Curious George

When I was around ten or eleven, my “best friend” was a “fat boy” named David. I met David in the boyscouts, and since he and I were the only boys in Troup 462 who had non-commissioned fathers (sergeants' sons), we naturally became friends (464 was the regular NCO troup).

David had an older brother named George. George wasn't fat like David, but he was just as much a “geek”. He was several years older than David and I, and ended up earning his “Eagle” patch (the highest rank in boyscouts) while David and I were still friends. George was also a “child molester”, by most people's definition, or at least a perversely curious teen, according to my own understanding of such behavior.

George once tried to convince me to pump air into my ass in order to make “farts” using a bicycle pump. He happily demonstrated the technique while I was visiting David at their house on Davis Hill (a base housing area for NCO families). I declined, and that was the only time George tried to get me to drop my pants. He was more interested, it seems, in my younger brother, who was around 8 years old, while George was 15 or 16.

Because of our age disparity, George and I didn't interact (a.k.a. “play” together) very often. But, once there was a new dental clinic being built near David Hill, and after all the new equipment had been installed there was a “mountain” of large (refrigerator-sized) cardboard boxes left out in the parking lot to await disposal.

This mountain of cardboard was, of course, a magnet for all the kids who lived nearby, far more fun than any playground, and David, George, me, and my brother were all there with several other kids; some we knew and some we didn't.

The cardboard boxes were perferct for making “forts”, and this, of course, lead to the familiar game of forming rival “clubs”. Everyone wantd to be in George's club because he was by far the oldest boy there, and had built the best “fort”. But, for some reason (guess), George only let a select few younger children into his “club” and into his “fort”. My brother was one of the “lucky” ones.

I remember it seeming strange to me that George would take one of the kids in his club into a separately closed off box in his fort while he told the other kids in his club to “keep guard” and not let anyone in (i.e. the other kids who weren't in his “club”, like me and David). I also noticed that my brother, Bruce, was one of the kids invited into George's box.

Afterwards, on the walk home, I asked Bruce what they did in George's box, but my brother said he didn't know. But, he “didn't know” only meant that he didn't know what to call it. So I asked him to describe what happened, and Bruce told me that George pulled down his pants and made my brother touch his “weener”. I again remember thinking how strange this was, but dismissed it because it didn't make much sense, to me or my brother.

My brother and I both instinctively steered clear of George after that. But, we never told anyone about George's “strange” behavior because that's all it was to us: just strange. And, like I mentioned, George ended up becoming an Eagle scout, and the last I heard (from the defense team investigators on my death penalty case), he had joined the Navy and was a commissioned officer stationed in Hawaii. It is unlikely that George went on to become a “pedophile”, since he never got “caught”, and hence never got labelled. Also, I know from personal experience (I) that it is extremely common for teenage boys to take advantage of younger children to explore their sexual feelings as they develop. In most cases, this exploration is harmless and soon forgotten by botth teen and child. So, I wouldn't be too surprised if George today adamently denied anything like this ever happened, and he might even actually believe that it never did. But, I remember, and I know that it did happen. And, more importantly, I know what it means.

It means that the only difference between a “pedophile sex offender” and a “commissioned Navy officer” is in the label, not the person. I wish George all the best on his Navy career, and only hope he remembers me, and my brother, Bruce.

[J.D. August 26, 2015]

Notes:

(I) Many men, some in very “highly respectable” positions in their communities, have confessed to me various degrees and forms of such youthful sexual curiousity; and none of them ever consider themselves “sex offenders” or even “sexually deviant”. I have also been the “target” of such curiosity on numerous occassions as a young child, from several different older children, not just a rare one or two. (As an adult, I have come to attribute this high frequency of being a “target” to the fact that I was both beautiful and submissive as a child - an “easy target”, as they say.)

Welcome To My Nightmare: My "First Rape"

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What Happened In Prison – Part VII: The Last Laugh

I pick up and finish off this summary of my first (20-year) prison experience after I was arrested again in Kansas City, MO at my step-sister's townhouse apartment, where I was living with her and her two beautiful young children (never molested, by me at least). If you remember, I had absconded while on parole in Seattle, WA and a few days later kidnapped, raped, and murdered a ten-year-old boy in California. Then I spent the next few months driving around the country staying with friends and family and eventually ending up in Kansas City with my step-sister. (Oh, and for all those people who «don't understand» how I can talk about such things so «casually»; yes, I feel bad, but I'm not looking for sympathy --- not much point there --- I'm focused solely on presenting the truth, as it happened; my present thoughts and feelings about all this are irrelevant.)

My step-sister, Tammy, had arranged the arrest with the police in Kansas City, but only after she had been contacted by them (i.e. she didn't turn exactly turn me in). I was arrested without incident at her front door, which I had just answered when the bell rang. I was held for a week or so in the KC jail, then picked up and escorted in cuffs back to Washington state by two Department of Corrections officers via commercial jet (from KC to Minneapolis, and then from there on to SeaTac). They then drove me in their state Crown-Vic («The last rear-wheel drive sedan made in America», one of the transport guards proudly told me) back down to the Shelton receiving center, processed me through the front entrance after hours, and put me in a cell.

I sat in «R-3», population for about two months (if I recall) until I scared a big black snitch into telling the guards that I was pressuring him for sex. Seriously! He must have outweighed me by a hundred pounds, at least! But, one day I told him, «Look, your breath stinks up this entire cell. So, please, brush your teeth or we're going to fight; because I'd rather get my ass kicked than put up with your stinkin' breath.» That's honestly all I told him. I figured he was big enough to kick my ass if he wanted, but I also guessed that he was a punk, more scared of me than i was of him. I didn't expect him to squeal like a pig though.

The guards took me to the hole and wrote me up for pressuring that fat ass rat for sex. When the FBI contacted him after my most recent arrest in order to get him to testify how I «pressured him for sex» (to convince the jury that I should be killed and not sent to prison), he admitted that he made it up in order to get me out of the cell. A lot of good that did me back then. I sat in the hole for another three months or so before finally getting sent to Twin Rivers Correctional Center (TRCC) in Monroe, WA.

But, before the transfer I had a few visits from my physician friend, whom I had met in a «coffee shop» in San Francisco (we really met in a gay bar on Polk Street, but he told the Parole Board that we met in a coffee shop and that his interest in me was purely altruistic, yeah, right). Rich used his doctor credentials to arrange a private one-on-one «contact visit» (i.e. no glass between us) in a conference room in the administration building. He also arranged for another «sex offender» specialist, Dr. White, to do a private evaluation of me, with polygraph exam and the whole nine.

I didn't pass the polygraph exam, but I didn't fail either. The results were «non-conclusive» on two questions («Have you ever committed any sex crimes?» and «Are you attempting to deceive this examiner?», if I recall). Dr. White concluded that I was nervous, but being remarkably honest. He wrote the report that my physician friend, Rich, paid him well to write, but it didn't impress the Parole Board, so they «maxed me out» when I saw them (i.e. set my release date equal to the maximum, which was 20 years minus my time on the lamb). They even refused to give me credit for the time I spent in juvenile before I was declined to adult status merely because the juvenile facility where I had been held had lost their records in a fire (something that happens an awfully lot in government offices).

TRCC was the state's sex offender prison. Not everyone there was a sex offender, though. Only one of the four main housing units was used for the SOTP (Sex Offender Treatment Program). I was housed in the unit furthest away from that one. I was known throughout the Washington state prison system as «Jazzi Jet» (or just «Jazzi», mostly), Big Al's Girl. So there were plenty of prisoners even at TRCC who knew me, some personally, but mostly by reputation. The amazing thing was that nobody knew I was a sex offender! Or, at least nobody ever told me they knew, even if they suspected otherwise.

As was my habit, the first place I visited after arriving at TRCC was the education department. I inquired about what classes they had available, but all their classes had long waiting lists. So, not one to be deterred by rules, or waiting lists, I just started going each day to the computer lab, blending in with the other students, and began insinuating myself with the instructor, Mr. Gillis, and his T.A. inmates. They figured out pretty quick that I had «skills» that they could use, of course, and put me to work, off the record. I ended up developing a computer-based course on basic programming that was so automated that Mr. Gillis told me he was still using it years later after I got out of prison (I had contacted him as a reference). (By «automated» I mean that all the lessons and tests were done online by the students over the intranet in the computer lab, and at the end of each quarter the program would generate a report showing all the students grades and scores so Mr. Gillis could just plug them into his own reports.) It was a very popular course with the other prisoners.

I got in one fight while at TRCC. I got celled with a young Native American kid with a chip on his shoulder for all «white men». He tried to tell me how to do my time (a well-known prison taboo – you never tell someone else how to do their time, unless they're your punk, of course) by telling me that I had to take two showers a day (he was a clean-freak). He even tried to tell me when I had to take my showers. I told him to fuck off, of course, and, well, to make a long story short, one day I deliberately walked on the cell floor he had just freshly mopped, and he got mad and punched me in the face. I didn't hit him back, though. His punch was weak and ineffective (i.e. it didn't hurt or daze me at all). So I actually just stood there and let him punch me (ineffectively) again. And then I walked down to the guard station and told them, «Something's wrong with my celly, he's freakin' out in the cell.»

Oh, wait, I almost forgot. I didn't hit him, but I did throw a cup of hot coffee on him that I had been holding when he hit me the first time. So, anyway, when the guards went to go «check» on my celly, he thought I had ratted on him (which I hadn't, at least, not technically). So when they asked him what was the matter, he blurted out, «He threw coffee on me, so I hit him!»

Essentially I had tricked him into ratting on himself. But, the guards interpreted it as a «fight», so we both went to the hole for fighting. After I got out of the hole I saw him in the gym (they'd moved him to another housing unit but left me in the same one), and he just nodded to me respectfully. (It couldn't have been too hard for him to figure out that he ratted himself off, and me, at the same time from the guard's reports of what he said and what I said. So, I assume he was just letting me know, «You got me», with his respectful nod --- but I could just be stroking myself, since we never actually spoke after.)

Rich helped me request my transcripts from Walla Walla Community College, where I was just one course shy of finishing my A.A. degree (the degree that the parole board prevented me from finishing by sending me to camp before I was released on parole several years earlier). He then paid for a correspondence course (on writing) that gave me the credits I needed for the degree in General Studies (my second A.A. degree earned in prison). (I ended up writing a research paper on the decline of prison education programs and how numerous studies concur that such decline only increases recidivism rates far beyond the cost of the programs that were being cut, supposedly to save money!)

Then, after a couple of years, and less than a year shy of my max-out release date, they told me it was time for me to enter the Sex Offender Treatment Program. I refused, because I knew a bureaucratic trap when I saw one. If I entered the program and co-operated, by admitting my sexual desire for children, they'd use that against me for civil commitment (to keep me locked up as a dangerous sex offender). And if I entered the program but refused to admit my desire for children, the «doctors» would claim this made me even more dangerous, and I'd still be civilly committed. But, if I refused the program then the doctors couldn't say anything, except what was already on record. And because I was only 16 years old, and my victim was 14 years old, they could not legally call me a pedophile. So, as long as I stayed out of the SOTP, I could not be civilly committed. In other words – the system was designed so I could only get released if I didn't get «treatment». Go figure!

Because I refused treatment they transferred me to the Correction Center in Spokane, WA. That's where Big Al was! I hadn't seen him in years, since before my parole in '94 (it was now '99). Also, in Spokane (I don't recall the name of this CC), there was a special software development program in the education department that had ties with the computer lav at TRCC. When I told the inmates in this program that I knew their counterparts from Twin Rivers, they weren't very impressed. But, they let me take a skill test anyway. The next day they hired me (I only missed one question on their test, and nobody else had ever come close to even passing it before, not even the other inmates who were in the special program). The project was funded by a grant (from the DOE, if I recall) and consisted of a team of prisoners who planned and developed a «Competency Based Training» computer program that would supposedly be used in institutional education programs to help track and facilitate the idea of inmates training inmates. I was put in charge (officially) of «Quality Control», but that basically meant that I would work with the other prisoners to help them do their part of the coding, which in most cases they couldn't do by themselves.

So, I spent all my time there working happily on that project, and visiting with Big Al when I could in the chapel (because we were housed in separated units the only way we could visit was in the chapel). I also was required to take a «drug class» that I thought was a huge waste of time, but they threatened to remove me from the programming team if I didn't attend. So, of course, I did.

And then one day I got called back to my housing unit unexpectedly, and told to pack up my stuff, I was being released on a court order. Rich had hired a lawyer who filed a «Personal Restraint Petition» so I could get those six months of lost juvenile time served credit. That put me well past my max-out date, so the judge ordered that I be released immediately.

As I was actually carrying my box of stuff to «Receiving» to be processed out, I saw Big Al on the walkway and ran over to tell him the news and give him a big hug goodbye. It was extremely surreal, to say the least. In all the years I'd been in prison in Washington state, I was in a total of no less than four different prisons with Big Al, and in three of those we were cellmates! And now, I get to hug him goodbye, by some «chance» on the very last day, and my very last minutes, of all those years! Totally bizarre! (And judging by the way he kept looking at me, with total disbelief as well, I'd say he felt the same way.)

They gave me $20 cash, and a check for $80 more, plus a bus ticket from Spokane to Tacoma, with a stop in Seattle. Then two guards gave me ride downtown (in another Crown Vic, no less!) and dropped me off at the bus station. My bus wasn't scheduled to depart for several hours, so I walked over to a shopping mall where I called my mom and told her I was on my way «home», and got something to eat. I didn't get to Tacoma until late that night, then paid a taxi to take me to my mom's tiny apartment. I stayed with her for a couple of weeks, while I renewed my driver's license and squared away a few other affairs. Then Rich paid for a one-way plane ticket to Fargo, ND. And the best years of my life began. 

[J.D. May 14, 2015]

Welcome To My Nightmare: First Kiss

When I was six, I lived on an Army base near Mannheim, Germany. My father was a sergeant in the motor-pool (methinks), so our «housing» was military lower class «projects» type housing. The neighborhood, if you could call it that, was a collection of dozens of large apartment-buildings, four of five stories high with central stairwells and basements where the boiler rooms were with long halls of doors on either side going to storage rooms for the apartments above. This was where I kissed a girl for the first time, other than my mother or sisters; and I kissed her on her vulva.

She made me do it. She was older and bigger. The same age as my sister Teena, eight years old. I don't remember her name, but I remember she had long black hair and hairy arms (for a girl). With the help of my sister, yes, Teena, this girl and a few other younger friends of hers (i.e. the «girls» from the playground) lured me down into the basement and then told me I was their «prisoner» and forced me into a small room beneath the stairs. I started crying and pleading, but they wouldn't let me leave. Then they started telling me to do stuff, like pull down my pants and put dirt in my mouth.

My sister at some point told them to stop, but the hairy-armed girl was bigger, and was having too much fun it seemed. So my sister left, and I still remember to this day thinking that she was abandoning me to the whims of this pack of crazy girls bent on making me do things I was certain in my childish mind were going to kill me. But, she had only gone, running actually, to get my mom.

«Mom! Mom! Jet's being attacked in the basement!» she yelled when she got upstairs to the apartment (as my mother herself remembers it). (I)

But, before any rescue came the hairy girl and told me I had to touch her «pee pee» (or, whatever she called it) and she pulled down her panties and then pulled up her dress. It was the first time I ever saw «girl parts» and it terrified me! Mostly because of the way it was being shown to me (i.e. under duress). I told her, crying but too scared yet to scream, that I didn't want to touch it, but she grabbed my hand and made me do it. Then she said, «Kiss it!»

I started crying harder than ever. I must have thought that if I kissed it I would get some horrible disease for sure, like cooties. I resisted more than ever when she grabbed me to try to force my head down to her crotch, so she changed tactics.

She suddenly let me go and I coward away from her, still crying but relieved of the immedate danger, into the back of the little room. She said, «All you have to do is kiss it, then we'll let you go.»

«Promise?» I pleaded.

«Cross my heart and hope to die!» she said (or something to that effect at least; I don't remember exactly, of course.)

The prospect of freedom overcame my fear, and I agreed to her terms. I bent over and gave her a quick peck where she wanted.

Then she said, «Now you have to kiss her too!» pointing to one of her friends.

I realized I had been betrayed and begged for mercy, «Nooo! (sob) You said I could gooo! (sob sob)»

Just then my mother came tromping down the stairs. The girl quickly adjusted her panties and dress, and even tried to get my pants back up but couldn't before my mom homed in on my sobbing and came into view. As soon as I saw her I let out a loud scream of relief and terror all at once. I was relieved to be rescued from certain death, but now terrified of the trouble I was in with my mom!

I don't have any memories of what happened next. But, in my «psych' reports» years later, this incident was counted as one of «numerous» incidents where I had «sex with children». It didn't matter that I was the younger child, only that the other children were children, and I was a «sex offender». (This is the reason I created the picture of me at this very age, six, with the words «sex offender» branded on my forehead.) The reports typically read, «Mr. Duncan began having sex with other children at the age of six.» Or, something like that. None of the reports (or newspapers that got a hold of the reports) ever said that I was «attacked» and «molested» by older children from the age of six. But, they do sometimes make a big deal out of the first time I fondled a younger boy when I was twelve, Go figure.

[J.D. May 12, 2015]

Notes:

(I) This housing area had a reputation for being the «Bronx» of Army bases. Fights and «attacks» happened literally every day. My mother was even attacked once when she tried to confront another child's mother whose girl had squirted ink in my older sister's mouth on the «monkey bus» - which is what the kids called the school bus, because the driver just drove the bus and ignored the fights and mayhem that regularly occurred on the bus. It was far safer to walk the two miles or so in order to get to school.

Anonymous Sex In The Park

The only thing I ever really learned from all the «sex offender» treatment programs I've been in was all about different kinds of deviant sex. I honestly had no idea, for example, that anonymous sex in the park was a «thing» until I heard another man in a «sex offender» group-meeting telling the group all about how he went to parks at night for sex. He was very specific about what parks, and how he let the other men «cruising» the park know what he wanted. He even explained how he avoided undercover cops. This was all part of the required «sex offender» treatment that was one of the conditions of my parole to Seattle in 1994.

Fortunately, my first parole officer let me switch to one-on-one counseling with a therapist/counselor who specialized in counseling homosexuals (not «sex offenders»). I believe this move kept me from «re-offending» a lot sooner than I did, if for no other reason than the fact that Glen, the homo-counselor, never put any «ideas» into my head, while he effectively shunted many «deviant» ideas that were already there. He helped me feel a lot more «normal» (and hence helped me behave a lot more «normal») and acceptable for who I was. But, I never told Glen what I had learned about anonymous park-sex, because I wanted to find out more about that for myself. It was a seed well planted.

So, one day after work, instead of catching the usual bus home, I took a bus that passed by Volunteer Park instead (one of the best known «cruising» parks in Seattle, I soon discovered!). It was already after dark by the time I got to the park. I had actually «cruised» the park a few nights ago before this visit, and had a bit of a scare that caused me to literally flee the park and go home before anything happened (sex, that is). I had entered the park fully expecting --- according to what I had heard in that group meeting --- to see men «all over the place» having sex. But, I didn't see anyone. The park seemed empty. I was sure I had the right day, and time of day, for ample activity, but it seem my information had been wrong. At least, until I ventured off the main road and into the shadows of a stand of trees that was laced with trails.

I stepped into a kind of tunnel formed by some bushes and tree branches, and had to wait a few seconds for my eyes, and my mind, to adjust to what seemed (at the time) like a scene literally out of a really creepy horror movie. There were several men in there, just standing quietly in the shadows, clearly waiting for something. At the time I had no idea what they were actually waiting for. But, I learned later that they were waiting to see who I was; that is... they were waiting to see what I did next. My behavior upon first entering this «underworld» was critical. It would tell them what I wanted, or even whether or not I was likely a cop. I figured all that out later (again, largely by reflecting on what I heard in that «sex offender» group and relating it to what I actually experienced in the park). But at the time I was completely «freaked out» by all those men just standing quietly in the shadows; so I turned around and left, using all my courage to not run, but I left the park on that first visit much more quickly and more directly than I had entered it, that's for certain.

Once I was out safe, I started thinking about what had happened. Nobody chased me, or even followed me. So, it wasn't quite the threatening situation that it first seemed. Then over the next few days I managed to piece together what had happened, and decided to return for another «look» (in all honesty, curiosity was probably a much stronger motive for me than sex at this point). And thus the alternate bus route home a few days later. On this trip I was less afraid while in the park, but realized I had more to be afraid of afterwards!

Again, the park seemed empty as I entered this time from a completely different direction (from the north, instead of the south like last time). I headed for the same clump of trees though, and entered the shadows from a slightly more open (and lit) entrance. But this time the trails that crisscrossed throughout the trees and bushes were nearly deserted. I spotted two men almost right away, but they didn't seem interested in me at all, so I wandered around a bit looking for more, and better, prospects.

I didn't find any. This time it appeared the park really was empty, except for those first two men... ALL except those first two men. That alone --- even though this was next to my very first time really cruising a park for sex --- was «suspicious» to me. Something didn't feel right. But, in new situations like this a feeling like that is easy to dismiss. So, I didn't run out of the park like last time. But, I didn't leave either. Instead I returned to the slightly better lit area where I first saw the other two men.

They were still there. In fact, they were still standing in the exact same positions doing the exact same thing (i.e. looking disinterested). I said, «Hello.» One of them said «hello» in return. I remember acting nervous and uncertain (because I was). I tried to start up a conversation with the man who spoke, the closest one to me (only a few feet away, with the other man a bit further, about 15 feet or so, but close enough to hear everything being said though he remained silent the entire time). The man who spoke was a middle-aged white man. I couldn't tell how old his silent partner was, but he seemed younger. I told the man who spoke that I had «heard» that men come to parks like this, at night, to have sex. I remember him asking where I heard that; and me telling him that I saw it on the news (lying, of course). After a few more failed attempts to get these men interested, I began to realize that something was definitely wrong about this whole situation, and started calculating a «best exit» strategy. Running away is a good last resort, but seldom a good first choice since nearly all «predators» expect their prey to run. So, running away flags you as prey. It's much smarter to leave a dangerous animal situation as calmly as possible, and it was clear to me that these men were «dangerous animals» of some sort.

But, before I could make my own move they made theirs. The first man gave some sort of signal to the man standing further away. They approached each other, and whispered something between them. At this point I was thinking it was time to run, and if both men would have turned one step in my direction I would have. But, the second man turned away from me and walked off into the trees. The first man turned toward me, and instead of approaching he just said, «Come on..», and walked off into an open field.

That was a relatively «safe» direction, so I just followed him. He lead me out of the park and back to the main road. Once we got there, he said, «Go home, the park is not a good place for you to be.» And, I did exactly what he said, not even yet realizing what had just happened, and just glad once more that I was «out safe» again.

It didn't take me long to realize that these two men were undercover police officers; «dangerous animals» indeed! (I) Over the years I became much better at spotting the police. Sometimes I even taunted them (by making them think I was going to take the «bait» and then just walking away). I also took the time to learn the legal «hooks» they used (i.e. behavioral boundaries that had to be crossed before they could make an arrest). I learned the REAL «hooks», by reading police manuals and case law, not the fake «hooks» that the police themselves circulate on the streets in order to cover the «scent» of their real «hooks».

But, undercover cops weren't the only danger in the parks. There were all sorts of «dangerous animals» prowling around in those parks bushes at night, and over the years I encountered almost every kind. But, I never again felt as afraid as I was that first night, or even the second. Because, I prepared myself just as meticulously for all of them (i.e. by educating myself --- information is always the best weapon, and the best defense). I never took risks with diseases (by knowing what «signs» to look for and always using a rubber to be safe). And I learned the «patterns» of behavior to watch for so I could spot a «mugger» as quick as a cop (the «muggers» in the parks will pretend to be interested in sex, but since they're usually more into drugs than sex it's not hard to weed them out, and I «escaped» several in my time (and not all just in the parks). I even averted a «rapist» once, who tried to force me to have sex after I was finished and no longer interested. I simply told him in a very calm and serious voice that if he didn't let go of me I was going to break his neck. He let go, but I sometimes wonder if it might have been more fun to just let him have his way (as long as he used a condom, of course).

I actually ended up having a lot of interesting experiences over my years in the «real world» while pursuing anonymous sex in parks (not to mention, sex clubs and porn theaters). At first I would go on the busiest nights and at the busiest times, and I'd take part in some pretty strange «orgies» with more than a dozen men at a time surging through the park having sex sporadically. In Seattle I was young enough and good-looking enough to always have my pick and my way, which gave me a wonderful sense of power and control over the men I let use me (something I learned to enjoy after getting raped so much in prison). I'd often let several men use me at the same time, filling my «holes» at both ends, and both hands, all at once, while someone «pleasured» me too. Over time though I started going on less busy nights, because it just felt more comfortable for me to not have so much going on at one time... probably safer too.

On one of the busy nights I met an older Chinese man and we ended up becoming friends, even though his English wasn't very good. I only mention him because he was the only man I ever kissed passionately in a park during anonymous sex. He was completely naked when I first saw him, and he was standing near an orgy of about a half dozen men or so that was taking place in the middle of a grass field at Volunteer Park. Nobody seemed to be paying him much attention, but I was fixated as soon as I saw him. In the dark he looked a lot like a young boy. He was short, with a slender and hairless body. When I got up close I could tell he was older than I had hoped, but it wasn't hard for me to imagine that he was much younger, which is exactly what I did as I started touching him all over and molesting his butt and undersized penis (where he had some hair, but not a lot, and it was soft... uh, the hair, not the penis!). He responded so eagerly to my fondling that I couldn't help but kiss him passionately on the mouth. I climaxed almost immediately, without ever even attempting any kind of intercourse. And then, as was my habit, I found my own clothes in some bushes where I had hidden them, got dressed, and left the park to go home satisfied. Only this time I had some company.

The little Chinese man had followed me like a lost puppy that had just gotten a scrap of food from a stranger. I didn't actually realize I was even being followed until I got out of the park and he called to get my attention. Using a combination of gestures and broken English (badly «broken» English at that) he managed to let me know that he had a car and offered to drive me home. He was so cute, and seemed completely harmless, and I was pretty tired, and it was at least a couple of miles to my apartment near downtown, so I accepted.

He drove a large older American muscle car (like a 70's Charger or something similar), which was a bit strange for such a small Chinese man. When we got to my apartment I invited him in, and even though it was much harder to imagine he was a boy in the light of my apartment, we made love again, but with him it was never much more than fondling and mutual masturbation, and he loved sucking my dick too.

As it turned out, he was «sprung» on me because of the way I so passionately kissed him in the park, and because he thought my cock was «huge» (for him, it was!). He started showing up at my apartment unannounced looking for sex (I'd have to buzz him in from the security entrance, so I didn't mind) about once a week or so, and that's how we became friends. He would bring little gifts for me, but nothing expensive or of any real value. Once he brought me a leather «cock ring», but I thought it was a bracelet and put it on my wrist instead of on my cock. He didn't correct my error though for some reason (and I didn't figure out what a «cock ring» was until many years later). I think he was being polite about my ignorance.

I only «brought home» one other man from a park for sex besides my little Chinese friend. Nearer to my apartment was another less popular cruising park called «Freeway Park» (because it literally was built over top of the Interstate-5 freeway). I went there often looking for sex at night because it was less than a few blocks (five minute walk) from my place. But, the «pickings» there were fewer and much less «desirable» (lots of drug addicts and homeless men). And, because there was less traffic, and the park was so much closer to downtown, it was also more dangerous. (This was the park where a man once grabbed me and tried to force me to continue having sex with him after I had finished). I met a tall passive homeless black man here, and after letting him fuck my ass in the park (with a condom, of course; always with a condom), I asked him if he wanted to fuck me some more back at my apartment. I could tell he was more scared of me than I was of him (he was apparently mentally handicapped, which is common for homeless people, and the reason I felt safe inviting him back to my apartment for sex). But, the only reason I wanted him to come back with me to my apartment was because I had a camera hidden in a speaker that was focused on my hide-a-bed. When we got back to my apartment I was able to secretly turn on the camera and record myself getting butt-fucked by a big black homeless man as I lay naked and spread-eagle on my bed. I loved that recording (it was the only «hidden camera» recording I ever made) and I masturbated to it a lot (saving myself a lot of trips to the parks in the process). I eventually destroyed the tape though, by «nuking» it in my microwave oven, along with some other tapes that I couldn't risk keeping when I moved in with Joe and Ed in North Seattle.

All-in-all, I never regretted my trips to the parks for sex. And, to this day I frequently masturbate to my memories of those experiences, and often imagine new ways that I could have enjoyed anonymous sex even more, such as shaving my legs, wearing a wig, and dressing like a whore. That would have been a lot of fun!

(J.D. April 10, 2015)

Notes:

(I) I presume that the reason the undercover cop escorted me out of the park and told me to go home was because I did not do anything «rude» or «obscene» to spring their trap. They probably decided I was clearly inexperienced, and essentially «too small a fish to fry». So they «threw me back» and no doubt reset their hooks after I was gone. 

Home Invasion

In 1997, after I had already sexually assaulted and murdered two homeless Native American half-sisters (age 9 and 11), and after I had been sent back to prison for one month to await a parole hearing on a technical parole violation (I held my brother's handgun when he was showing it to me for a moment, which I only found out later counts as «possession of a firearm»), and after I was released back on parole to Seattle, Washington, I invaded a family home one evening with every intention of raping and murdering the two very young boys that lived there. Fortunately for that family the man of the house came home and walked in the front door just as I was about to kill the boy's mother by crushing her skull with a hammer. What follows is a detailed confession of this crime, and it's not for the faint of heart. If you're looking for a reason to hate me, then you'll no doubt find plenty of reasons here. But, I'm not writing this to appeal to some deep need to be hated. Nor am I writing this as some futile plea to be «understood». I'm only conveying this experience as a matter of truth, and as an expression of the darker aspects of being human, which if ignored (or worse, condemned) will only find far more detrimental ways of expressing itself.

I first spotted the boys in a Target store that I had gone to only in order to close out a Target credit card account that I no longer wanted (for some reason I needed to visit the store in person to do this, but I don't recall why). I saw the boys with their mother in one of the checkout lines and they immediately caught my attention. I didn't stare at them though, even «discreetly» from behind a display case or something, with drooling eyes the way «sexually predators» are usually depicted in most fantasy crime dramas (a.k.a. «cop shows»). Instead I just acted normal, very nonchalant; if someone were watching me at the time --- and I always assumed that someone was --- they would not have thought I had noticed the boys at all. But, in my mind I was thrilled by every glance I could afford. The boys were perfect little cuties, slender bodies, blond hair, beautiful eyes; any pedophile's dream. I was ahead of them in another line, or maybe I was just leaving the store without checking out or purchasing anything, I don't remember. But I do remember waiting in my car in the parking lot before leaving, hoping for one more glimpse of the boys.

I didn't have to wait long. They came out of the store with their mother and to my delight got into a minivan that was directly in my line of sight. I realized immediately that it would be almost too easy to follow them. The mother, like most women, was clearly oblivious to what was happening around her, perpetually distracted by whatever thoughts seemed more important to her than her surroundings (I later made the mistake once of trying to trail a man with his children in the same way I trailed this woman home, only to be lead almost directly to a police station parking lot --- clearly the man had realized he was being trailed almost as soon as I spotted him --- I got away with no trouble, but so did he). To make a long trek short, I followed the minivan for about 20 miles, mostly on the I-5 freeway. They made a stop at a McDonald's that had a «playland», where I just waited outside (and out of sight, i.e. not in the McDonald's parking lot) until they came out again, then followed them the rest of their way home.

I lost them briefly after they turned onto a residential street, because I didn't want to risk raising any suspicions by making the same turn behind her. But, it was a simple matter of driving around the neighborhood after that until I spotted the same minivan parked in front of a house on a dead-end street. Bingo!

I pulled around a corner and parked in a place that seemed out of sight from any houses nearby, and then I got out of my car and approached the house with the minivan cautiously. My plan was to make a fast survey of the house and its neighbors, so if anyone spotted me I'd be gone before the police even showed up.

The house had an open yard, but all their neighbors' houses had fences. I made my way to the backyard, which was unlit and dark. Toys and bikes were strewn around, which made it clear that the yard was the de facto abode of children, and no doubt an annoyance to be ignored by the neighbors, which the tall wooden fences and hedges seemed to confirm.

I felt completely invisible as I crept up behind the house and approached the only lit window I could see. The window turned out to be open, and as I crouched beneath it I could hear the woman inside talking on the phone. It seemed to me that she was talking to her lover, which I took to mean that she lived alone with her boys in the house. I had all the information I needed. I quickly returned to my car, watching carefully for any lights coming on, or sounds that might indicate I had been seen along the way; there was none. I then drove back to Joe and Ed's house, where I was living at the time, and went to bed; I was up past my bedtime and had to work the next day.

I don't remember how long it was before I returned with a «rape kit» that I put together just for the occasion, but it wasn't more than a week. I brought duct-tape, rope, camcorder and lotion, amongst other things that I thought might come in handy, and put all this in a school backpack for easy carrying.

This time I parked about a block away and avoided driving down the dead-end street where the house was lest someone remember seeing my car. Instead I walked past the house to make sure everything was nice and quiet, then around a corner where the street turned just before it ended. I decided to stash the backpack in some bushes so I would be unencumbered while I approached the house, in case I had to run.

I walked casually through the front and sideyard of the house and into the backyard, reasoning that if a neighbor saw me they'd think I belonged there only if I wasn't creeping around. But, as soon as I was out of sight in the backyard I crouched down low next to the house and crept up to the sliding glass backdoor, which was partly open.

I was just about to enter when I heard the boys inside roughhousing. They ran right past the open door, the older boy (about seven years old) chasing the younger (about five) then tackling him onto a couch and wrestling the way brothers do laughing and squealing with complete abandon. The couch they landed on was practically right under my nose, and I could watch them playing just feet away as I remained completely unobserved in the shadows of night outside the window.

Shortly I heard their mother call them and they both got up and ran off to another part of the house, leaving me and the open door all to ourselves. I entered the house, still only intending to scout the territory, and thinking I should go get the backpack but not wanting to «spoil the opportunity» (i.e. I knew this part of the house was presently unoccupied).

Just inside the glass door was a laundry area, with piles of clean and dirty clothes strewn about. I picked up a pair of a little boy's underpants and put them on over my head and face, but I could still see out through the leg holes. I thought this was practical and ironic at the same time. I stupidly left the mask I had brought with me in the backpack, as well as a knife I had intended to use as a weapon.

I walked through the laundry area and into the kitchen. There I found an old rusty hammer lying on the counter. Obviously I was being provided for, so I took the hammer as a weapon and proceeded cautiously further into the house.

Most of the lights inside the house were turned off, which made it easy for me to move around secure in the shadows. From the kitchen and past the main (front) entrance there was a central hallway. Down this hall I could see several open doors, but only one with the light on inside. From that door I could also hear a T.V. playing, and the boys and their mother occasionally commenting about what was on the T.V. as they watched.

I wanted to go back and get the backpack, but I clearly remember thinking that if I backed out of the house now I probably would not be able to muster the emotional energy it took to go back in (i.e. So-called «courage» --- but, I would no longer call it that). It was «now or never»; and I knew it; so I made it «now».

I simply stood up from the crouched position I was in at the entrance to the hallway, and walked boldly into the lit room, which turned out to be the master bedroom, with the hammer raised menacingly over my head ready to strike. The mother was lying on the bed with her head propped up on pillows to watch T.V. with both boys on the other side of the bed in odd positions as children do. When she saw me she screamed immediately, but then just as suddenly fell compliant and silent as I commanded her to be quiet, «or else!» It was a good thing she fell silent on her own because I had every intention of silencing her with the hammer if she hadn't.

I told her that I only wanted her car as I threw a blanket completely over the boys and told them not to move while I dealt with the mother. I ordered her out of the bedroom and back out into the living room, where I told her to get on her knees bent over the same couch I saw the boys wrestling on earlier. I used a piece of string, a shoelace I think, to then tie her hands loosely behind her back. I intended to kill her quickly, so I didn't spend a lot of time securing her.

Once she was tied I told her to not move, «or else», and then I returned to the bedroom to make sure the boys were still under the blanket. I told them, in a voice loud enough for the mother to hear in the living room, to stay under the blanket until their mother told them it was okay to come out from under it. And then I uncovered the younger (and prettier) boy and shushed him silently by putting my finger to my lips. I picked him up and laid him on the floor, unable to resist a quick look at my prize. I pulled down his pants and pulled up his shirt to expose his body quickly; I couldn't believe how gorgeous he was naked, and again, I'm not saying this to arouse myself, I'm only conveying the experience as it happened, and my reaction to it.

I fondled the boy briefly, which he seemed to oddly enjoy. I expected him to be afraid, and maybe he was, but I couldn't tell. Maybe he wasn't quite old enough to understand the threat I represented. Or, maybe he was used to being «abused». I don't know; all I know is that when I pulled down his pants and fondled him he was smiling up at me like it was some sort of game. I didn't linger though. I probably spent less than a minute total «checking» the boys. Then I covered the younger boy with another blanket, leaving his pants down for later, and returned to the living room to «finish» with the mother.

In the process of leading ehr from the bedroom to the living room she had told me that her «husband» would be back soon. I dismissed her claim as an attempt to scare me off, and ignored it. But she was telling the truth!

As I stood over her, hammer in hand, mustering my so-called «courage» to kill her (and perhaps also quickly calculating what would happen when I started hitting her in the head with the hammer) suddenly the front door behind me opened as someone with keys still jingling came in!

Without even turning to see who it was I just bolted for the backdoor, across the backyard, and in less than a minute (or so it seemed) I was at the end of the block, hiding in a shadowy flowerbed nect to another house, and watching to see if I had been seen, or followed. My car was parked just across the street from where I lay hidden, but I waited to make sure no one saw me getting in it.

After about another minute I heard a man's scream coming from the direction of the boy's house. It wasn't coherent at all, just a cathartic burst of raw emotion, no doubt frustration and powerlessness over being so violated. I assume that as soon as the man realized what was happening he must have grabbed some weapon and ran after me. But, as soon as he got outside and found that I was nowhere in sight, and having no idea which direction I could have gone, he just screamed to let me know he was there or something. I'm just supposing all this of course, but when I heard the scream I knew I had gotten away, and I remember thinking, «Now you know how it feels!» Then I got in my car and drove away with forced calmness.

As I was leaving the neighborhood I actually pulled over at one point to let a police car pass in the opposite direction with siren and lights blaring. Then after he passed me I turned immediately onto a residential street so it would look like I was «returning home» (i.e. like a local resident) and not «leaving» and parked there briefly. I still had the boys underpants that I had worn to hide my face, so I got out of the car and threw them into a dumpster behind the church. Then I got back in my car and drove home (to Joe and Ed's house).

The next day there was nothing in the news at all about the home invasion. In fact, there was never anything in the news about it at all, not even under «crime watch» in the local papers --- I checked. After my arrest in 2005 (for my current crimes) I told the FBI all about this crime (amongst every other crime I ever committed) and though they told me they «knew about it» already (I suspect they might have just said so in order to make it appear as though they knew more than they did, a common «police tactic») it for some reason never made it into the popular media reports that detailed every other crime I ever committed except this one. Because of this strange «silence» in this case I strongly suspect that the man I heard screaming that night was (or is) most likely somehow directly associated with «law enforcement». He was probably a cop, and cops know that the worst part about being a victim of a «major crime» is the media coverage. So, they routinely keep crimes like this against cops «off the public radar» to protect themselves, and their families, from the broader and more painful damage caused by the «fallout». It's one of the unspoken privileges of being a cop.

I returned to get my backpack the next night. It was very risky, I knew, but I had to get the pack before someone else found it, by accident or otherwise. I knew police procedure would be to patrol the neighborhood for a few days keeping an eye out for anyone matching the suspect's description --- in this case, white male, six foot, slender build and «on foot», which I figured they would assume since I told the boy's mother that I «needed» her car. So, instead of driving straight back to the house, I drove to a local all-night grocery store and parked amongst the other cars there. Then I crouched low in my seat and waited as I listened to a police scanner that I had «borrowed» (without them knowing) from Joe and Ed (they kept the scanner on the mantel of the fireplace in their living room, and only turned it on while they were getting high, which they did often).

It didn't take long before I heard what sounded like references to «possible suspects» matching «my» description. So I knew even more so that I was taking a big risk by just being in the neighborhood. But, I had to get that bag. I didn't think there was anything in it that could identify me, but it most certainly had my prints all over it and on the items inside.

I expected to see a patrol car before too long and I did. It came from the direction of the boy's house, so I was pretty sure why it was there (i.e. Looking for me). It drove around a corner and then passed in front of the grocery store where I was parked. Then it actually pulled into the parking lot at the last entrance, but the speed and «mode» in which it was moving (i.e. I could tell it was in «patrol mode» not «investigation mode», in other words, he was driving slow, but not «cautiously» the way cops do when approaching a possible «situation») told me that I had not been spotted. So, I watched him drive toward the front of the store, and could see that the driver's attention was on the store, not the parking lot, which appeared empty (of people). He actually drove right next to me, but by then I was crouched all the way down and completely out of sight, watching his progress in the reflection of the inside of my windshield.

He didn't stop. He just drove through the front of the parking lot and then back out onto the street and continued in the direction he had been going, away from the boy's house. I knew then that I had at least fifteen minutes (probably plenty more than that) to go get the bag before he, or anyone else, would be back. So I did exactly that. I didn't pussy-foot around about it either. I just drove directly to the house, parked in the shadow of the same hedges I had parked near on the very first night I had found the house. Got out, got the backpack, and then got the hell out of there following a route that took me away from the direction I'd seen the cop car go.

Mission accomplished.

Like I mentioned already, the home invasion was never reported in the news. Nor was I ever a suspect, as far as I know, probably not until I told the FBI about the crime (and showed them on a map where the house was). Other than the crime I am in prison for now, this was the only other «home invasion» or even «burglary» that I did after my release from prison the first time (in 1994). It was a classic «criminal learning experience» and I saw it as exactly that from the start to finish (i.e. I consciously intended to learn from it and knew I would make mistakes all along, which I carefully watched for). My biggest mistake was leaving that bag behind in the bushes. But my next biggest mistake was not surveying the house better and determining how many people would be there. There were many other lesser mistakes that I learned from, not to mention more «contingencies» that I prepared for. I read police investigation tactics, crime scene procedures, and even «Amber Alert» procedures. That's how I knew that I had gotten away with it and would never be a suspect --- as long as I killed both the children. Killing them, and their family, was never something I wanted to do; it was something I HAD to do, in order to not get caught. And not getting caught was the hard lesson I learned after being sent to prison the first time (that's the one lesson that prison always teaches, unlike what the Pharisees would have you believe).

[J.D. December 23, 2014]

P.S. I wrote this confession several months ago, but did not send it to my friends to be published because something felt «wrong» about it. I knew where it felt that way, but I couldn't put my fingers on why. It was the part where I describe molesting the younger boy in the bedroom. Something about that scene bothered me, but I couldn't say what it was.

Usually when this happens it is because something not quite honest has unconsciously slipped into what I have written. Because it is unintentional it sometimes takes me a few days to realize where the dishonesty is that is causing the uneasy feeling. In this case though, even after months, I could find nothing dishonest.

But, the feeling persisted. Until just the other day when my girlfriend asked me this question concerning another Fifth Nail confession: Do you write these confessions in order to re-live the crime through someone else's eyes?

I knew the short answer right away, «no». But, the question made me think (my girlfriend's questions often make me think, which is one of the reasons I love her). Why wouldn't I want to re-live my crimes by writing about them? Many sex criminals enjoy re-living their crimes, so why shouldn't I?

The truth is, I do. But, I do it privately and I am extremely sensitive about never letting someone else «see» me doing so. This is why I don't collect pictures of children that arouse my sexual interest (despite recent accusations claiming otherwise). It also explains my uneasy feeling about this confession.

The scene with the boy aroused me as I wrote it. And, that's why it felt «wrong». In this I wasn't being dishonest, but I was being too honest. I was «exposing» a part of myself that I don't like to expose. I don't mind telling people that I still fantasize about raping children, but I do mind making the fantasies themselves public. So, to answer my girlfriend's question more specifically, no, I do not write about my crimes in order to re-live them through someone else's eyes; and, in fact, the thought of doing so makes me uncomfortable on many levels.

Now that I understand why I felt uncomfortable about this confession I can let it go (to be published). I did not let it go now then I would not be honest (it would cross the line from not «exposing» something I feel should be private, to deliberately concealing the truth). So, I must let it go, no matter how «wrong» it feels. Being honest doesn't always mean being «right»!

[J.D. March 8, 2015]

Bicycle Ticket

While on parole in Seattle and living near downtown on Seneca street, I bought an inexpensive mountain bike off the shelf at Sears. My plan was to save a little money on my daily commute to the North end of Lake Union where I worked as a telemarketer six days a week near Gasworks park. Monthly bus passes where about $55, so the bike could pay for itself in just over a few months if I rode to work every day instead of taking the bus. It seemed like a pretty good plan since the trip to work was nearly all downhill, about seven miles, if I remember right, from my apartment. So, I'd arrive at work fresh and ready for the day, and then get a good work out on my way home each night. And the plan worked well for several months, up until the day I found the lock cut and my bike missing from the locked basement of the building I lived in (I reported the theft to the police, and never found out who took it; though I suspect the manager stole it simply because he didn't like the daily traffic up and down the stars to the basement just below his apartment).

I ride the bike everywhere and enjoyed it a lot, despite Seattle's hilly location. I didn't mind the slow low-gear trod up all the hills because for me the downhill sprints were always worth it. But, it wasn't all smooth sailing, as they say, and a couple of incidents stand out aside from the bike being stolen.

On my way home from work one day, on the front one mile stretch down Broadway Avenue after a trudguous two-plus mile hill climb, I had taken my hands off the handlebars so I could sit up and relaz a little on the flat part of my trip. Like any regular cyclist knows, riding without hands might be showing off for a child, but after a while it becomes so easy that you end up doing it without much thought and at times when you really shouldn't, like on a busy street with a lot of traffic and parked cars as obstacles.

This was one of those times. I don't remember exactly why, but for some really dumb reason I reached down and attempted to grab the LEFT handle, and apply the break, with my RIGHT hand! Well, as you can imagine this didn't work out so well for me. I immediately lost control of the bike and crashed into a parked car (in order to avoid crashing into the street and a moving car). I was unhurt, except maybe for a few scratches. But, the car I hit --- an unrestored “classic” (i.e. older car) of some sort from the 60s --- was scratched and now had a busted sideview mirror.

I thought about just riding off, but there were a lot of people on the sidewalk and they clearly saw what had happened. So I deicded to leave a note. But, as I was writing it the owner of the car came out of a nearby establishment and asked me what I was doing (I think someone told her that her car had just been hit). I admitted to what I had done and offered to pay for the damage, which in hindsight was even stupider than the stunt that caused the accident in the first place. She ended up bilking me for about $500, which is what she claimed it cost to fix the damage. And to make things worse, I found out later that my renter's insurance would have covered the accident with only a $100 deductable payment.

Well, the real reason I'm relaying all this now is not about the accident at all, but because of the ticket I ended up getting as an indirect consequence. Here's how it happened...

After that accident I started riding my bike to and from work on side streets, with far less traffic so I didn't have to ride so close to the parked cars all the time to make room for the traffic to pass. This worked well, until one day, on my way to work, I got pulled over by a motorcycle cop and ticketed for riding my bike straight, through a “right-turn only” intersection.

The bizarre thing was that it was a side street, and there was no traffic at all. The cop had been parked out of sight, apparently just waiting for a victim to come “violate” the barely visible traffic sign marking the intersection as “right-turn only”. If I had been driving a car I probably would have observed and obeyed the sign, as I consider myself a good, and lawful, driver. But, on my bike, and with no traffic, on a side street, I honestly wasn't even paying any attention to the traffic signs. So you can imagine my surprise when I heard the police siren “bloop” and looked over my shoulder to see the cop on my tail!

I pulled aside, to let him pass, as if he really needed the room, but then he parked behind me and swaggered, literally swaggered like some T.V. motorcycle cop, wearing the tight riding pants and apparently obligatory sunglasses under his helmet.

I thought it was a joke, even though he wasn't smiling... at all! Dead serious, he asked for my license, which I produced and handed him after asking a couple of times if he was serious. He assured me as often as I asked that he was serious (and he WAS), and then proceeded to write me a ticket for a “moving violation”, insisting that because I was riding my bike on the street I was subject to the same rules and laws as any car. I could tell he hated his job, and later I came to realize that the only reason he ticketed me was probably because he was behind on his quota, and hadn't had anyone else to pick on all morning.

Well, against the advice of several friends, who all told me to just pay the ticket, I took the ticket to a judge, if for no other reason than the principle of it. I was just an honest Joe trying to ride my bike to work and not causing anyone any trouble. I thought the ticket was nuts! Apparently so did the judge, he not only threw it out, but deleted the record of it on the computer right in front of me. He said he deleted it so it wouldn't effect my driving record (it was the only ticket I had ever gotten), but even then I knew the record he was really concerned about was the city's record, and the cop's (percentage of “bad tickets” is supposed to be tracked and used to gauge performance; so by deleteing the ticket he kept it from being recorded as a “bad ticket”). But, at least I didn't have to pay for the ticket!

[J.D. February 9, 2015]

Necro-Sex

When I was still a very impressionable teen in a very unimpressionable adult prison, I heard about an inmate, in the PC (protective custody) unit of that particular prison, who had infamously kidnapped, raped, and then murdered a young prepubescent girl. But, that alone was not what made him so infamous, nor was it what made a big impression on my very impressionable mind. No. What made him famous, and “impressed” me, was the fact that he returned to where he had dumped the girl's body, and had intercourse with her again. Not just once, but, according to the other prisner who pointed him out to me and provided these details, he returned several times, over the course of several days, until he actually got caught after the girl's naked and mutilated body had been found, because he had apparently returned for one final go.

He had supposedly admitted all this to the police when he confessed to them what he had done. I don't know how much of this story was, or is, true, but I do know that it was the most bizarre thing I had ever heard at the time, and consequently it stuck in my head, complete with detailed re-constructed images of this fat slobbering man humping the little girl's rotting lifeless body. And, I can tell you that for a yung teen who had just spent two years (from the age of seventeen) in an adult “sexual psychopath treatment program” (located in a state mental hospital no less) being told and forcefully convinced that I was a “sexual deviant” who could not control my own sexual behavior, these images in my mind weren't eactly “healthy” or going to help me get better!

No, they weren't going to do anything but make me wojnder, what could possibly be so gratifying about having sex with a dead child's body that would compell someone to return not just once, but over-and-over until he got caught? Incidentally this was the exact same kind of morbid curiousity that had gotten me sent to prison (and that so-called “treatment” program) in the first place. As a fifteen-year-old I had been sent to another state institution for delinquents (after stealing a car and trying to run from the police in it --- the way they did all the time in movies back then) called Dyslin's Boys Ranch. While there, a man I had met while hitch-hiking told me how lucky I was to not have been picked up by all the “freaks” out there who like to burn boys like me with cigarettes. Of course, he told me about “all those other men” after he had already talked me into taking my clothes off so he could take some pictures, and then “other things”.

That image, of “so many” other men getting enjoyment from burning a boy's naked body with cigarettes is what prompted me to touch a lit cigarette to the butt of the boy I supposedly “raped” (because I put my dick in his mouth at one point – even though I didn't even understand at the time what “oral sex” was – but, I put my dick in the boy's mouth, so that was “rape”, in the first degree no less). I made the boy flinch, but that was all. I didn't see what was so “pleasureable” about it that “so many” men liked to do it. In fact, I'd heard that getting your dick sucked was pleasurable too, which is the only reason my dick ended up in that boy's mouth at all. I was just trying to figure out what sex was based on the “best” information I had – which, thanks to our Christian moral's culture, wasn't very good information at all, obviously.

So, now, a few years later, after having been confused more than most people can even imagine from two years of being surrounded and inundated with nothing but deviant sex (and still never told what “healthy sex” was all about beyond “consenting adult”), I was still trying to figure out what sex was when I'd heard about necrophilia for the first time, and rather explicitly. In hindsight then, it seems no surprise at all that the first chance I got to find out what having sex with a dead child was like, I did it.

I didn't kidnap and murder my first two victims (girls, aged nine and eleven) so I could have sex with their bodies. In fact, I hardly had sex with them at all (the sex was auxiliary to my “revenge against society” motive). But, when I returned to bury (for concealment) the bodies on the day after I murdered them, I remembered that PC inmate, and decided to find out what it would be like.

I had already dug the obligatory “shallow grave” and put the older child's body in it before I thought about having sex with them. I had dismembered the older girl's body to fit more compactly in the grave. So, that left the younger girl for my “experiment”. I don't actually remember many details about what I did at that point, except I think I took off all my clothes (the girls were both already nude) and mounted the child's body in the grass “missionary style”. I didn't get any more imaginative about it than that, but I remember that it was difficult for me to stay hard, and even though I eventually achieved an orgasm, it wasn't enhanced at all by the fact that my “lover” was a dead little girl. It was difficult, but I was determined.

I kidnapped, raped, and murdered several more children after that, but I never had sex with their dead bodies, nor ever wanted to (though I did use the fact that I had had sex with a dead child to invoke fear in the other child victims by threatening to do the same to them – and I did get some pleasure from that). I don't know exactly why I feel compelled to share this information, I certainly take no pleasure in doing so. But, I just sense that it is important that people realize that even something as perverted and deviant as having sex with a dead child's body can be understood; and if it can be understood, and yet perfectly acceptable to ignite impressionable and vulnerable minds with ideas about rape, murder, and sex with dead bodies, the way the media does every day? If I had never heard of rape as a child, I doubt if I ever would have become a rapist, much less a “serial killer”.

[J.D. February 12, 2015]