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]