First Arrest (1979)

In January 1979, I was 15 years old. I wasn't a «street kid», nor was I very «street smart». But, neither did I respect the law, or try to stay out of trouble. I routinely trespassed through people's yards by climbing fences as though they were made to be climbed. And if I found something I wanted when nobody was watching, I'd take it. I had a paper-route and earned about $100 a month delivering about 70 papers every day. Sometimes I would break into the houses on my route and steal nick-nacks that caught my eye.

I had gotten my driver's learning permit and knew how to drive better than most (it seemed to come natural). So if I found the keys in a car when no one was around, I'd take it for a little «joy ride», but always returned it no worse for wear minus a little gas. At least until one day in late January.

There was a couple of cars that some nearby homeowner parked in the back of a utility office parking lot where my paper-route drop-box was located. I found out they had the keys in them, so I started «borrowing» them for fun sometimes before or after delivering my papers, but never for more than ten or fifteen minutes at a time, and I always returned them as close to the way I found them each time. Until one time I didn't.

I had gotten into an argument with my mom and left the house with my empty paper-bags (cloth bags that I used to carry the papers over my shoulders with large pouches in the front and back) so my mom would think I was going to go deliver papers. It was late in the evening, but she didn't know my schedule, so this ruse worked.

I was on foot (I don't remember why) and I had no papers to deliver or anything to do. So, I walked to a new friend's house (from school). Nobody was home, so I broke in, naturally, and put anything I found that looked «interesting» inside the paper-bags. I remember taking a large bottle of Seagram's Seven (alcohol) and a stash of about $20 in quarters that I found.

Then I walked to the «Tom Boy» (convenience store) near my paper-box and bought some candy. I knew the owner's grown son, who worked at the store as a clerk, and lived in the house that his father also owned just behind the store. Since he wasn't working that night I figured he must be home, so I decided to see if he'd let me in for a few hours to kill some time.

He was home, but when he opened the door, his large long-haired setter came rushing at me and chased me off the porch barking and nipping at me. The store owner's son told me someone had recently broken into his house while the dog was home alone, and he thought by the dog's reaction that it was probably me (it was – I broke in and stole several pot plants that were growing under lights in the basement; the dog didn't bother me then though, not like it was now).

So I left, and walked to the paper-box more out of habit than anything else. Then I remembered the cars parked nearby and took one.

I drove about three miles toward my high school (Lakes High), and stopped at a 7-eleven store about a block away from my school and bought a burrito and a Big Gulp. While I was there some «friends» (kids I knew) from school saw me and asked where I got the car. They were «hoods» («stoners» who were known for getting in trouble) whom I normally never associated with. In order to impress them, I told them the truth; I stole it. Three of the four, boys my age, decided to go joyriding with me. The fourth said he was on probation and could not risk the trouble. So we left him at the store.

We drove around, taking turns behind the wheel, running over mailboxes and stop signs for fun. We did this for about an hour, until someone ran over some large rocks that we didn't see hidden in the shrubs around the base of one of the mailboxes we ran over. I could have been the one driving, but I honestly don't remember. But the car started lurching up and down as though the axle had been badly bent. So we parked it in an empty church parking lot, wiped it down for «prints», then walked to a nearby duplex where two of the boys I was with lived. We sat in the living room and smoked some pot as I recall, but before long the boys who lived there said they were going to bed so me and the other boy had to go.

I left, and parted ways with the other boy who I think must have gone home. I walked to the same 7-eleven where I had picked up the other kids, but there was no on else there at this hour (about five or six a.m.) except the clerk. I was very tired (sleepy) and had no place to go. I was several miles from home and didn't feel like walking so far while I was so tired. So I walked back to the duplex where the brothers lived, hoping they'd let me sleep on their couch (there were no «adults» in the house at the time) at least. But, when I knocked, nobody answered.

So I walked back to the 7-eleven (only a few minutes away on foot) and on the way this time I saw a Ford Pinto (seriously!) running with nobody in it as it sat in an apartment parking space; apparently warming up (it was a frosty morning). I looked around and couldn't see anyone watching the car as I walked by. But I kept walking to the 7-eleven, which was just next to the apartments where the Pinto was parked.

From the 7-eleven I watched the car for a few minutes, then decided to go for it. It would be an easy ride home. I'd only have the car for a few minutes, then I'd ditch it long before the police came looking. That was the plan.

I walked over, got in, and just as I was backing out I saw the curtains part in the window for the apartment directly in front of the car. It seems someone was paying attention and heard me get in and start to pull away. But it didn't matter, my plan was only to have the car a few minutes. I'd be home and in bed before the police even finished taking the report.

And in fact I did make it home as planned. I ditched the car next to the elementary school a block from my house. Then I walked home. But as I tried to sneak in quietly so as not to wake my mom, the «plan» suddenly went South.

My mother wasn't asleep. She had been up all night waiting for me so she could finish the «lecture» I had run away from in the first place. But now she was even more heated than ever after my long unexcused absence. In hindsight, I understand how worried she must have been. She had even been out driving around for hours looking for me. But at the time all I understood was her fury; and she terrified me.

So, before the front door even closed behind me I was back outside and running away, again, quite literally. I ran back to the Pinto, got in and drove off toward the freeway (I-5).

I got on I-5 North. My childish inclination was to drive up to Canada, where I'd heard kids like me could live on the streets unmolested by the police. (I honestly was not worried about any other sort of «molesters», and would have even welcomed such, if I had even known they existed. It would have been far preferable to the «hell» I called home.) But, before I even got to the next exit I noticed the fuel gauge was on «empty». So I pulled off to get some gas with the remaining quarters I had stolen earlier.

I pulled into a gas station just off the freeway, and got out to pump the gas. But, in those days you had to choose «leaded» or «unleaded», and I wasn't sure which type of gas the Pinto took. So rather than asking, or otherwise looking like I didn't know what I was doing, I got back in the car and drove off. My intention was to park someplace nearby and try to figure out what kind of gas I needed.

I drove up the road about a quarter of a mile then into a mostly empty Fred Meyer department store parking lot. The sun had just come up, so it was light enough for me to get out and look for a sticker or something that said «leaded» or «unleaded». Then as soon as I got out to look I remembered my Dad telling me that all small cars take unleaded gas. So I decided it must be unleaded. But, as I turned to get back in I saw a police cruiser driving past the parking lot, and the cop riding shotgun was pointing at me!

I learned later that the gas station attendant had a police scanner, and had heard the report of a stolen Pinto. So when he saw me pull in then pull out again he called the police. It took no time at all then for a nearby cruiser to find me by simply driving in the direction that the attendant said he saw me go.

I got in the Pinto and drove toward the lot exit away from the cruiser which had pulled into the lot and then got behind me and flashed its lights. As I exited the lot I hit the gas. I have no idea what I was thinking. I doubt if any «thoughts» would have made any difference at this point. My «instinct» was to run away from «danger». And cops were very dangerous!

So, I «floored it», as they say. But, in a Pinto that basically meant making a lot of engine noise (whine) but not going anywhere very fast. I still clearly remember topping out at around 80 mph, and desperately straining with my will to make the car go faster even though it felt lie the car itself was going to shutter to pieces at the speed I was already going.

I could see the cops directly on my tail in the rear-view mirror. They seemed calm and relaxed. I often imagine that they were discussing their wives or something during the chase. I was just another joyriding punk to them, and I wasn't going anywhere.

This continued for only a couple of minutes, if that. I ran one red-light, which they made a big deal out of in their police reports later. (They seemed more concerned about charging me with traffic violations than they were about the stolen car --- in fact, I was never charged with stealing the car at all because the guy I stole it from, the same guy who saw me drive off from his apartment window, did not want to press charges because I was «just a kid».) I drove straight, running on pure instinct, go go go! Run run run! I didn't realize until much later that I was instinctively heading for «home».

They stayed on my tail while they radioed ahead for a road block. I didn't see the other cruiser (a «State Trooper» if I recall correctly) until he crested the top of the train overpass and pulled his car across both lanes to block the top of the bridge. It was already too late for me to turn; there weren't any turn-offs, and the cruiser behind me made sure I couldn't turn around. But I spotted an opening between the guardrail of the bridge and the front of the Trooper's car, the service lane, and it was just enough for the Pinto to squeeze through.

As I approached the road block I saw the Trooper get out of his car brandishing a shotgun, and take up a position behind the front hood pointing the gun in my direction. I did have a thought at this point, and I remember the thought. I thought, «He won't shoot because I'm unarmed.» I learned that from T.V..

But, he did shoot, at nearly point-blank range as I drove directly in front of his cruiser to get past him. And he was aiming for my head! I remember hearing a loud «bang»! And then the side driver's window next to my head was just gone and there was broken safety glass all over the dash and in my lap. I couldn't believe he just shot at me! That was the second thought I remember having during the entire chase, «He shot at me!»

I continued though. The other cruiser was too wide to fit through the opening as I had, so there was a few seconds of reprieve while the trooper got back in his car to back it up so the city cruiser could continue the chase. But I didn't get any further than the next intersection, where I wrapped the Pinto around a utility pole, and my face around the steering wheel. I was unconscious when they caught up to me and called an ambulance. I remember having one more thought, though, just before I passed out and went into shock from the injuries (carved in right cheek and half my face-flesh torn off --- I still have the scars, of course, but they're not that bad considering) I didn't realize I was even injured at all. I just remember looking at the hood of the Pinto crumple against the utility pole and thinking, «I'm caught!» It was a very instinctual kind of thought; something like a gazelle might think, if it could, after being tripped by a leopard and feeling its fangs sinking into its neck. There was no more fear. And no more thoughts, though the police reported that I told them my name, address, and even what hospital I wanted to go to (the Army hospital, since my dad was still active in the service at the time). I don't remember telling them anything.

I do remember being put in the ambulance, and I remember them cutting off my clothes. But, I was in shock, so these were kind of weird, detached experiences. It was like watching it happen to someone else, only from inside that person's body. I didn't come out of shock --- i.e. I didn't feel any pain --- until the doctor started cauterizing my face wound closed to stop the bleeding. That woke me up!

I was in the hospital for a week, and then released on a «medical»-PR (so I never actually got arrested or had to go to jail). While I was on medical-PR, after a month or so, after I had gone back to the hospital to have the tubes and balloons removed from my face (that were holding my face bones in place as they mended), I took my parents' station wagon without permission, and crashed it too, while playing hooky from school with my future brother-in-law's younger brother, Craig, who was my age. I ran away again, and hung out with Craig (who was also a «run-away»), until the night police showed up at Craig's girlfriend's house while we were there, invited by her father to watch a brand-new program on T.V. for the first time called «Scared Straight».

I was arrested for «failure to appear» and taken to the juvenile detention center, where all the kids were required to watch «Scared Straight» (a program that despite its popularity has been shown to consistently increase recidivism rates for those kids who participate!).

On my second day of detention they gave me my «street clothes» back and moved me to the «downstairs» (minimum security) section. My mother came to visit, and after the visit they found a book of matches in the coin pocket of my jeans that I honestly did not realize was there. I got put in «segregation» because of the matches, and thus my experience with «criminal justice» began, and has long since continued to be all about «misperception».

[J.D. Jan 15, 2015]

First Orgasm

Most boys figure out what their penis is for well before they turn thirteen, but not me. I had «experimented» of course, but didn't manage to put the pieces of the puzzle together all the way (i.e. realizing that it was necessary to inset the penis inside a woman's vagina and ejaculate in order to make babies) until around fourteen. In fact, I still remember that great «aha!»-moment clearly after one of my sisters --- still piecing together a puzzle of her own no doubt --- had asked me to insert my penis into her vagina. At the time, I had no idea why she would want me to do so; and yes, I was fourteen, as I already said.

I had managed by that age to figure out a way to make myself orgasm, but because of the way I figured it out I never made the connection between ejaculating and sex. But, when I put my penis inside my sister, and quickly ejaculated as a result, that was when the «aha!» hit me. (Consequently, when I told her I had come inside her, she turned white, and that was to become the first and last such «experiment», with her at least.)

My first orgasm came at the hands of a military pediatrician, in an examination room at Madigan Army Medical Center (Ft. Lewis, Washington). As I mentioned, I was thirteen. But, even though I had been taught the hard way that hard-ons are «bad bad bad», I had yet to discover how «good good good» they could make you feel, for a few heavenly but fleeting seconds, at least. It seems this doctor decided to remedy my ignorance directly, though I'm still not sure to this day if I was being willingly molested, or medically examined; not that knowing would make any difference now. (But knowing back then would have made all the difference in the world! If someone --- the doctor, I suppose --- had explained to me what had actually happened, then it would have saved a lot of painful confusion for me; confusion that carried over into the rest of my adult life, and into a lot of other people's lives as well!)

My mother had dutifully taken me in for a full medical examination after a counselor at school had suggested she (my mother) do so because she (the counselor) thought I might be having some «developmental issues». If I'm remembering correctly, this was right after I had attacked an older and larger boy in the hall at school because he accused me of writing down his locker combination after he had shouted it to a friend so everyone could hear --- which I had, even though I denied it to avoid the shame of being called a thief. After he had shamed me and made the mistake of turning his back to me as he walked away, I pounced on him. Long story short; we wrestled for a few minutes until a teacher came and broke it up, and we were both taken to the «principle's office», which of course was really the «school counselor's office» in those days, and, well, the rest is history as they say.

The «history» goes like this: My mother scheduled an appointment for a full medical exam to determine if there were any medical issues that might have caused the «outburst». Of course, if there were no medical problems (and the doctor reported none), then it could be safely assumed that I was having psychological «development issues» which would be addressed according to the standard practice of the day (which happened to be «youth counseling», where I met other «delinquents» for the first time and quickly identified with them --- what other choice did I have? After all, if the adult «experts» said something was wrong, well, then something must have been wrong; right?).

In hindsight, after all those painful years of confusion I mentioned a moment ago, I eventually came to realize that there was nothing «wrong» with me at all, physically or psychologically (or neurologically either). But that's an arguable point that only I will ever really know the answer to, so lets move on with what actually happened in that doctor's office.

Being still very much the child, I was simply there doing what I was told. The doctor asked my mother to wait outside in the hall before he began his exam. He then went through the normal procedures, looking in my ears, at my eyes, down my throat. He hammered my knees with his funny little triangle mallet, then asked me to lay down on the padded paper-covered exam table. I don't recall if he had me pull my own pants down mid-thigh, or if he pulled them down himself --- but they definitely ended up down, and I ended up uncomfortable «exposed», as he fondled my genitals ostensibly as part of his exam.

I remembered this next part very clearly, because it ended up becoming my «masturbation fantasy» for many months after (I fantasized about everything the doctor did to me because that was the only way I could make the «feeling» happen again later --- classic circumstantial association, which for most boys involved something inanimate like a picture, other boys, or if they are lucky an actual girl; for me it was this completely anonymous doctor).

He instructed me to keep my eyes on a piece of paper that was taped to the ceiling over the exam table with a black (or red?) dot drawn in the middle of it. Perhaps this was so I wouldn't see what he was doing. He could have had his own dick out for all I knew at this point. All I know is that I was concentrating really heard on not getting a boner as he kept fondling me. I didn't know what boners were for, or why I got them in situations like this, but I knew well that it was shameful to let anyone see you with one. So, I tried hard to not get hard, but that was a mental skill that I wasn't even close to mastering yet.

The doctor wasn't helping me at all, which in hindsight was clearly his intention for whatever reason. He put two fingers (or so it felt) on one hand beneath my scrotum and told me to, «squeeze again...» and, «relax...». He repeated these instructions a few times so I would get the idea, and then just told me to keep doing it on my own... squeeze, relax, squeeze, relax, etc...

I don't know if it is what he intended, but I was concentrating so hard on remembering to look at the dot on the ceiling, squeezing and relaxing, and all the while trying to not get an embarrassing boner, that I was totally unprepared for what happened next. He began stroking my penis between the thumb and two fingers with his free hand (or so it felt) while still feeling my «contractions» with his other hand beneath my balls. Of course I came, and I came hard! It was my first and to this day i believe best orgasm ever. I suddenly felt like I was floating on a river of ecstatic pleasure eminating from his hands into my body through my groin! I had no idea I was ejaculating all over myself, nor even of what was happening, or even if the doctor had any idea about the pleasure he was giving me.

The doctor didn't say a word. He simply stopped masturbating me, removed a glass slide (for a microscope?) from a nearby shelf and seemed to collect a sample directly from the head of my semen-wet penis. After that he whipped up the rest of the mess, mostly all over my stomach and groin, with a paper towel, and then he told me he was finished and I could get dressed (i.e. pull up my pants).

That was that. No explanation, no clue whatsoever from him, my mom, or anyone about what had just happened. As I said, I repeated everything he did, while laying in the tub naked at home that night, and fantasizing that my hands, and fingers, were the doctor's, even staring straight up at the ceiling as I did so, and whoa! I discovered the greatest secret pleasure known to boykind. The only problem was that I still had no idea what it was I had discovered. I only knew that it felt really good, and that I felt ashamed for doing it (thanks to our culture, not the act itself).

Over the next several weeks and months my «fantasy» of being fondled by the doctor slowly morphed into almost predictable variations. I still remember these very early fantasies as they evolved on their own according to the basic laws of evolution. I, of course, associated the shame with the pleasure, so early adaptions to the basic fantasy invariably involved more shame. I remember clearly fantasizing even about being masturbated by the same doctor as I lay completely naked on an exam table in the school gym with the entire school (Mann Jr. High School --- which is how I know this didn't happen until I was at least 13, since I didn't attend Mann Jr. High until the eighth grade) watching me ejaculate. It was extremely humiliating, and of course pleasureable at the same time. That's what the doctor taught me, whatever his intentions were.

To this day I still get pleasure from humiliation, though I've learned to conceal this fact (most of the time at least) since the humiliation can be very inconvenient when I'm not thinking about sex (which, despite what some would like you to believe, is not all the time, nor even most of it; though I admit it is more than most people seem to think about sex, but not much more). I'm not trying to suggest that this doctor is to blame for my crimes or my «perversion»; he's not to «blame» for my crimes or my «perversion»; he's not to «blame» for anything. It simply doesn't matter why he did what he did. What does matter, as a lesson to be learned from circumstances like this by all of us (so we can avoid tragedies like the ones I'm on death row for now) is that I only became confused, and acted out of my confusion, because our culture does not allow open communication with childrne about sex. If someone, anyone, would have explained to me that there was no reason for me to feel ashamed about what happened, that it was in fact a natural milestone, then my sex life, and my entire life would have turned out completely different. Yes, in many cases, children usually figure such things out by piecing together the clues, from T.V., books, sex-ed, and other children. But, in some cases, an alarming and unnecessarily large number of cases, such as my case, that doesn't happen. If our culture didn't make it so necessary that sex be a puzzle for children to solve however they can, then cases like mine wouldn't happen. And that's the only reason I write about it, so we all can learn «what went wrong», or more correctly, «what wasn't allowed to go right». It's not about blame --- blame can't stop ignorance, and never will --- it's about understanding.

[J.D. February 2, 2016]

P.S. For more on how our culture ends up doing more harm than good by suppressing open communication with children about sex, see Judith Levine's 2002 landmark book, Harmful to Minors: The Perils of Protecting Children From Sex, which, of course, has been lambasted by the same kind of ignorant people who lambast this blog without ever reading it (or, if they do read it, they do so only to cherry-pick the parks --- invariably taken out of context --- that they can use to support their own emotionally charged but intellectually empty views).

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.