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]

Casper's Insanity

Shortly after I was released from prison on parole in Seattle in 1994 I got a job working as a telephone sales rep (telemarketer) for Time Life Libraries, Inc. (or TLLI, pronounced «Tilly» for short). The workplace, a large central room with rows of five foot high partitioned booths each with a phone and computer terminal (actual terminals, not real computers like nowadays), was a rumormill. So, as soon as I was hired everyone there knew that I was a «registered sex offender» and on parole. But, I didn't know that everyone knew (I certainly didn't tell anyone except the person who interviewed me for the job, I guess that was enough), and I certainly didn't understand back then the effect such information has on the type of friends I would meet. Nobody wants to be a «sex offender's» friend for the sake of friendship alone; everyone who spoke to me at work did so because they had to (as part of the job) or because they wanted something, usually sex (of the three men and four women I met at TLLI who were willing to associate with me outside of work, all but one man and one woman wanted sex), including Casper. But, the kind of sex that Casper wanted she never got; at least, not from me. Casper wanted to be raped.

She didn't tell me this herself. In fact, I didn't find out that this was the real (and only) reason she befriended me at all until long after she physically attacked me in my own apartment one day after which I stopped associating with her. I found out about her true motices from another friend I met at TLLI named Dee (who initially befriended me because she wanted to get pregnant, so we had lots of sex, but ended up becoming good friend, too). I thought Casper was just a naive young girl who needed a mature friend to help her along in the world, so that's what I tried to be for her.

To be honest, that wasn't all I tried to do. Casper was not only young (22 years when we met) and pretty, she was also very innocent looking and spoke with such a soft unassuming voice that it made her terrible at selling books and CDs over the phone, but excellent at seducing men, which she admitted to me on several occasson that she did frequently. So naturally I wanted to have sex with her. And I thought I might actually have a chance if I was patient enough. And yet, I was perfectly willing to accept our friendship as platonic, if that's what she wanted. And according to her, it was. At least, that's what she kept insisting when the subject came up, and somehow it came up at alot --- more than I should have expected if I had been only a little wiser.

The first day we met she had invited me to accompany her to her bus stop downtown after work, which was no trouble for me since I lived within a ten or fifteen minute walk from there and her stop was not out of my way at all. Besides, I didn't know that she knew I was a «sex offender» (i.e. I hadn't told her, yet), so I thought I was making her feel safe by seeing her onto the bus that would take her out of the city safely to a residential neighborhood in Bellevue (if I remember correctly) where she lived with room and board in exchange for chores and babysitting services for a family there (according to her). But, when her bus came she suddenly started screaming and hitting herself on her head with her fists for no apparent reason. As I got to know her better I learned that this was basically how she reacts when she's not getting waht she wants, or things otherwise aren't going her way, a classic tantrum, only bizarre for the fact that she was twenty-two, not three.

At the time, though, I didn't know what to think. I stayed with her though and smiled reassuringly at all the people around to let them know everything was okay while Casper calmed herself down. I could tell this was not new behavior for her (it was clearly something practiced) so I was careful not to respond with alarm or judgement. Instead, as soon as she appeared coherent again I simply asked if she was okay. She claimed that it was an «attack» she has sometimes and has no control over when it happens. I asked if there was anything I could do to help, and she suggested innocently that if I accompanied her home on the bus it would make her feel much better. So I did.

We had to wait for the next bus though because her «tantrum» had caused her to conveniently miss the one that had already come. I rode with her to her stop in Bellevue, then got off the bus and walked her to the house she was staying at. It was well after dark, and the route she took me on to the house followed many dark streets, an abandoned playground, and even a short stretch of trail through some woods. When we got to the house she assured me she could let herself in but didn't want the family to see me so I should go, which I did. I killed a little time wandering around the neighborhood while I waited for the return bus and found an easier (and better lit) route back to the stop, where I eventually boarded the bus and went back to Seattle and home to my own apartment, much much later than usual, but feeling like I had done a good deed and maybe even made a new friend. Boy, was I naive.

After that first time I ended up walking with Casper to her bus stop many times, often making deturs to shop, or get something to eat, and lots of conversation. I soon learned that she had come to Seattle from some small mid-Western city against her parents wishes in order to pursue a «relationship» with the drummer of Nirvana (the popular rock band based in Seattle) who she had «made love to» after a concert near her own home town. The only problem was that the drummer apparently wasn't interested in a «relationship» at all. She was convinced that she could find a way to change his heart and make him fall in love with her, if she could just get his attention somehow.

So, many of our walks together ended up being expeditions to various locations related to her Nirvana quest. She gad read that they rehersed in a private studio that overlooked Lake Union (the TLLI offices also overlooked Lake Union at the time, just above Gasworks park, though they've since been moved to a new highrise downtown). So some of our earliest walks together were around Lake Union in search of the Nirvana studio. One time she took me into an alley behind the offices of the record company that produced Nirvana's albums while she climbed on top of a dumpster to look through the windows. The significance of the fact that she often lead me to secluded locations that were near places where her beloved drummer might be, or at least had been, was lost to me. In hindsight I came to realize that she probably thought that if she got raped near a Nirvana «hotspot» that word of the rape would reach the drummer and she'd win his sympathy and attention that way, or maybe «guilt» him into at least acknowledging their «relationship». But, at the time, I just thought it was like a hobby for her to track down the drummer, so I ignorantly went with her anywhere she asked.

I remember once I even rented a car and paid for a fairy trip across the sound with her and to a rural residence where she said the drummer's parents lived (and where he grew up). It was after dark when we got to the property and watched as she climbed a low fence and disappeared into a field by herself (she insisted on going alone). She was gone for about thirty or forty minutes, which seemed like a really long time as I waited in the car parked by the side of a secluded and unlit road. When she finally came back she was out of breath and seemed exasperated. I asked her what happened but she didn't say much except, “He's not here,” implying that there was no reason for us to stick around, so we left.

One day she called me and said she had found the studio where Nirvana rehersed. She was very excited and wanted me to come with her to «check it out». She said she had learned from a music magazine interview that the studio was in an old real-estate office. So she went to the library and asked for old phone books from the reference desk and looked for real-estate offices that overlooked Lake Union. She found one, and quickly confirmed that it was no longer a real-estate office by checking an updated phone book.

I was doubtful that she had really found their private studio, but went along just to spend time with her, which I always enjoyed doing. When we got to the location (by bys) she lead me into some bushes (unkept hedges) next to a small fenced-off residence-like office building that appeared abandoned, especially if you were just driving by. But, I could clearly see a sophisticated alarm panel through the glass next to the main entrance with flashing LEDs indicating something important was being protected. Casper was 100% certain that this was Nirvana's secret recording studio, but I wasn't convinced yet.

I told her to wait there (in the bushes) while I looked closer. I approached the chainlink fence, which was almost brand new, and followed it along the North side of the building to a point where it, and the building, stopped at the edge of a cliff. I could see from there that on the side of the building face out over the ciff (and looking over Lake Union) was a large picture window. Because of the cliff I was able to lean out and look up into this window.

It was mostly dark inside, but in the back I saw a light on, and a man sitting in front of a computer and lots of other electronic equipment. I also saw other band quipment, like microphones and instruments. This was definitely a music studio! I was shocked, and excitedly returned to Casper's hiding place and told her what I saw, with new respect for her sleuthing abilities.

There were no cars parked near the building, so Casper wanted to hang out for a while to see if anyone showed up. But no one ever came or went, so we eventually left.

Once, I asked Casper if she'd like to come with me fo ra drive (in a rental car) up to Snoqualmie Falls to see the waterfall at night when it is romantically lit by large spotlights. To my delight she agreed to come, but when we actually got on the road (it was about a forty minute drive to the feet of the Cascade mountain. Northeast of Seattle, if I remember right) she began acting strangely.

She said she wanted to go with me to the falls, but in the car she kept saying things like, «I'm not sure this is a good idea...» and, «I'm not comfortable with this...». Then when we actually got to the town of Snoqualmie, just a few miles shy of the falls, she suddenly said she was about to have an «attack», and asked me to stop, so I did.

I pulled into a marked parking space along the main street. It was a well lit shopping area with modest traffic. I asked her if she wanted me to drive her back, but she said no. Then I asked if she still wanted to see the falls, and she said yes, but quietly and uncertainly. So, I suggested that we continue on then, assuring her that the falls were very close, but she said, no, again!

After several more minutes of this confusing and indecisive behavior I made the decision for her, and without announcing my intentions I simply put the car in gear and pulled back out onto the road heading toward the falls. I remember thinking that once we got ther eand she saw how beautiful the falls were (and, perhaps, that they really existed) she would feel better. She didn't seem to resist my decision at all; if she had I would have turned around and driven her home. So we drove the rest of the way to the falls as I reassured her that soon she would be happy she came when she saw the falls.

When we got there we got out and walked part of the way along the well lit scenic path that lead to several semi-private alcoves with views of the falls. She seemed a little impressed and less anxious when she saw other people around. But she was still unusually nervous for some reason that she still wouldn't divulge, and before long she said she was ready to go. She seemed eager to get home, so I suggested we take the less scenic freeway back to Seattle, which was much quicker than the route we had taken to get there. When she didn't argue I assumed that was what she wanted, but after we got back in the car and I headed off further into the hills away from Snoqualmie, which was necessary to get to the I-90 freeway, she started acting even stranger than before.

She started asking a bunch of nervous questions that to me made little sense; things like (but not exactly this, because my memory isn't THAT good)...

«Where are you going?»

… «I told you, to the freeway, it's quicker.»

«Why are we driving into the woods?»

… «This is the way to the freeway.»

«Are you sure?»

… «Yes, I've been here before.»

I again offered to turn around, sensing she didn't trust me as she proclaimed, but she still refused to make any kind of clear decision, so I just drove on.

It was about ten minutes through the wooded hills on an unlit and twisting road to the freeway, and Casper seemed on the verge of completely freaking out the entire way.

From the freeway it was a twenty-minute shot to Seattle (or fifteen to Bellevue) and as soon as we got on it and headed west she got very quiet. But as soon as the freeway windened to five lanes in order to accommodate city traffic she suddenly had one of her «attacks» right there in the car (i.e. she decided to throw a tantrum). Of course, in hindsight it seems clear that the tantrum was because she once more wasn't getting what she so desperately (and secretly) wanted; to be raped in order to get sympathy (not just from the Nirvana drummer, but also from her parents, who refused to support her financially when she left home chasing after him). But, at the time I just thought it was strange.. and dangerous. It clearly wasn't safe to be driving on a busy freeway with her freaking out like that in the seat right next to me. So, I pulled over to the emergency lane and turned on the blinkers.

Apparently that wasn't the reaction she expected. Her «attack» suddenly ended and she asked, «Why did you pull over?» I told her that it was unsafe for me to drive while she was freaking out like that, not only because of the obvious distraction, but she could also easily crash the car if she panicked and grabbed the wheel, or me for that matter. She seemed to concede my point ad told me she was okay so we could continue, which I did.

She remained quiet for the rest of the way «home». Wherever that was I don't recall --- she never lived in any one place for very long. She was kicked out by the family she was staying with for reasons I can only guess, though it'd probably be a good guess to say it was somehow related to her «insane» behavior. She bounced around a lot, staying with various «friends». And, twice while I knew her, she actually rented her own apartment, but then lost them the first time rent came due.

I frequently encouraged her to find her «passion in life» and had hopes she would when she once invited me to go with her as moral support to an interview with an enrollment counselor at the Seattle Art Institute. I sat and listened as she was told in no uncertain terms that she could start classes almost immediately and the school would make all the financial arrangements (i.e. loans and grants). But, she never returned to the school; so I'm not even sure why she went to the interview in the first place, or asked me to come along. Perhaps it was merely to appease me (I don't think she expected to be accepted so easily).

She was a terrible telephone sales rep, so couldn't make much more than minimum wage at TLLI. So, I also encouraged her to find a job that paid better (non-commission), and she did get hired to work at a small futon sales store. I helped her «move» (if you can count two suitcases and a small box of stuff as «moving») to an apartment near the store that she «rented» somehow. It was a potentially sustainable arrangement for her (i.e. she should have been able to make rent and support herself easily if she kept the job) so I once more had hope. But, the first day that she was supposed to open the store for business (they only had a handful of employees and each apparently took their turn opening the shop throughout the week) she failed to show up and consequently got fired. I remember this clearly because for some reason (guess) she made sure I knew she was supposed to open the store and would be «all alone» there for several hours until the other employees arrived. She even pointed out how easy it would be for someone to take her into the back of the store and rape her, and asked if I would come help her on that day to open up (the store). I assured her that her «fears» were completely irrational, and told her I had other obligations, which I did (I had gotten a new job myself in Bothel by this time and was no longer working at TLLI either). So, I didn't show up to «help» open, and she for some reason decided not to show up either.

She soon lost the apartment and was once more looking for a place to crash. It seems the hospitality of her «friends» (whom she never once introduced me to) had worn thin, so she asked if she could stay with me, «for a few days». Of course I said, Yes! I thought that maybe she was finally learning that she could trust me, as a friend. But, the more likely truth is that moving in with me was just her final desperate attempt to get me to rape her. It didn't work any better than any of her other attempts, though it did finally end up ending our friendship, and breaking my heart in the process.

She only brought one suitcase with her. The rest of her stuff was stashed at one of her «friend's» house. Our first and last night together started out peaceably enough, she seemed happy to have someplace to stay, and I did everything I could to make her feel comfortable and safe. My apartment was only a studio though, so I offered her the queen-size hide-a-bed and told her I'd be perfectly comfortable sleeping on the floor using the sofa cushions for a bed. But she insisted that the bed was big enough for both of us. I stammered, of course, if only out of propriety. It didn't take much for her to convince me though.

Was it possible that she wanted to have sex? The possibility excited me, even though she had told me over and over that she was not interested in having sex with me, and she even reaffirmed this before she came to my apartment. But, maybe having sex with me was her way of showing her appreciation; I certainly saw nothing wrong with that! And then when she stripped down to only a T-shirt and panties (or maybe bra and panties, I don't remember exactly, except she definitely took her pants off) and climbed under the covers I thought for sure, «this is it!»

But, of course, it wasn't. With Casper I had learned that I could never be sure about anything, especially sex. So, after I took my own pants off, and keeping my underpants on, I climbed into bed on my side and waited for her to make her move. I don't remember exactly what happened next anymore --- whether or not she asked me to «hold her», or if I asked her and she merely consented, for example --- but I do remember that even though she consented to spooning, in our underwear, she still insisted that she was not interested in having sex with her. Needless to say (I hope), I was more confused about sex at that moment than I had ever been in my life (and I served an extra seven years in prison because the parole board thought I was «confused» about sex!). Rape was the last thing on my mind though. In fact, the entire time I knew Casper I never once thought about raping her. I mostly just wanted to be her friend, even more than I wanted to have sex with her. So her «consent» was the most important thing to me at that moment, and I couldn't tell what she wanted at all.

So, after several minutes, after she seemed to have fallen asleep, I got out of bed quietly, put on my pants, then sat silently in my favorite reading chair which I also used to meditate (remember, there was no other room for me to go to, or I would have). I put on the pants simply because it was more comfortable for me to be dressed, and I sat in the chair because I needed to sort out my feelings about what was happening (i.e. meditate).

But, a moment later my respite was interrupted when Casper woke up for no apparent reason (she didn't stir when I got out of bed and got dressed, and when she seemed to wake up I was just sitting quietly with my eyes closed --- perhaps the silence is what woke her up). With a practiced soft and innocent voice she asked me if something was wrong; why was I just sitting there?

I remembr considering my answer for several seconds, then deciding to just tell her how I honestly felt; which was completely confused by her seemingly seductive behavior and contradictory intentions.

I don't remember exactly what I said, but I clearly remember that she did not respond well. She jumped out of bed, still half-dressed, and started yelling and screaming about how all men are only interested in the same thing; namely sex. I was hurt by her accusation, especially after putting so much effort over the entire time I had known her into assuring her that her friendship --- even if it remained completely platonic --- was the most important thing to me. But, I kept quiet and let her vent her feelings, which I thought was better for her than beating herself in the head with her fists.

At some point I must have moved from the chair to sit on the floor. I don't remember why (possibly to be less threatening), but that's where I was (sitting on the floor) when she tried to kick me. But, before she did that she had flipped over my coffee table, almost breaking its glass top against the metal frame of the hide-a-bed. It seemed she was doing all this to get some kind of reaction from me, but I wasn't reacting, at least not until she actually tred to hurt me physically.

I loved her enough to let her hurt my feelings; enough to let her accuse me of only caring about sex; enough to let her totally embarrass me in earshot of all my neighbors; and even enough to not get mad when she tried to break my furniture; but I guess I didn't love her enough to let her kick me in the fact while I sat and did nothing. I wasn't afraid of her hurting me --- if she did so accidentally I would have instantly forgiven her. But, it was the deliberate attempt to cause physical harm at which I drew the line with anyone.

I was able to deflect the kick with little effort. It wasn't very powerful, but it was enough to get me to react. I got up and grabbed both of her wrists so she couldn't try to hit me, then I pushed her down to the floor, still holding her wrists, and held her there. She suddenly got quiet and became completely submissive; she must have thought I was finally going to rape her. But, instead I just told her --- with as much ice in my voice as I could muster over my emotions --- «Get your stuff and get out!» (And I do remember those words clearly, because it hurt a lot for em to say them.)

It must have taken a moment for my words to sink in, but eventually I could tell that she understood, and seemed willing to comply. So, I let go of her wrists and let her get up. I don't remember if either of us said anything as she got dressed and gathered her things. But she did just that and then left my apartment without further incident.

I was instantly worried about her safety at that time of night in the middle of the city. So, a few minutes after she left I left too, and followed her without letting her see me for several blocks. She made a beeline for downtown, the least safe direction she could have chosen. I soon lost sight of her and returned to my apartment. I then became more and more worried, especially by the direction she took. Seattle is a city that sleeps at night, so the streets downtown are mostly deserted and relatively unsafe, especially for a young and attractive woman. Maybe she was still hoping to get raped, if not by me then by some stranger. I don't know, but I was sincerely concerned about her, so I called 911 and tried to ask for the police to make sure she got someplace safe.

The police came to my apartment building instead, so I met them out front in order to avoid bothering my neighbors. I told them there had been an altercation, but no one was hurt. But when they questioned why I had called the police if no crime had occurred I started to cry and it became hard for me to speak without choking on my words. I just wanted them to make sure Casper was safe, because I couldn't protect her myself any more. But they started treating me like a suspect, especially after I started crying. When I realized that they thought I had hurt her and were now trying to solicit a street confession I told them that I had nothing else to say and returned to my apartment, where I probably cried myself to sleep with a badly broken heart.

I didn't see or hear anything about Casper again after that until more than a year later when I returned to TLLI part-time for extra money after I was released back on parole after a completely unrelated parole violation. She had gone back to work ther ealso, and one of the floor managers told me that when she saw me being interviewed she threatened to quit if I were hired. Well, I was hired, but she didn't quit. But, neither did I pay her any attention. I spent most of my breaks with my lady friend, Dee, who had become a good friend by then. When I told Dee about Casper she told me what she heard about Casper's ploys to get raped. Casper herself had apparently told several people that she wanted to get raped when they tried to warn her away from me because I was a sex offender. But nobody ever tried to warn me about her!

I was lucky that Casper never realized how easy it would have been to just falsely accuse me of raping her. Such false accusations are far more common than the System would have you think, because it completely undermines their whole, «we protect the innocent» facade. And for a «sex offender» on parole, like me at the time, the words, «innocent until proven guilty» are completely meaningless. I would have been arrested and returned to prison without even a trial. And even if she recanted her accusation I still would have been found guilty of some parole violation just to prevent me from filing a civil action. That's just how the «System» works, and anyone who thinks not is plainly ignorant.

 

[J.D. January 3, 2015]