relationship –in your desperate loneliness, you reached out to Alex, fucked her, and selfishly led her to believe that you could look past everything for what you genuinely mistook for a rekindled love blossoming between the two of you.
And when Larry asked you to pick between the two of them – either a life with him or Alex – you struggled for a moment. But then her recently articulated words flashed through your mind: "If you want to have babies and remodel your bathroom then please, go, do - nest. But if you want to do x on a beach in Cambodia with three strangers in drag - I'm not saying it will happen, but...it could" you realize that Alex Vause hasn't and never will change into the kind of woman you'd hoped she'd become – the kind of person you could count on and trust to take care of you and any prospective kids. Maybe you abandoned her and maybe the grief caused her to use. For both those things you're genuinely sorry, but she broke all her promises.
In reality, you think she'd probably give you up again.
And with that realization you pick Larry.
And you would do it again, a million times over.
Sorry, guys, it's been about three months and, now that I'm no longer overwhelmed and blinded by my attraction to Alex Vause, I have to say that I honestly do think that Piper made the correct choice in choosing Larry. I've read bits of Piper Kerman's book and know that, in reality, poor Piper was scared to death during her "adventures" with the character on whom Alex is based. Disagree? Great - I want to hear why. Tell me in the comments below. Thanks for reading