Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Every reason moves to another session. Pretty much the wrong idea since it started to sound like excuse. My interest in reasoning dissolved. Wouldn’t make any further difference if I hadn’t written down a connection. I’d see it in so many more footnotes, keep chewing on it, not quite insanity because it tallied more than modified. I’d think that anyone else would find it a very thin construct; if they were looking to criticize me. They’d easily understand that it meant nothing over some faggot reacting in a way that sounded anyhow more than it was. Silly, or sad, increments of dismissible shame at best. Your rationalizing makes you come off desperate. I’m sure I’ll find that, later on, I’ll have said that what kept me on this queer was that I wasn’t especially disappointed. Staying desperate over being so unattractive. Since I was staring and he was standing. I’m sure an argument could be made that I wanted to suck all I was good for. He being so easily passive was exactly what I was looking for. All the time. I’ve learned this and said it before but it never quite has enough battle effect to put the catcalls back into their stupid boxes. I’ve sucked enough cock and asshole or even if I haven’t. And it’s more what I’d have to do than want to do. You’d take this position because it’s the only part of the play offered. More than that, in fact. You’d have no other option or agreement. Not like them, of course, just like yourself because you’re lying about it. If I sucked off someone that looked enough like the little boy I was talking about rather than any adult stand-in it should clearly definitively be because I’d like to be one of those miserable old perfect exigents with better memories than mine. Right now. And I’ll ask myself. I’ll demand that I get the answer because that’s what cumming up on myself actually is, absolutely, without question, without faggot desire and compliance coming at me from all over the wrong sides. Especially from what I’m sitting on and not fingering in deeper and deeper. I like watching, says the one missing the bigger view and tinier context. However. I want to do it when I understand it doesn’t matter. And I’ll watch it while it matters more to him. And I know what he has to do rather than what he wants to do. Which isn’t desire, discovering. He’s not compelled to put his crusty mouth on small dick and undropped balls and traveling tongue to cheeks and again back to erection. All because he doesn’t like what cunts do rather than fit. The impulse is to take the spoiled option that the language, in there, around the rape, did what there was to do, has been done before. That’s, fuck me, just not sunk or violent enough until you start going over it too much and too often. I hardly ever forget it. Perfectly, I love not forgetting it. Wish it was there more, want to know more about just this all the time, smelling like alcohol and grease and the sweat that comes up from everywhere fingered and prodded open for more tongue, better than two fingers in now, and just have that done for him, for you, for the rules. What else can you do. What else do you want to do. It’ll all be over soon enough and you’ll see it didn’t count for shit. It really didn’t until you say. And you have to answer it out loud. It has to be outside of your repulsive grasping corpus. Until you say, like any other slithering faggot; I honestly thought I was doing more than masturbating. I never considered I was simply alone when I was jerking off. Not so you can hear how stupid you sound. So stupid you were then. So stupid you are now to have to answer. The stupid reason you especially loved one select part of that one pushed forward fucking evil photograph. It will never be something that had actually happened. Ease insertions. Put greed there. Not unnecessary. I can’t tell if he’s drying up or digestion fluid is sliding out. You always put your mouth there. Put shit tongue in. Just because I drift ahead there at every queer call instance isn’t even a problem in psychology until I’m convincing some complete degenerate of one of the manias on every list everywhere, entirely common. Don’t want to anymore. I’m not allowed to get better, let alone prove it. What I especially want to hear is the complete lack of cynicism. That fragment of the photo you craved for is equal to the amount of stupidity it takes to explain it. Your interviewer will accept it. The industry will not ask you anything past the idiot science of you and your victim both imagining that you pulling on yourself while looking at something specific equals a relationship. Confess what you did before you had to answer in court to the presented evidence. The material you chose when you hoped or guessed or dreamed you had a choice. They, above all, do not want you to report cynically, it won’t do anyone any good. Good is both of you being finished with your jobs without arrogance; your self-esteemed damage versus their tireless, dangerous, self-sacrifice. The victim. She can think like you. I’ve always sexually self-reported. That’s all I’ve ever done. I’m not deluded enough to not know it full on when others act like there’s something else that was secret or will play that could be more easily discussed after shit sifting. I know that’s as true as anything more importantly true. Since I’m not a faggot like I’m not a lawyer. I’m not quite the learned over gene cocksucker you think I’m less than. Just not that consistently enamored during constant thrall. No worry to filth. This is highly selfish work. Given to liars. Those far uglier than me. Not because they’re lying, or only lying. Has to do with a certain rank defeatism on their part. The questions peg me wrong but start at correct. This is unmistakable and yet gets bandied about as some great insight it is supposed to reach rather than is. Identifiable. Something some proud moron tells others who already understand what’s going on as if the whole of any discussion at all is best. Swerving upmarket from digging faggot crotch tuggers. Isolating the doctor’s questions is not my intention, or my interest, and I’m quite fine with his hypocrisy being him unable to get better than himself. I don’t intend on halving the interview to denied queen and lucky fucker. If I pin the plunge well enough to publicly demand that he own up to his level, that he wants those details as bad as I do. Color it brightly, slob. Show love. Some smart aleck loss who doesn’t know how to work to a perfectly legitimate and highly worthwhile trade. His lack of compassion isn’t as clear as his supposed lust for what he sees shamefully as the erection relieving hog. I’m the one who’s asking questions as well. And his stretch of resistance to his own anterior aim for the details he’d transpose; you can’t say that this doesn’t work for the fuckwit who finally gets an intelligent crowd to listen to him. To list, occupy. Even though, here, intelligence is suspect. Since it has an awful lot to do with grubbing. Mutual. Fucking universal men. Wanting to fuck and not ever being able to block the thoughts of plan rather than deed. I don’t want to get stuck here and it’s a mistake that I’ll try to resolve badly by telling you what I was looking for again. Stumble in anecdote. Or rather, what I did. More how, rather than why, I seeped to fucking and why I attached it immediately after straight back to pornography. I live that very well. Remains obvious. A few levels that I’m quite pleased work in the vivid, reworkable sense. Since I was working within that movement. I always am, of course. Like the doctor. And very much like any other non-predispositional. Murderer by default. Who also said that he was trying to understand himself. This is exactly the same thing. Same sexy bow. Understanding himself is where he finds himself explaining. While all others tell him he’s sick but helpless or not. Not quite is his explanation. You tell me how to understand what I’m telling you better than the way you can hear it because only one of us is completely allowed the excitement of this very conversation. The brightest light is mine. I was looking for the small where he says he was inserting things into himself. This makes sense, yes? I wanted a boy who had cocks shoved and slipped and bent into to take slowly like one does when he wants adult cock to make even harder and full inside his mouth like the best moments you can rewrite. The ones that times in masturbating to settle and quiet and actualize. Then twist into fucking yourself. This is a very pretty event. Bread prostitute in front of his webcam fucking himself with a dildo and sucking on those cloud guys who appear more centered than him. Even more direct, even more focused, even more hung with intention and distaste for what a young skinny boy should do when he’s alot younger than he should be in public, knowing what he knows more. Starts being abused. Starts abusing himself. When it’s hardly abuse since the body doesn’t mind as much as the conversation does. You learn this anyway. Here’s a mistake I make. This is a mistake that I try to keep from making again. It’s mistakes like these that I’ve been working very hard, it seems, fails, works against very sick fuck perfectly working and transcribing beautiful comforting mind, to not to keep making. I’m trying not to remember the films and photos I’ve seen and the ones I want to see again and want more of but brand new. This would be a good life. To have a stream of these. And I’m only forced to think that why I want them is engendered because I know I’m missing what I’ve seen and what I should stay away from. I’ve been told. And, seriously, that really does make sense to me. You can’t keep fucking these ills, asking them to prove something you already know and my bloodline doesn’t allow for either indulgence or strength. It’s an ugly divergence that fucks up the photos. I know where I’m happy and that gets cut in two and, I swear I know this, eschewing the outside conversation for a second or two, I truly do believe that I don’t want to think for a second that this is an alright way to be, behave, think, perform, drive towards. It doesn’t end there. And I ruse into lazy; elated and found dumb. Knowing that this pain I caught should be the pain I want to see. And make it worse. Make it definite. And I could be one of these toilet sitters. Waiting and promoting myself for the next plug to fill gump. I don’t think that as often as I do it. It makes no difference. I try to forget those images and remember them all the same. Always. It’s a good thing. Not a torture. I can be very quiet. One makes that happen. One wants to. There is a line in, to, that photo of the little unnamed standing at the very named’s sympathy memorial. Misty. I’m thinking the line runs under the evidentiary pictures that Eric Cross produced while he was in jail by hiring a professional photographer to get soft-core nudes and next to Charles Roberts picking out the blondes he knew from his rural Pennsylvania nightmare and the narrowing space in what would otherwise be the significant differences in what they caused to happen washed within the arguments and specious if not angry conclusions set forth in the Butner prison studies. She gets a beautiful name, Amy, because she is the sexy informative dripped from Paroline v the United States and all she had done was stare at the flowers left by some people who cared about the sex crimes against the children in her neighborhood. What I like best about that photo, other than her butt, obviously, is that I named her. I’m saying obviously so that you know I know what you’re thinking. I know how I sound; I’m telling you. Too. And I’m willing to suggest that I’m lying through my firmly clenched teeth. Because you’re listening like lice. And Amy, sweet dear, didn’t do much more than learn. She got talked to. The Amy that gave this new doll her name was from Pennsylvania. She gave me her name, didn’t she. She’s known in the court transcripts as only Amy to protect her true identity. She is still being harmed by the pictures that her uncle took of her when he raped her in Pennsylvania. She is asking for significant amounts of money from those men who keep her photos of her rape because she and her lawyers contend that there is still harm being done to her by these photos being sought and extant if not prized. She has therapy that has helped to a point and will need more. And the wall that shuts out some of her therapy that can’t ever right a wrong whole is larger than her body since grown accountable men are, we presume, masturbating to her violent famous sexually abused pictures. She, you’ll have to understand, is a child forever in those pictures and not an adult that chose to have her pictures taken and sold and traded for free on the internet. The arguments for laws and recompense statutes that Andrea Dworkin gave much of her name to when she brought forth the idea that pornography, images, caused harm, real harm, whether body or psyche or oppressive intent, find firm footing as long as it’s children and protection of children in the mouths of the government. Amy was not the name of the file that our girl was traded inside. Amy is named by her protectors. She was known as the girl in the Misty series before she became of complicit age. There is also a Vicky. Duane Morrison picked a different age. This picture is one of those girls not at all. This girl, with her lousy stupid unshielding parents, isn’t all Amy. I needed a name because I was using the picture so often. I called her Amy due to what starts here and ends up barely moving, despite my considerable effort. I called her Amy long before I came up with the art and political excuses that are hardly invalid. The Butner Study is a brief of sorts, handed suspiciously to aid lawmakers and judges to assist in sentencing possessors of child pornography. As a study it was designed to define the statistical probability that viewing child pornography might be an indication of hands-on offense. Possession of child pornography, often referred in defense arguments as “mere,” may well be a taste formed or encouraged by a history of sexually abusing real, rather than found recorded, children. The results of the study, completed in Butner prison with its large population of sex offenders, and originally published in The Journal Of Family Violence, successfully linked a larger degree of hands-on abuse to those inmates who were previously only sentenced for possession of illegal and heavily punished pornography. It was, in effect, an attempt to find support for the reasoning behind harsh or, perhaps ostensibly, lesser judgements by assessing potential risks in reoffending. The results of the study are highly contested due to its review and selection methods as well as its initial publication and quick release to judges and governmental officials before it had been submitted for peer review. Researchers asked the inmates to self-report within a voluntary treatment program and didn’t account for the possibilities that inmates were capable of making up stories of victims in hands-on offense to win favor for cooperation within jail programs that might lessen or soften sentences. The Butner Study had its preliminary findings presented to the annual conference for the Association For The Treatment Of Sexual Abusers in 2000 after discovering 1379 previously undetected crimes from sex offenders already in the treatment program at Butner without threat of additional charges. The study compared two groups of child pornography offenders:men with no known sexual offense history other than child pornography (distribution, receipt, possession) and men convicted of similar offenses but with documented histories of hands-on sexual offenses against at least one child victim. The psychologists behind the study continued their research to eventually release their expanded findings in 2009 as The Butner Study Redux, and again, without academic vet. The brief has found its conclusions relied upon in many lower court cases as justification for following longer sentences mandated by federal and state law.In many instances, those very laws were passed and sentencing guides extended by citing The Butner results as key to proving the general fear for high recidivism threats among pedophiles as correct. However, careful arguments against its methodology have also ensured that the study has been used significantly as judicial dissent towards draconian sentences for newer criminals. In short, the argument that viewers of child pornography are likely to be past, present or possible child molesters has had an effect on judges actually refusing to follow the guidelines previously set by politicians and thus refocused the emphasis of the clogged courts back to the initial reasons for anti-possession laws and away from populist fear and outrage. Judges directly involved with the criminals, victims and lawyershave started to resent the governmental grandstanding and, more importantly, the autocratic hum of hired experts. Eric Cross was introduced in the 1986 Child Pornography And Pedophilia Report made by the Permanent Subcommittee On Investigations of the Committee On Governmental Affairs United States Senate as an example of the inextinguishable nature of pedophilia just then gaining popular currency: In Tampa, Florida, Eric Cross, who had been convicted of molesting young girls in four countries,was indicted for allegedly distributing child pornography while in prison on a molesting charge. He was convicted on 19 counts of distributing child pornography and other charges and sentenced to a 95-year prison term. His worth to me now cheaply based less on his inability to stop his habitually psychotic need and more specifically his abatement to only seeing pictures of naked children. Post arrest, post experience, post actual hands-on memory. From jail, he created a fake film company to hire child models to appear in his mythic “Susan’s Magic Carpet.”Then he approached a proper talent agency to sub-contract a professional photographer to take casting shots of the models. Nudity would be required for authenticity as the characters in his movie would visit other cultures where different states of undress were common. Cross received some photos, in positions he requested, before the scam fell apart and helpful associates scattered or turned evidence. The photographer refused to take some pictures and even delivered some others in purposively bad quality. Cross’ life as case finds him mentioned again in a prison memoir, pornographic, fantastical, egotistical, written by a fellow floridian inmate, murderer, rapist, as well as feminist websites supporting Andrea Dworkin’s work and exposing the crimes of men only claiming to be nudists rather than pedophiles. He’s often depicted as desperate, the lowest example of his type available, highly manipulative, dedicated. His answers are fantastically complicated beyond recognition. Though whittled; he’d rather be seen as a prison rat to his jailers while a businessman to his fellow inmates. According to Tim Tate, Cross is responsible for most of the pictures in the Colour Climax/Rodox magazine Lollitots, dating back to the beginning of commercial child porn magazines. Indeed, the initial first wave of popular internet pictures were scans of the paper magazines that Cross published through Rodox: Sweet Linda, Sweet Patti and Sweet Linda and Patti. Certain picture collections became well known in the early days of the internet due to a relative paucity of material. Cross’ had been printed, sold, collected and, hopefully, fondly remembered. The idea that you could publish your personal snapshots for more or less than money took awhile to catch fire. Unaware that the photographer recording the news has selected her. Unaware only in that the photo is meant to look authentically documentarian. She may well have been told to stand there and wait or pose or mother encouraged and compensated. Her parents must’ve wanted to bring the little girl to her friend’s murder memorial. The parents of the girls photographed by Cross’ professionals signed releases for their daughters. This one, in her tights, would not have had misuse explained to her. Amy was molested by her uncle who then traded out the shots. Having sex with, on, Amy was or wasn’t his primary interest according to which introductions you come upon. Amy’s uncle’s name isn’t included in any of her court transcripts when seeking restitution, or the news feature pieces, for obvious reasons. Doyle Randall Paroline, it being his case that finally challenged Amy’s claim rights, is the name now attached to precedent review. I am surprised and confused by the Court’s decision today. I really don’t understand where this leaves me and other victims who now have to live with trying to get restitution probably for the rest of our lives. The Supreme Court said we should keep going back to the district courts over and over again but that’s what I have been doing for almost six years now. It’s crazy that people keep committing this crime year after year and now victims like me have to keep reliving it year after year. I’m not sure how this decision helps anyone to really know if, when, and how restitution will ever be paid to kids and other victims of this endless crime. Doyle had told the judge, before being sentenced to two years in jail and ten years probation for possession of child pornography, that he wanted to help other sufferers like himself. Paroline’s remorse sounded “heartfelt,” the judge said. And Doyle, from jail, granted interviews with the Dallas Morning News just after the verdict. Told the reporter: “If this helps one person stay away from this stuff, it’s worth it. It’s something that’s so hard to talk about. There’s so much shame and guilt.” And “I’m still trying to understand all of this myself He had been arrested after fewer than 300 images on the computer he gave to a technician to fix had alerted the authorities to them. Said that he believes God sent him the computer virus that caused him to be arrested. Amy had been saved from her uncle years ago and the legal proceedings that would make her new name and cause public had already been cemented in other cases. Two images of Amy, then Misty, had been found in Doyle’s collection. Amy’s lawyer, alerted, filed for restitution on her behalf and had it attached to the possession charges against Doyle pending decision. Amy was asking for over three million dollars. The judge “wisely” split the case into separate judgements, went against federal sentencing guidelines for child pornography cases, and paved the way for Amy’s demand to travel to the Supreme Court. Doyle gave his interviews to the Dallas Morning News fully aware that Amy was attaching his name to more than a local crime story. Ownership and licensing of the brandname Amy is an issue that blurs the cause from our Amy to their Amy. Whereas Doyle Paroline, in this case before the Supreme Court, before precedence can be justified rather than set, can be seen as defending his rights as a single citizen seeking shelter from vengeance, opportunism, vested generalities beyond that which has already been established as punitive and just. Amy, her, as the victim deserving people’s justice and protection, would say there hasn’t been enough of either. Further complicating the arguments are the frankensteining of objectivity to form a singular perspective from the diced and jumbled subjectivity of victim, offender and community. Roleplay pervert to moralist, not quite parent, method disgust to paranoia. Amy owns victim and when her lawyer’s motives and her benefits and pains are meshed, considered, her voice writ large, the Court and the news need to temper cynical insensitivity as guarded suspicion. The same is not applied to Doyle, his true name. The bedrock of child pornography seizures and possession sentences has always been “harm of circulation” over “harm of creation.” Especially since the internet destroyed market controls. However, defining the continuing harm in circulation requires that a psychological theory be assigned to the victim as quantifiable. If not identifiable. And the language that was once used perhaps vaguely, perhaps lazily, as sympathetic in previous judgements must eventually be deconstructed or appraised to be pronounced actual. Solid edges that are expected and relied on to take advantage of the precise language of law create a feedback loop when details and summations move from the court to the general public. Someone sensitive; morning readers, school kids and the officially recognized victims are always getting protected. The “emotional” content of the case is referred to in nearly every single article and transcript that one can review; almost always as a home concept meant to display absolutely compassionate concern for the girl who is named Amy as well as the difficulties inheret in deciding a case that looks to push the bounds of such a sympathetic response into dangerously overbroad and chilling judgements within the hard reality of dispassionate justice. The American Bar Journal in 2012, headlined its overview of the many difficulties in the history of the case to date “Pricing Amy” while extending “Should Those Who Download Child Pornography Pay The Victims?” Berman, who runs the Sentencing Law and Policy blog adds that the incentives created by restitution in child pornography cases could create further harm to victims by keeping reminders of the abuse alive through new restitution cases. Though he doesn’t intend to cast aspersions on victims’ attorneys and experts, he notes that they get paid more when they demonstrate more harm to victims. “I don’t want to suggest that there’s inappropriate behavior going on, but I do want to suggest that the more [harm victims show], the stronger their case for restitution becomes,”he says. "And the more a victim says ‘Don’t inform me,’ the less basis there is to claim restitution.” Berman and (GWU law professor) Turley both express concern that restitution orders pile further penalties onto an area of criminal law where very long sentences are already routine. In fact, appropriate sentencing in child pornography cases is a widespread concern among criminal practitioners. The defense lawyer for Doyle Paroline echoed a bit louder when writing about his strategy before the Supreme Court in his column for Voice Of The Defense Online some two years after the ABA article: Editor Note: When I first read Marsh's request for restitution, I could not believe that he was seriously arguing that Paroline should pay his client the $3.4 million that he was requesting for Paroline’s possession of only two images of Amy. And, as we continued our journey through the court system, I continued to be amazed that sane prosecutors—who did not share Marshs financial interest— could make this argument on Amy's behalf. While it might just about shy away from what would be otherwise specific blame to the lawyers that represent and bring these cases to court, abutting the lay cynicism against lawyers’ rights and fees to thinly ostensive public concerns, the real blame is more likely directed to the horse show that plays to a public preference of emotional over veridical. The brand gets protected. The brand begs for protection. All efforts now must serve the brand by delivering the protection that hadn’t been provided previous. The brand pays. And new understandings must be patiently explained. In reading the court documents, it is not that the facts and figures add up but the melodramatic self-sacrifice. The intuition that forms from a tacky prejudice in spotting the repetition of distilling the brand at argument to the person at hand, well underneath the impersonal to the highly personal, gives into the mistake that certainly those in position to pronounce judgement must also be tired of the mercenary subtext. The courts know jobs and funding and charitable campaigning. And. How repulsive would I sound if I acted dispassionate or impartial. If I pretended to take an objective position to side for the sake of the pure legal language and the fatherly desire of the landowners to provide for all sorts, whether victim or sick, criminal or opportunist. To say, after that kind of shit, that I still care more about everyone somehow. To be so simple about lies and liars. The Amy case is about restitution for past and future losses. Not about the ineffable delights of masturbation. There are constitutional privacy rights that also provide safeties against the government from attempting to police and judge thoughts. These rights are largely but inexplicitly lost when possession of child pornography charges are weighed. In 1969, the Court held in Stanley v, Georgia that even though obscene material was categorically beyond the scope of the First Amendment, it was nonetheless unconstitutional for government to criminalize its mere possession. “If the First Amendment means anything,” the Court declared in an opinion by Justice Marshall, “it means that a State has no business telling a man, sitting alone in his own house, what books he may read or what films he may watch ... Our whole constitutional heritage rebels at the thought of giving government the power to control men's minds.” So when Clyde Osborne was arrested and charged under Ohio law for the possession of child pornography in his home, his lawyers might have been reasonably confident that although Ferber had several years earlier declared child pornography categorically unprotected by the First Amendment, Osborne nonetheless had a right to possess this material in the privacy of his home. Any such confidence, however, was misplaced. The Court found firmer ground for distinguishing Stanley in observing that "the interests underlying child pornography prohibitions far exceed the interests justifying the Georgia law at issue in Stanley. The Court accurately recounts that in Stanley Georgia sought to prohibit the private possession of obscenity because it was concerned that viewing the material would "poison the minds of its viewers.” In contrast, the Court emphasized, Ohio did not rely "on a paternalistic interest in regulating Osborne’s mind” but rather has enacted the ban on possession of child pornography to “protect the victims of child pornography; it hopes to destroy a market for the exploitative use of children.”And it was "surely reasonable,” the Court continued, “for the state to conclude that it will decrease the production of child pornography if it penalizes those who possess and view the product.” Finally, the Court credited Ohio’s argument that since Ferber was decided,“much of the child pornography has been driven underground as a result, it is now difficult, if not impossible, to solve the child pornography problem by only attacking production and distribution.” In 1982, Ferber v. New York held: State interest in protecting children allows laws prohibiting distribution of images of sexual performances by minors even where content does not meet tests of obscenity. It is important that you do not believe you may have an argument on context, nuance or struggle. This is not snide. You will have it explained to you that you do not have any reason to have this material. And all arguments after this classifiable crime have been established certain while left to more and more egregious examples of harm as new restrictions contra damages are piled to keep the worst in check. Further attempts to reclassify the material as something other than what is criminally prohibited have resulted in emphasizing the government’s interest in declaring the protection of the children in the photographs as opposed to the existence of the photographs as the necessity of placing child pornography outside the protected realm of “speech.” This includes, now, the concern for the victim’s wellbeing as she considers her history in present tense of men viewing her history of abuse. There are pictures of boxes and shelves and large plastic barrels filled to overflow with the open envelopes and read alerts that the FBI must send the victims of child pornography every time one of their images are rediscovered in some pervert’s collection. See it as the victim sees it. Overwhelming, painful reminders that don’t stop stabbing, mounting, into suffocating sickening numbers; each letter a war that the tiny can’t win to keep losing. See it as a shyster sees it. Each message a chance to make money and there’s too many notices, too many chances. All you need is one to work out well so in your favor to file for each and every one, cover the chump cost, until the lucky one or more hits pay. See it like a greater example of all the men who haven’t been caught. Of the exponential interest of so many men that these buckets must represent only the few unluckies by comparison. As encouragement, not fear. See it as every dirty image is a legal obligation and if one poor sad fuck had ten images, or sixty-two, it caused ten or sixty-two separate letters. Misty, the famous Amy, according to the Amicus Brief submitted to the Supreme Court in aid of Amy’s team argument by The National Center For Missing And Exploited Children (AS AMICUS CURIAE IN SUPPORT OF RESPONDENT AMY UNKNOWN), was a brand whose ownership was understood at the outset and had to be won back. This concern is behind every acknowledgment of the personal details of the individual cases brought before the court system. It is never simply an argument over the law or the poor girl who still must not be forgotten or side-lined. Nonetheless, the read of the case history is never vague or unclear about the essential need to politicize the stronger strategy within the weaker obligations (citations omitted): Despite efforts to stem its tide, child pornography remains a pervasive, and indeed growing, problem. The United States Sentencing Commission and the Department of Justice confirm that the quantity and severity of child pornography on the Internet has increased dramatically. This trend is dramatically illustrated by the sheer volume of files submitted by law enforcement to NCMEC in which Amy is pictured. In the first seven years that NCMEC reviewed files depicting Amy (November 26, 2002 to 2009), NCMEC processed more than 35,000 files in the series. In the four years from 2009 to 2013, this number has now doubled, to more than 70,000. One reason for this dramatic increase is that child pornography is now a crime of international distribution. Images are transmitted to offenders around the world via the Internet; once distributed in this manner, it is impossible to eradicate all copies. International law enforcement, including agencies from Denmark, Germany, Canada, New Zealand, and Australia have disclosed to NCMEC that Amy’s image and video files have been seen in their criminal investigations. In recent years, the demand for child pornography files has found increasing outlets in technological advances, including the move to digital recording devices, more storage capacity and faster Internet speeds. The ready availability of digital cameras (with no need for an outside developer), recording devices, and smart phones has facilitated the creation of new child pornography, while increased storage capacity and faster Internet speeds have permitted offenders to view and share larger numbers of photos and videos. In particular, the growing popularity of “peer-to-peer” file sharing, which permits direct, anonymous file-sharing between two or more users without cost to either user, has made distribution a common aspect of child pornography offenses. It is estimated that 57% of global Internet traffic in 2011 was peer-to-peer traffic. Collectively, these technological changes have distributed offenders’ ability to create, possess and distribute ever-larger volumes of child pornography. The U.S. Sentencing Commission has noted an “exponential” increase in the volume and ready accessibility of child pornography. Alarmingly, this increase includes graphic images involving very young victims, a genre of child pornography that previously was not known to be widely circulated. There also has been an increase in the distribution of images depicting violent, sadistic acts. U.S. Sentencing Commission data between 2002 and 2008 also show a 65% increase during that period for sentencing enhancements due to sadistic, masochistic, or violent images. Reflecting this trend, federal prosecutions for child pornography offenses have also increased steadily in recent years, and U.S. attorneys prosecuted a total of 8,352 such cases between 2005 and 2009. The number of child pornography videos and images submitted to NCMEC in connection with the process of identifying the child victims concomitantly increased by 432% during this same period. Viewing of child pornography also directly harms additional victims by “driving” a market for the production of new content and thus encouraging] production and direct exploitation and abuse.” High demand for child pornography leads individuals to sexually abuse children and “commission” the abuse for profit or status. Rising demand is often channeled through online communities of child pornographers. These online communities both desensitize offenders to the reprehensibility of their actions and encourage the participation of new individuals. Often, participation in these communities requires the victimization of additional child victims, because the communities "value the production of new child pornography images.”There is evidence that offenders produce new images and videos in order to gain access. In one investigation, the Federal Bureau of Investigation interviewed a man who admitted to molesting his daughter and videotaping the sometimes violent assaults. He told agents that he did this because he needed "fresh” images for other people on the Internet before they would trade their own newest image with him. His daughter was nine at the time and said her father began abusing her when she was five. One examination of three such communities found that there was a definitive hierarchy with "producers, posters of new materials, and prolific re-posters at the top of the pyramid.” Thus, child pornography files are used as the coin in trade to rise in status within these communities, a process that often involves harm to additional child victims. Even as it offers a community for offenders, the Internet also offers perceived anonymity. According to the Department of Justice, child pornographers were previously "lonely and hunted individuals because the purchasing and trading of such images was extremely risky,” today, however, the child pornography market has "exploded.” Misty is how pedophiles knew Amy. Paroline searched for child pornography using Google. He never traded, bought or sold. Only had two of the likely sixty-two shots of Misty then available at the time of his arrest. Paroline admits to being aroused and sometimes masturbating. He insists his attraction wasn’t pleasure but revulsion. "You feel better about yourself," he says, "because you’ve seen some horrible thing. That probably sounds pretty bad.” And. But Paroline stops cold when asked whether he’ll call himself a child-porn offender. He says he prefers not looking back at what he says amounts to 15 bad days - the days that authorities found he’d looked at child porn. He recoils when asked if he thinks about the kids in the images, or what he’d tell them. "I don’t remember what I looked at, and I don’t want to,” he says. "What do you say to a 6-year-old, other than, "I’m sorry I looked at that; it wasn’t about you?” His interlocutor and our reporter did not adduce or declare that he masturbated while looking directly at our Amy. Looking then at pictures of Misty if he knew the same name the investigators did. Paroline jerking himself off while at the offset of orgasm staring at the pictures of her getting along with her uncle; intently or stupidly. At pictures of lovely Amy or repulsive Misty. How he looked at the pictures, what he thought, is not of consequence when fighting or pleading against possession charges. He and the victim are allowed to voice their thoughts in court; Amy as the victim impact statement and Paroline as an attempt to explain how he came to have the images on his computer. The crime is judged on whether or not the pictures were in his possession. If he was responsible for having them there. The faulty personal reasons he may have while he looked for these specific now itemized pictures is not an excuse in court. When he may have been looking for acts and not favorites. How did you get it. There were postal inspectors, customs agents. I wouldn’t get it from the States. They’d, even back then, if domestic, likely be sting operations. That was how the police here did their jobs. The same jobbers who released some of your material onto the net, Amy, used to print the sets to entice and advertise and catch those stupid enough to mail away for it. I was the opposite of a pedophile back then. Those with ridiculous excuses. NAMBLA eventually turned into B4U-Act. There’s a different language for rights now in that it sounds like help. I’ve watched it change. It makes sense that it would move towards pain, rather than demands from within. A reporter from the NY Times interviewed Amy about her past and her semi-public place in the court system. If Amy read the piece, she would learn that, as Misty, she was well regarded among the small or endless scrounging pedophile community that exchanged messages and interacted amongst themselves as one of the very few girls whose popularity was in part due to her smiling affability. This is not to suggest that the little girl performing could have enjoyed the sex and time with her uncle now or argue obliquely for a lowering of age consent laws. Her enjoying attention and games and beef jerky as a child are what she has had to rethink and forget and especially detest. But the terrors that came later, that demand restitution, those spurned on by betrayal and ridicule and graphic base acts now acid memories can be made less with therapy. The court is told. Where love can be genuine, worthwhile, subsistent. The pursuit of which must make life worth living as recognized and promised by the judges who serve the constitution. The mere tourists who search out the photos can ask themselves within the same theatrical structure. Is that what you were seeing. Were you aware that the pictures were records of a perversion of promise, not a display of taste. Therefore a threat to all others, under the same contract of self and societal recognition. Looking at her smile. Did you find yourself drawn to the future, or a past, that would tear apart the very things you weren’t finding all those years over her age of grand assurance. Not yet dissolved. Were you not watching a movie where you found yourself worse for the sin you knew wasn’t a lie from personal experience. Marsh suggested that Amy see a forensic psychologist, Joyanna Silberg who evaluated Amy and said she would need therapy throughout her life and could expect to work sporadically because of the likelihood of periodic setbacks. Silberg attributed these costs - Amy’s damages - to her awareness of the ongoing downloading and viewing. “Usually, we try to help survivors of child sexual abuse make a very strong distinction between the past and the present,” Silberg who has given testimony on Amy’s behalf for restitution hearings, told me. “The idea is to contain the harm: it happened then, and it’s not happening anymore. But how do you do that when these images are still out there?The past is still the present,which turns the hallmarks of treatment on their head.” The concept that law could divide the thoughts into a freeze of pinpointed guilt is absurd and not applicable to any court case other than my own pretend circus. Paroline’s thoughts, and the quantifiable nature of thoughts, are not presented as legal arguments within the defense of the case. Paroline, unlike so many others faced with restitution demands attached to their criminal cases, fought the law rather than the settlement. The universality of Amy as worth, as social response, as more than her own suffering, brought contention. Tort law and the supporting rights of the public had to be addressed and explicated. And Amy’s personal health history along with Paroline’s citizen history were highlighted instead of backgrounded. As examples of impact, of what was expected from great thoughts, plans and handshakes, rights and responsibilities. The case histories that littered the arguments and decisions charted back to Stanley and Ferber as well as, while unnamed, Dworkin and MacKinnon, to whom the clause for restitution demands within the Violence Against Women Act they conceived and that allowed Amy’s lawyer to begin his campaign for litigation in nearly every case that contained a single photo of his client. Here circus includes the disappointment inherent in finding an adult bookstore with a slapdash stock of adult aged pornography and searching for those that, I tell the gloryhole waiters and tremblers, cunt hands-on hopers, prove the disgust for the women on their knees every time the actor aims his cum onto the parts of the actress he or the director, speaking for his distributors and markets, likes best. The last one I bought from the sales bin. I tell my therapist about watching a tranny whore, hideous, beaten into a lump shape certainty that recommends less pain than regret, masturbate onto film and mimic what it likes about fucking women and the clothes she mistakes. And I’ve been told that another didn’t like the way her director fucked her, chose her asshole, when she took herself to not audition but appear in his porn film. And any of the pop shot compilations that aren’t worth slowing down and the switches from numbers of cocks in her single face to single cocks I like better after a quick enough dismissal over how much I spent back when you had to buy and didn’t care to revisit. Back when I was reading the newspapers and recording the talk shows and saving those before I hardly had to work at understanding what was especially offensive about the little ones with names and details of their bosses. After losing what he thought was the winnable strategy, Amy’s lawyer angrily wrote about his personal understanding of the latest Supreme Court decision: In order to obtain restitution, child pornography victims in the Ninth Circuit will now have to prove - in addition to the confounding Paroline factors - “many [additional] factors”such as: • the egregiousness of the original [sex] abuse; • how a victim can (or does) cope with that kind of [rape and sexual abuse] abuse when distribution of images does not follow; • and the particular victim’s own reactions to the various traumas to which the victim has been subjected; As a result, federal district courts will now have to evaluate each individual sex act perpetrated upon children to determine the level of “egregiousness” and how well the child “coped” with the abuse and other “various traumas.” Courts will need to formulate a barbaric hierarchy of victimization in trying to decide, for example, whether a six month old forced to suck on an adult man’s penis is “more egregious” than an eight year old being bound and anally penetrated. How well can that six month old infant “cope”with such abuse compared with the eight year old girl?And how many other terrible traumas might have occurred to mute or blunt or increase the trauma caused by the original childhood sexual abuse? “And how, exactly little girl and little boy, did you react to those traumas?” The lawyer, in setting out to win money for therapy and healthful opportunities denied by the lasting effects of the crime essentially created the list he passionately writes as demeaning. The court, correctly in keeping with the standards set against policing extended thoughts and negligible contexts by establishing child pornography outside the protection of the First Amendment so that even obscenity arguments couldn’t apply, reified those rights to stating that the psychology within the victim’s testimony had to be included as a factor in findings of restitution payouts. While still in keeping to the chance that the victims are telling the truth decades later about their inabilities to function, the court refused to allow for generalized campaigning when attached to a single defendant’s responsibility. Relegated the degrees to the lower district courts to be decided on a case by case basis. In this way, it is an attempt, however literally impossible, to answer what exactly is reputation and harm. What is psychological damage and how does one count on it. If otherwise applied incorrectly, a sweeping law for personal damages might travel backwards to the charged declaring previous causal abuse as defense as well as extending actionable responsibilities to news services for reporting and thus propagating harm. Answers this. Amy, like Vicky and initially Masha, receive through their lawyers, notices of alert whenever an arrest is made of someone who had kept or viewed their individually owned pictures. In fact, Amy’s parents shielded their child from the knowledge that her uncle took photos of her while raping her until the FBI addressed one of the many alerts to her then seventeen-year-old self instead of Mom and Dad. In at least one example, Amy posed in front of her uncle’s video screen with stockings pulled down to exhibit her vagina and placed next to her was a note saying hi to the man who had asked her uncle to undress her in just this way as a favor. This picture was the one that allowed the FBI to locate Amy and arrest the uncle who lived across the street from her. The experiences of “Amy” and other child victims provide apt illustrations of the unique harms that are suffered by victims of child pornography and that Section 2259 seeks to redress. Amy’s abuse began at the hands of her uncle when she was only four years old and was recorded in a set of images known as the “Misty” series. Between August 2002 and September 2013, NCMEC received over 4,900 submissions from law enforcement that included images or videos from the Misty series, most of which reported multiple images of Amy. These 4,900 reports contained a total of over 70,000 images of the Misty series that had been viewed, traded, and collected by offenders for their personal gratification. Law enforcement from all fifty states, Guam, Puerto Rico, international U.S. military bases, and Canada have submitted media including images from the Misty series. The Misty series contains still images of Amy being forced to perform a series of explicit sexual acts, including oral copulation, anal penetration, and masturbation. These images are crime scene photos memorializing the criminal acts committed upon Amy. In her victim impact statements, Amy recounts how the harms inflicted by the abuse itself are perpetually multiplied by the continuous circulation of her images. In her words: “I am being exploited and used every day and every night somewhere in the world by someone. How can I ever get over this when the crime that is happening to me will never end? How can I get over this when the shameful abuse I suffered is out there forever and being enjoyed by sick people?”Amy explained that this debilitating trauma and constant fear of being recognized have severely impacted virtually every aspect of her life, ranging from obtaining a driver’s license to maintaining a job and building relationships with other people. “Vicky,”a victim depicted in another widely circulated series of child pornography images, has attested to similar harms. In her victim impact statement, Vicky tells of chronic nightmares and panic attacks so severe that they forced her to leave college,stating “[every time [the images] are downloaded I am exploited again, my privacy is breached, and my life feels less and less safe. I will never be able to have control over who sees me raped as a child.”Certain viewers of Vicky’s images even have sought to contact her directly, further illustrating the lasting harm caused by the proliferation of child pornography. Another child victim, Masha Allen, testified before Congress that “because [the abuser] put my picture on the Internet, the abuse is still going on. Anyone can see them. People are still downloading them— we get 20 notices from the FBI every time someone is arrested for it.” The words of Amy, Vicky, and Masha are emblematic of the profound and lasting harms suffered by many victims of the child pornography escalation. My snake primer now suspect for pasting the clippings over the specious prejudice that would see me arguing for pedophiles’ rights against psychological truisms. Now explained that Masha’s former lawyer is Amy’s present lawyer and that he wrote and published his pedantic screed after Amy’s case was only half lost in the Supreme Court. The government allowed for restitution rights but not in the landslide amount he wanted to win only for his client. He had to argue for the full amount of restitution and bogged the justices down to aggregate punishments. Before the Court’s decision, it had been suggested by journalists interviewing child health experts and law reporters that a larger fund might be set up to allow more victims to receive restitution equitably.A syndicate of possibly countless child pornography victims symbolized by the few semi-vocals that signed on with indefatigable or otherwise lawyers. A comprehensive response and approach to an issue that maybe shouldn’t, by definition, rely on one person arguing for single restitution while sideways standing for others like her as a them. The current argument before the court allowed the defense to look deeper into Amy’s past, to create a finer investigation of facts over sympathy. Psychology applied as firm rather than speculative, key details questioned enterprise after welfare. Paroline’s lawyer filed a motion to collect and understand the full picture of harm and health within the possible ramifications of law and worth as implied by the scattershot reasoning of Amy’s protectors. Paroline’s team could compare Amy’s post molestation past to a reasonable accounting of proof. Amy being found wanting. It is here that we see our cynical attitude winning favor over sense. It is here that we need to stop arguing. As it is here that the entire voice of everyone hits hardest back. It is here that all sides know plainly whether suspect or denied. Forum arguments around the case, usually with clearly vested political interests from the sides that aren’t considered in the courts, drew analogies that sunk to pedestrian cell phones recording terrorists attacks and the broadcasting of those images without considering the full responsibility of all possible viewers in mind. Or the victims, first to last, litigating the newsworthy. Here, also, the culture where concrete requirements for self-report, ultimately used against the conclusions set forth in the Butner report, contradicted the sympathetic give to first person blur: Early on, I concluded that Dr. Silberg’s report and Amy’s victim impact statement simply didn’t pass the smell test. After negotiations with Marsh and a hearing before Judge Davis, we reached an agreement that required Marsh to provide to us all of the underlying data that Silberg and Smith relied upon in writing their reports. We received this data and forwarded it to Dr. Proctor. We were also able to obtain a copy of the contract between Marsh and Dr. Silberg. She was hired to write a victim’s impact statement for Amy that Marsh had used some 250 times before it was presented in Paroline’s case. Dr. Silberg never provided any psychological counseling for Amy and there was nothing in the record to show that Amy had received any psychological counseling after she had retained Marsh as her lawyer. The damage model that Marsh used to support Amy’s claim was prepared before Paroline was even arrested. We were able to review Dr. Silberg’s notes from her interviews with Amy and point out for the Court discrepancies between what Amy had said and what Silberg had written. Dr. Proctor’s Criticisms of Dr. Silberg’s Report: Dr. Proctor submitted a five and one-half page report that was critical of Dr. Silberg’s methodology and conclusion. These were his five areas of concern: From the information reviewed and analyzed, concern appears warranted regarding the extent to which in this case Dr. Silberg successfully served as an objective forensic psychological evaluator which appears to have been her express intention. Second, although consideration of objective sources of date is the hallmark of a forensic psychological evaluation, it appears based on the materials reviewed, that Dr. Silberg relied very heavily on Amy’s suggestive self-report. Third, as was already demonstrated to some extent in the previous section, it appears that Dr. Silberg inadequately considered alternative hypotheses and overly attributed problematic behavior; for example, academic problems, vocation problems, alcohol abuse, to Amy’s sexual abuse history, without fully exploring alternative hypotheses and considering the cause of behavior is often multi-faceted. Fourth, psychological testing is typically of great value in forensic evaluations. Unfortunately, however, in this case, Dr. Silberg administered only a very small battery of tests, that is two, that were inadequate due to the absence of well-established validity scales and because the tests were overly specific in nature. Finally, it is my opinion that Dr. Silberg’s conclusions regarding the impact of Amy’s abuse history over the course of her lifetime and regarding the amount of treatment she will require in the future is highly speculative and seems inconsistent with the results of her prior period of treatment. And continuing with that, given that Amy has no history that I am aware of of having received such services in the past, I am unaware of what the basis is for the speculation that such services will be needed in the future. Indeed, given her history, including her prior treatment history, it appears unlikely that such services will be necessary in the future. I’m not wrong in remembering the strippers in aged booths trying to fight back at the men who masturbated in front of them during the jobs they worked for that reason. The men who would record the girls on hidden recording equipment whether now phones or then tiny cameras. For themselves or sharing. Or the many men now posting photos and films or keeping privately the snaps they take of nice tight butts in stretch pants while following those wearing them in public. Or the pedophiles who far earlier loved the private pictures they’d keep of pretty children with their mothers and fathers playing in parks and, especially, locker rooms and swimming pools and schoolyards. The barest definition of prurience that more impolitely matches the very same in fantasy. Victim says. This didn’t happen. I would have scratched out their names as a favor. Appreciating their worry over what others call shame. As if compassionate. Though it would have been misunderstood. They’re still largely indiscriminate. And rather exactly like those who’ve sought to do more legal or physical damage by investigating and registering and hounding the names, I’m excited by the wider deeper tunnels straight down. All aggressive forms of personal responsibility. Self-recognition, aggrandizing and pity aside, the prop that I’d be giving them their names back to own, shared by other status, shortcuts all cunts. To keep the acts as theme. Over the personalities. I want to keep the problem. The angels seeking back innocence mix with the creeps searching for escape, short or long, settle into the clamor that only quiets at pride and shame. Unless the victims tell the truth. Since they don’t, even when anonymous. The excuses coming up from the bickering are always the same. Frustrating enough to rethink and undo the initial idea to do any and all of us a favor. I left all names in. They have to be this way. All sides will have to agree with this. I have to leave it as it is. And compile the details both fucking liars keep to themselves while talking as if they’re divulging or confessing or bragging or investigating more. Hard to deny the pretext this way. It bought an embarrassing dildo. I wish it didn’t. Have to. Some dating prick with a girlfriend used candles and had the common convinced that he needed someone else to see it while he experienced what she didn’t know yet. I’ve had sick men with angry hard cocks who didn’t want anything else in me other than themselves. Too difficult to use your own fingers sometimes. Some dumb greaseball with a larger semi-softer cock fucks you harder because he’s happy with the thick wide buttplug he’s using inside the backend of his own while he pumps alternatively into you. Fat filthy faggot grunting and pigging, what, himself. Fingers feel the ridge and I’ll have to ask him to jam that into his mouth, not mine, queer. Fats rub the let of my asshole and he’ll have his rat in there immediately. I’d already prettied as much. It’s impossible to miss when you’re this age. I’d already been talking about memory. Caught out pervert plausible and legitimately trying to remember and having a difficult time; I don’t think for a second that he subconsciously didn’t want to remember. So he effectively couldn’t. It doesn’t work that way with me. Fucking won’t pass with him then. You always worry that you’re getting it wrong. Certainly this is the industry that flourishes so gracefully for those on either side of the opportunity chain. Grace coming from the joint as magnanimous and impractical. Another very nice, very appropriate, confirmation for those who shouldn’t be encouraged. Me specifically. I’d like, first off, for him to remember the details as clearly as I can. And, secondly, for these memories to be more important to him. Next, I have to keep in mind, I’m the one listening. So I have to have more and more details. I want to know what he did specifically. Like some collector who can’t compare notes. I simply know where I stand now versus where I stood then and where I’d love to recall, hardly perversely, from what we both remember when we locate what we can trudge up or stay away from those acts we’ve seen vividly detailed. Vivid enough to test cum. I know this part is true and damning and kept best to those who wake up in nigger. It’s not velvet, rat velvet, it’s not velvet at all. It’s not a touch. And anyway, he’s talking about forcing things. Big things that can’t fit inside little things. Little slits. These are not welcoming ecstasy and, more to the point, it is absolutely designed, when listening, to express that a pain was felt and meant to be felt. That’s why you do this. No matter how slick. How simply it slides when soaked and loose. Easiest, Halo, does not suggest natural. For example, before I get to another part that may be more interesting to me, when I watch these porn performers get fucked in the ass, as is now the most current taste available to those of us who purchase the amount of pornography that I look for lopsided. Things have changed in the market. And the slippery cunts that you’d have to guess felt good around the showy hard cocks of the beginnings of the star system have mutated, as it would have, into larger thicker cocks and smaller assholes. These creep pornographers who barely sell gape videos to men like me don’t understand that it isn’t an obsession with what the body looks like. Pornographers always assume obsession. Low moment collectives niched. I remember rosebud videos from the gay hide rounds back when it was first discovered as something you could pursue instead of a mistake, a shock, some proof and before it became cocky palaver about nerve endings getting licked and the pain traversing around pleasure. I had a bit of a boyfriend back then. Poor thing. Poor absent beast. Memories like these don’t quite trip what was my intention here or my trajectory. It shouldn’t be obscured or left to pig licking doctors to say later that it’s important or disturbing to notice that the first immediates I’ve ranted over went directly inescapably to sucking on crying hardened meat. Instead of general rape in parts where someone gets fucked, penetrated, in an orifice that has little to do with placement and everything to do with communication. Your doctors will be pleased to know that when I was a young adult and had my first cock stuck into my mouth against my better instincts, soon to realize better is negligible, soon to realize that this wasn’t quite as abusive as the embarrassing concept of consent would obviate in those selling sex stories like my mother could have kept from court, would have very little to do with any kind of exploitation or disagreement at all. And so the fuck what if it did. Remodeling regret as memories as reality are only proprietary arguments. I’m thinking now of masturbating when I think that this man should have fucked me the way I often enough like to get fucked well after. And I am certain that had I stopped sucking on his cock, I should have licked it more, and clenched pants to show him that I was hard and about to cum without even stroking myself and was then begging him to fuck me while I bent over, that I could cum best with this very lovely ped’s hard cock into my ass, that it would have felt much more violent and wonderful and lost there when he cummed into my ass and I cummed onto the floor because getting unstretched and pulled and pumped that way is what I wanted as long as it hurt. When I masturbate now. Or think that I’m glad he cummed into my mouth like I remember. And I wished I had seen him cum. With that criminal hard cock. And licked his fat balls while he pulsed all over me and thought this had to happen as well as I found. Every time I feel like bending over and it happens more and more these days as I get sick of looking at women offer asshole and cunt because the design for that, whether they admit it or not, and I’m not working this out of sympathy, is them puppeting the wrong advertising to something that does in fact despise them. You might like fucking idiots. Not my thing, frankly, but they all end up that chimpanzee pretty quickly. Which suggests something more about fucking than it does idiocy. And I’m thinking that every guy and what they think about what they want and what they do and should know now is definitely not my concern. Same for whatever other miserable tattooed gender there is crawling across the floor for a paycheck or strip otherwise still sale. I’m aware that I think, I hope this is true, memory or damage or not, that I’m right that I cummed in my pants that day without touching myself one second. That first. And then. Before any of this happened, I only just figured this out, he’d come to meet me and his way of coming on to me was by wearing tight pants with all his impressive meat pushed up fat to one leg. Since I was too dumb or too uninterested in cocksucking or fucking men, he had to trade to let me know what I was fucking with; just as stupid as I was then. But he knew. Not what he wanted to turn me into. Would be nice. But what I was. Which, most of all, was too dense to know it by then. I really don’t mind. Seems recent. I didn’t care enough to make it seem like I do now. Here’s the sickly thought he was so sure of that it was more than a guess. And I didn’t know, I was so naive. One should thank him. He could have been kinder if it weren’t, he would have known, that my defenses would’ve fronted and screamed. Here’s the sickly thought that was wrong more than that. He was wrong. About me. My inaction came from disinterest. My disinterest came from understanding faggots more exactly like him than myself. I wasn’t actively disinterested. I would have had to cut out the names in every article. Or I would have had to take a black pen and cross them out. Can you imagine the sort of person that would do this and then present it to someone who might like, after the initial spark, this sort of collection. With all the names carved out and censored as if to show some niggling point about the nature of such reporting or the nature of such mental diseases. A sympathetic definition to humanity. A collection of insults begging to find even more sympathy from a surprised and impressed and sick cunt dick pulling or brain mulling audience. And I’d have to be the tight sweater that would think that there was a design big enough and impressive enough, behind such a disgustingly low level of conversion, to look for their attention. And can you imagine how the collection would look this way. As if it wasn’t a very deep, myopic, highly specific collection well before it was presented as some repulsive current of research or before seeing the conclusion as some cast back to formative mistakes in contemporaneous group think. I could tell you that I bought backstory’s dildo. I would see it in the shop I go to give back head. I’d have to say that I face there, because I do, but I’m not quite as cartooned passive as you might think. I go there and, if I have a preference, I’m not sure I do except when speaking, I prefer to get head. Because I can see what these animals do. It works from the other side, the other point of view so to speak, just as well so these positions are quickly fluid if not excusably indiscriminate. It counts. I can make kneeling sound more, as I said, passive. And standing or spreading more sadistic. Wide spread. Truth is, neither is true. It’s all the same event. Involving nothings as others as picturesque. All the same thought and intention. A difference in skirmish. I despise these men. Not just because they’re degree negotiators. Hagglers, queers, grotesque infinitesimal unwanted worriers. Fiddlers. I think that’s important. Takes an appropriate amount of the hateful or sadistic element out of it, in fact. And nature. These cunts, all of us, are bent. Inverts. I’m no degenerate cocksucker. Or inveterate masturbator. I would, again, prefer to say that I enjoy seeing men reduced to this. Crawl. Act like infants. That is what is happening during sex. Always. All this adult consent and erotica and love garbage, all talk and refurbished concern, not as bad as when you’re inside the time, perfectly stupid as you’d have to be. This wretched idea that I’m going to experience a feeling. Feel an experience, experience recognition laced with preternatural communication. It’s all pronouncing spirituality for stupidity. You’d have to be sick. You’d have to be lessened, to take the drugs that someone else gave you that you didn’t even have the brains to go look for. Turn around, one hard cock says to another and you do. Or you argue. And you boast contact, empirical, you lapse into rote, you perform and swallow all the little texts you pull together and act them out for an audience of what you’d like to see. Your bowered braggart market. The texts, if they mean anything better than your miserable experience, as ploy, wouldn’t be remembered, wouldn’t be performed. Fucking exhibitionists. Every time someone mentions sensation. Like the director here. I’m talking more about the director than the idiot with his cute not ever young enough full on boyhood mousing along as if he’s doing something other than posing for the cunt, the cocksucker, who’s telling him fucking mouse because, obviously, both of them know how to mouse pretty fucking well by now. It’s their life. Not their paycheck. Although that’s irksome as well. Because one of these animals will say to the other that they know what their audience wants. They both say it. They’re both wrong. In these places, like where I bought that nine inch dildo shaped from hung’s hard-on in a brightly lit room somewhere, what happens is miles of pacing. The waiting doesn’t matter. The history does. In that you’re pacing through a current history. And you can feel that instead. All these men gobbling the same shit and saying it all doesn’t taste as sour as cum. It doesn’t matter sounds more fucked up when you assume something is supposed to matter, you know. The reason you’d have a favorite dildo at home in a drawer or a queenly prop on the mantle that you’d invite your holes to see first thing in the door has nothing to do with how it feels peeling against the careen above asshole more than it hurts clogging your gut. While you beat on your hard and harder cock. Invertebrate. I could tell you I bought this fat thick dildo because it was clean and smoother than most of these idol replicas. And you’d know it because of the name on it, because it was a replica of his pretty cock still sold after he murdered that old child pornographer. Whom he had nothing to do with murdering. But who was close enough to the makeshift child molester to make decisions to stay and later publicly avoid. A perfect seventeen-year-old with a cock that big, why not. That I wanted to get desperately unfucked by myself feeling what it might be like when some fat old faggot closes his eyes in fantasy and imagines, not really, getting world fucked in the ass by such a rough hot fat seen cock. None of that is true. I didn’t buy the dildo and I wouldn’t because of its smooth form. I don’t want to get fucked that way. I don’t stick things in my ass when I’m alone. I don’t like how it fucking feels. Seems lack, stupid, doesn’t dwell as much as you’d want it to. Swarms dumb because you’re fully aware of how it looks. You’re doing this and you’d have to imagine someone looking at you absolutely because you are completely utterly aware of what you’re doing, digging in your unimportant ass and staying private and sick and less than aware of what you’d seen since you’re more than aware of what you’re doing. Your focus has to fight. You do it because you’re squatting in and over what doesn’t read when someone is licking away and pumping hogging inside and pushing in, on and it doesn’t reek ecstatic or sexual or anything like the reason you’d like to do it to them because they’d take you doing something like you to them. I did cut away the writers’ names. I don’t care about their side, one side only ever, even when praised as dealing in a complex, difficult subject that seeks to present all troubled sides by way of intensity. This is untrue. Compassion defines the side exclusively. And the lies are easy. The solid voice of simp justice and the slippery acquiescence of sexual debt. It’s not up to me to fuck up the amalgam by doing a self-conscious favor that would be misconstrued by that level as kind. The reason behind my concern was simply to narrow the acts to taste. The collection is old and I’ve kept them. I’ve ignored the writer’s intention for all these years then. You’d do this. Could also say that I know what you’d do now. I envy fathers, saying that, I understand what you’d do. When you find your child masturbating lying on his bed. His little cock now hard and he’s given in and forgot to hide because he was that rape imploded. You’d stop. You’d not yell at him to stop what’s he doing. Not quite as religious and moral and the good father that would sit down and tell him it’s nothing to be ashamed of and you’re glad that he’s discovering the difference between appropriate times and behaviors and the joys of being able to stop and then start on again acting like a pig. What about your mother. She wouldn’t understand as well as I do. We being men and once boys and still, you’d be surprised, acting the same way with and without the years of experience. You’d stay at the doorway and quickly determine losing it all. You’d masturbate yourself. Think you should enter in. Tell him what it looks like when his father understands. And his father isn’t teaching him a lesson because his father is primarily an oral degenerate. This is what listeners do. Perverts become smarter, not more desperate. They don’t give up like a child does when he’s imagining something other than what he feels but what he likes looking at. Oral degenerates like their fat cock fathers have choices too, then. They force the little poor thing with his tasty cock in the hot air and start hurting. You would know that it feels better when someone puts it in their mouth. Looks better to watch. Looks better when it’sa girl. You should see the little girls I’ve seen do this. Show. Can’t tell. You can show him by making him suck. Just loll. Or you, you can, keep your erection in your pants and tell him how good it tenses and he shouldn’t push you away or then it’snow his chance to learn what it is to have some pleasure like his older caring father who’s a faggot like every single heterosexual I’ve ever met and start sucking on his nice about already to cum erection. And he’ll cum in your mouth but you didn’t want him to cum that fast. You have another choice. I want to listen to him decades later. I have more choices. I want him shut up now when I explain I was out of my mind the same way he was. This is what you need to control and being human, staying animal, and harm isn’t what others will tell you, it never loses quite as much as these psychotics who can’t socialize correctly and need problems to talk and scribble on endlessly about, you’d be surprised, it won’t be abuse, please don’t say that or anything, it won’t be abuse until you take someone else’s piles of shit and lies and start repeating it when you’re too imperfect to make your own decisions and bright choices as an adult who’s really just a sad help me faggot. The other choice is you want to see the film. The one that you bought. Where the father stitched his memories into the time he saw his kid jerking off and has it committed to a narrative that shows the old man pretending to be the young boy’s father now. Markets are better for pornography and taste prohibits this work to a larger audience and you’ll still be able to work out the playtime. One goes for truth, doesn’t one. Reruns to pornography. Then can’t distribute. Worked out the play on his own. For himself. Has that. And masturbating will no longer be key. No longer demanded. I’m glad I have the film. I think it really was his father. I think his father filmed it. The boy was a runaway. The story came as help. When I needed it. And these men preferred to make a film. Of their experiences when they were children. And the boy was far too young to be paid. And only a Christian father would listen to these nuns and babies say that something always rotten happens when they’re taking the time to build a story around the simple act that these childwishing fucks think is unnecessary when they want to look at a boy. Naked. Getting hard. And I prefer the men. Getting the boy hard. Until the point of sale for the film, ask any fan, is definitely that the boy took that known old cock and learned better than he knew to suck a bit and lick more. A police investigation determined young Jesse was repeatedly raped over a period of hours, including with foreign objects. While enduring this ordeal, his ankles, knees and wrists were bound in duct tape and he was gagged and blindfolded. He was tied to a mattress. He may have been drugged, police say. A sedative called amitryptiline was found in the home of two men - Joshua Brown, 22, and Davis Don Carpenter, 38 - along with Jesse’s body. There were other drugs, too - and items commonly used in sexual bondage. Apparently the boy was left bound and gagged after the last rape, while his attackers went to get a sandwich to eat. The cops say two men raped Jesse at least six times. Brown and Carpenter have each been charged with six counts of rape and capital murder. Hearings in their case are set for Dec. 8 and Jan. 13-14. The trial is scheduled for April 10. I don’t have much room to move. The meta-analysis of the self reports in aggregate has been mostly rendered obsolete. The practical applications of the scientific and academic opinions can’t yet account for the drastic changes in exposure. Whereas those who would’ve previously been classified as non-offending, non-harming viewers of pornography, requiring a significant motivation for their tastes and searches, and countering the harmful hands on child molesters with a mindset possibly not dependent on motivation but facilitation. The present easy and earlier access to this material via the web has caused reviewers and practitioners to question the offenders who only collected pictures in much the same way as they would question the offenders who’ve only sexually abused their own children in their own homes. Put this down. The ride that Larry Singleton and Mary Vincent took together was so long that they had to talk a great deal. I imagined back then. Mary had hitchhiked a ride with him in his van and was fifteen years old. A few years younger than myself at the time but far more adult. There simply had to be more to what had happened. Though the news was adequate in details. Larry told the arresting officers that brunette Mary was a prostitute, had no money on her, and he was drinking while they drove. There had been a lot of lies back and forth between them. There had to have been. Before he attacked her. I remembered, years as I thought about it, that there had been two sexual attacks. Kept thinking of the multiple rapes and the space between. The in between of pick up and sex rather than sex and evidence. I was excited by what they confessed and chatted about. And the sex had to be made graphical from what I had seen, looking down. Degrees are not available and wouldn’t be trusted. By the time Larry left her for dead, it was alcohol psychosis that had necessitated the rape and brutality. Allowed. Drunken lonely lost worthlessness. Before that it was possibly intention and gene stupidity but facilitation well over motivation. Rage began with the sexually familiar dogend that, frankly, peaks well before you have to finish doing what was started without enough to know not to. Though she didn’t die when he cut her forearms off and stamped her into a culvert off the road, he was certainly only interested in destroying the evidence and testimony of rape. The detailsare sickening:On Sept.26, 1999,Jesse was at the Rogers, Ark., home of a family friend, 39-year-old Davis Carpenter, and Carpenter’s roommate and alleged gay lover, 23-year-old Joshua Brown. According to a local Associated Press account, prosecutor Bob Balfe told jurors Wednesday that “the boy had been given a strong sedative, then restrained while his own underwear was stuffed into his mouth and held in place with duct tape. Brown then folded Jesse into position atop a bed while supporting the boy’s body with pillows.” “While Jesse was bound and helpless and naked in this position ...he was repeatedly raped ... over a period of hours,” Balfe said.“Jesse slowly suffocated and died.”The prosecution says Brown raped and sodomized Jesse with various objects, including food, while Carpenter stood in the bedroom doorway watching and masturbating. According to a police affidavit, Brown took a break from the assault to eat a sandwich. When he returned, prosecutors say, he discovered that Jesse was not breathing. Carpenter then called police, who found the boy naked and near death on a bedroom floor. Police gathered evidence from the men’s apartment that included lurid drawings showing a bound person, written descriptions of a homosexual assault, pieces of paper describing objects with which Jesse was sodomized, and a printed grocery receipt listing duct tape and other items found near Jesse’s body.The defense will argue that Jesse- outnumbered, overpowered, overdosed, and strapped helplessly to a mattress - was a willing and consenting participant in this sexual torment. The attenuated applications of the reports as issued have been publicly affixed to risk and recidivism potentialities. Privately, the offenders were offered help by coming face to face with their own words. To challenge what they either outward lied or fooled themselves about when siphoned through professionals who had seen and heard it all before. Or could present deeper understandings of cues and mirrors within denial and damage and conduct expectations by studied ideal. Meaning that the promising grasp in personal therapy may well have significant worth beyond the therapists’ obligation to provide help, as required in law, or, snidely, job security as political advancement. The offenders could see a healthful way forward that erased the past from the pain they may have been failing to understand or cope with correctly. Mary Vincent’s mid-life consisted of a level popularity as a frequent guest on talk shows. Seen as an expert in pain. Victimhood. She’d often be moved to rage after tears, one particular episode stands out. She struggled out of her sweater to display the mechanical arms and hand hooks that had been attached to her elbows to replace the beautiful young limbs that Larry Singleton had chopped off. She screamed directly at the camera audience as if she was shrieking directly at Larry. Look what you did to me through red-faced tears and gasps.She would talk about her health and difficulties in earning a living, how she taught herself to paint and was also selling the paintings to people who enjoy art and/or crime. I don’t think the talk shows had degenerated to the point where all was seen as vulgar yet. I was still green, perhaps. Not every subject was treated as an exploitation of the audience and not every guest was suspect. It seems that simply using the phrase victimhood suggests a sarcasm when, I want to be clear, fuck my present or later jaded sensibilities, Mary selling her paintings was the only thing she had and, if not legitimate on a desperate level or the sadness we were looking for, it did appear that it was a direct result of her continuing tragedy and the harm that had been done to her stopped fifteen-year-old life. She talked about her nightmares, squashed dreams and bad luck in finding the right man, tried to look strong about the trailer decisions she’d been boxed to make. Brown could face execution if convicted of murdering the boy. Testimony in his trial began Thursday and is expected to continue into next week. Brown suggested to investigators on the tape that the young boy participated willingly in bondage games that led to his Sept. 26, 1999, death. He also said that the boy agreed to at least one act of sodomy. Brown said that he and the boy “played around” all weekend before Jesse suffocated. “The night before, he had hog-tied (me), so I thought I'd get him back,” Brown said on the tape. “I left him for five minutes. I didn’t think I had tied anything that tight.”An autopsy showed that Jesse died because he was bound in a position that kept him from breathing. Prosecutors said that, regardless of consent, Brown committed statutory rape because of the boy’s age. Jesse’smother, Tina Yates, also took the stand Thursday. She said she let her son spend a Saturday night at the home shared by Brown and his gay companion, Davis Don Carpenter, 39, who also faces charges over the attack. Yates said her three children had regarded Brown and Carpenter as part of the family. He’s a cupper. He told me that. That way he’d get it all. His words, his translation. What passes for anonymous cock in his mouth and balls pushed up in his palm. He just, he’d say, want all of it at once. I can’t really say this, I want to, but it’s not entirely true. But, in fact, it was just one other instance. Listening to that was deeply offensive, I should say. How could you put yourself in such a situation where someone would say that. Him, specifically, but not nearly enough. Shit like that, open mouth and brain to the floor. To mash your face in that, in that way, and come out with even more filth. It should have been the end of it. It wasn’t. So it doesn’t even matter that much. He couldn’t even register. It’sa mistake in my own thinking, maudlin, cheap, that I’m making, failing, to make more of it. Now. To have made more of that then. When Carpenter was back, Brown untied the boy’s wrists and secured them to opposite sides of the mattress. He positioned Jesse on his stomach, placing pillows under his stomach. Brown then proceeded to penetrate the boy’s anus with various items, including three fingers of his hand, a cucumber, a sausage and a douche bottle, to anally penetrate Jesse while the poor boy was immobile and defenseless due to the bindings. Brown also prepared and administered an enema for the victim, using his own urine as a liquid. Carpenter himself used some of the purchased items to rape the boy. And finally he had performed anal sex on the victim for the first time. Brown told police that in sex acts up until this weekend, his penis had never penetrated the boy’s anus. While Brown was having “his fun” with Jesse and repeatedly raped the boy, Carpenter stood in the doorway naked, looking at them, and masturbated. Brown told the police that as he was using the cucumber to penetrate the victim’s anus, Carpenter stood in the doorway trying to get his attention without having to speak. When Brown walked to Carpenter, Carpenter showed him a note indicating that he should not put the entire cucumber in the victim’s anus as it may harm him. Brown stated he returned to the victim and duct taped the cucumber in place as it penetrated the victim’s anus approximately one half inch. After positioning a cucumber so that it was penetrating Jesse’s anus, he secured it with tape. Not one mention in everything I’ve read that they were filming. This smarm about the older selfing queen standing in the doorway passing notes, after going out to the store to get more tools to shove in that thirteen-year-old’s hot comatose asshole. Make it bigger and stayed after he’d only gotten sucked on all the time before that. There were scribbled notes because the tubbed older beast was filming. Directing without stopping. Watching while pulling tough and slick. More scribbled notes and stories if plans were found. And, perfectly, some involved a ten-year-old girl. What script isn’t a love note. What script doesn’t transcribe lust. If they were smart enough not to film. The little girl was wearing her white school polo shirt, black trousers and her mother put a purple padded coat on her little girl, with fur round the outside of the hood, and zipped it up. Joyfully, with a big smile, she ran out of the house, picking up her pink bike on the way, opening the wooden gate at the bottom of the path and went out to play with her friends. Mark Bridger was sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder and abduction of five-year-old April Jones. He was not charged with rape as the child’s body, believed to have been dismembered, burned and sunk, hasn’t been found. During his police interrogation, Bridger told investigators that if they found April’s DNA on his penis, it would have probably been caused by him “having a pee” after killing her and destroying the evidence. He said he remembered nothing but had dreams of murder after his initial excuse of running her over in his car by accident. There is no doubt in my mind that you are a paedophile who has for some time harboured sexual and morbid fantasies about young girls, storing on your laptop not only images of prepubescent and pubescent girls, but foul pornography of the gross sexual abuse of young children. What prompted you to live out one of those fantasies is a matter for speculation but it may have been the combination of the ending of one sexual relationship and your drinking. Whatever, you set out to find a little girl to abuse. I am not sure you targeted April specifically - it was probably fortuitous that she can be seen on some of the images, which you stored on your laptop, of her older sister -but you were on the prowl for a young girl. I don’t have his personally irresponsible declension. So effeminate that he took well to dealing speed smarter and sexier than the hillbillies who didn’t care to draw lines at what they fucked. Didn’t think more about getting fucked than fucking with reasoning and taste and chances; never more than being fucked-up. Return to beaver shots. The hillbillies who’d buy them in magazines that sold less than the ones where pretties showed less personal distaste. That have me telling more about myself because the doctors and lawyers can’t have the single only answer they’re determined to separate. They, you absolutely have to keep this forefront, will pick the one they understand from the one they like. This, they’ll say, may be abhorrent, but the return figures are unmistakable. They write that the parts that were hard to listen to were the parts they had to repeat so that the report was succinct but detailed. But the bent happened at the parts they recognize. And it tends to travel deep. They do have to keep pretending once they selected the language. There are full academic works and large job description manuals that offer treatment options for their own health problems by exposure and circuitous vicariism. Men were available because they had a place to go. Places that hid homosexuals behind walls of women. You want to put your face in there. Your loathing seconds your repugnance. This is what happens. You want to eat cunt. It’s oral, best. It’s pornography, second. It’ll change when it gets even worse. What is less abhorrent, I ask myself, is fine, first. What kind of salesman only wants to stick dick. What kind of heterosexual from whatever decade works his way into the photographs and says she’s like the one I used to fuck and I remember sucking her vagina because I liked putting my face there. This is reasonable. I told him I was thinking of Eric Cross. I made it sound like he was a boy. I didn’t let him know whether this boy was a murder victim or a name of a famous child pornography victim slash model. I was really thinking about the photos of a young man that had been beaten before he died surrounded by his family in hospital. It wasn’t me that put sex there even though it had been more central than hatred. It’s very close to Haleigh Cummings, I said, as there was probably very little sex there other than the vulgar backwood stories you get when investigating drug sales and deals from white people. But you can’t resist the pictures. You have to work on resisting the pictures. You do that; you decide she’s not as pretty as her tragedy. She’s typical, you tell her, she’ll follow a trail and you can see that already. And you explain what pretty means. Eric Cross is the example that works immediately, best. And the police footage of arrests made and released of men having sex with men in restrooms. These cuntlappers that want more pictures of women splayed as wide and hairy as the cameraman and publisher used to easily convince. You put your mouth there, not your cock, no one’s interested. And no one is going to take the side of underage Misty Croslin and her drug deals and her disinterest in the child she babysat when they can chew up idiot crawling garbage like Valerie Solanas and Aileen Wuornos. These were the men who would get sucked on and off by the dregs. The ones that wanted to lick up cunt, look at wide cunt, and get away with rape in the fog form of scum who love sucking on cock so much they’ve created great histories of freedom and digest stupid memoirs and pride. Do repeaters understand that she is still being laughed at and put up with while the spread legged animals go on about their smarter worth. While you are listened to. Stupid women who sound stupid. Listen, I know that I couldn’t do what I did back then because of the cameras on every block now. The cameras that are certainly between the apartment buildings that changed the neighborhood I used to know where to walk from. All the glory hole joints and adult bookstores are shut and you don’t spill the way you could. It was never about spilling. When I was young, it was, I lie. When I was learning. When I was thinking about fat naked models with their tits out first before they spread their legs and didn’t touch so you could see that thrush covered gash. The film of me masturbating in an alley, not pulled from some sick nigger whore or horny young hooker or old man who knew how to pick up suckers at the bus stop because you looked like you needed a blowjob, would put me in jail now. That footage would make me look sick and sad and meek, gross. I’ve always known, though, that I looked that way. I did well imagining the cameras that didn’t exist watching me and stopping me. The stills, I know, I’m wrong. The stills wouldn’t have looked as bad, short form. The cunt shots were me looking at the fake smiles, old man tells his therapist, it’s not something you could miss developing a taste for. I didn’t believe it back then. It’s crude to imagine that part of the conversation could include what you’re doing for the other person. I could never explicate myself from what I was seeing happen, you know this. And the mention is beneath what a therapist would think let alone ask. They’re told not to smile, idiot. They review themselves and embarrassingly admit the hairstyles were in fashion but the blank expressions on their trowled faces were forced on them by doltish workers siphoning off any possible escape of genuine personality. She knew she could make more money on the strip circuit if she avoided the splash cash of porn and refused to work the peep booths that many of the strip joints had for the other girls. Those that didn’t win wet t-shirt and bikini contests before the bar managers educated her about the body she knew about and the places for those big natural things she didn’t. One of the photos I had when I was arrested, the one that wasn’t smiling when her father told her to mimic the shots he grew up on and probably married. It would be a radically different smile. Still, I don’t think she was told. She didn’t know. And her smile was, what, genuine. By referring to himself as a “true sex offender,” Terry relied on a generalized body of knowledge to construct himself as a specific class of person and offender. Placing himself in this category, he expounded on the nature of true sex offenders and how they should be managed in the community. He constructed himself as lonely: “Because almost all sex offenders that I know of, myself included, urn, were isolated or lonely when they committed their, it was a contributing factor in their crime.” Invoking a characterization of himself as socially isolated, Terry identified this loneliness as a causal link in the offending behavior. It was a cause not just for his behavior, but for that of “almost all sex offenders.” Identifying himself as a “true sex offender,” Terry created a narrative that was designed to explain a series of events and repeated behavior pattern, rather than an isolated incident or situation. Other than the description of the first incident in high school, the details of each offense lacked richness and read as reportage of bare, official facts. Instead, the complexity of Terry's narrative concerned explaining the fact that he was a sick individual, someone struggling with an illness experts have officially identified. Linking himself with his “true” label mitigated the extent of his wrongdoing by placing him in a category that links him to people who struggle with various addictions, as well as other psychiatric disorders. He described himself as taking actions to seek treatment for the problem, which he subtly constructed as something for which there may be a cure. Thus, his sick self may in fact be a transformable self. Cheap and convenient as cover. The newer form of science or determined threat. Involves the doctors tracking your computer data for coded content to see how many times you returned to the images you downloaded. After they’ve taken it from you. Provides a more accurate counter to your hazy specifics within the single images as used. The more violent images or the taste identifying preferences can be enumerated and eventually put forward to jibe with others convicted of the same watching crime. It is hoped that comparative longitudinal surveys can then be further expanded upon to predict recidivism threats as favorite images are tallied against more popular contact crimes. Pictures of Larry from his Mary arrest to his final trouble decades later were always the same. Old from the beginning, bloated, fat, balded and a large bulbous nose like any aged mean macrameing drunk. Leave the condom on, leave it on, can’t fit a soft cock in a condom until it’s done, Doll, and then it’s when it looks best. I remember and track. Mary had initially been called Marie as she was underage and hadn’t gone public. I recognize this, grew up with all of it then to now. Larry, after settling in Tampa after his eight years in prison for the attacks on Mary, was arrested again at this home. He answered the knocks to his front door, from a neighbor with the cops behind him, completely naked. His neighbors had seen, after hearing, him beating a woman through his front window. Naked except for the condom he still had wrapped around his dick From the stipulated facts in this case, the Court makes the following findings. Both defendants induced, enticed, or used minor children for the purpose of producing visual depictions of those minors. Defendants took a series of pictures of two minors in June 1984. Of the 22 photographs admitted into evidence, 21 of them (Government’s Exhibits 2a-10a, 12a-23a) are of one subject, a girl whom the defendants knew to be 14-years-old at the time the pictures were taken. These photographs were taken by both defendants at defendant Dost’s residence where he had the nude girl assume various supine and sitting poses. The one other photograph (Government Exhibit 11a) is of a 10-year-old girl. The girl is nude and sitting on the beach. Defendant Dost had the girl pose for this picture, and defendant Wiegand took the photograph. The undeveloped film was then mailed to a photo processing company in Hollywood, California, and, after processing, was mailed back to the defendants. The stipulated facts establish that both defendants conspired, used minors as subjects of visual depictions knowing that the visual depictions would be mailed, and knowingly received visual depictions through the mail. The critical issue in this case is whether the pictures depict the minors engaging in sexually explicit conduct as defined in 18 U.S.C. § 2255: (A) sexual intercourse, including genital-genital, oral-genital, anal-genital, or oral-anal, whether between persons of the same or opposite sex; (B) bestiality; (C) masturbation; (D) sadistic or masochistic; abuse; or (E) lascivious exhibition of the genitals or pubic area of any person; The photographs at issue here do not meet the definitions contained in subsections (A), (B), (C), or (D). These photographs depict “sexually explicit conduct” only if they contain a “lascivious exhibition of the genitals or pubic area” under subsection (E). Instead this Court feels that, in determining whether a visual depiction of a minor constitutes a "lascivious exhibition of the genitals or pubic area”under § 2255(2)(E), the trier of fact should look to the following factors, among any others that may be relevant in the particular case: 1) whether the focal point of the visual depiction is on the child’s genitalia or pubic area; 2) whether the setting of the visual depiction is sexually suggestive, i.e., in a place or pose generally associated with sexual activity; 3) whether the child is depicted in an unnatural pose, or in inappropriate attire, considering the age of the child; 4) whether the child is fully or partially clothed, or nude; 5) whether the visual depiction suggests sexual coyness or a willingness to engage in sexual activity; 6) whether the visual depiction is intended or designed to elicit a sexual response in the viewer. Of course, a visual depiction need not involve all of these factors to be a "lascivious exhibition of the genitals or pubic area.”The determination will have to be made based on the overall content of the visual depiction, taking into account the age of the minor. It gets ugly, all this, it gets hard. It doesn’t start out as ugly. Part of my recovery is that I know it will get uglier because of the way I keep remembering. This is what I do and what I want to do and that’s what I’m supposed to change. Not can. There’s no more qualification than, it must be obvious, it must be a problem then, that this, if not the best part of my time, is all I think about all of the time. I enjoy blaming myself. Keeps things quiet as well. Splitting the conversation between two men on opposite ends, pushed apart, isn’t going to happen when I do it. I’m unable as much as unwilling. Too used to answering others’ questions myself. Agreeing with one side and taunting the other. Limited on both. Stopped a long time ago. Simple men making the same simpleton mistakes is me mimicking to become both. I’d have to do this, think it through and away. All the time. The one asking the questions under the guise of tedious. Hypocritical. Jobbing and baying for morons, lustfully impossible understanding, is the easiest to dismiss as lying. Which is necessary. For both the fucks. I won’t, I know, spend as much time there since I confess all the fucking unbearable tautological fantasy beats. Another with the answers as long as there’s an ugly cum to prove it. And the repulsive stupidity, the laziness to agree to answer in the face of such thin insult and sleazy pretentiousness, is where I spend most of my time cutting off. If it needs explanation, and it does, the one asking questions has no real reason to ask questions if he pretends that he’s trying to help the other in understanding. Some tools might be useful once the interviewee has decided he doesn’t want to act like he is. And therefore isn’t what he thinks. Because it’s all going to be about stopping. The questions won’t help. It’s so easy to think you’re worse than you are. I’m done, I’m capitulating, you’re correct and this is a mess. There’s so many more examples of me being able to control myself than the mistakes I’ve made and the mistakes have always been due to the wrong understanding of commitment over reward. Fucking count on that, cunt. I have never worried that I wouldn’t be able to control myself. The fear of such a thing wasn’t part of the fear I dealt with perfectly fine. It was never a worry for me. Safety and cowardice take the life away from those in need of recovery, those who allow themselves to go through that. Those who answer the questions. Who recognize some worth in the misunderstandings. I know he was masturbating over his little girls. The ages he raped after abducting. Found his cum in the back of his van. Still pulled himself off and cummed on the floor next to the exposed body. Groped and positioned and stared, maybe licked. He was buying more pornography from Kings Cross. Traveled to collect more. It’s not fair of me to finish what happened. Every thought creates an image, back. I’d rather not remember but this is not true at all. I want to pull them together and create the incidents as more than stage crawls to flesh and care. Honestly, I’m fairly sure both have me disgusted. I told the guy that I was okay. And kept drinking. I’m alright is what I said. And I doubt that I’ve ever not rubbed someone’s crotch if they did it first. At the bar, feeling his cock and I’m thinking now that it wasn’t hard but getting larger in the way that I engage, it still wasn’t enough to get me to follow him into the john so I could suck on what he wanted sucked. I patted his full pants and grabbed around where his balls shoved and turned back to the bar. We kissed before that, actually. I was still rubbing his cock. I said I’m going to have to leave in a few minutes but thank you. And he was harder now. Grabbed me around the neck like a buddy would if he was suggesting you want this more than I do. And I took my hand away and put it on the bar. You be good now, okay? He licked my neck and I patted him on the ass. He grabbed my hand and put it back on his crotch and I grabbed that blood fattened cock harder and pushed my face back into his. I got up, turned, and let him tongue around my mouth since he was losing it. Took my hand from his sac and pushed it around his ass so that we could grind each other. He started to feel around my pants to see if I was as erect as him, to let me know that I wanted this now, and that what he wanted was working. I knew to stop this. I didn’t want any more of it. And told him to knock it off by whispering in his ear. We have to stop. We can’t do this now. I stuck my hand underneath his shirt and went up his back instead of down to his ass. I pulled away and rubbed his spine closer to a pet than a grab. And wiped my mouth off. Adjusted my pants in full disclosure of the bar, said whew and smiled and thought better of kissing him on the cheek. So I patted his face. He was an older man than myself. Acting sexy. So one takes care of these. C’mon, Doll. I’m done. Thanks. I’m done with these men. I have proof. Nothing that was going to happen would have been alright. It would have been better if I asked him where he lived or told him that we won’t be able to go take pisses anymore with everyone watching, would have been worse than any other time and orifice or trade. I’m not one of these queers who hears himself say he had a great dick, that’s why I went, why I couldn’t stop myself. Or it got me hot. Or I couldn’t imagine myself now ever turning down the offer once we started and I wanted his hard cock in my ass or I told him that I was going to cum in his ass after I fucked his face since he was so demanding, tiger. You get straight, faggot. I would have looked like the ones I see in the flaming strip bar just down the block. You have no idea how much worse that place is when the old men get drunk towards the end of the night and how the bar, now half closed off, hires more boys to walk around in their bikini briefs and wait for their turns on the small stage than ever before. Old men making out with the young boys while they grab jock strap ass and tugged out balls and the soft heads of pricks. They don’t work for tips. A woman wouldn’t have acted this way, they being more desperate at that hour but almost always dream smarter about how they would appear and what that would mean personally. This is why I pick this bar over the joint with young dancers. I like all old faggot bars, can’t stand the ones that have a young clientele. Gay bars. Loud, mostly silly and preeny. Drinking bars. Viciously cruising. An older woman with a younger boy under two old men thinking it was their right is as repulsive to any patron as even thinking about it proves. Don’t let yourself get over it. I remember this. You would encourage them. You would tell them so what, who gives a fuck, it isn’t any big deal, go ahead and enjoy yourself. You’d lie and say you look fine, you don’t look pretty, you look like you’re enjoying yourself. If it doesn’t matter, don’t do it. You do either yes or no, or please or here, often enough and you see that’s when it doesn’t matter. It’s so much work to make it matter as if you don’t want to, as if you’re not always better this way. It doesn’t look the way you listen, this, at least, is more true. End up noticing the cock watching. I’m right for despising it. For putting it further from myself and insisting that the ones I see doing it sicken. It’s clear that I can’t stop. Though I can. I take the wrong view of denial, I’m just no as inconveniently sure that this is where I’m closest to pedophilia. Where the history is clinical and all industrial treatments are proven impossible as sicker capitalist lying fantasy. The wanting to stop, fuck knows why, the constant nothings and hideous vernaculars over violent small obsessions. I’m even tied to the look of a nice cock peeking out from beneath loose shorts leg. They do this. I don’t as much go looking for it. I saw it in the photos, I’ve seen it alot more where I go to see similar and, as it turns out, these deep homosexual suffering stereotypes, I can’t see them acting different. Talked myself into being a pedophile. Told myself that I wasn’t attracted to children because I didn’t fully understand what attracted meant. My experience with the little pricks and comely innocence was entirely formatted through seeing them in timed positions that had nothing to do with cute, naked, thoughtful, very clean, composure. I don’t know what hairless or innocent means. The cocksuckers that I’d heard drool over them were just cocksuckers, that’s it. Cuntlappers and jagoffs. Thin chests and darling little bottoms had an appeal that demanded someone else explained what it meant while I was watching. Even, as director, if they were well off my grasp. I knew how to look at what was bought. What was intended for me as a customer. I started, early on, receiving the details and I’d prefer to ignore the families and unkind selfish fathers until I experienced the same words from the cocksuckers who’d follow me around in the places that were sold as gay but propped as filth. I never once thought I should be voice for these sorts of pig and still don’t. I’m very pleased, however, to say that what I recognized as far beneath my vaunted low level of chronic gaze and open mouth was very much in quotidian keeping with what they would, more than say, pin me to the fucking wall as exactly the same. Their pain, small, inconsequential, is their own. It doesn’t register as high as you’d like. Found those eventually. And it’s where I stopped moving. Those others are fine with that place and it’s best to watch those. There’s the difference, no huge difference, not enough to placate or discern. You lean in afterward and know that it’s not going to come out of your own recalcitrant mouth. The differentials in what’s available and what’s penetrated by lugs is too wide and timely. You never find something attractive. Unless it’s speaking like gender. Repeating, guessing what you want. They’re disgusting half humans that got the shit half correct and ruined it by staying fooled full stop. This is what you’d like to say is gay pride and what I’d like to say is what I’d do to control my fear of arrest for raping children and smelling women with their legs spread open if that could be done by giving them diseases perfectly captured in places where viruses should seep and flit. The reek of the stalls of what you wanted was bound to force itself over the design of what they knew. These men created in this place, not the proprietors. I knew it was getting to the point of problems when I started turning down men. Soon those would be chasing after them. This is only sensible. You stop counting damage as you get used to what little there is. Yet you sell the damage as clear only to you until you work out the time it takes to write it down and get it out to those who’ll disagree with you after they’ve done the same. You’ll meet them. They count. They know how to act. They become aggressive and friendly and conspiratorial. You become thankful you don’t have to work so hard at the game after awhile. You’ve got balls down there too. After I explained I didn’t want to drop my pants and just wanted the blowjob with my hard-on stuck out of my zipper. I learned to like having my ass rubbed with both hands while they sucked and let them finger asshole for their pleasure issue not mine. It made me pump harder, cum quicker, push more and grab his head when I told him to get his finger wet so that he could taste what he didn’t know or care he was fucking around with. I learned to do the same except I’d go from asshole to mouth a lot quicker than he did and turn the old threaded obloquy around to jab more fingers, more tongue in whether or not it was going to get fucked. I’d lean over and spread after too much finger fucking, if I hadn’t cummed. Getting fucked that way felt better than a blowjob after the first few gobs and I’m not confusing the sensation for the act, not ever, not once. You’d suck him on his way up off his knees. He’d often let me finish if I acted rough and stopping that for a different position seemed more intense than the small repositioning would delete. I’ll lick your ass while you cum. While you tool off. I’ll take your cum. Just lick my balls, I can cum if you lick balls. Lick ass. Let me get more. You pull yourself. You don’t cum. You save that for me. Let me cum in your mouth and I want your cum in my throat. Stomach’d. I want your cum. Say something extraordinary happened. Say it will. Say something other than cum, something other than hard cock. Say the woman that pulled her shirt off so that you could see her tits bounce out of her bra and see herself exciting you was something other than another hard queer with a lifetime of this over and over again so it looked and reeked and wretched tasted like a new hole. Say something other than old and pliant. Say this hasn’t changed and you’re fine with that. Say act like a man. Like a girl. That this isn’t helping you stave off wanting to fuck the child it keeps at home when it gets like this and can’t stop. You don’t act like that here, not now, not in this knees down face up ass twisting pit you are. It never stops, fuck you, it always does. That’s what comes from the language you learned, woman. I’ve never seen anyone as pretty as you. These men in the seats away from the door towards the back; that’s what they say and I hear them. I don’t know how that’s not right, how that’s not a very good idea. My mind has always been closer to the side that stays convinced. That I’ve been teetering nearer to bent from how much I saw because how much I had to see was what I was looking for. If I learned to shy away and yet caught the theme but didn’t dare anymore, I’d find the same elsewhere if I didn’t cave. Caving wasn’t particularly attractive either but edging was ridiculous. A coward when a coward was voluminously represented in every single shot of pornography I’ve ever seen. The single idea that defined this apparently undefinable genre of vache et cochon was far too easy to define. And even that, among the arguments in favor of splitting up the differences into consensual and rape, fine and rotten, were so perfectly in keeping with each other. This can ruin what I’ve done. If the minds of others are so pure and yet so worrying to me. I’ve always thought that the strength of what I’ve done is that something else, which I’ll define, happens after I’ve moved point to point. It’s not a hope or a technique for improvisation, translation, I know that I control it before and after. I think this way all too often and I couldn’t deny that. I’ve never wanted to. It’s too important to me and most likely all that I have in the way of spending worthwhile time tracing time imperfectly. But, continuing on from where I’ve perverted the options I may have into reductive psychological problems of the blind and desperate comfort that I do also take very seriously. I can say that while each successive paragraph was built on inferences, better memories, to pile on what the truth of the initial echo might be, I can also tell you that the entire thing is clearly what the doctors studying such problems as mine, to wit pedophilia, ask for. That is if all those suffering don’t offer it up to themselves well before finally being asked. A masturbation diary. None of this could, at base, be otherwise. And then if it works. Even if the way they say it can if they weren’t actually listening. It’ll be more than that. More being a pathetic understanding and entertaining release where the guide can stop teasing. Every mention of that little thin blonde beast named that over those that I was masturbating towards on my screen because I thought he looked enough like naked holes not crying was hardly an excuse for being a closeted fearful fag. I can tell you how I discovered the poor shit. Where I was when I started our descent. And every time I’d return to a scene, this must be obvious now, I’d be completely inundated by the littler, smaller, largely unseen pilled rape of that darling Jason Swift naked toerag lying atop any powder and spunk splattered kitchen table. With all those men around, like me over dumb paid actor not quite, masturbating and tugging and looking for spots to cum at while we forgot others were watching. I’d like to tell you something that happened. I’d like it to happen again. How is this different from staving off what I’m told I want to only see and how I’m supposed to behave and what happens when it is in company, in country. The doctor would ask. And I’d argue that it doesn’t matter. The point is that I was in the guy’s bedroom and I’m standing up next to him while he was sitting in his comfortable usual chair in front of his own computer. I dropped my pants only to my thighs because I was doing it quickly. I had already showed him I was hard, pushing the bulge in my pants up and muttering about how I can barely stand how childishly and uncontrollably I get a hard-on. I’d initially not tell how I know this guy, how he knew what I liked but it would eventually come out. I’d not say when it happened. I would have hoped that saying that I wanted it to happen again would cover my guilt as guilty.I’ve read enough about the problems with self-report criminality and, if nothing else, my concern over new charges should be ameliorated slightly as my need for help found study. I’ve carefully read the court reports and political arguments and an opposing idiot would only demand that my work be seen as forearmed and forewarned. Not only ever the only design possible. No matter, it would be presented as obvious to those who would agree and declare themselves pretentious, knowing, deeply foolish and egregiously more reductive and vulgar than I would ever hope to be. That the arguments against these arguments would be the usual complaint of search and confusion doesn’t help. I’m certain for more. And that is impossible as anything but a sounded out lie. Stood there while he showed me the things he was worried about keeping. I cummed looking directly at the screen. It had nothing to do with what he was going to see and how I would have handled that. This was a chance to get this done and if I hadn’t ignored him or let him feel my ass or catch my cum, it wouldn’t have meant that I wasn’t still excited by what I was watching. It had nothing to do with him but I didn’t care if he knew that. I wouldn’t have glanced over at him and encouraged him to do the same. I wasn’t near wanting this to turn into something between us or share even a crime. My sort of soup slurper has been whipped off the face of the planet. This is important when considering what sort of land pornography you like.The acts are available and those who prize personalities, specific body types attached to faces, are more like pop fans and fame idiots. Following a series created by a specific director sells the acts over the personality inasmuch as the genre exists for the degree of humiliation or repressed, cartoon anger. There’s the rare version of someone offering more than you paid for. Spotting this, like Times Square, Gold Coast, North Beach sub rosas, comes from a mindset that is prone to illegal interests. You had to work in the original days to know where to find this and it came from following those distributors of materials that were not for general stock. Once found, a collector’s mentality found paid in the men offering more than you could usually dismiss as you trawled through the degenerate lists looking for acts. I wouldn’t know how to jerk off to things I thought were pretty. I wouldn’t buy clips or packages based on the size of tits or the country of face and the white flatness of heroin or cheese infected asses. These poor men I watch, used to, shop alongside me, not getting enough cute or young at home, are no longer, like me, browsing the shelves or following the new shots just released by a new magazine spread. They’re masturbating at work. Scrolling for a certain look to heft and the pigs who suck on big black dick, take it in their asses and probably being slightly but insignificantly disappointed that the actresses will keep saying they’re free to do what they truly enjoy. The typical is also more important now whereas I’m stuck with thinking that it is all far too special and telling. I’m old and sad and desperate and they’re not looking for dick as much as I think. Three joints still on 8th Avenue as of this week. All three now selling more ugly ladies under animals and under shit than they ever had to before. No Box DVR’s from behind the Hindi security and past them, scants of men waving their dicks out at you in full capture of the surveillance cameras. I had made the decision to stop quite awhile before that and I say that it was a decision because I really did have to stammer it like some backward religious cunt. Making deals with myself against another self and I had to imagine, also forced, that I was talking as one single want. My balls even hurt and I figured that it couldn’t be biology. I could get worried about the masochistic come to enjoy that, that it was better and even if it wasn’t psychotic, then privately embarrassing. I also didn’t want to believe in self-respect, especially when such a construct requires someone watching, or a greater fear of exploding at the wrong or correct moment when I’m finally out of control and getting what I really want like a nigger that doesn’t know instinct otherwise. I know this still. That the prostitutes who I’d read every diary entry of and follow every release of their cam lives disgusted me in the way they talked about what they didn’t find grotesque enough to stop. I enjoyed finding them hideous and stared at what they did and said more often than not waiting for them to realize what they were doing to their audience. Not themselves. Too far gone and stupid to admit it. Plus there were sales to consider, lifestyles that had little to do with what they allowed themselves to do, not create, let happen to them while armies of men masturbated directly onto them. Close your fucking mouth, slob. Literally and figuratively and politely. A cam girl that I was buying. Told me I should write down the things I was saying to her. It wasn’t psychiatry. I told her she should. Directed me to where the girls write about their customers and, still, fuck, I told her, I knew it would be written as if the audience was watching for more. Getting less again. She agreed and I asked her what else was she going to say. I picked her because of the age she looked. I’d picked older ones before. They’d also want to talk. And were more cynical. I wasn’t lying when I asked this one to keep her clothes on. Explained it wasn’t to hear her talk though. I wasn’t interested in seeing her body just then. Not while she watched me masturbate and cum down away from the screen that she watched for. I asked her not to talk when I finally started pulling on myself. Initially, through my pants, until I knew that by taking my cock out of my flashers zipper, I could cum with just a few strokes and I did. This would have happened if I stayed as stuck as I think I can. I found this in a book recently. Came across it because I was following a trail from this lunatic who writes obsessively about the damage that Alfred Kinsey has wrought. Charmingly, she starts with child sexual abuse within her family. This is how her broadcast path started demanding more and more research to more and more campaigning. She has an influence and an absolutely insidious presence in this book on sex related crimes written by a former police investigator whose background, I’m pleased to say, is now obnoxiously suspect. Not withstanding his current position. And this book written as it is from a perspective of sexual disgust about men, chiefly, who’ve let sex overrun their limited or confused and confessed capabilities, is page to page sex crime cases. The photos the author has included are the sort of thing I’ddo phenomenal work to find back before such things found mainstream scatter, whether it be the internet or the contemporary cast of criminal literature fandom. These photos are in color whereas they used to be black and white. And they no longer employ the maddeningly smart censorship that used to prevail whenever you were lucky enough to find one of these photos from police files through academic steal. You see the vaginas and nipples now to put a fine point to it. Before you’d have a photo of a bloodied corpse with its clothes pulled up to expose breasts and pubic and then a black bar obscenely stuck over the prurient obviates that might offend those watching for the wrong person watching. One particular police snap in my newly acquired elder wretch sees a yellow fat breast rudely placed atop the woman’s face after it was severed from her raped murdered shape. Bloodied and boned deep holes where you would draw her big tit had it not infuriatingly demanded to be removed fucking completely for once. Other pertinents include a baseball bat shoved large into a child’s anus and spread wide rape shots where the women, especially, have been splayed and spliced but primarily discarded wide mimicking pornographic shots from the days when it was exciting to see just how far a pig would pig. These, as a child with a mind for such, always struck me as the most exciting pictures because, at once, soon, it defined audience and object. Unimportant men who needed to see these ghastly wounds, pre-crime, had to be sexually othered by the intricacies, or the truth, of these messy hairy cunts and I was perhaps, probably actually, more interested in the men who loved seeing that. And would buy that. Find themselves worthwhile when locating it. Than the great chasm of filth that was female if I had to consider it as anything but the dregs level she’d reached by doing what the photographer paid her less than what he would pay someone else expressly not to do. Clinical pornography sold in every store in smaller pressings but shipped far wider than you would have imagined. And these new versions of those old crime rape scene shots are something I could have spent my life constantly running down and collecting. But as I hadn’t. I’m now in the position of reconstituting the obsessive search for such things. Safe to say there’s no nostalgia there. As well as no realization that I’ve been missing what some other lizard form of condescending philosophy had denied me. Is this what I wanted, am I happy again, fucking myself. What I’m pieced thinking when I masturbate to these rape pictures, these sliced women in deep pools of old blood and these beaver shots of murdered and picked trash and the fact that there are some pictures where the faces are censored not to shame the families who might not appreciate still what academia and criminal profiling research has done to their painful lives, is whether or not the doctor would demand to know if I masturbated to these pictures as an adult. As if this would change the picture or my countenance. The argument against me is that whether or not I’m always looking for these shots and whether or not I’m always going to find them is going to be that I’ve continued responding like an animal licking its balls whenever it has a chance to stop looking for something to eat. They’ll always find me since I’ve never quite stopped looking. Although, I assure you, I did in this case. If you don’t make sacrosanct that the thinking involved that should have brought me back is essentially monomaniacal and circular. These photos of our young proxy shaking his nice jumping cock at me isn’t always going to be me summing at dick and balls and firm thin ass. But then it is, no matter what I’m thinking or being told or suspecting quite beyond my undependable labor. How to make it so that I sound as if I’m seeing myself as depraved as those old mothers who’ve spent their lives grieving. Emphasis on old. My antelapsarian problems that I can do much better at by shutting down and shutting up. Again to grace. How do I explain that I’ve been enjoying grievous choices without coming across equally frightened and juvenile and temporary. How does one sound adult and display the glories of indurate maturity when one can’t resist pulling one’s dick, correctly or constantly, as is demanded as the single answer you have when you consider the life lessons of mental health in lieu of tragic compliance. I do find us sick, darling. Not hurt. Not like you. But contorted like you. Warped and unfair as it all is where you only wanted so little as long as it’s god at the top and family flowers down below. How do I keep turning dirt. Real dirt. You fucking know the partners you have see through you. You know they can hold their liquor better. And still get you home screaming. I really do remember again. An older gentleman who bent over naked having walked from the shower to the locker room in a place that was created solely for the money strangers who’d go to have sex with sub-equal strangers. Some artist must have known that these were ugly as lonely people he was meant to corral. And so what, there’s ugly people in this world. You wouldn’t ask him not to do this. And he’d answer, yes, it would be best if such a place didn’t serve a need. Maybe it’s not for you, not being as crippled as those who deeply need the service we provide. So that they don’t end up losing even more control and sucking on my daughter. I can’t pinpoint an event where everything went hideous and unfair. Sex offender reasoning. Everything that I can bring up as a particularly calamitous or a monstrously cathartic drop and stop is only one in the middle. Where it started doesn’t exist because the very first arrest, the very first point of recognition that this was indeed beyond my grasp, was already further down from wherever I made the first decision to start following. Wasn’t stupid enough to think backwards and forwards, you understand. Mutters came after. All these parents and cops and helpful healthfuls don’t have anything ever to replace that somewhere nothing happened except an initial indecision that was placed over me by the real me. Terminals don’t matter and don’t count. You stop counting and you don’t see gentle encouragement the same way others tell you. Unfair talking only about what’s fair. You walk into a great breach of grunting cows and get to pick out the one you want to lift out, help only the sad fuck that asked you first and you can’t get them all to safety or explain how to crawl up a wall of mud to escape. And one slow answer from high above is that you’re supposed to settle down with the rest and give in like all them have apparently better. Just burp along with the rest of the beasts. Who are you and how dare you. Which fuck, what image. When you think it would, simply, be easier to start beating them. This is vivid. And therefore, better. You don’t want to prince fuck that. You want to stop, the doctor told me, all this about points and you’re looking for pretty nylon to keep you away from any younger. You don’t jack off thinking about the mother, you stay away from fucking yourself while you hope to see her child. She wants you to stop. She can’t hear you. You want to do exactly what she doesn’t think you really want to do. She wants to tell you why you’re wrong and you’re listening and fantasizing helping her. Everything you do is you wanting to stop doing this. This is nothing, you’ve already stopped. I explained what really happens. There’s no voice for others he immediately countered. You aren’t a voice for anyone that sits in a bar and talks your ear off or writes about her sex experiences online everyday as if you have something to say that no one else has to say or sell. Ihere are men, there are transcripts; there are worse examples of the men I’ve been with that can be easily encouraged to masturbate onto the pictures I loved like a child. And when I proved it, when I knew that sex was just an act of secondary ease, I understood that I was the one who was listening to all the wrong directions. I was that sucker. I’ve watched sex conform to what I was at sick all these years while I aged and I knew it beforehand. It stops with a young man exposing himself to children through his window at home. His co-workers at work. They didn’t stop getting worse and I’m no murderer, no molester, no fat idiot who can’t stop himself rubbing his hard-on through his pants while sat on the el staring at a child just sitting there in her winter coat and doing nothing but wondering straight ahead. Smile cunt. Look at this. Stare back. I’ll read for you. I understand, I told the idiot this, that I wasn’t going to have to cum there and then. And the child wasn’t showing any skin or posing with her stretch pants legs spread though I knew she certainly must have had stretch pants on underneath her obnoxiously bulky coat because all children do. They don’t know about me. What I’m doing as I run to wherever I’m going as soon as I get off the train and, honestly, a full fast harder pull into a urinal is all I need and shooting function into the drain with all the piss and iron stains. You stick these men in jail and they don’t stop talking about it and they don’t stop looking for cock to suck and ass to lunch and none of that is anything ever but compulsory. There are better precedents. Seriously. I can’t think of one that isn’t mouthed one hundred percent in color by what the family members have talked about since it happened and then over the years as it does not stop either. They age. And I forget about them. I can’t care enough to get sentimental any longer, any more, not after what I know is coming. Hypersexual, you have to piss, not cum. I don’t think that all the men that I could have taken names away from would be different or scarring versions of the same personality that I secretly or wishfully possess. If I removed their names, the subject won’t sing any less damaging than my own interest in the subject. If I presented it as if to say that I was showing as many different sides of the subject as my overriding interest damns by obsession. If I didn’t leave the names in, I’d be pretending that the project is more conflicting or wider than the impediment of my research blocks. I’d need a controlling script. Like the liberal complaints against the Butner study. I’d need a fucking subject. My including all these very interesting men might be mistaken by assuming I see them as whole representations of tiny desperations. My editing them together might be mistaken as separate moments of myself. As a list of sexual acts performed by others and not myself at exactly the same fucking time. All view slits. They’d all become cocks for the pits I made, whether I want it in my asshole or someone else’sso I could cum while I told them what to do or where it would have been better to stick imperative than there, idiot. It’s not reviewing records blind. You can’t say there’s only one answer, one person, and definitely the only thing you can conclude is that fantasy isn’t as primordial as the nondescript victims. I’m missing something comes on the tail of fear. I’m reading the fucking transcripts and seeing why I keep going to the arcade for the same thing every time over and over. Written down. This is all. At once. It’s not even open. I intended, at first, to keep the triggers, the bits of headlines and text pulls that I had used in another book, to put me in a frame of focus so that the answers wouldn’t be dramatically ourselves or fluid fucking wretched spontaneous imagination praisers. I knew I could pin myself to fuck. I did do that. No one else can get it. Worse. It was done as a sexual as well as introspective exercise to nail predisposition down and I did it so I couldn’t lie anymore. What did it stop. Because it wasn’t really an exercise. There’s no such thing either, is there. It is absolutely ironfuckingclad. The police will tell you the same thing. So you have to find out who their boss is. Who they’re talking to, those idiots; you likely know. Paying cunts to come back with something from what they send gorillas out to do. That runs through this shit all the time. Creates it. They’ll come back and say you’re clearly very angry. Have said this. You’re clearly inadequate. Defensive. Lost in fantasy. Just as sad as fantasy, I understand this. This is yet another not terribly difficult question. You end up coming off like you’re impressed by your own prescience. You end up a marketer. When the work is greater than that. The work proves that when I look for proof. And finding a way in that’s still the wrong thing over and over and I have to listen to it while I know what you think you can sell to me after I had higher hopes for what you were working with, just selling to the wrong plugs who’ve dragged you far further down than I ever would have. I’d rather not continue. I’d like to stop. This was the original pull; the very first one that began a different listen than the repertoire I own. Some other cunt would tell you it’sa disaster. Meaning that he gets the wrong encouragement as well as the wrong sale. I do not think that I’m that particular brand of cunt. But I’ve been performing the same dolt, disposing of the self-aggrandizing worry and grey deleting the voices of said cunts as much as I can. Still there though, still game, still listening to cunt. I’ll tell you what I do that sounds exactly the same. Then hopefully fuck it up by explaining that I don’t think it has as much to do with an inclusive submissive pain or a flattering workable honesty. Thereby making both sound still the fucking same. Most cunts would then deconstruct the language, widely pronounce it as their obsession, and I’d get lumped down to the mire of options that make up boredom outside patchwork authority. If I stayed there as a fabulist researcher over a contestable offense. Problem. Churn and release. Models don’t get names. The arrests are too few and the real stars too rare. The perverts give them names. Not the ones they are called outside of the films. After the criminal’s shaming, efforts are made by workers who deliver their stories to me and the questionable courts who, even to the jury, keep the victims’ names from the levels of public. This is an important distinction. Which name was the file in? And these photos became known as the Peach series? The victim was referred to by her name since the defendant addressed her by that name on the audio? Yes,but I didn’t know if that was her real name because sometimes they use different names because they’re often play names. And adopting characters or mimicking other sisters or whomever. And sometimes they don’t know if they’re being filmed? Start here. Rest. I’ve been selecting my purchases from whatever happens after the early morning walk to the open 24 hours adult bookstore. I’ve chosen the earliest hours I can, usually around 4 to leave my place and head downtown. Because the store might as well be closed and most of the gloryholing in the back of the single reason this place still stands is virtually nonexistent. The clerks have more problems with the begging, thieving bums than shoe gazing cocksuckers left alone to wank on the floor or dirty piss in the bathroom off to the side if not inside assholed peep show stalls. Preview booths as they’ve been called the last twenty or so years since I learned them as peep shows. It’s not that anyone bothers me. I’d go too easily. So I prefer not to have those options either. The coincidences that are there early morning are far more aggressive than the ones acting like they have better choices during the downtown business district employment hours. Again, easily agree. I would prefer to think I acquiesce. But the truth is I let it be known that I’ll make the move to follow with the slightest bit of eye contact. And, in fact, if that doesn’t work or happen. I’ll go to the back on my own and wait for them to choose the booth next to me like they were supposed to. It’s not that I want to be picked. I don’t enjoy that at all. No one does. And I know my place. I just don’t want to play those games as long as they take and I can barely keep my mind off of anything else if the fucking smell just starts to waft or looks like it will. Revolting that way, you understand, and this is why I go when the place is most likely empty. The mexican is supposed to be mopping instead of wiggling. It’s wrong to think otherwise. Wrong being a problem in thinking. Doesn’t make it to my fingers. Worse, these ideas, when sounded out. When a concept is worked through in thought only to explode it as only thought. To keep it away from your fingers. Your fingers primarily. Not mine. Turn it into a phrase directly for an example. Less than demand or consequence, I’ve been trying my constant hardest to stop all that shit. Long life rivers of it. Being fucked up the way I was. Working against myself. It really does mean that I shouldn’t. I resent it. And even the suggestion that it’ll piss me off makes me think I don’t want to think it through. In fact, I don’t want to think of what I’ve done. That, I know is wrong. I shouldn’t think like that. Kind therapy. With compliments. And dreams instead of drives, suggestions over and under rickety hope. And, this is also a fact, it was never wrong. If I say it doesn’t matter. The way absolutely everyone else will say that I shouldn’t make something more of it than it is. That this doesn’t matter. That masturbating is personal and tedious and frightened and talking about it isn’t important and boring and all of this boredom or worry is pathetic and psychotic. Less than noble, pragmatics, responsibility, self-assured and prepossessed. I know that’s what’s wrong. It is absolutely important. The single most important act in everything I’ve read and done. You only have to read so much of the literature around those who’ve done the things I’ve done and even watched the things I’ve seen to understand that the entire health industry, the whole sexual past and future transcription, interview, spreadsheet is never better than a work-through of what men masturbate to. What they think and what they look for. Comes down to what they’re remembering for guilt. I hope you’ll find it tedious. You’llbe lying. And lying so badly will do you better than you’ve been doing. I do absolutely understand that. I do absolutely love that. I do absolutely want so much more of that. And than that. But it stops, that part. So more than becomes more of. And what is truly significantly pathetic is the difference between a demand and consent. A perfectly good definition of pornography, legal, sold, is anything that has you spotting the edit where the actor had to pull out and yank on himself to cum. Wherever stupid. If he wasn’t quite able to use her body the same way. I have nowhere to go. Not anymore. And this is not a problem I saw when I remember the contempt for the old men who I’d sit beside and listen to and keep my hands to myself. The contempt that I was correct in keeping up to and including the present where, instead, I’m supposed to admit the squabling defeat I didn’t see coming in my youthful egotism. Something like the very insult that I still keep for those younger than me now. The loss that they’re too full of themselves and clearly stupid not to see twisting behind their insect narratives. I edit both sides and refuse to accept the art that is supposed to offer voices to such voiceless sads. I’ve never thought that having sex with either those ever younger or far older than me was absent the repudiation for those who don’t need a voice. I too often wish they’d shut the fuck up. I hear that in the back of my brain while I listen. Not one of those old queens who sucks cock so he can look for the tiny cracks in gorgeous statues. I repulse the old men who think this is a thought worth telling and they’re voluminous in literature as well as drunken confession. I prefer the ones that don’t separate the violence that is there from the violence supposed to come. Which should tell you, I avoid the bums and crusts and flattered just as much. Takes some time since, obviously, my dibs are reliant on exactly these thoughts and hubris and unremarkably thin on the ground. I’m offering virtually nothing. This sort of creep is hardly an advertisement for anything. If you want a bark, suffused with shame and tragedy. I’ve got one that offers nothing else or more. I would guess. The most successful brand of creep, if your impaired definition of success is getting an evening at home remembering all the nice cocks you had stuck into your pug like a gleaning faggot or into your abyssal ass like your soft mother, is the one that pays and doesn’t worry about how much that costs. I offer that I know. As one would. You learn how to listen. Lie better and, gloriously, how to avoid the subject of being lonely like that rather than this. It’s nice. Doing that for them. You give them money to help them as one would have to as one is showing that he’s listening carefully. You want one to say: I like doing this. I’ll be doing this for as long as I can. Until you, impaired, stop me. And you’ll tell him that if I had a body like him, I’d most likely say the same thing. That you can enjoy having beaten human beings, mentally deficient, socially absent and empty of anything but sex, stare at you. It’s nicest not to believe this common crap about wanting to be something other than beautiful or wanted or just, really, a nice cock. You could tell him: I was thinking about how many men I’ve been fucked by and how many men I’ve fucked and, after awhile, I had realized that it never had to have anything to do with what or who they were. What was happening. Was going to happen with or without any of us. I just had to be there so it was me and not an idea. Think of it like this: sucking on something. Stop. Just sucking on things. Any anythings. I’ll tell you why that doesn’t work. There’s too many examples. Too many to even have favorites or essentials. The language alone is a fade that destroys any chance at perfect target, answer, cool reason. Specificity is left to the cops and critics to use the still examples that you wish you hadn’t used. Because they’re not all-inclusive. The madness - that list of bad decisions repackaged as selfish lazy impulse - was separating the multitude of lists and recalls and never once is there a single memory that ended with perfection. You don’t tell me. And you don’t sound like this: I know the best sellers in pornography. I know what the men are buying and what they’re watching and where they stop when they need to cum after searching. I also know the girls and boys, I prefer boys these days, who sit on the employed side of computers and are paid by negotiation after friendly tip. I know where to find them and the ones that you can never quite get to because they’re busier far more than the other ones who are working very hard at attracting you to what they can convince you is as just as good. Or as you’ll not want to later learn that you’ve been missing this. I have two examples. Before I tell you who I think is especially pretty. I’ve been trolling back to this strip joint simply because I’ve had that little boy in my stagnant. And. I’ve been heading back to the adult bookstore downtown to look through the huge tumbling walls and stacks of dvds still on sale, looking through the breast sections, which do not stop so they belong to every series, nearly every brand, ever made because of those photos I’ve seen and continue to prefer of these older women rape victims with their clothes ripped down or pushed up. This is true. I love the facts over fear that she wrapped those things up and yet drove someone to do this. That she covered herself and her attacker knew this was more important. This isn’t all that was happening. Then cunt was functional, rape was relief, casts stereotype, inevitable, unmissable. This particular photo. Is a very enlightening, reductive, documentation of a stop in action. Action being those thoughts. Stop fucking and look what you did. Pushed your little bland brainwaves to nonsense where you can give up. For a little while. Next stop is formulating schizophrenia. If race no longer carries. You have no idea how much work it is to get rid of these lately ubiquitous pictures, do you. People like that. I’ll get told that I’m lying. While I wouldn’t think of telling you that I think the same of you. The first step to social worth is to believe you in complete constant character when faced against all rancid evidence that all you want is so little that it’s created god backwards into you. Add a code of safety. And I’ve never believed it works as well as you think it comes off, so just fucking act like you, fuck, cunt, talk. This is not true, actually. The turn is towards story lines. Which suggest or may prove that women look like squeezed pigs eventually. You’ll need to place better thoughts in your head, well over the paraphilias and pretty aesthetic burs that probably remind you of something other than what you grew up around, work around, were taught by or let get away. God told you it would be this great for the rest of your life. Always a recent, ridiculous, base that you’ll have to contend with. When arguing with yourself in the absence of a real jury. I’ve made deals with myself, standing in for watch as a hum that splits down both sides of all sentences and I’m sick of it. I’ve decided that I’ll try something not to get what it is I’m supposed to want. I won’t go to these places for weeks on end. Stupidly, I’ve also decided that I’ll try not masturbating for at least a month at a time. This, if it works, would seem to be the wrong disaster. Or the correct pose for human. Caring, concerned, controlled. Above my greater self and lesser instincts. More to the point, better than the charitable problems I have in mental instability and sexual castration. If there is no one to protect, as in a case of murder or a missing child where the intense focus is on finding her, then the name is used. And the family’s suffering is allowed highlighting in soft focus. You’ll have to ask, how many of the names here are worth remembering after starting the next clipping. While one act follows beautifully from the one before. So many more possibilities have been dismissed as contrary to a refined progression. Removing the criminals names would be misconstrued as me substituting collectives underneath each black scar. And matching the overwrought sympathy of the censored victims’ contact fear. My using this hacked up shit as a self-report shouldn’t beg for a worth above pornography. I’ve been fingering shit since the early days. I’ve added a second section to provide a somber populist melody. Please don’t remain focused on the number of cases; it’s the wrong statistic. If I hadn’t been drawn and played by these fucking mouths and cocks back then, I wouldn’t be able to say that the switch I saw in others was not the same. I’d walk in these places, frightened like everyone always tells you before they recount their education to freedom and head to their abandonment as aged. I’m not really talking about that but I’m afraid I won’t be able to avoid the undercurrent. The stupidity comes from me, terribly charming not overly anxious, thinking I, typically possibly, wanted to have sex that involved others and didn’t realize that most were there to put things in their mouths until they got a chance to fuck an asshole. Fucking was where they became aesthetically sentient, complete, sucking was appreciative and yearning and difficult to a point. I was set on. And available as silly. There’s the one bar in particular and, more than that, an alley just behind. There was a truck that I was driving that allowed me a cab with room. But I was younger than most there except for the boys who were gay and didn’t act like it so they acted like hookers. Hooking made it easier for me. I don’t think chicken was a concept I grasped there as well as chicken hawks but I was hardly the age that would have fit either. I’m glad that I was so adolescent to pay these boys, one especially, to suck me. I wanted to cum, I thought, this was a place to cum, and I wanted the faces of those who were ripped up enough to do that. I did, and do, think it’s an infantalized recollection. This was supposed to make sense later and it never has. A self-hating worry but with enough experience to be perfectly correct, dear. It’s not only me that says that. Encouraging children not to commit suicide and letting them know they’re loved as a whole is the speech I’m supposed to suffuse when impossible commitment and history speaks another angle. You’ll get better. More your self eventually. Lies to impossibles. I enjoy, mimic and avoid whenever the possible comes up speaking to those crybabies who think crying is more attractive than we can both admit here. I stood in the alley one night, away from the gaggle. I believe I was more concerned with being robbed or copped than overwhelmed with delight and accomplishment. And a young boy, younger than me, got on his knees and sucked hard to make me fast cum. My pants around my thighs and I remember little about the blowjob and the licking right quick and wrong places. I do remember how hard he pulled and how later on this would be important to me. As much as hurry up for him, certainly not a cockhound or cutie, I can say I responded exactly like I should have. Meaning it works and I prefer that prostitutes show some resentment and anger and force and get as close, I’ve asked, to punch me and slap and grab as hard as their often gilled hands would. I like the violence, loss, and only an idiot would imagine that it’s masochistic. But few things work in limited circumstances and actually being attacked is a better position when picking styles in sales. Fuck, I hated this cracked kid. And I’m glad I didn’t realize that the appeal was turning him into something I was supposed to turn around and fuck so that I could prove to him that my sucking his big white fat cock was all I was and all he was good for. When I remember the ex-faggot now, the money grubber, the moron no longer with us, I can’t do otherwise but recall him on his knees and him probably thinking dumb if not embarrassed. Since I figured I must be with some girlfriend or black meattruck whore and I didn’t know enough yet to suck what he was selling and worth. You can’t say later that the pictures I have of him are laced with his nice cock and firm beauty. I certainly fucking didn’t see that. Drunken, drugged, sold and living that way until he wasn’t; made sense to me as I was then, found, looking for that sort of experience since I despised, rightly, the place that you could go to find people who are humiliated and despicable. You had to be worried. And, makes for a tedious anecdote, I was right with no change whatsoever as I remember what I wouldn’t have done if I was a gay man looking for gay experience and finding myself blanked in the face of all the offers of combined acceptance and tolerance and unnaturally gifted nature echoing unique accomplishments. This concept that they’re not rotten meat eventually, during sex I should say, especially when you remember that the face you can see in pictures, I’ve seen his shrieking fat short mother as well, this homosexual acrid bucket of lies and apologies and empathy, is nonexistent to me outside of currency. I do know that I avoided the men who were only slightly older than me and packing heavy cocks out cockrings in tight jeans looking for play and bondage and lifestyles and trimmed comic cruelty. Enema clubs, fuck’s sake. That guy had a huge hanging cock that I never thought would fit in if it weren’t for the poppers he shoved under my nose and the headaches that didn’t excite as much as pragmatically make me concentrate on the spinning instead of the tooling and fingering and prying. I’m not disgusted by that enough. I suppose. Think of the way he’d walk naked back and forth when I could watch dangling dick and kindness plus obsessive psychosis like the teacher he was playing. Glad I could help there too. Having Jason on a table or that thirteener on a bed getting notes passed to the anal obsessive behind him fitting in larger and larger chunks of meat and vegetables until cock, these men are bound to see this all as something to have to clean up after they just give in to what happened to the boy dying rather than themselves. I do understand, yet not a voice, of what they were going through as the wet and fluid disgust seeped back out of the drooling thing they were pushing in and back in and on. It just lying there. Working up a hard-on. When I think of it, hard now, I imagine them largely unable to get final full and I like that part better. Those porn shots that are half-hard, aesthetically, is what Id start looking for. I was buying fag’s porn back at the time. Up until now. Bought ugly women in porn. Sags that would do this and men who forced it. I was seeing very little difference but there was enough transference, I see now, I understand now, not to have destroyed it back then and that’s, when I recall what actually did happen, is what I’m talking about when I think, thank fuck. At least. The young man that I used to work with. Started hanging around with; I roll over and take the sheets off him and then licking soft cock to see if that languid thing will get hard and nice and I can crawl up on him and not push it hard up my ass while I beat off on his tight chubby stomach to chest but instead move my ass up to where I’d normally be cumming and place my hard dick, now, into his mouth because he got longer and he’sa cocksucker and he prefers being fucked and swallowing cum and I prefer cumming in a beautiful much missed mouth like his and I’m glad I woke him up by kissing and licking his thickening cock and expanding balls and would have made my way inside his asshole if he let me know he liked it as much as I would. I get to hear about this all the time now. How nice it would be to be in a dream daily. Waking up next to that body and the daily cocksucking we can share and mold together every single happy morning. Coming out mother’s garbage. This is what he wants. This is his biography shit, adcopy. She believed him. Can I think of both things at once, you scumbag. We’d wake up bad. Full of alcohol burn and mistakes and his hard ignored HIV. I’d as much as look for that if I forgot the way you frame it. And we weren’t exclusives. If I say that most of the night before he’d be squealing like a teen with a girl crush and I suspected he was even worse than that and he’d shown me the photos of him eating fat ass and shit smiles and we’d traded masturbating and licking cum that was entirely pus over photos of our favorites, like camp faggot old queens, his old boyfriend with the dick he liked before he said he liked mine and a cunt that you couldn’t see because it was clothed and illegal and he wanted me to prove who I was just as much as who I could be when I cummed. Fucking idiot. Dead now idiot. You think I don’t switch from his face and how sad a waste that all is to that face open and wet trying behind me to stick a finger in my grotesque asshole so I can cum quick while he loses himself moving from my pisshole, I’ve pissed in his mouth and he in mine, when I cum now looking at any dick that should be hard like his and how I was filled with, what, love, are you insane, instead of, what, hatred, rather like pity that I’ll now end up taking care of. You want a faggot. Listen to these miserable cloying half-men cry at the same bars later. Listen, sweetheart, you might not believe it. But I keep my mouth shut. And then you turn it around and get all faggot too. And I just keep listening to you and not fucking adding it up. I’m as sick of the cartoons as the offers and still I keep my teeth grit tight just so you can keep going from cock to cock just inexactly like me until you demand that I see it from your perspective which is far more ridiculous than me remembering him fingering his own ass, getting fucked by the photos I told him he could cum to if he got his mind off his mouth for a minute or two, fucking gnawing inching soiling worm. Self-report may also be an unreliable indicator of past, present, and future thoughts and behaviors because of the offender’s desire to create a socially desirable image. Charles Roberts killed himself after shooting ten little girls; the youngest was six, the oldest was thirteen. Five of the little girls died, four have been struggling to normalcy with difficulties and one, a six-year-old Rosanna at the time, has very little chance of moving beyond locked to a wheelchair. Charles left notes for his kids and his wife before he entered the amish schoolhouse and created this last bright day for himself and for Rosanna. Charlie’s mother, since, decided she had to take visiting care of our Rosanna after the five from eight of ten murders. And it is she that has written about the child’s lifeless continuing state. Call this, for report purposes, recovery. With religion, call it healing. For guilt, call it hope. Or give, tragedy and responsibility. And, of course, her understanding of what happened with her own just over thirty child and the surreal hatred of the act not the person, mellifluous or proportioned sacrifice, again, then approved survey, no longer banal, still god serving, that she and others and, especially, this poor metallize’d Rosanna, lives with. Frame pulling against need against any purposeful movement. Isn’t living in a way that allows her thoughts, if she has them, to find voice. Amish or unconditional. The shot into her head destroyed her brain. She responds occasionally, apparently, with a small smile or a giggle, we’re told inconveniently. Also cries out. She can’t move much at all. And the impossible concept of progress is emphasized by infinitesimally minute reads, chances, hopes. The privileged confessors for her trials for the best language possible to create something more, whether painfully or beatifically selfless, of the honesty that can’t possibly exist from her. Or our inconsistent brimming situation over her less. The self-report, here, has sex formatted to its miserable existence. A week before Charles lined up and shot his girls, Duane Morrison had done similar with different results, in Platte, Colorado. Morrison only murdered one girl, the significantly older than thirteen, Emily Keyes at sixteen. Charles Roberts’ function was to give names to these hidden amish. The Christian rebels from Platte were given first names only as Emily Keye’s grieving family thanked and prayed for them. The non -amish ones from Platte, the ones that were raped and not murdered, are spared the hurtful stories attached to the names they continue to own privately. The rapist Morrison tried to attach names to portraits he found in yearbooks and the stares he ruminated on while peering outside the school before he finally entered their classrooms. The amish girls, sadly, are not captured in photographs due to the religion. They were photographed by police and medical staff, certainly. Important to consider the holdbacks from Rosanna’s amish community when lighting open her wheelchair helotry. Would you repeat their names as you masturbate? I don’t remember their names. Not important. I resent the ones that have names. I’m not like that. Think their names in circles or utter them out loud before you stop? I go looking for them to find more photos of them. Yes, of course, there are names attached. I would admit to their voices being more important. I like the way they sound; that high squeezed excited voice. I’m more attracted to girls, actors, on film. Just films you happen to find anywhere. Would that change things? Does it matter what I do privately? Do you enjoy talking about this? About masturbating to the words, not the photos? I’m not the only one. Does that change things? Do they have to know? It would be better for everyone if I didn’t say anything, that is correct, isn’t it? Is it possible that I’m talking for others? I’m not sure how to work this part out. I don’t know what you would like me to do privately. That may be like me? Am I encouraging others to do this? Keep seeing it? Prefer, in other words, a different word, rather than an experiment to just see what happens and then make a decision? On something previously unseen or unknown? This is public, I don’t use the word “prefer” privately. The same exact way that “containment” isn’t used then. I hate both words. I can always tell if it’swrong, if it’sa lie, when others in our position say they prefer anything other than a still. They don’t, they can’t, you shouldn’t ask. A still is history. The movement is always in how it has stopped. You’re wrong for asking. Would you like to see someone else do this? Masturbate, just masturbate? While saying their stupid names or staring down at a photo of the cutest one, fully clothed, this one not pornographic until I felt so much compassion that I stopped or enough regret that I knew that what I was doing had to stay in the room where I did it. And then started to troll about how I might lose the way I really am but also why such a stupid thing had to happen. Like why did I feel to, privately, alone, think that I had to cum directly on her photograph. Certainly they are all the same after these things happen, don’t you think? I mean you see clothed women and their children all the time, right? It has to do with what happened, not the way they look, is that correct? That has to be absolutely true. It would be worse to do this and not talk about it, that has to be more true than anything else. I have examples. I’m not ever in the mind to keep these thoughts to myself. This is social if desirable and works against me just as much as for me. There’s an instance that aside from my screaming little thoughts, those I wouldn’t agree with as torturous or tedious at all, a little puddle of suspect well out of my reach is what I find slickly purposeful. I’m not a sex offender. Yet I can’t imagine a more sensible prospect. Offense caused to those who don’t matter in any thought I can track backwards. Unless I imagine and reimagine to deathless degrees that as soon as I get a picture of it crying, it’sa bit more exciting than when I first had to expect it wanting to cry. There’s a fucking huge black hole to that expectation. A very worthwhile one. As soon as the outside creep line is drawn on who you’ve actually penetrated, fuck me, you can include groping now, masturbating in alleys when you get caught or thinking you’ve been doing it so long that it really doesn’t bother anyone but the fear of cracks in your brain and the coming embarrassment when the pictures are eventually released as an attack or a laugh or as proof of how legitimately frightened you really should have been or permanently are. The pedophile asks next. To the ones that won’t admit thinking what you say. Just not do. Or do and not confess adequately. Examples work. I’ll tell you differently later. For my purpose, this is how they found Daniel Heinrich’s child pornography. A new team of investigators, along with a dedicated blogger and a helpful local author, reviewed Jacob Wetterling’s high profile missing child case and compared details with an unsolved rape case of a young boy named Jared Scheirel. Close to thirty years after the fact, and now aided by technology advances, a likely percentage of Henirich’s DNA was discovered on a cap left near the scene of Jareds rape, and then on the boy’s sweatshirt that had been kept all these decades in cold case files. Jacob went missing in October of 1989, Jared had been raped before that in January of the same year. Heinrichs name had been given to police as a possible suspect in the early nineties by convicted child molester Duane Hart during some sixty hours of jail interviews. Police had asked Hart if any of the boys he had assaulted were likely to have done worse than him; maybe he thought one of his victims had gone on to attack Jared or Jacob. Hart then confessed that he had molested fifteen-year-old Daniel Heinrich but was never charged with the crime. Hart had dated Danny’s mother and further confessed that he molested Danny’s brother while initially denying that he had molested Danny at all. Hart was serving time for molesting four boys, 11 to 15, had been arrested after Jared and Jacob’s assaults but cleared as a suspect, and has since been “civilly committed” to a cell in a sex offender program in Minnesota as a “sexual psychopath.” Daniel Heinrich had actually been arrested in connection with Jacob’s disappearance in 1990 but prosecutors declined to charge him, citing insufficient evidence, though they did take hair and DNA samples to keep on file. After reopening Jacob’s never officially closed case, discovery of the DNA and piecing together even more similar but circumstantial attacks, a 2015 search warrant was issued to locate more evidence from Heinrich’s house. Included in the warrant were eight incidences of tackling or groping assaults on boys that Heinrich was suspected of. During the search, Heinrich offered up his child pornography computer files and binders and told the investigators that he was “a dirty old man.” Eventually charged with twenty-five counts of possession of child pornography. Heinrich’s lawyers pled not guilty and asked for a delay in the case to file suppression of evidence motions as well as a possible change of venue for the trial. Heinrich ultimately cut a deal with prosecutors to plead guilty to only one charge of possession in exchange for immunity from prosecution and an open court confession to the details in the Jared and Jacob assaults. THE COURT: I’m going to start with a number of preliminary questions before we turn to the plea agreement. First, let me have you state your full name for the record. THE DEFENDANT: Danny James Heinrich. THE COURT: How old are you? THE DEFENDANT: 53 years. THE COURT: And where were you born? THE DEFENDANT: I was born in Paynesville, Minnesota. THE COURT: Have you lived in Minnesota your entire life? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,Your Honor. THE COURT: How far did you go in school? THE DEFENDANT: I have a GED that I obtained in 1993. THE COURT: All right. You went to, you dropped out of high school? THE DEFENDANT: Yeah. That’s correct. THE COURT: During what year? THE DEFENDANT: 10th grade, Your Honor. THE COURT: Do you have any difficulty reading, writing or understanding English at all? THE DEFENDANT: No, Your Honor. THE COURT: Okay. Where have you most recently been employed? THE DEFENDANT: Buffalo Veneer and Plywood in Buffalo, Minnesota. THE COURT: What type of job was that? THE DEFENDANT: We make wood products for the cabinet industry. THE COURT: I see. Okay. How long were you employed there? THE DEFENDANT: Ten plus years. THE COURT: That’s in Buffalo? THE DEFENDANT: That’s correct, Your Honor. The Good Lives Model is based around two fundamental therapeutic goals that are inextricably entwined with one another: (1) to enhance the offender’s ability to achieve human goods in personal ways, and (2) to reduce the offender’s personal and environmental suite of changeable risk factors (i.e., criminogenic needs). The assumptions of underlying the first point are relatively simple. By virtue of possessing the same needs and nature as the rest of us, offenders actively search for meaningful human goods such as relationships, mastery experiences, a sense of belonging a sense of purpose, and autonomy (Deci & Ryan, 2000). However, sometimes, offenders do not possess the requisite skills or not provided with adequate opportunities to obtain these human goods in prosocial ways. For example, a child molester may not have the competencies necessary to manage powerful emotional states and so may turn to sex with children instead to soothe himself. In terms of the second point, we argue that a focus on strengthening offenders’ abilities to obtain human goods prosocially is likely to automatically eliminate (or reduce) commonly targeted dynamic risk factors (or criminogenic needs). In the above example, then, increasing the child molester’s emotional competencies (internal capabilities) and providing him with social supports is more likely to reduce his emotionally driven episodes of sexual offending. By contrast, however, focusing only on the reductions of risk factors (as the RNR Model tends to do) is less likely to promote the full range of specific human goods necessary for longer term desistance from offending. THE COURT: Have you ever been treated for any form of mental disability such as depression or attention deficit disorder, anxiety, any form of mental illness? THE DEFENDANT: No, Your Honor. THE COURT: All right. Have you ever been treated for any form of addiction to drugs or to alcohol? THE DEFENDANT: No, Your Honor. THE COURT: Okay. Do you have any physical issues that are affecting you in any way? THE DEFENDANT: No, Your Honor. THE COURT: Okay. So your mind is clear today? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,Your Honor. THE COURT: And you’re ready to proceed? THE DEFENDANT: Yes. Calibrating the Butner Study conclusions, Danny Heinrich would be a confessed but uncharged hands-on offender, only arrested and found guilty of possession of child pornography. He progressed from assault to murder after being investigated for the attack on Jared. Interviewed by investigators and placed in a line-up where Jared hadn’t been able to identify him with certainty, he was arrested again as a suspect after Jacob went missing completely. Rework what you can’t have to the evidence you’d leave to hang you. Let’s start with getting kleenex before you sit your badgered old ass down. Also a case study in the one of the concerns made explicit in the legal reasoning for the possible traumas induced by child molesters. This reasoning - that molested children may go on to become molesters themselves - finds Heinrich as a fifteen-year-old boy, older than Amy and Vicky when they were sexually abused and recorded (whereas Danny was not), as an unrecognized victim of Duane Hart and offered little therapy or judicial concern. He may well have found his comfort or excitement, salve or pit, unconsciously kind or cruel indulgence, in reliving his experience to the point that he made his victims younger and even more helpless than he had been or simply discovered a logical, selfish, way to proceed without following psychological pejoratives. Wanting. Danny progressed from “at least” to “non-life” and spent his time reviewing the Jacob Wetterling case in the newspaper clippings and broadcast videos that he collected along with the child pornography he would search for, keep and even print out to place in one of nineteen binders. He also filmed newspaper boys, kids playing sports and young bike riders from his car. The eight incidents of other suspected attacks on boys from the areas near Jacobs murder detail a pudgy man knocking boys off bikes or otherwise bulking them down to threaten them and then groping their penises and testicles over and sometimes under their clothes. The pornography of children that he kept was not exclusively male, in fact the single charge that he was finally sentenced for was female. Likely chosen due to known and established digital identification records. The arrest report contained the following exchange and was a matter of contention by his defense as to the legal standing of the search warrant: HEINRICH: "Well I’m, I’m a single man naturally I’m gonna have pornography...” OFFICER: "Is it regular pornography?” HEINRICH: "No, it’s, it varies all over the board.” OFFICER: "Is it on a computer or paper or?” HEINRICH: "Paper, computer.” OFFICER: "Well like I said Dan, that’s not the end of the world. We’re not here, were not looking because you got child pornography okay?” HEINRICH: "Well, there’s, there’s some...” Jacobs mother briefly explained how she thought her son’s rapist and murderer existed during all the years that she tirelessly and publicly searched for Jacob: The likely years in prison notwithstanding Patty says Heinrich "sentenced himself” nearly 30 years ago. "He’s lived a life of isolation, he’s lived in fear of being caught, he’s lived a really sort of hellish life - or a non-life. He didn’t have any friends, anything he regularly did.” And again later: "He had no friends. He had no meaningful work. He had no co-workers,” she said. "He lived in absolute silence after he took Jacob - and that’s a lot. And now he’s looking at 20 years stacked on top of that. Federal prison can’t be a happy place to be, but it’s well deserved.” Within the judgement of Duane Hart’s appeal to his civil commitment: In 1990 Hart pleaded guilty to six counts of criminal sexual conduct (ranging from second to fourth degree) involving four juvenile male victims. The evidence at the commitment hearing showed that one victim estimated that Hart sexually attacked him five or six times a I > week for six years. Hart used bribes, chemicals, threats, social isolation, and religious preaching to victimize this juvenile. Other victims also testified as to numerous sexual contacts, most of which did not result in convictions. Two brothers estimated that Hart sexually assaulted them between 400 and 750 times over a four - or five-year period. The hearing also included expert testimony. A court-appointed examiner, Dr. Harry Haberman, and respondents expert, Dr. Douglas Fox, recommended that Hart be committed to the Minnesota Security Hospital. A second court-appointed examiner, Dr. John Austin, recommended against commitment. These experts provided extensive testimony on the relevant commitment factors. The district court, in two separate orders, found that Hart met the standards for commitment as a sexual psychopathic personality and as a sexually dangerous person and committed him to the security hospital for a sixty-day evaluation. The court held a review hearing after the evaluation period. Staff from the security hospital reported that Hart had declined to attend treatment, and that his condition had not changed since his commitment. The court made Hart’s commitment indefinite. And: Hart challenges the merits of his commitment as a sexual psychopathic personality. The state must prove the need for commitment with clear and convincing evidence. The sexual psychopathic personality commitment statute, as interpreted by the supreme court, requires (a) a “habitual course of misconduct in sexual matters” and (b) “an utter lack of power to control ... sexual impulses” so that (c) it is likely the person will “attack or otherwise inflict injury, loss, pain or other evil on the objects of their uncontrolled and uncontrollable desire.” You need a solid definition of clinical. From the photographer to the lawyers writing scripts, the mother of three kids that kept those things behind her, the one who insisted, certainly, on her drinking, paying, conversing neighbor wearing a condom and leaving it on, soft, Sweets, drunk. The feedback loops who list every and all straight down to the finely impossible to mistake, misunderstand. None had their eyes closed, did they. I’m remembering that had to be true. They weren’t told to shut their eyes. You’d remember. So they’d just keep their eyes open, why would you say to do otherwise. Act like they were cricking back somewhere else special, god, you’d ask them afterward. Was it ok. Did you have fun. She had her eyes wide open, which would have made sense, then at that age, unless you didn’t want her to see what you look like. That would have told her how bad this must have been and she’d intuit it, I’d think. First, a habitual course of sexual misconduct is evident in Hart’s convictions for six counts of criminal sexual conduct and the numerous other incidents of sexual misconduct. Second, the district court determined that Hart exhibited an utter lack of control. A trial court must consider several factors to determine whether an individual utterly lacks the power to control his sexual impulses: the nature and frequency of the assaults, the degree of violence, the relationship between the offender and the victims, the offender’s attitude, the offender’s medical and family history, and the offender’s medical evaluation. A cognitive myopia may well exist. Now that I’ve put it forward. An arousal that responds to sexual cues but misses non-consensual cues. Add this to a graph that concentrates on the severity of likely recidivism offenses rather than simple base recidivism risks. Criticizing the prefiguring doesn’t exclude the very bright histories. As self-report, the seemingly scattershot approach to all these arrests would, one should insist, be, in fact, as specific in conclusion as it is in selection. These, in point of fact, were only piling into one if, in aggregate, the graph would compare it against each hour of my life. It’s always been constrained and that would be the controlling factor to itemize. The tracking would necessitate impossible demands for definitions of capacity. I’ve left some of the clippings as precious, minded and tested, whole; succeeded at not offering up a single choice as thin and convenient as the wretched that fill common academia as footnoted, anemic, predications. These are not examples and have not been presented absent extensive annotation. Hart committed hundreds of sexual assaults on at least ten young boys. He is a patterned sex offender whose victims are boys ages eight to fifteen. Hart repeatedly fondled, performed oral sex or made boys perform it on him, and performed anal intercourse. He used isolation, bribes, threats, force, and alcohol to commit these acts. Hart was often under the influence of chemicals during these assaults. Hart has refused treatment, has no relapse prevention plan, and minimizes his role in his sexual misconduct. Hart’s problems are longstanding; he began drinking heavily at age six and was placed in residential treatment at age nine, where he was forcibly sodomized. The expert testimony further demonstrated Hart’s utter lack of control. Dr. Fox testified that Hart would be inclined to offend if he were alone with a child, that Hart cannot control his urges consistently, and that he acts impulsively when alone with children. Dr. Hoberman testified that Hart lacks the ability to control his sexual impulses, fixates on young males, experiences intense urges to sexually offend despite a victim’s protests or resistance, and has profound difficulty controlling his behavior. Although Dr. Austin identified greater difficulty in controlling actions, he did not describe Hart as impulsive. All three experts diagnosed Hart with pedophilia. Two of them also diagnosed Hart with anti-social personality, and Dr. Austin found that Hart had “many signs of anti-social behavior.” The three experts also diagnosed Hart as chemically dependent. They agreed his dangerousness would be reduced by treatment, but Hart will not undertake treatment. The court found that Hart is currently unable to control his sexual impulses or overcome his intense, fixated, and dangerous urges. The evidence amply supports the court’s findings on Hart’s utter lack of control. Hung the transcripts in a gallery, wall to surrounding wall, with a bucket fit in about the middle of the room. Grown men rehashing their political struggle and sex memories when it worked for them. AIDS talk. When it worked against others, not enough like themselves. Hung the transcripts in a public park restroom, wall to surrounding wall, with a bucket fit in about the middle of the room. Not for the men who conversationally revolutionized their recognition to general, compassion, finally. It is here, instead, for every old man who hated himself after he used one of the braggarts and mouthers. Because these old men, lessened, were fully aware, worse, of what they used. Who would be even lower than their worst moments. MR. SCHLEICHER: For the record, I need to describe the particular image, which again you have not had access to, but the image depicts a minor female, meaning a female under the age of 18. She has long, brown, curly hair, lying on a bed on a beige blanket. Her head is resting on a pillow. She is naked, and her genitals are fully exposed for the camera. You’re aware through conversations with your attorneys that the government has in fact that image and has identified it, correct? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, I’m aware. The fathers who don’t record, I suspect, are laying on top of their babies, whatever sense, and staring down into her face like he’s supposed to at his age to enter and pump to cum. Enough cut-rate examples of it not being shame and self-loathed weakness, I’m sure, but not in the trades. Conflating the crimes, motivation and facilitation, is a form of only initial worry for the professionals and a constant form of revisionism for the offenders. The trash perform the poses and cam lessons to the only garbage they own or can borrow from the drinking or working neighbors. The quality of the proof, like a Dworkinite argument on nude model positions in seventies pornography where highlights and focus destroy arguable aesthetics and appreciation, is evidence of more violence than sex directly within the image. The seasick lobbies, the fathers and daughters who aren’t providing and selling, have nothing to do with me. Because you don’t get those, how could you. Fucking prefer it now. Pseudo-recidivism is the term used within risk surveys for previously undisclosed crimes coming to light as victims are located, or present themselves following arrest and conviction publicity, and additional charges and convictions against the offenders are added to research. Changing dramatically the assessments initially presented. After viewing pornographic photos, one particular study contends, participants who then viewed neutral photos of men and women were quicker to pick up on or create sexual cues and innuendos. You can see I’vedone the work, more fop than pervert, prurient take only, and that I can hardly bring myself to edit the outside texts for brevity. Understanding the damning delight and overwhelming importance in every single radically pointed flatfaced utterance. MR. SCHLEICHER: And among the images, you would agree that these included images of prepubescent minors under the age of twelve, true? THE DEFENDANT: That’s true. MR. SCHLEICHER: They also included images that portrayed what is called sadistic or masochistic conduct with respect to the children. I’m going to define that term for you. You know, specifically as to sadistic and masochistic conduct, images of a minor being penetrated with an object. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: I understand. MR. SCHLEICHER: You also agree that those sorts of images would have been present on your computer or in the binders? THE DEFENDANT: Yes. MR. SCHLEICHER: You do not dispute that what was portrayed in these different images were in fact real children? THE DEFENDANT: No, I don’t dispute that. MR. SCHLEICHER; And you would also agree that the images include what we would call images of morphed child pornography, meaning that you actually created certain images by cutting and pasting the photos of what would have at that time been real children onto the nude bodies of other real children? THE DEFENDANT:That’s correct. MR. SCHLEICHER:And the resulting image showed then a child engaged in sexually explicit conduct, is that right? THE DEFENDANT:That’s right. MR.SCHLEICHER:All right. Your Honor, the United Statesis satisfied as to the factual basis for the count of conviction and at this time would like to move into the factual basis with respect to the relevant conduct. THE COURT:The Court agrees that there is sufficient factual basis for the conviction under Count 24, and you may move to the additional conduct. The detailed confession in open court was most likely performed to secure civil commitment containment, similar to Duane Hart, after Heinrich’s sentence for receipt and possession of child pornography (twenty years) was served. Patty Wetterling explained that the family backed the plea bargain after the family’s lawyer and the prosecution detailed the difficulties in finding enough evidence to charge Heinrich with murder as well as the fact that the statute of limitations would have made prosecution in Jarod’s case for rape nearly impossible. Patty told reporters that the family were kept aware of the intricacies during the investigation and negotiation, including that Heinrich was hoping to find residence in federal medical prison by confessing. “It was heartbreaking, but I also knew the rest of the story,” Patty said of the plea deal.“And I believe that anybody who would judge whether it was the right thing to do or not wasn’t in the room, wasn’t given the information that we had to act on.” Include what little it is that I’m overly concerned with, within Charles Robert’s crime. And then how it plays back into the precedential Ferber v NY case that saw judgement in child pornography litigation by splitting the material away from obscenity by declaring such material completely outside of first amendment protection. The search warrant, if thrown out due to its mishandling of procedure, exposed as a ruse to force a confession or apply undue pressure, would have allowed Heinrich to walk free even though the police and family had their details. The police hoped more than circumstantial evidence would be confirmed. He hadn’t been charged with anything but possession. Because Jarod had gone public in 1990 with the details of his assault, the court included the graphic reiteration of what he disclosed against Heinrich. I get viciously stuck here. I prefer that Heinrich did only what he said he did to Jacob. And that the entire crime centered on watching Jacob masturbate with no other offense to his young body from the old beast that stood before him and then murdered him merely to hide evidence of such an act. Much like those who love him would hope. That this was all that Heinrich was interested in seeing not feeling. Grabbing, pushing, not mouthing. It could make sense. And somehow lessen the worst thoughts of last moments. Could even cast the rapist as more pathetic, definitively worthless, so desperately sad. So kept with pornography. The pornography described as court charge 24 details a single picture of a naked pose. Spread, one assumes, aimed. Penetration isn’t discussed until the end when the Judge considers federal sentencing guidelines and explains that an anal penetration shot in the greater collection constitutes sadistic or violent intent. Remember perfectly, Danny also had images of children exposing or being exposed where he morphed, or replaced, the original model’s faces with those specific children that he would have preferred to see that way. The child that he had wanted to see on the officially violated body must not have been available. Perhaps the faces were taken from the boys he followed staying unaware or innocent or, reeling, took the cuties from the illegal positions and made better positions. He liked one boy in particular. One boy’s face on the penis he could hope. Combine, finish. Eric Cross juxtaposed older vaginas next to his maybe perfects. Another took adult pornography, hard hung cocks, glued them next to the children that hadn’t been presented as fact. What hadn’t happened or what you wanted to see safe so badly that you had to prove it yourself, at first, then recorded how you decided degrees as the days and work it took changed the discussion. Repurpose:A collection of printed court transcripts published alongside facts as described not illustrated or especially annotated. The official charges affidavits include Jarod wiping his mouth on his sweatshirt while he “sucked” Heinrich and that Heinrich was “hard.” While is during. Within this collection of mere facts are photos of Jacob from the newspaper. And Jarod as an adult giving interviews about what happened to him and how he felt, how he changed, how it never went away, what he thinks should be done now. Knew exactly why he was featured. Or just pictures of boys playing on the streets and parks and playgrounds, delivering newspapers or riding their bikes. This is two girls who are tortured by thoughts of men masturbating. In different cities and in every single court district. They weren’t only looking at you, only, but, listen, think, that is what is central to letting you know how rotten the delivery system is and how frequently it must be happening. If I didn’t talk about it. Took the public record as I found it. Didn’t stupidly or willfully confuse the discourse for the passionate excuse for moral hypocrisy. Kept quiet, kept you from learning. Stuck the links to information where your preferred audience does. You’d think the wrong parts. The Ferber v NY decision was reached after a NY porn shop operator, Paul Ferber, sold two film spools of two different underage boys masturbating and was arrested for obscenity. The Supreme Court eventually heard the case and overturned the obscenity conviction that the NY prosecutors won. However, The Court also clarified its stance by stating, due to the State’s compelling interest in protecting children, that pornography featuring children is created by a harmful act and thus, was not a speech issue at all but of a separate classification all its own. In Roth v. United States, 1957, the Supreme Court held “Obscene material is material which deals with sex in a manner appealing to prurient interest.”And that charged material under review should be judged by “contemporary community standards.” In 1967, Stanley v Georgia held that first amendment rights didn’t apply to obscene material but did apply to private possession of material judged obscene. The Court here had a very clear view that no outside force should judge or attempt to define a person’s innermost thoughts to the worth of the material even if judged obscene and therefore illegal to produce, display and sell. It is in Stanley that most defense arguments for private possession begin but, ever since Ferber, such a defense had been rendered inapplicable if not completely immaterial. A true, real, victim had been identified and her rights were to be protected from actual harm. The Miller test for obscenity (delineating prurience) had given way to the Dost test (delineating lascivious display of minors). As both tests would have to ask the impartial viewer to take on the gaze of the pervert, virtually mimicking the very worst aspects of what they were looking to avoid, the Ferber decision sought to remove subjectivity from privacy and protection rights. This idea was further strengthened by Ashcroft v The Free Speech Coalition that denied the government the right to prosecute cases of virtual or morphed images of children because there was no real victim harmed. Arguments that these fake or artful images could be used to seduce children into performing the sexual acts depicted held no sway as The Court also made clear that the constitution did not support suppression of presumptions, tendencies or chances and that such complaints were an “overbroad” application of Ferber. Images and depictions of children where a child was not actually harmed were protected under the free speech provisions of the First, Fourth and Fourteenth Amendments. Finally, the Court’s decision in Paroline upholds the tenants of both Ferber (eventually extended from distribution to possession by the decision in Osborne v Ohio) and Stanley by reducing what may be the stink of subjectivity that most contemporary psychological profiles, tort pleas and victim impact statements had sought to personal advantage by demanding that clear distinctions be made in victim claims versus actualities. Amy: Every day of my life I live in constant fear that someone will see my pictures and recognize me and that I will be humiliated all over again. It hurts me to know someone is looking at them - at me- when I was just a little girl being abused for the camera. I did not choose to be there, but now I am there forever in pictures that people are using to do sick things. I want it all erased. I want it all stopped. But I am powerless to stop it just like I was powerless to stop my uncle. ...My life and my feelings are worse now because the crime has never really stopped and will never really stop ... It’s like I am being abused over and over and over again. Vicky: I am living every day with the horrible knowledge that someone somewhere is watching the most terrifying moments of my life and taking grotesque pleasure in them. lama victim of the worst kind of exploitation: child porn. Unlike other forms of exploitation, this one is never ending. Everyday people are trading and sharing videos of me as a little girl being raped in the most sadistic ways. They don’t know me, but they have seen every part of me. They are being entertained by my shame and pain. I had no idea the “Vicky” series, the child porn series taken of me, had been circulated at all, until I was 17. My world came crashing down that day, and now, two years later, not much has changed. These past years have only shown me the enormity of the circulation of these images and added to my grief and pain. This knowledge has given me a paranoia. I wonder if the people I know have seen these images. I wonder if the men I pass in the grocery store have seen them. Because the most intimate parts of me are being viewed by thousands of strangers and traded around, I feel out of control. They are trading my trauma around like treats at a party, but it is far from innocent. It feels like I am being raped by each and every one of them. What are they doing when they watch these videos anyway? They are gaining sexual gratification from me at ages 10 and 11. It sickens me to the core and terrifies me. Just thinking about it now, I feel myself stiffen and I want to cry. So many nights I have cried myself to sleep thinking of a stranger somewhere staring at their computer with images of a naked me on the screen. I have nightmares about it. My paranoia is not without just cause. Some of these perverts have tried to contact me. One tried to find me through my friends on MySpace. Another created a slide show of me on Youtube. I wish I could one day feel completely safe, but as long as these images are out there, I never will. Every time they are downloaded, I am exploited again, my privacy is breached, and my life feels less and less safe. I will never be able to have control over who sees me raped as a child. It’s all out therefor the world to see and it can never be removed from the internet. MR. SCHLEICHER: Sir, as part of the plea agreement, you understand that you’re providing a factual accounting for what happened to Jacob Wetterling on October 22, 1989, is that right? THE DEFENDANT: That’s right. MR. SCHLEICHER: On October 22, 1989, did you kidnap, sexually assault and murder Jacob Wetterling? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,I did. MR. SCHLEICHER: I need you to tell the Court what happened on that evening beginning around 8:00 p.m. in the city and town of St. Joseph, that area. THE DEFENDANT: I was driving on a road, a dead-end road. I noticed three children on their bicycles with a flashlight. I pulled into a driveway, passed - after they passed me, turned around and faced the direction of the road that they would be coming back on. Approximately 20 minutes or so later, they came back. I stepped out of my car. I put a mask on. I reached for my revolver. I proceeded onto the road. I confronted them. I told them to get into the ditch with their bicycles. They cooperated. They did. I asked their names, their ages. MR. SCHLEICHER: Do you recall what their answers were? THE DEFENDANT: Not right offhand, I don’t, no. MR. SCHLEICHER: Do you know now that the three children involved were Jacob Wetterling, Trevor Wetterling, Aaron Larson? THE DEFENDANT: That’s correct. MR. SCHLEICHER: You indicated that you took out your revolver. Can you please describe the revolver? What caliber and type was it? THE DEFENDANT: .38 Special, Smith & Wesson, snub nose. MR. SCHLEICHER: After you confronted the children, what did you ask them to do? THE DEFENDANT: I asked - well, they offered me a tape, and I knocked that down. They tried to shine a flashlight in my face, and I said, No, don’t do that. MR. SCHLEICHER: The tape was a videotape? THE DEFENDANT: Yes. MR. SCHLEICHER: That they had rented? THE DEFENDANT: Yes. MR. SCHLEICHER: From the local store? THE DEFENDANT: Yes. MR. SCHLEICHER: Okay. THE DEFENDANT: Yes. Yes. MR. SCHLEICHER: After you knocked it down, what did you say to them? THE DEFENDANT: I told Trevor and Aaron to run away, not look back or I would shoot, and I took Jacob back to my car. MR. SCHLEICHER: What did you do when you took Jacob back to your car? THE DEFENDANT: I handcuffed him and put him in the front passenger seat of my car. MR. SCHLEICHER: Did you handcuff him behind his back? THE DEFENDANT: Yes. MR. SCHLEICHER: After you handcuffed him, did Jacob Wetterling say anything to you? THE DEFENDANT: What did I do wrong? Katy Beers getting a full gynecology exam. An anal swab. At her age. She had been sexually abused for all her years before this. Her family took her to get cleaned and tested after her kidnap and popular public search. Watching a blowbang on strangers; all these men shoveling themselves, half-hard due to bad lighting or embarrassment homme, into whatever open is finally turned. Next scenes reflect on the anal exam and the forensics required, outloud, to determine who can the child be released to. THE DEFENDANT: I drove as close as I could to a grove of trees. I stopped the car. I got out. I opened the door for Jacob. I unhandcuffed him. I took him over to the edge of the grove of trees. I asked him to undress. I undressed. I touched his penis. He touched my penis. I had him masturbate. In about 20 or so minutes, about a half hour later, he said I’m cold, and I said, Okay. You can get dressed, and I got dressed. MR. SCHLEICHER: Okay. I need to clarify a few things. THE DEFENDANT: Sure. MR. SCHLEICHER: With the touching, this was something you compelled him to do? THE DEFENDANT: Yes. MR. SCHLEICHER: He knew that you were armed, is that right? THE DEFENDANT: That’s right. MR. SCHLEICHER: And in terms of any other sexual acts performed by you upon Mr. Wetterling- THE DEFENDANT: No. No, there was not. MR. SCHLEICHER: So there was no penetration? THE DEFENDANT: No penetration. MR. SCHLEICHER: And no forced oral- THE DEFENDANT: No. MR. SCHLEICHER: - sex? THE DEFENDANT: No, there was not. MR. SCHLEICHER; All right. After you were finished, you indicated that Mr. Wetterling said something? THE DEFENDANT: He said, I’m cold. So I said, Okay. You can get dressed, and I got dressed. On the way I said- Are you taking me home? I said I can’t take you all the way home. There is a lot - you live a town or so away. MR. SCHLEICHER: What was his reaction to that? THE DEFENDANT: He started to cry. I said, Don’t cry. The story breaks down well after it should have. Shouldn’t have reached the point where her thoughts had to be exacted, shouldn’t have gone beyond allowing her to talk as if it meant something more to someone other than just her. You don’t want her to learn how she sounds. You don’t want her to have to hear herself getting away with what she wants to talk about as if you’re not listening. Let her keep whining so she thinks you care just dumb enough not to follow up when she trails off. The emotional part she plays then as if words stop. Too hard to go further as bright degrees of logic dull when the difficulty of articulation is overwhelmed by the graphic, hidden, brighter memories. Her limited education, causal. Her indefinable crushing, cutting pain. Her troubles are complex, waiting. They complain, repulsive therefore crippling, to itemize. Just as her life, then naive, now, infected. Viciously abbreviated. None of it should have made it the place where you’re going to have to see what it is you’re hoping for. The fine line of reaching brutality within the words when placed to action. Compensation that isn’t a hope, a barely understood plan, a lazy follow to a chance at best. Responsibility that has to be rigidly explicated because someone has to beg the same of you. She isn’t explaining. Amy isn’t presenting her thoughts. There is always a bridge to her public where her lawyers have vetted and passed. She isn’t debating and hasn’t come forward with the face of her damage and the stories that tear when forced, again, to explain what the others have been butchering. All sides, she doesn’t have to agree, that are attacking her or helping her, badly, unfairly, compassionately, human, until she can’t take it anymore. To give up and decide, then I decided, that it had gone too far. And I had to come clean with what has happened since. I can’t trust anyone and. You should be able to trust someone, right. Someone should not want from me anymore. I wasn’t even asking for help after awhile because I started to understand what expecting selflessness entailed, what that word really meant and it was no good at all. I’ve been disappointed, I haven’t got enough experience to know whether or not I was supposed to get those chances that maybe I or someone else fucked up for me or themselves. I took myself out of the ugliness. Or decided to show what the ugliness was. More pain, always changing but never not more. I couldn’t present myself as the only honest victim until then. I could’ve made it worse. I started off saying I was hurt and no one believed me. That started to compound. I wanted it to stop. I decided nothing. Where we should understand the further harm that is being asked of someone to recall. The horrors that are relived while strangers ravish her again. The men that come into her ice cream shop. The men she passes on the street. Unlike her lawyer and the judges. It’sa very hard thing to ask me for an answer. I say, as I apologize for being so harmed, so threatened by these fears, irrational but deeply felt, recognized and understood as they certainly are. They came as adults. I’ve been told the best way to say them -quick and under the part of myself that might hear them. I don’t remember much. Not enough. Too much of myself is working too hard to not remember what you need to hear so that you believe me. I am not under attack when I explain that I want to help you. You have to stay safe with me while we get the details out so that your story works for you and all the others that can’t even bring themselves to even this point. Be brave and tell me about your suffering. I don’t think he enjoys it, I’m not that low or cheap, it isn’t part of my best interest beyond that anyway. It’s why he is presented here rather than in the Butner Study. He is #2 in DOST. It’s important that he see what he’s saying instead of lying. This man, as an example of someone who is the Butner proof. Only masturbated. And they let him lie. It’s even worse. It’s this case that could show, actually, how the Butner conclusions are necessary lies. I’m not saying he did it for money. Conflating the Heinrich case with James Marsh, Esq. I want him to not know how deep it’s sunk. How’d he never do what I’m saying outright or even unconsciously. Without having him knowing, I want to trust that he knows what he’s doing and that he’s doing it for the right reasons. Pit myself against the court in this instance. That “Tell me, little girl or little boy” sentence could be mine if I intended to take the lowest level in entertaining the obvious sleight of hand. Him locating the prurience he’d seek to condemn. To locate the guilt and shame inside himself to cast forward as the guilt and shame he’d like to correct. It is reasonable that Mrs. Roberts disburses the thoughts away from the accounting that she couldn’t comprehend. That Patty doesn’t want to hear anymore and won’t allow for her son in his absence and his very memory. As if existed whole, not as fact. There can not be a chance for those well meaning sufferers to view the pictures in ways they weren’t intended and, worse, are not adequate representations of what exactly it is rather than what it was or went through in truly selfish moments instead of years. I’m going to be wrong. I’m not going to try and figure out the truth in this story. I can’t investigate what’s going on here and come out correct so that it proves what I was talking about is what happened as if I knew intuitively before the facts came out. I will be personally guilty about the facts. I can’t know and I’m not going to guess to only follow the difference between lies and sympathy and cunt’s truth. I’ll tell where I’m responsible within how wrong the facts stink within my twisted preferences and jaded suspicions. If this is true then this is completely the wrong case to pin it to. That the thoughts of the victims have gone deeper into what could be possible and must’ve come out even. What happened. Isn’t as bad as this. What you think now. When you didn’t know. And now you do to follow. Means you’re listening to the wrong person. I want to know what he was doing to her. Called a cash cow and a liar that didn’t even write her own impact statement, her self-report. Didn’t know what happened to her. So if this did happen, locked back, and now she’d been to this. Is this what she was then. The kind of person she is now or the kind of person she wouldn’t have been otherwise. It’s a sad group of people, kinds, or a sad couple, these adults fucking like this. Currently this age. Two very sad people groping and stalling and inserting eventually. And her largers named her and it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t have to answer for it because they all don’t know her real name. It’s quiet and she doesn’t have to care what is said about that other person that isn’t her and being one of the few who knows. Her lawyer pronounced that he is more actively involved in law reform than civil litigation. It is often sections from Philip Jenkins’ book, Beyond Tolerance, that provides the introductory grounding for the briefs submitted to the various courts in these cases. It seems to be a distillation of Jenkins’ work that the idea that child pornography viewers are a subculture highly invested in social strata. No fault of Jenkins, who was trolling the user forums, and did a great deal of research on social variables and neutralization, but the frequency with which the briefs repeat that looking for material is a way to receive fame and power and social standing within the “bandit” groups of the internet seem more suggestive of threat for production than viewing. Thus these men are encouraged and supported in trading and finding rape material as a means to supercilious social goods as more of an unquestioned agenda that, at once, diminishes and recognizes the worth of their efforts. The more ambitious would understand the need to create rather than fan. Jenkins clearly states that the very first goal of his book was to encourage “efforts to regulate the Internet, to enforce the law in cyberspace." I’ve been hearing great stuff about the Vicky movie on abpep-t. Can someone give me a quick content rundown so I know if they are worth my while?Thanks. ... excellent material, basically a ten/eleven year old girl doing some handjobs, getting herself rubbed, doing some blowjob and gets a facial, pity not all series are filmed this way, this is already the new goddess after Helena (hel-lo), that’s for sure. MR.SCHLEICHER:At this time, if I could turn your attention then to the date of January 13, 1989, the abduction and sexual assault of Jared Scheirel. Are you prepared to discuss that? THE DEFENDANT:Yes, I am. MR.SCHLEICHER:Now,on January 13, 1989, did you in Cold Spring, Minnesota, Stearns County, abduct and sexuallyassault Jared Scheirel? THE DEFENDANT:Yes, I did. MR.SCHLEICHER:Who at the time was a young boy, is that correct? THE DEFENDANT:That’s correct. MR.SCHLEICHER:Can you please describe what happened between approximately 9:00 and 10:00 that evening in Cold Spring? THE DEFENDANT: I was driving around Cold Spring looking for a child. I came onto a dark street, no street lights. I noticed a boy walking. I stopped my car. I rolled my window down. I asked if he knew where Kramers live. He started to point directions to me. I said could you hold on for a second. I got out of the car. I grabbed him. Opened up my back door to my car. I threw him in. Told him to stay low. I headed out of Cold Spring. I don’t know the road, but west out of Cold Spring up a hill. In towards Richmond, I got on a gravel road. Went down this gravel road. Got to a farm place, kind of a winding road to the left. I stopped the car. I got out of the car and got into the backseat. I asked Jared to get undressed, to pull his pants down. I attempted oral, oral, oral inter - on Jared. MR. SCHLEICHER:Oral sex? THE DEFENDANT:Oral sex on Jared. That didn’t work out too good. So I asked him to perform oral sex on me. MR. SCHLEICHER: Did he comply? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,he did. MR. SCHLEICHER: As a result of that, did you ejaculate? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,I did. MR. SCHLEICHER: Did you issue any instructions to Mr. Scheirel? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, I did. I said, Swallow. If you throw up, I’ll kill you. MR. SCHLEICHER: All right. Did you attempt anal penetration? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, I did, but I stopped. MR. SCHLEICHER: Okay. After you were done sexually assaulting Jared, what did you do? THE DEFENDANT: I had to climb over to the front seat because it had childproof locks on the doors. I couldn’t open the doors, and then I drove back towards Cold Spring, same direction. I stopped on the road that went up this hill. I can’t - I don’t know the street. I, I - well, before that, I told him to give me his pants and his underwear. He could get dressed. That’s right. Then I, then I left. MR. SCHLEICHER: You kept those items, the pants and the underwear? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,I did. MR. SCHLEICHER: For what purpose? THE DEFENDANT: Souvenir, I guess. How much of you is Amy. Near Dworkin. Tell me, Amy, what happened. And the ones who are like you. That the court knows with drug problems they can’t control. And the disgust the cops have with drug addicts and thieves and the prostitutes that they have sympathy, obligation and repulsion for at the same time. The johns they don’t see themselves in, poor schmucks. Those liars. And the heartless pimps and dangerous customers they warned you over. The money they work for and the cases that add up until they find one that broke through to count more. The phenomenal amount of times they repeat that they have children that same age. The families that created more child pornography than pimps and abductors. The prosecutors who fight the defense attorneys to be able to show the juries the pornography that was found and seized. Amy, how old were you when your Uncle started doing this to you. Vicky, how old were you when your father started doing this to you. They’ve been asked the hurtful questions kindly during the original criminal trial testimony. You remember those questions and those people. And what was your mother doing at that time. And how much does that trust, that they were supposed to honor, bother you when you consider adult supervision and control and protection and the drugs you need to keep you back in the school they hoped you’d attend for your future. You wouldn’t want your last name known. Your family’s name. Do you still use your last name, Amy. How did the family help you. How difficult, at that age, was figuring out who to believe about what was best for the loved man who did what you didn’t know enough about to say no to. Yet. Who could help protect you. You had to learn, I’m sorry. Do you know who knows your name, Amy. Your last name. How old were you when he started to look for pictures of others doing what you did for him and he to you. How long did it take for him to decide his haves could be less than unique. Within the adult bookstore, not worth pointing to the internet yet, are the smaller sections for niche interest. Think harder about the naked women with contorted figures and gaze surgery to secondary sexual signifiers and scan the finer offers. Of note, the new release section has changed since I started going here. Around the time you were born. There’s more titles suggesting stories, thin constructs that sell more familial scripts. Stepmothers and stepsisters due to euphemism constraints that the porn industry keeps to in case they cross the line to actionable illegality. Cuckold themes with oily black insults and transsexual miscases seem to be popular as well. But the chief populist shelves are devoted to brief introductions of which voluptuous family and provocative friend has fulfilled the fantasy that the boring sex acts filmed as proof devote to context. Think less of these only because I need to draw your attention instead to the release packages that sell one girl on the floor or table or throne beneath many men. Essentially laying there while these naked fat barely remunerated men fit themselves into orifices for brief minute allotments to eventually tool off on the naked women. Cumming one after another. On their faces, aiming in their mouths, on their breasts and asshole and spread wide writhing paid cunt. Masturbating men, who I watch masturbate. Who cover the women in their cum but not enough to look like drowning or something of so much insult that it can’t be wiped off with a towel and then a post check shower. These men, when they cum, obviously, pointedly ridiculously, can’t stop their sperm from splashing and dripping and missing. No one watching ignores who they’re cumming on, I certainly don’t. You want to see men cumming on each other and you want to see that as long as there’s a woman to treat themselves to put paid. They don’t follow the faggot or female script. Not much bothered either way. These are not men who care about what they are saying to the sexually adventurous and concerned. The way I grew up before I had to listen to the politics of expression and freedom. If they get some cum on them. Or if they might be misunderstood as wanting some cum on them. These are the men that are used to more than the tattoo and tribe patois. She’ll do the bodily acting and sensation preening, it’s how you sell the job. Uglier men than youthful, used to being on their knees and assuming less of you in the exact same position. Hypocrites who deeply understand your lies and easily ignore your excuses. I prefer buying these dvds in the shop, I prefer being among the men who find and want for these like me. I’m not looking for company. I’m not there for iconography of any sort, compliance or recognition. I’m not dumb enough not to enjoy the contempt. These are the men you must be thinking of when you say that you fear the men who come into your shop, who walk down the street, who may be talking about you as if they could still recognize you. The pedophile industry that they are not a part of, wouldn’t be. The closest rational you may have to expressing the irrational and still hopelessly undiagnosed psychology of those fears that shake and obsess you are here in the shop with me. Looking at all the shelves. Ihe younger audience, who hasn’t tired of pretty women, specials, to sink to the bins I buy from, who may or may not be enjoying the stories from rape and revenge movies to sisters finally peeling off the teases that taunt them as teenagers, will see the digression as old and tired. You’ll get tired of seeing bisexuality as faggot driven. I don’t care what you say until you get old. And sell the last thing you have which, you’ll find, is the unfair way you’ve been treated over the unfair way you’ve failed. You’ve been scheming the wrong people, you’ll have to make that work for you with the smallest amount of effort that has always protected you better. Vicky intuits better than she has been told to explain. Start back here. Male supremacy is fused into the language, so that every sentence both heralds and affirms it. Thought, experienced primarily as language, is permeated by the linguistic and perceptual values developed expressly to subordinate women. Men have defined the parameters of every subject. All feminist arguments, however radical in intent or consequence, are with or against assertions or premises implicit in the male system, which is made credible or authentic by the power of men to name. No transcendence of the male system is possible as long as men have the power of naming... As Prometheus stole fire from the gods, so feminists will have to steal the power of naming from men, hopefully to better effect. Move here, stay. Focusing on sex offenders with child victims, Chaplin, Rice and Harris (1995) compared 15 men who had sexually offended against girls and 15 nonoffending men. The offenders scored significantly lower than the nonoffenders on two of three empathy questionnaires. Moreover, scores on the same two empathy questionnaires were correlated with phallometricolly assessed sexual arousal to children, such that the sex offenders who scored lower on empathy showed relatively greater arousal to children. The greatest discrimination between the two groups of men was obtained by using stimuli that emphasized the trauma experienced by the child. Use this. Scott Smith: So it sounds like were maybe assessing the offenders too much and not assessing ourselves (therapists) enough. Dr. Bill Marshall: Yes, I think that’s true. I’m not too keen about pre-treatment assessment of offenders, to be quite honest. I think you could waste a lot of time on that, but I have never found information from psychometric tests to be particularly useful. This is mostly because it is very easy to represent yourself in a positive way or a distorted way. I mean, I do. I know when I respond to an MMPI, I try hard to be honest but I cannot resist painting myself in a more positive way than I really am. So, if Ido that, a supremely confident person, you can bet your sweet life that our offenders will misrepresent themselves. Child pornography, pictures of their kids, I always have the ones in mind that I’ve seen whenever the term even sounds, being pushed underneath and on top adults for clear view. Not always men. And I don’t think I have a preference but I’m far more used to one more than the other. Photographs that I didn’t take. That I have not caused. Not even by phantom support or fact-based determination. These are records of what happened too similar to mothers’ market columns. Still. As full long worthless tread lived that way. Keeps you in the dark fantasizing just as hard but easy. It’snot at all in my better interest. Not in discourse, not in private ill-health. I can’t help but think films would be better. Because there are more photographs in films. And. Because you have the next step. You will have this long itemized collection. Every single frame instead of every single scene. And more. You watch the movements press and dull, really. Still, I tend to freeze the shots as I realize I might finally be able to cum. Can stop then. Can’t stop at all, can you, filth. Can stop at films. Films are cut and thumbnailed in the wrong forums. Each single freeze grips a widely recognized ID. Listen to the chubby punies that were featured on beautiful repeat as they live outside of their lives. A surreal effect with a liar’s truth. She grew up to cloy, dad. Less complex. More than what you need as they continue moving long after you stop. I like this idea of time that explodes everything as stupid as this behind it finally. You can’t talk about it. As time. There’s something more brutally specific in denying the silly worth of a film, personally. It means that within a film, within the space that moves image to image to pass by as real and forgettable, I’d have to pick a still to define the action. I’d be forgetting the other events as a list of impossibilities. Not in context. But as worthless save discrimination. I’d like - I’d prefer or I can’t do otherwise - to have a single memorial of whatever it is that happened. And then. To be personally obligated with a fake example of shame and an even thinner pretense of apologia. To pronounce shamelessly and authoritatively that, if I could have anything I ever wanted, then it would be a film of this that never ends. I’d have this constantly. I’d have this on. I’d tell myself suddenly and not have to tell anyone else and just stop thinking about it as this: It kept getting worse. For that one I liked looking at. It kept going on and the scene that started with her fat father unzipping his pants didn’t end until she was crying in a corner after hours of what he wanted to do during his selfless self-discovery session. It’s not the threat of exposed cock. Not my thought. This is not a moment. Too much of a cocksucker for that. Two more important facts before you get lost in what a fact is and how that changes as you open your mouth to record it after the fact again: Did he have to unzip his pants, isn’t it better that he was already in his underwear? And will you have to describe that for yourself now. The film turned on while he was naked. First scene. He didn’t have to work up an erection. If he was grabbing it. It was because that’s how it felt better. You keen the tension by silently feeling around your erection. If you can, if you’re lucky. It was better than not thinking. Three, fuck: You’ve done this before, right? I would only do it at Mimi’s. Mostly poles and mexicans. Some trade late at night. Queers who’ve become fat and can’t make it at the bars. You came in here to get sucked on and to suck. One of the queers at Machine Shop told me that he knew I was there to suck cock. He opened the door to the booth I was in and saw me bent over peering through the hole in the side. He wanted me to go to the open room where he’d let me suck him. I told him there was a chance that there was someone better than him in the next booth. He asked me what I was looking for then. Anything else would have been a better reply but I told him just anything. You need to hide. You didn’t want to be humiliated. No one does and no one else cares. There has to be such a hideous mistake somewhere in those questions. They are questions. Guides for better questions to finding agreement maybe. Because if they’re statements. You’d have to agree with me. You’ve been there. We already know. I’m fucked there. I don’t know how the fuck I would be expected to answer the fucking thing and anything you had to say, say quickly even, would not be an answer to anything that could work. That could’ve worked before this either. “I don’t know” meaning “I don’t know now.” True cunt question. There’s your answer. Tell the cunt to shut his mouth and not ask questions that sound like cunts deserve answers. Especially cunts with jobs like his. Jobs as props. Honestly, if we’re looking for introspection, even though the question is unanswerable, the cunt, because of his job and position, has the answer he wants when he remembered how to hear the answer to the question he’s been trained to repeat to the ones who do his fact checking. Supervisor. Report, second step. Why did you return to the arcade? It’s an ugly thing. What I wanted to go back for. A deeply ugly creature that has nothing to do with the event, cunt. Can you remember what you were thinking when you went back to the arcade? I’d have to set it up for you. Insult you to the degree you’d get it all wrong. Where you’d let yourself become the you that you really are, want to be, can’t stand when you’re doing well at being better than your lousy protective judgements. I’ve been going to this bar after work. They have young men dancing, gyrating only barely, on a small disco prayer stage that fills the center of the room that the actual bar half moons. This is a better bar to go to, isn’t it. These young men, who I always imagine are younger than they are with good reason for this, are nearly naked but not enough. They should be younger. Teenage though. Not children. Less than college but I’m alright with mid-high school. Usually like that age you see going to school when they’re girls. I, like every other man of my age and position, prefer boys when they’re half-hard but not fully erect. A stupid life when they look up at the ceiling while they wiggle and turn and don’t look at the demimonde. The boys are either tired or tied to the laws that no one might actually try to enforce. They don’t get hard on stage. You don’t see fatter cocks jutting straight out from the top of their tight white briefs. I’ve seen a few stroke thick outlines. We appreciate this. Does it sound like I was there only to look at his cock To wait and see how much of his cock I could see. I had money on me. Fuck’s sake, do you think I haven’t seen the hollywood take. And the sympathy they mount. So that you can see how truly devastating it is when the father has to identify his daughter’s body in the morgue. After what happened to her. Am I so dumb not to know and not to remove myself from the moment market that learns from that tripe. Obviously. I thought about cutting all the articles away from the pictures of the missing or violated children. I never consider adults these days, haven’t for decades. My focus became clear, but obvious pretty much from the start. I could turn it to where it had become conversationally obnoxious. Either for others or myself, where denial, for others, forced disinhibition, for myself. I would have to answer for it, funnel, because I still had to contend with the legal foil. Id do it the way I preferred and then construct my reasoning from fear. Not a fantasy. These laws exist. And my priorities were private only until they couldn’t hide themselves to those I was in opposition to. This, you can’t argue with me about this, was a conversation, more a disquisition than a monologue, that produced active rot results. Split between my own arguments, I wanted, as an adult, to rend the material from the discord. Point to prolix obvious. Like a bullied psychopath who simply and legitimately would not do otherwise. One of these evenings, one recently when I was sick of myself to whatever degree you’ll understand incorrectly, I left after only one quick drink. But I take care of these boys since the bar doesn’t charge a cover, just drink and tip rules required by working community. That understands these boys’ situations. So, as I gathered myself to make a quick anonymous exit, I still made sure I cashed out the thin packed boy on the stage by dedicated saunter; handing him his couple rather than sticking it down in his full jockstrap. You get these uncomfortable faggot hugs while you grope and stroke and it wasn’t my intention right then. And there’s no such event as anonymous. The crowd sitting at the bar watch everything that the other men exactly like themselves do. These are smart men. They know how to act. As a result of their lonely degraded worthless intelligence, they creep around their typicals and care, essentially but not primarily, about what the bar is doing around them far more than what the idiot poor boys are not showing, shoving, slipping on that ridiculous little cold stage. Also where gay rights come from. This idea that men can use to inadequately show their concern for what you’re going through as if it’s what they went through. This is not true in any sense. And completely known to every single liar around me. These fucking sleazes pin you hard and it’s a very nice reaction as it turns out, denoting the stupidity and availability of everyone all at once, separating them back to the voyeur’s absolutely correct ego as it mashes down to placing a cock in the mouth of those who can open their mouth to take it. As I left, another dancer, waiting for his stage, was selecting his jukebox songs near the door. They pick such garbage. I tipped him as well. Like some rich cunt, like some seriously drunk faggot, like me not needing to at all, like a sucker, both kinds, one more obvious than the other. Him in his tiny bursting underwear. You don’t want anything? He asked me by saying thank you. And kindly suggesting he knew. Not really as he was begging in the guise of whoring. Not really begging, working an easy job that he was getting better at. There’sno really when it doesn’t matter to him. Wouldn’t be one of those older men that bemoans his cute, hung, gay past as those wretched years back when I was letting gross old men suck on my cock in the back room of the bar I used to wiggle my cock around to offer. Gives a fuck about who places tongue to balls or swallows nothing. Gives his youth cum to his boyfriends. Back in those sad years when I was desperately in love with this stupid boy who wouldn’t treat me right, was incapable of it, didn’t we just misunderstand what we were doing and what we wanted. So full of ourselves back then, it’s nice now when I think of it, just sad as well and so dumb, so silly. The cliches the old men enjoy, both groups of old men turning into one large mass of the same problems, traumas. The hag cocksuckers and the small tit youngsters and this is never anything new to be around at, on, in, even then. Some of these old men, old is wretched, worn, sadder, rejected, would lick at my cock while I was on stage in the middle of this bar. They’d tip me and walk back to their drinks. They’d end up queen drunk in spite of themselves. I’d only dance three songs and absolute animals would wait for my next shift after the next three of four dancers would finish their turns. And they’d be hornier by then. And vie for position. Until they were angry drunk enough and worn through and irritated blurs to just tip me straight out so they could see my cock when they could get close on what would now have to be the last time. Tug the top of my jock and let them see it before they’d offer me more to pet my ass while I showed them free cock or I’d let the head slip out at my thigh. And they’d circle it with their fingers when I’d laugh and stick the band back around the bulge. They’d have an hour or so before they’d finally tip me enough to let me let them place this big dick into their mouths and they’d not even suck it because too many of the other men were watching. If they wanted it all hard. They’d listen to me tell them to go in the back and wait. They knew what go away meant. I didn’t enjoy treating them like dogs. I didn’t mind. So many, drunk, alone, can be little else. They’d suck so that I could get hard. That was the point I had to get to. I know these old guys who’d pull on themselves. While they sucked at my cock. I know they’d go home and think about it again. They wouldn’t hate themselves when they were masturbating. I could see the way they’d love looking at cock. Take it out of their mouths. So often just clean and dry. These men weren’t slobs all the time. After I let worse suck on me. Paw asshole. After I let some fat school teacher suck on it. After I’d been in asshole the morning before I went to work. You taste cunt, you taste body, you slime in slime, some of the men exactly like you in varying degrees of self-hatred that even then doesn’t not go far down enough to lessen your own sagging mental health. Schizophrenics. They’d taste, if they could, if it worked this way, the powders mixing from both of our medications. That’s not what happens. It’s this. Get up off my knees and I’m harder than the joke. I’m pushing fool and more demanding, rude. The cliche, the typical, boring everybody other than the unique that understands the insult of everyone else repeating every answer ever just to get dick in ass finally, some cunt in hand, a long grinding cum, deranged humans and truthful farms. You suck this, you finish your job. And saying that these pantos exist or stop or bother or answer when it becomes just more impolite than the simple place you stand in line at the first nicer bar where you know a little more about different kinds of vodka that the patrons seem to like to ask you about, Charmer. These thin correct demanding stereotypes give way, not when you learn about their classes and apartment dwelling households full of strong women and lazy police fathers, but when the customer becomes more imbalanced. Palsied in brain, perfect in body, culturally dumb under intense personal focus; perfectly within reason. Excused. Allowed. Shared, recognized. They explain what little they want, when sticking the right dick in the wrong mouth is a possibility more than an answer. More contemptuous than just wanting some skin. They have to be told that it really doesn’t add up to much. Afterward. Don’t add. Remember not thinking. Your sexual choices are nil. I would guess. Your chances are slim. Somewhere you can’t deny that you were always going to give in, go wrong, collapse. What would you have had, after all, if you hadn’t? There’s nothing wrong, there’s a gaggle of filthy, precise, liars not really lying, truly filthy, alternatively welcoming and rejecting. This is what happens. The rejection isn’t worse. The rejection proves that it’s still going to happen. And the bromide level of the invited or the denied meet when it all tiny occurs without pride and shame. Or worry. Because, the facts are, if I had been smarter enough to not act like an old queen and move to one of the corners at the further end of the bar, up against the back wall away from the door where the other timids gaze, I’d have a better time. These queer wiggling boys and their Caucasian droops sit there in their underwear only stroking up thicker presentations for the regulars who love helping them. And I’m telling you. I could line pictures from the papers that draw every article you might want to read. Nosey brick who’d have to answer for his insult. How can anything this tepid in thought be listened to as he bitched for the laws to protect others from only his nice imagination. I’ve decided not to include the pictures of cute little girls on every page of my monograph. I’ve decided that their being absent will be better. Prurient since the entire read is on the flea’s purpose of such images between me and my ad-hoc therapist. Entirely our fault, I offer demurely while perfectly serious and legitimately sorry. It is central to this work that the rundown pictures of faces instead of bodies and bodies instead of action not be included. It can not be a mistake that those are not included exactly where they should be if I were to be celebrating honesty. Not presented as part of a self-report and review. Please don’t assume I’m following the cultural rat to redouble your expectations away from what others would have shrugged off as clever. This will never be new, I’m intent on answering what I can’t argue against. I like this. This works. This helps. When I moved to a new table, towards the opposite side of the wood fence that surrounds the entire back room of the bar, designed as it is to mock a ranch, because I picked out the wrong side, stupidly, as it turned out, to sit and watch before having to perform. The man I was getting only incrementally closer to immediately pushed his hand up and told me to stop. I shook my head, smiled faggot, said as much as don’t worry, I’m only moving closer so I can see better. He had taken a favorite spot of mine. That’s why I had to choose another corner. I know they are corners, I know what that means, I absolutely agree and, also, want to make clear that this man, I don’t know, maybe knew why we would choose this spot as often as we could whenever we would. I walk to work every morning and cut through an alley that I remember for masturbating in. Now two apartment buildings on either side where it used to give way to an open backyard and an office building. Just around the corner from what was essentially a gangway, the alley led to the street and a bondage fag store named Male Hide Leathers. Across from there, for a short time for me, was Touche,’ a leather bar with a cruising backyard. Years after that bar burned down and that store closed, I was still living just down the block. Drunk, very, and after hanging around a different further faggot bar with another large backroom and many more slimy men than now, I was still overly bothered, if you will, by what had either happened or not. In that, I mean, I’m not sure if I’d fucked and sucked too many men that night to stop or that I hadn’t fucked and sucked enough. Whatever form of speed I got mattered. I remember this fairly well. I leaned against the dark office building wall, next to a garbage can. As close as I could get to the garbage. To hide myself. This made sense. Not to be in public. I wasn’t exposing myself, I did not want to be seen if that was an unexpressed concern, it was entirely within the indiscipline of simply not wanting to get to an apartment and stop to sleep. I was sick enough, deeply, to lean against a wall, thinking to myself as one would sickly do at that point, and I needed to cum quickly and again and I do remember the thoughts in my head. What I think far more bluntly these days is that no one else need know what was going through my diminutives then. The concern, barely recognized as it didn’t stop me, is what I took away from that, right then, I remember soberly, and still recall as primary now. I also, it progresses, understand that I was ill. It was all badly understood, everything, clearly. The far corner towards the door away from the main graze of the cruising creep, the seat behind a table that keeps you from being seen by the hungry queers that make it out to the back. The new recruits and fans and gay fooled men who walk in staring straight forward as they enter the corral, drink in hand from the bar excuse and management, before theyd have to full stop at the tall plastic and metal fence. And turn around. Without finding a spot. Where they’ll sweetly pretend they’re not re-casing the action they’ve missed first proud amble. I know this. You understand. That I know this. I, being older and uglier and kinder, don’t bury myself in my bright phone when I hit the back rewind. I, as in this time, took a seat at another table towards the wrong side of the fence, as I said, easier to be seen by the sex intent. Wrong side, still and then, because, as the very attractive man in my favorite badly designed highly insulting corner had started to masturbate quietly under his table. I was watching him. And I wasn’t close enough to see his hand down moving up his cock. And there would be the idea that one of the other queers and cowboys and meatmen standing to the walls and not talking were finally being offered the sell of the back bar as well. So I moved closer before my limited shy and edging brave and illegally exposing nothing at all but his arm and intent panicked slightly and politely to stop me. From getting on him. Here, let me do that for you. Let me help you with that. I’ll, like you hoped, use my mouth. Like you offered. Finally. Patron wants to suck cock. Immature. Reductive. Camera caught. Cow-like stupidity exchanges need for want to form pig. Proud. Couldn’t you just stay home, on your couch in front of the tv, in your bathroom, hidden from mom, in bed, quietly not seeing anything but the back of your own squinting Amy color head and pull yourself off to forget it all just as quickly as the years of problems you’re going to cause all of us listening to you divulge and preen and tautologize. One hand up to say stop. The other hand still working on very tense hard cock now bit showing. However, faggot, he was fine with me watching. He didn’t, one like me first assumes, want a disease. I don’t care if he thought I’d give him a good blowjob or not. I don’t care if he’s one those types. Those pets. I don’t think this is an acceptable option in weighing the exciting masturbatory possibilities within his confused masturbating crime. I’m certain that forensics would agree that he only preferred stroking his hard-on out in barely public as barely better than having some sick plug wrap wet over the shaft, head and balls before it started intuiting fingers and hands and searched more before few offers and instruction were that he was finally, not deeply, frustrated enough to give masturbating shows to those who would be highly likely to simply infect him with some fantastical virus. Thus creating regret and memory. Instead of memory. Because, after being stopped, trolled away, I sat my sober bulk down at a new table, these sat in the middle of the pit, awkwardly in the way of the stroll, but still directly in front of him and his corner. This ugly man showed more. Become sick when masturbating. And stood from his chair but turned around to display his ass before cock by letting his pants drop to this thighs. Queer didn’t queer, didn’t wiggle or spread invite, didn’t bend down or over. Turned back around to let me know he wanted me to see all of its but not nudge me enough beyond my slight powers of control to crawl over and mutter licking his asshole while I still let him stroke that long hard hot cock pumping cum too maddeningly slow from such full blonde balls. I won’t even let my liquid simpering defect, neurological, biological, grossly unfair if not obvious, near that blurred fat pisshole of his, yours, ours, right. I don’t think you can get it from the other portal, just from a mouth, this all makes no settling sense, you’ll see, the next time you come back to do transfer. Switch to cop. Faggot cop. Perverted bar booster. Stare at his face while I encourage him that I’m friendlier and more appreciative of what the joy in doing just this might be. That I want to ask him questions and still stall over what he is doing and say thank you for doing it for me, never once, mind you, assuming or pretending that we’re both excited over sharing aesthetics over primacy or getting the same control and cave issues twisted and teased like some of the dumber entitled younger queers in here who don’t think about their own muddled muscled staring silence. Until I stare more intently at his large erection and finally perfect prepuce. His fist shaking his balls. So he stops. And as he reached to undo the buttons on his shirt lets me measure up his unhidden by action and hand and precum erection. Standing out and up and youthfully more excited than it should be if he wasn’t far too near animal; female. He unbuttoning. Was so he could stroke himself there. Feels his chest on his way to pinching his little nipple like anyone would have done since, like wombs, dreck, like truly ugly and lost women, combining the senses will play better while exposing filth and credulity to a point above the age I prefer can pour over rather than drip up. It wasn’t for me to appreciate his build. Don’t make the mistake that he was preening absolutely. That inconvenient thought comes later. When it matters, certainly. When health is reweighed in the mirror instead of the brain. He’dtoo quickly returned hand to cock. We could’ve stared opposites longer. He’d kept one hand up and pinching and gliding. I refused to look at his face for him. Until I decided I should also do that just exactly for him. Staring back at me and still wanting me to look back down was what an idiot like him would sift through while he pumped faster or slower or licked his lips instead of letting blank sex somehow pretend the future of the act came without perfect thoughts. The bigger idiot, the one who thought this was important, would have to figure it all out and do him the favors. I was, of course, there at his cock, not with my mouth, when he cummed. And shook off the drops that would more perfectly stain his underwear if he wasn’t fully finished showing off and had the burning credit one should when one is facing a cop fuck who pretends he doesn’t like sucking on that particular cock every single morning first thing when he’s inside a promises relationship with cheap compliments and two positions and selfless gestures to choose before he thinks better of his time and wastes at work. I don’t know this. What kind of asshole he is. How typical I’ve made him when typical is never that only. But I’m not his tawdry voice either. And I’ve chosen this prejudice over the ones I know are more complicated and still probably less true and more cliche. I’m willing to be more the cliche, more the coward, when it comes to watching some older creep masturbate in public rather than imagine him entrancing like the even older creep I certainly must be now. To give wretches like this their voice, to perform mirror holds and language ticks like the worst form of lowlife artist, how typical, to recognize the better engagement of this stiffened to soft retard cock tugging slug and the difficulties that brought him to this. As if this. Is a low mark. As if mine. Is a kind sensitive and correctly adequate voice for him inescapably finally. Is exactly the reverse of why I’m here in the first and last place, I lie. I’d be one of these worthless crawls that complains about such cowardice and showmanship and wife-beating possibles and racists and how secretly, while avoiding, how much I’d really like to take care of the poor darlings I see splayed and tortured every single day. It’s not too much. It never has been for me. Not ever reductive enough, actually, to ring that perfectly in either time or the coming ornate leitmotif. This man. As if masculinity meant something laudable. This cunt. As if I didn’t despise them. Took comfort in that when I needed an away. From queers like this and straights like that. His mealy voice. His stupid sentences. You know, the way you don’t announce that the niggers they let talk on tv don’t know how to form full sentences. As if, you know, they’re talking about all of us. Worse, as if they’re talking for me and I still have to put up with listening to them be gorillas. It’s not so bad for me, honestly. That little dissolvable white shit that he expelled, then drooled. That little thick, hot, unsweet bodily mass of essentialist repugnance that was either fed to the floor or dreamed gullet, mine from my knees or his from his stand and back up less acidic than a quick drunk burp and vomit. Was not me having to pick a fucking side. Fuck you, you minuscule mistake with parents and associates that help you when you want to pretend otherwise. You creeping lapsed criminal community liar. Again. If I fucking have to be every fucking open cunt in every position all the same fucking cunt lapping time, I swear, right then, they all stunk more than looked like the juicy wet cunted spread fat and sad mother of one of those boys murdered because he kept going to the wrong place for the wrong thing and pug mom doesn’t learn until the reports get thicker and detailed. Also again. A moment that we’d be very happy to have. Me being, above all, the one that has to answer. I have fucking been asked. This was decades after I’d be young and stuck in dark rank closets that showed super 8 films on the back of the pay doors. You’d watch the films the mob picked out for anyone and then ran them over continuously on projectors behind you. You couldn’t pick out something you might have thought you would have preferred. The chances for you finding something that was more offensive than the last rung of your taste or tolerance was nearly impossible. If you went to the booth to masturbate to a film and not to get sucked on through the glory holes at the side. Which were the reasons for the booths but some of us were new or excited enough by any sex act performed by any woman on any man. All you got was sex; people getting fucked and licking hairy cunt or swallowing loads of cum that were doing what you were doing to yourself. You went in to see sex happen on film. This was a thought, after seeing all these men trading on exposed and worked up hard cock, in the bars. This was a similar experience. You couldn’t separate the experience into pornography and action or emotional jags because you were cumming on the floor from your stupid thoughts. It was all unattractive dreary sickness cumming on shoes and then on film and stepping over consequential puddles and stick that you didn’t ignore any longer because you were leaving then. You were being trailed by the selfish needy acts crammed down into drooling erect men as well. You have to understand how mentally ill I was. I was staring at a wall. And, when I cummed, I was either on my knees in the alley. Face down with my hand working my cock through my zipper intending to cum directly onto the alleyway concrete. Or standing, having turned around from facing the wall, and cumming and stroking as I wanted to cum outward as if I was exposing myself, not to the world, not to the police, or a work returning mexican stint, if female, but as if a child should be watching me. I was looking down at my dick instead of up at the sky and over my shoulder. I was vodka and crack burn nauseous. I was face against the wall where I’d have just as likely been vomiting down the alcohol. It was very late at night. I think it’s important that it was still night rather than early morning hours. The backroom of the bar I left had been just as dark. This is how you had sex there. I’ve masturbated watching men have sex in front of me. On top of men having sex in front of me. Got used to seeing hard in black fetid dirt buckets of rooms. The street and car lights did reach enough. I was thinking specifically about the men who kept grabbing shoving spreading at my ass while I was getting sucked on by someone on their knees. I was there so long. They all blur if you pick one out. He cummed in my mouth. And I was thinking fiercely that he was walking around the bar with his dick out and he smelled like he wouldn’t do that out on the street, the way flashers scare children and terrify women and his faggot wag around was, to me, entirely in the wrong place. This is why they keep it dark, asshole. This is why you shouldn’t be allowed to do this. There are other factors. I like not being able to cum. When the thoughts turn away from what you were staring at, all the while remaining wholly direct and sound. And those thoughts, being memories now, let you know that you’ll no longer be able to stop with a shudder. Your desire was an illness. A much worse idea than you thought you could ignore. It’s not a masochistic rethink. It is directly back into your head, finally, without a biology or requirement to understand. It is, actually, very much like looking at the photos of these murdered bloodied beasts and not aligning yourself with what they want you to see. Almost apathetic, almost an argument that would support the consequential in Butner Study Redux. Since I want to play safe, coward, correct. None of that applies. Such a huge deal made out of such a forgettable nothing. That isn’t true. It is not nothing. The laws, all the arguments and reams of transcripts and monstrous buildings with long bright rooms organized and steeled on the back of something so obviously permanently highly important. This is nothing. I wasn’t thinking. I had no thoughts at all eventually. I know why I started. There was too much. That’s all, that’s all there was. I had to do it again. To stop thinking that way. All of the rest, all of what is done to get to that point, is for this. Does that make sense? You’re taking a chance finally. To get it to stop. It’s not something you want over but you want it done quickly even more. The first part is the idea that catches and fucks you up publicly. There’s a great deal of hatred grazing over you. I’d think that I was doing that, actually, I’m sure I’d merely kept my back to the gangway and leaned my head against my arm, using my forearm as cushion between my hot forehead and the brick. I was overwhelmed at the idea that these perverts were fucking children and I had to settle for the men and start sucking dick like the fat nigger female slobs that I’d pay when I was even younger. These oily greasy beasts with hideous breasts and slave drawls and poverty stupidity well before they became drug addicted nothings but exposure of something that truly ugly and primitive, except worse because it’s tar covered and you’d even fucking accept that now. Worse, and I started there, than the men who’d at least recognize the nonexistent differences in sexual acts as if all perfect dolls. The hatred I’m talking about, I really do hope you understand this, is not at all from some sort of sympathetic flight forward from backward. I can see why these animals are concerns to their neighbors and the accumulating barking worthless. This you’ll like. That the full clippings also included here are more my personal details than the filtered noise of buyer’s market audio streams. The prostitutes of Eyler’s vicious neighborhoods and Gecht’s nigger city trips were mine. The pedophile destructions that came later were my purview, close-up. I had to include all of these edge to edge to mark timelines. These stories move along better and deserve to be presented as I would pass through my life, lying like a soldier, but impossible as the evidence is in every next full length article, headlines, bylines and all. Impossible to say I wasn’t fucking thinking, just not comprehending the information I was digging further and further for. I’ve included this. To experience again, keep all the impossibilities in thinking better. What I had been previously instructed not to show. You couldn’t see them as correct. You couldn’t see drugs as the problem. You can’t accept that they weren’t born for this, certainly; that’s just as evident in the clippings, one right after the other, hardly on top of all the others. These filth stand out. I was never, I seem to remember, worried about insanity. I was petrified over arrest. And you’d find yourself irrational and then say that it was you losing your mind. You’d project that in court, in jail, in humiliation, you’d realize that you had become stupid. To fuck something, sick, deeply pitied and in need of help, impossible, as well. You’d also see that in the others. You couldn’t mistake it for anything else. I sound sorry for myself too. They were. That’s what was driving them to thoughtless circular acts. Or they didn’t know or care or gave up fighting against what they wanted. And I would ask them. The contempt I had wasn’t for myself. I wasn’t worried about becoming like that. Family loss and inaccurate, incompatible futures, not the only thoughts of those who come to masturbate behind tables in the corner of bar backrooms. Settle, for argument’s sake, on a single point for another chaste stab at theoretical reasoning. I don’t care what kind of malcontent this drug fiend or sensual timidity had as a future without the interviews from those who knew him best. The secrets he was keeping from them. I prefer him this way. As I do. I explain without ever opening my mouth to the business tripe yanking his cock to act completion in front of me. Writing it down, not saying anything, not being near correct. This faggot came in here away from his family and his job and his dailies alone. The ones he talks to aren’t here. The ones who help him through his rough past or aren’t there in reality when he listens to the cunts at churches, say, are welcome, now, to be anywhere fucking else but right here, right now. Sat in the corner. Opposite mine. And he started pulling his cock after I saw him petting it. From under the table. Watched his arm move and him stare around the bar. I saw him look down at his cock pushed from his pants. Pulled his dick out of his zipper and ran his hand down soft growing length thinking he was going to have to show it to someone or cum under the table and no one else had to know or it didn’t matter. Knew, I think, because I got his hand and head shake to stay, stop, dog, cocksucker, faggot something else, away from him and his nice hot hard cock again. THE COURT: All right. The Court finds a sufficient factual basis for the anticipated upward variance in the sentence in this case. Mr. Heinrich, you’re aware that you have certain pending motions in this case. You’re challenging certain evidence that was seized during the search warrant and statements that were made to law enforcement. You recall that, correct? (Counsel confers with defendant.) THE DEFENDANT: Oh, yes, Your Honor. THE COURT: Okay. And there is also a motion dealing with a change of venue that is still pending as well. You remember that as well? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,Your Honor. THE COURT: Do you understand that by entering a guilty plea today, you’re giving up your right to make those challenges and that those motions would be terminated? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, Your Honor. THE COURT: All right. Now I want to just discuss some of the remaining aspects of the plea agreement with you because I want to make sure we all understand the nature of this agreement. Paragraph 4 sets forth the statutory penalties for the crime, the receipt of child pornography. There is a mandatory minimum sentence of five years and a statutory maximum penalty of 20 years. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, I do. THE COURT: Okay. And following release from prison, there is a supervised release term that is mandated under federal law. In this case, it has to be at least five years, and it can be up to a maximum of life. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,Your Honor. THE COURT: And by “supervised release,” I mean you’re under the supervision of a probation officer if you are released, and then you must follow conditions imposed by this Court. If there is a violation of any of those conditions, you can be sent back to prison. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,Your Honor. THE COURT: The fine is a maximum of $250,000. There is a mandatory $100 special assessment, and there maybe a restitution award. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, Your Honor. THE COURT: Okay. Now, in paragraph 6, the parties have set forth recommended application of the federal sentencing guidelines in this case, again for Count 24. I want to go through those and make sure we all understand how the recommendation has been calculated. Okay? THE DEFENDANT: Yes. THE COURT: There is a base offense level at the beginning of the calculation for receipt of child pornography. That is level 22. There are a number of specific offense characteristics in this case which would raise that level. The first would be actually a decrease because your conduct in this matter was limited to receipt and solicitation of materials, a two-level increase because the material involved prepubescent minors, a four-level increase because the offense involved materials that portray sadistic or masochistic conduct or other depictions of violence. And this deals with one of the images that depicts anal penetration of a minor; a two-level increase because the offense involved the use of a computer, a two-level increase because the number of images were between 10 and 150, and a five-level increase because you engaged in a pattern of activity involving abuse of minors as depicted in or as detailed in the additional relevant conduct discussed today. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,Your Honor. THE COURT: There likely would be a three-level downward adjustment for acceptance of responsibility. That gives us a total offense level of 35. Based on what the parties know at this time, it’s the belief that your Criminal History Category is level I. With an adjusted offense level of 32 with the downward adjustment for acceptance, Criminal History Category I, the guideline range for Count 24 is 121 to 151 months in prison. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,Your Honor. THE COURT: And you understand how we reached that number? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, I do. THE COURT: Okay. The fine range at that level is $35,000 up to $350,000, and the guidelines require at least five years and up to a life term of supervised release. And the parties are agreeing and will recommend jointly to the Court that the facts as set forth today and admitted at the hearing today are grounds for an upward variance. You’ve discussed that with Ms. Roe, is that correct? THE DEFENDANT: Yes. THE COURT: Okay. And that the recommendation will be the statutory maximum of 240 months in prison. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: I understand that. THE COURT: All right. Now, there is a $100 special assessment which would be payable at sentencing. There is no agreement at this point as to restitution. There is a federal statute which requires victim restitution, and that’s a matter that will be discussed later at sentencing. Mr. Heinrich, you are also agreeing to forfeit property that was involved in the commission of this crime. The visual depictions, the - any property that is traceable to the - what you obtained from the offense. In particular, the parties are agreeing you’ll forfeit the Gateway desktop computer, Model 510XL, and you are agreeing this property is subject to forfeiture because it was used to commit the offense. You understand that? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, I do. THE COURT: Do you anticipate, Mr. Schleicher, any further forfeitures? MR. SCHLEICHER: Not at this time, Your Honor. THE COURT: All right. Now, paragraph 11 is important for us to discuss. You understand, Mr. Heinrich, that you have a right, even when you enter a guilty plea in a case, to appeal the sentence, don’t you? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, I do, Your Honor. THE COURT: And you’ve talked about this right with Ms. Roe and Mr. Aligada? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, I have, Your Honor. THE COURT: You are agreeing in this plea agreement to waive any rights that you have to appeal the sentence unless the sentence exceeds 240 months, is that correct? THE DEFENDANT: That’s correct. THE COURT: And the government also is waiving its right to appeal the sentence unless it is less than 240 months. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, I do, Your Honor. THE COURT: All right. You’re also agreeing to waive your right to file a later petition, which would be a civil action, which would challenge the sentence or the conviction in this case, except if you have a valid claim for ineffective assistance of counsel, which is not waivable. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: I understand. THE COURT: All right. So you understand that this agreement is a negotiated settlement of a number of matters, including charged and uncharged criminal conduct, correct? THE DEFENDANT: That’s correct. THE COURT: Okay. So if there is any reason in this case that your conviction is vacated or your sentence is reduced for any reasons, you and the government are agreeing that all parties are restored to your pre agreement rights. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,Your Honor. THE COURT: Okay. And you’re specifically waiving any applicable statute of limitations to offenses charged in the indictment, and you’re agreeing that at that point any statements made to law enforcement and in court pursuant to this agreement can be used against you in a federal prosecution. Do you understand? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, Your Honor. THE COURT: Ms. Roe, you’re confident the defendant fully understands these significant rights, correct? MS. ROE: Yes,Your Honor. THE COURT: Okay. Now, paragraph 12, let’s discuss that for a moment, Mr. Heinrich. Because of the nature of the crime that you are pleading guilty to, you may be subject, after service of a prison sentence, to civil commitment by state or federal authorities, and there are a number of different statutes that are applicable, and it could be state law or federal law or the law of any other jurisdiction. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, Your Honor. THE COURT: Okay. None of us at this point have any control or any understanding of what might happen at that point in time. You understand that, correct? THE DEFENDANT: Yes. Yes,Your Honor. THE COURT: And that could result in you being confined to a facility after you’re released from this sentence. Do you understand that? THE DEFENDANT: I understand. THE COURT: And regardless of that, you still wish to plead guilty as set forth in this plea agreement, is that correct? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, I do, Your Honor. THE COURT: All right. This is the complete agreement. Mr. Schleicher, do you want to make any reference to paragraph 13? MR. SCHLEICHER: I do, Your Honor. Your Honor, the plea agreement that’s been executed is a nine-page document, but it contains two attachments which are made part of and incorporated into the plea agreement. They’re material conditions of the plea agreement. The first is the joint agreement dated August 29, 2016, which was signed by the parties on August 30,2016, which is Attachment 1. That agreement generally spells out the conditions by which we were able to get to a point where we received location information for the remains and set up what would then eventually become a proffer and a plea. This second attachment, Attachment 2, is the proffer agreement dated and signed September 1, 2016. It also contains material conditions, material conditions binding upon the plea agreement, and further describe how certain information can be used and what manner by law enforcement. So it is the three agreements, the plea agreement and the two attachments, that constitute the entire agreement. As to all three agreements, defense counsel has reviewed those thoroughly with their client, and he was made to understand the terms and conditions, and he signed those agreements as well. The agreement also, and specifically the joint agreement, Attachment 1, bears the signatures of the United States Attorney, as well as the Stearns County Attorney, and all of the conditions contained therein are binding upon the state by her agreement. MS. ROE: Your Honor, if I might? THE COURT: Go ahead. MS. ROE: As is indicated, excuse me, as is indicated in the Plea Agree- ment and Sentencing Stipulations document that will be filed, the point of this and the two agreements that are attached was to have a global resolution of all the issues and all the matters involving the Jacob Wetterling offense and the Jared Scheirel offense and the child pornography, the federal child pornography charges. That’s what the three documents entail. MR. SCHLEICHER: If I could make a record of that as well, Your Honor? THE COURT: Go ahead. MR. SCHLEICHER: The resolution of this as a global agreement will then result in the single count of conviction here in federal court of receipt of child pornography, and there will be no further state prosecution in the matter. The - in agreement with this resolution includes our law enforcement partners: The Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, the Stearns County Sheriff s Department, as well as the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the relevant prosecution authorities, which include Stearns County Attorney Janelie Kendall, the United States Attorney for the District of Minnesota, Andrew Luger, and also through their representatives, the victims and their families, Patty and Jerry Wetterling, as well as Jared Scheirel. THE COURT: All right. Okay. Anything else, Ms. Roe? MS. ROE: No, sir. THE COURT: So to clarify, then, the state officials have agreed that there will be no state prosecution for the crimes committed in 1989, is that correct? MR. SCHLEICHER: It is, Your Honor. THE COURT: All right. Now, Mr. Heinrich, do you understand all of the terms of the plea agreement that we have just gone through? THE DEFENDANT: Yes, I do, Your Honor. THE COURT: Do you have any questions at all about the plea agreement and the two additional documents which you have signed? THE DEFENDANT: No, Your Honor. THE COURT: Okay. Has anyone made any other promises to you in an effort to get you to plead guilty in this case? THE DEFENDANT: No, Your Honor. THE COURT: Anyone tried to force you to plead guilty in any way? THE DEFENDANT: No, Your Honor. THE COURT: You’re doing so voluntarily? THE DEFENDANT: Yes. THE COURT: And you believe you’re guilty of the federal offense in this case? THE DEFENDANT: Yes,Your Honor. THE COURT: All right. Now, do you understand that this conviction is a felony conviction, correct? THE DEFENDANT: That’s correct, Your Honor. For those who have to deal with the problems put before them. The word is almost always repugnant. Placed most often to separate, include, their personal opinion and participation with the matter they are forced to stress. The Supreme Court arguments, in audio, are quick to insist that Congress wants an aggressive form of law and the judges are not of the mind to disagree with the heart of reason. Simply, their position is to find a practical way to work out the language so that it functions rather than suggests. You are not repugnant. What happened to you was repugnant. The sickness that continues are men that are, by their excitement and disease, repugnant. You have not been called repugnant, that is not something you should misunderstand. In fact, you understand that the very reason for your argument is that you were the opposite. This is what defines repugnance. You did not deserve this nor was anything about you, then and now, suspect in the violence that was forced upon you. I saw a movie and realized that I couldn’t separate myself from the actress. It was when she started to cry. She cried a lot in the movie. A couple times that really hit me. And I found myself going back into what happened to me. And I worried that others might think she looked like me. But without seeing me cry. I’d have to tell them to look for her, and they’d see what happened after, if they wanted to know, by seeing me. But it gets difficult. Because I knew that would change and she’d get older and I had to stop thinking that she’d be able to stay that way for me. She wouldn’t always be there and I couldn’t go back to find what else she had done before this. I didn’t want to see her cry in other movies. I also couldn’t stop thinking about her and had to do something to find out more. She played a few victims, one more especially. I worried if I talked about her that my therapist or whoever else for that matter would think that there was something about her that the directors and casting agents responded to. And then think I was acting too. You could take it all the wrong ways. You could see that all the wrong readings were possible. I worried that as she became popular, she’d be too good an actress. Recognized for her talent. I didn’t ever want her to do a nude scene or act sexy. I couldn’t bear the thought of her doing that or being thought of that way. No one else would believe you. Everyone else wouldn’t act like they knew absolutely how low I could be if I acted just the way scum think things have happened. Scum looking for an angle as they would have done. It would’ve ended up happening. I’d have found myself there. After I’d gotten arrested, I’d explain that I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t know what I was doing but I followed until I couldn’t do anything but be the person I truly was. You would have been begging for it to happen to you. I’d have been begging for nothing. You can’t stop at the part you found. I’d have been formulating alibis because I was willing the entire search to finally end up in jail, chicken. I had my victim impact statement ready. How could you have done otherwise. The fakes started with an impact statement. I knew what I was looking for. What I found; couldn’t that have been completely unknown to me? It wasn’t an adventure. You wouldn’t ever agree that the worst that you could have imagined would have been worth what you were finally getting. It’s nothing when you think about it. I met her. She seemed perfectly happy. If you must, you can see that’s even more compelling. That it could not have been as wrong as you said it was. I wanted to know what was happening when I wasn’t there. Your mind reels when you see it, just as much, because one more is just a lie just like all the rest. You want it to finally be as clear as it sounds, away from all the rest. I like, frankly, that they were alone. That took a fair amount of work as well. There’s quite a bit of negotiating. Physically. It should have been obvious. You wouldn’t be believed, you knew how it would sound. No one would listen to you and think he’d have been putting himself in exactly that position without knowing what he was going to end up with. It wouldn’t be a repressed stream, not to the people listening to you, it would have to have been highly deliberate. Stupidly, somehow, still. I’d admit to, ignorantly, starting a mistake. The same way the slob listening like worse would have to conspire, we would identify each other. You could say you were looking for photos from the men who traded. As soon as you met them, sucked him off in the back of a car, you’d have been hoping to get more. You’d want him to take you home and convince him as knowledgeable. It would have been exactly the same event as you seeing one of those slobbering shaved clean camgirls. Just put your vagina into the camera. Don’t let me see anything else. Just that tucked-in vagina. She knew the difference between what you thought you came off as unique instead of commensurate. Just exactly, rather, like seeing a photograph that I knew was a still from an old vhs video. It, hardly merely, advertised the full length video but now registers as an individually numbered illegal picture. This is what counts separately as whole. These add up as individual charges. My clues, my shoves, my doggerel. You would want to see every single snapshot freeze and advert afterwards just like that. Complete the narrative, line up each polaroid next to next and see where it went, how wonderful and nonadaptive it became or as bad as it could have. But not miss a thing, not have it run too quickly, not let it evaporate the way it’s sold as if it cannot. You wanted to know when the camera would get shut off. When it would be enough. Enough, even, just to set a price. What they edited, just the end of what was going to be on film, it would always have to be annoying as promise. You’d look to the newspapers for those fill-ins. Teaching a thing like that to pull on you. Convincing it on one hand, mouth down teaching it on the other. You couldn’t possibly agree with one of the prosecution attorneys. You couldn’t act as if you understood that they didn’t absolutely intend on making you pay because they got to see exactly how heinous it was supposed to be but wasn’t. Tune out the immersion and see an old fat man getting a handjob. You start to think about what he’s doing to make himself cum that way. To get it over. Next you start to ask, anyone, what was he looking at. Towards. Because the camera isn’t facing POV down. Somehow the audience that you’re a cheated part of isn’t seeing what happened at all, isn’t seeing the appeal, his experience is not even supposed to be your own. I tell the jury. Sucking on that faggot, that reject in slow confusion and slower rage and gene slips, some of that makes sense, that you’d only want to suck him like any other hard man. And let him suck on you. Whether you were doing it out of contempt for his fatherly torpor and irresponsibility or his homed homosexual denial, it was a disgust you were sat with, almost perfect in every sense but aggregate. That was in his head. You forget that it’s not something he’d want to see. You’d be wrong. I could see he was staring. I was looking for an introduction. I like that I was. We’re talking about something that didn’t happen. You don’t get to add yet. There isn’t one example of you turning down the offer; there isn’t one chance that you’d be able to pull as if it could come off correct. Of course, that’s what you were doing. I think we have to consider the excuse as complicit to a crime whether or not anything happened. Those soft-core snapshots, they come with an invitation, this is what it is. You’re presented with the spindly thing with her legs spread wide. What kind of animal, they’d say, wouldn’t be repulsed. What kind of beast would respond by having to slide his hard cock in. Point it somewhere close. What other kind of cripple would drool to his knees at the side of the bed, grab her around her naked thighs and scoot her butt up to his face so he could taste it. Slurp and suck like a nonentity, devoid of choice and decision at least, that you would tell others later, did then belong in a cage for the rest of his life. Once a dog, always a dog. Except that it would change when he couldn’t take the punishment any longer. He’d try and squirm out of it. You can’t do that to a human, you could help where he didn’t, where he was egregiously mistaken. They implore you to take trusted care of them. You’re thinking that the fathers and mothers are always as protective as the neighbors and lawyers. They all think you’d believe that they aren’t capable of understanding you and your plight and little nothing importants blown out of proportion into a massive pulverized life. They understand you fine. What kind of animal wouldn’t do what part. It’s not an invitation at all. It’sany hope, faith, at all, all the same. The twitching gnats that find themselves overwhelmed, they snipe, to wanting, so they have to, the doctors ask, fuck it like the ones who have done more hands-on offenses to help it. I have to protect that record. I have to do more. I have to slobber down a script and send it to a politician. More has to be done. It goes back to. Insert. Turn it on its stomach so you can spend decent time licking. No matter which picture you’re looking at, there is never a moment, let alone a variable, that it could get viewed as detached from exactly what your position is. You go forward from where you are now. Not head to where the picture was taken. Or only that it was in a hotel room that you wouldn’t know as comfortable. The more you whimper that you were looking at the men, the more I hear the opposite. It would work that way, whether you admitted it or not. It couldn’t be - ever - anything else. I don’t think there is any other way to see it. I told him to take his cock out. I started kissing him. After you tugged response, caressed heft. I don’t like that you misunderstand things to the point of worrying about who was forcing something. I would have been alright if he shoved it all out and in. I understood what was happening, just as well as pushing it that way quicker than his inadequately halved mind would have finally caught up. He started kissing me, actually. Tonguing. Honestly, I remember that he seemed proud of himself, that’s what I think now, of course. Just aggressive then, the way they are when they give in. They always, all of them, forget how they look doing what they want to do. He thought it was okay. This would be mistaken for me trying to sound less like a scumbag. Less like a textbook pedophile. I’d cut out the rest of the body. Just remove their faces and paste them to paper so I only had her face. I was looking at the way she looked for something other than what was happening around her. If that was possible. Some sense of fear, it wasn’t that at all. Or if it had been, it dissipated. I doubt that looking for her being frightened, or even anticipation or anxiety, was what I needed to glean or insist. I would have located it to use as an argument against what was happening if I wouldn’t have been looking for the pictures. But wouldn’t have denied it, I hope. You can pretend that this is what I was looking for, and it’s correct that it’s not as small as being scared, why would I care about that in any larger sense. In fact, did I have a preference. Do you know, because it sounds pretty certain that I wouldn’t pin this on me or you. Why would I give a fuck if it was frightened or ended up crying. They rarely do. And why wouldn’t I prefer the ones that had the backstory you had to create because of the docility and favors speech. I obviously wasn’t looking for the pictures to be pretty or less than cruel. There’s very public evidence of this. Truth is, what sounds like an excuse is far worse when it comes to the complaints. I was certainly in the same mind of every single makeshift that thought they had to explain what is so sickly purposively violent in what happens, before they make their case over what can be done to help you and put you away from the others. Let her know what you did with it. Because they’d ask where you’d hide it. Kept it, didn’t hide it. Used it. Masturbated, cleaned up, came back. You know this. Didn’t want to look at anything else. You did though. This idea of more. Others. We agree that use is the best way to describe why we kept it. When I saw it, no matter what was done standing in front of it, it was used to do more than stop at her. I’ve picked sides, you can tell. I always make it sound sick. I didn’t know that one’s name. I only knew where she was put. I knew what she had been exposed to. What her parents taught her. If I talk like this too much, while what I say is unmistakably true, it will sound as if I’m making a point about subjectivity. Cheap like some halfpint not worthy of the thought. How to convince you that the legitimacy in the impossibility of declaring what I see as clean, legally as wrong, as read, is still exactly why those laws should exist. And why she can say she’s been harmed. Needs to be protected. And more to the point, why that shouldn’t matter to her and how absolutely precisely that laws governing these simple pernicious acts should not be allowed to exist under the constitution because, I’m showing, that it is directly policing the thoughts of someone who is not involved in an act that involves more than private thoughts. I started the book off with her. I’d like to consider what has happened. I think it’s legitimate to ask. So clean that it’s also become very cheap. Could someone alert her. Should that happen. Would it be possible to incorporate more subsections to DOST. Because I’m saying this. It has become lascivious. It exists as lascivious. I do, sadly, think the context has done that. I’d rather not have the thoughts of others affirming that, however. I’d rather not admit that I’ve been influenced by these thoughts of those taking a higher minded approach. I would think the juries are incapable of that as long as they are being led by attorneys. I would like to add that, in their professional glee, the attorneys are much more violent and suspect. Like that they create physical brutality as impersonal theory and it doesn’t seem to catch up to them as ugly or as hideous. They like to apply adjectives that never seem to be as strong as the idea that would follow them to take advantage of the humanity they live under. Pretend until left alone. And the people they hurt, who deserve protection, don’t matter enough to impact. Pretend until a quiet moment when they realize that they’ve been doing horrible things to men as they’ve lived and fed families in an altogether obscenely brutal life. Know that it hasn’t changed things. And everyone else must be as stupid as they can’t admit. It’s an ugly thing that I’ve done, an ugly world we live in, and it doesn’t, because it cannot, stop. I knew she was thinking about this. It no longer mattered what I was looking at. She was thinking about me somewhere. Doing this. I had to masturbate so that she’d know. This is only as sick as this, defensively, when I was on my knees in an alley. No one else would be able to hold me accountable for what I was thinking. I understood that it couldn’t be expressed as an answer to an accusation. I could explain it and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. I could make it less than it was by saying it was obviously deranged, it was, we can see that. The film footage would have made that inarguable. And there are laws about not doing this. What I was thinking about. When I tell you it was rape. And tell you what form of that word in detail. Because it was. Does not change what you see. It does. I know that. I can safely say, this you would believe, I had to stop. That was the worst it got. But you can’t say that I believed it was even worse than you saw. This makes me know that I was going to jack off imaging that she was watching me. I got close. This mistake was what I was thinking. You wouldn’t believe that. She, slut that she was not, we have proof, she knows, she relives, she sees it as it had happened, that very succinct knowledge exists in that money grubbing head of hers, she sees new and present, imagines me. So I do this for her. All the time, frankly. Absolutely without exception, the little pig on her back. Those shops stuffed with offers and suggestions, can never find a fucking thing that I like. You’d have to understand that at some point within this endlessly long trawl, this wasn’t done for you. Not even as a small part in the market, let alone a central representative. It shouldn’t be me that’s talking about it. Not true. You weren’t in the wrong place at all. I liked everything I found. I knew where to look and it was easy. It doesn’t make sense that you wouldn’t go there for exactly what they sold. The men, there, and the women on film. I would’ve stopped otherwise. I’ve never been less than lucky that this was provided for me. There’s not enough in the store, not enough to keep looking for something closer to what it is I think about when I have a free moment before I fall asleep. All these children, you have no idea how tired I am of seeing them put through this stupid shit and watching some fat plug think he’s got the keys to the machinery. It’s not what the courts are telling you. That’s not what I’m seeing so I have to take their advice, their stupid lying take. And you can think of something the way you want to see it and they’ll tell you nothing is ever as far as you’d like to see. Which isn’t true. I’m thinking of watching it scream and shriek and be held down while punched and groped and the rape is going to have to cause the damage I want to see happen not recorded afterward. Forensics without the guesses. You pick her up by her neck, fully clothed. And ripping the clothes off is part of it. But not to expose her. Not at all. Until you see it and then make it hurt, not worse, more. Until it stops bellowing for covenant because it finally wants to stop crying, breathing, fighting. All the thousands of items in the store, you’re in the wrong store, all the fucking time. You don’t get to imagine and offer proof that you’ve reached into the back of my head and identified what I’m thinking about what we’re seeing when you can or cannot watch the same things work as well or rotten as me. Me pulling off and cumming on it. This makes sense. Whatever it is, it’ll be less than that. You don’t sell that to me after I already fucking paid for it, first of all. You can’t ask for more by trying to sell it as something else. And you’re giving it all away anyway. I’ve got your theories and the price and it doesn’t match just because surfaced we’re not quite as far from each other as your extra effort adds to the market. Means I knew what I was buying, actually. Well before you had to try and offer me what I had or something even better, less, else. It’s because you can’t imagine that I’m succinct. I am. You can’t keep getting in the way of everything I say. Your coarse insisting fatpig self. You understand that I’ve been running the film, I’ve created the film that I haven’t seen, doesn’t exist for purchase. Drawn on rate, livid, to the facts I can build back to use. This would be better, like some horrible theater seat talking about the movie it should be as if he’sthe one that couldn’t overachieve himself to complete the thought as well as the one who did. These sorts of creeps who talk about their experience as a lifetime of reviewing films and interviewing filmmakers to come away with background or an anecdote, to change what the public thought or praise where creation overshot theory or metaphor. I see it in the way the doctors ask me questions. They’ve seen the wrong films, sat in the wrong seats, forgot what staring was like when they expressed their belief in the magic of the experience. Magic is a word used to mean that you can be lazy now. You only reached a point where you refuse to work at it any longer, say something special happened, say something didn’t. You also understand that these clippings were from the time when the panic to prohibition was working. The fine argument that the government had to obliterate the market by making possession illegal had worked very well. This material took some decision to find and then keep. They used to be postal inspectors and sting operations for people who didn’t take pictures to cause intense troubles for others. You weren’t only going to do this once. The police morals gave up as the internet ran over their arguments. They have not attacked the web, deemed impossible. The only argument left was to consider the thoughts of those who were gathering a few of the millions of images that bolted out and got kept, got received, got watched. The only game left was to make those creeps show responsibility and shame for masturbating as proof of what the shots were for. They haven’t shut down any and absolutely all of the browsers that provided only one picture of the crime. You have to see this. So that you don’t make the mistake that it’s immersive. The backdrop isn’t behind the group trying to overwhelm and impress you, give you too much information and let you stop thinking so that you give yourself over to the experience that might be slow witted but brags bigger than your measly self. I’ve been conflating the acts that have more to do with masturbating than fucking. Revolts us that abduction to murder has ever been a part of it. As something other than a method in which to handle destroying the evidence of what little was so instead needed. It’sa fundamental squirm to stop where I said more. And easy to discount when you’re a parent and an artist and a lawyer and an adult. If I want to pervert the clippings into my level and miss the other qualities or if I want to point out the inequities and manipulation of the media and the level of its audience. Or if I want to make myself look like less of a pervert while bilking to look even more dangerous. I need to create enough convincing evidence to show that I’m fingering what you may have an interest in that isn’t incorrect or isn’t as small minded as my own take. It is my job to make sure that the items I’ve kept have been destroyed as anything less than sexual, mined, and recreated as no longer separate from the exact way they’ve been presented. It would move a different history and I would be short changed, frankly. I want them to exist in exactly this way, first and foremost. Charles Roberts left always notes for his family explaining that what he was about to do was forced upon him by the cruelty of his god. He wrote to his wife and children and in effect to the families of the amish girls he shot that he was angry at the lord for killing his baby barely born daughter. He confessed to his wife that he had been having the thoughts again about the girls he said himself he had molested. Charles did not say that his intention that last day was to rape the girls he was going to hurt god by killing. He didn’t explain what he wanted to do in any case. His loved. Offensive to say he was greasing the narrative, more offensive to say he was mocking them. The fact that Charles had KY jelly among the other supplies he brought with him into the country schoolhouse, mostly tools and wood to seal up the school, is often repeated to suggest that his intention was to rape the girls. Roberts seeking universal angry revenge by entering the schoolhouse, but telling the boys they could leave. Tying up the girls, trying to close the room off before he committed suicide by cop or his own existential grief. Happened just about a week after Duane Morrison had raped at least some of the six school girls he took hostage in Platte, Colorado. Duane only killed one. Roberts didn’t rape the girls as far has been reported. The news from that day and on, where he killed five of the eight girls he shot, would be parsed by amish resistance and condescending Christian occlusion. Some of the reports cite one of the blonde schoolchildren, ages six through thirteen, none older than thirteen, that he tied up and left bound on the floor, saying Roberts told them: “If you let me do what I want, no one will get hurt.” An initial report quoted in the NY Times had an early responder, the police commissioner, explaining that some of the girls had been molested to varying degrees. The investigator continued that one of the girls who survived said she didn’t get “as bad” as some of the others. Roberts’ delusory has also been reported as “If just one of you let me do what I want, no one will get hurt.” The finer just one. And the Washington Post quoted the same investigator explaining that the girls had been shot execution style before Roberts put his gun to his head to shoot himself. The commissioner added “He wanted to find female victims, this was a target of opportunity.” Tell them this. Charles Roberts made plans to rape those little girls, or one of them at least, before he finally tried to lock the schoolhouse where they collected and learned and played. Whatever he really planned to do outside of the evidence that he had hardly planned to do with the things he had collected and then carried in with him to the school on the day he died is, actually, not as clear. So you pick a side and tell them this. Don’t say those. Don’t explain what the girls looked like unless it sounds like this. It’s not an explanation. This is not your level. It’s their level. They know what kind of those you like and why they’re easier than what you might have preferred. There are very few diagnoses open to your disfigurement that splits thought from thought. Access, mired desperation of your rejection, will be the spine that tightens your paragraphs into narrative. They were amish. The girls. Not the little girls. Not just the little girls. Blonde. Blondes. In the age range that amish keep together in one single schoolroom. The teacher at the school was only nineteen. He was going to rape at least one. And didn’t. Which is also contentious. In that, when you add up the sad stories from those misers who own the details, we become suspicious. But we shouldn’t. We can’t. He didn’t, as far as we know, attack the nineteen-year-old adult minding the children. The nineteen-year old amish girl put in charge of teaching them. We know there is suspicion of more, we have to separate preference from logic. If we suspect evidence has been withheld, we have to demand that you present excuse. Someone owned those little girls enough to trust them to this teacher. Don’t call them little. The religion they have been stunted by is sick. The same as yours. You’re worried about how they were being raised. They have workable excuses, they have graphic memoirs, they hadn’t been lost yet. Duane Morrison picked young adult bodies. Charles Roberts wanted smaller non-versions. You really must try to hear how you sound. How old on what graph is nineteen. One road, like the law, to follow that’s better than the confusing, if you must, ones you keep trying to guess on and spin back. At nineteen, if I say legal, she hadn’t failed to understand her position. The men who moan crisis, whether faith or unfair; not as settled or happy as she could well have been. Stupid or standardized or neither. This pretty young teacher, let’s say this too, found a worthwhile daily pleasure in caring about these kids. As youth would. Not an easy job for a young lady whose skills are forming. Against what she deserves or wants or gets kept cruelly from. Backend from the noisy nosey pigs who fail to understand. She was taught what and how and now she was teaching younger. Learn your place and part of the joy in accepting your place is making sure others benefit from your knowledge. The joy is not acceptance. The pleasure in a demand. Fuck did she know about will. Pleasure is not a demand from within. You care. Doesn’t have to be tawdry, elitist. It doesn’t have to be so self-assured. Not as good as you, not as queer as letting some sort of blurred need and irresolvable conflict mar your, if only, epitaph. Makes them cute to those looking for cute, cunt, makes them sad and you, cunt, phony and as grossly untouched as the despised legitimate. Duane Morrison also killed himself. After one of the two girls he had separated from the original seven highschool hostages ran from him. He killed 16 year-old Emily just before he pressed the gun to his head, just as the police stormed the room where he had taken the final two girls. He had been using Emily to shield himself from the police. And questions over who really shot Emily to death were raised just after details squeaked out. Johanna, a german exchange student, ran to the police when they broke through Morrison’s barricade. Emily couldn’t. Reports from the SWAT team include that Morrison shot at Johanna first, missed, then shot Emily in the head as he had kept holding her. When she dropped, one of the police men screamed “finish it.” Morrison put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger, having also just been shot in the clavicle by a sniper. The sheriff said at the time:“He did traumatize and assault our children. I’ll only say that it’s sexual in nature.” The girls Morrison selected as hostages were as precise as limited. He favored blondes, as reported, and picked the ones he wanted before carrying out his plan at the school. Some reports stated that Morrison chose the girls by researching the school yearbooks and then through online sources like their myspace profiles. He had also been running up huge phone bills calling sex lines and wrote a 14 page letter to his brother mailed before but due to arrive after the attack. He brought “sex toys” with him to the school. Itemized as part of Emily Keye’s now public autopsy report, these items were a dildo, a vibrator and massage oil. Also in Morrisons backpack were knives, rope, scissors, duct tape and a stun gun. Kept the girls hostage for nearly four hours. The girls who were lined up against the black board with their faces away from the center of the classroom heard sobbing and pleas from the girls he would take back there. “One of the hostages, Lynna Long, told the Rocky Mountain News that she was groped above the waist but believes Emily “got it worse.” Lynna said that she was afraid to look, “but you could hear Emily saying, ‘No. Please don’t.’”The newspaper said Lynna and her mother had agreed to allow Lynna to be identified by name. Lynna said all the girls had been told to stand facing a wall, and she could not see what Morrison was doing, but she knew the other girls were being molested because “you could hear the rustling of clothes and elastic being snapped and zippers being opened and closed.” Authorities say they knew of no connection between Morrison and the hostages he held for four hours after bursting into a college prep English class. The sheriff said Morrison had approached a male high school student on the day of the attack and “asked about the identity of a list of female students.” Wegener said he was not sure if it was a written list or names rattled off by Morrison. It was not disclosed whether the list included the girl who was killed. Mother: We had chosen not to watch or read the news, so new tidbits and endless analysis of Charlie’s crimes playing out on the television screen did not reach us over the next several days. But we had seen Charlie’s farewell notes he'd scribbled to his wife, Marie, and the children. His letter to Marie was lengthy and rambling. He repeatedly emphasized his love for her and his children and how sorry he was for the choices he’d made and the acts he was about to commit. But even his attempts at explanation made no sense. He expressed remorse for events he claimed had happened when he was only twelve years old. He spoke of having molested a couple of much younger female relatives, who would have been only three to five years old at the time, and of the guilt and torment that had built up in him through the years until he could suppress it no longer. But the police had already investigated those claims and found no evidence that they had ever happened. The relatives in question had no memories of any such events. Your take will be. That Charles decided against raping them. He murdered five of the little schoolgirls. Reports contradict your decision to say this about the rapes. He bungled the crime. Just before he shot himself. As the police broke through. And we’re not going to accept the dreadful mystery that the god fearing rely on as faithful and correct in the face of evidence just as much as suspicion. You’ll instead flit in on the worthlessness of any of these poor fucks’ situations. All of them looking up to heaven look like you would. This is not a creeping godless exception. This is not anything you will ever address. You don’t know. You really don’t. He’d thought about this for long enough to make the plans take over the thoughts as something more compelling than thoughts. At the very last least, why not receive something like that and destroy the days and apologies and regrets and boredom afterward. See the real world and negate the terror. Obliterate the concern and prove, embrace, laud promise. Sadly, realized. As position required logic and worth. Why fuck anything. Why fuck anything now. Pick one. Without extending. The nails against the boards across the doors that he pounded into locks. Make this jail a home. He’d be nothing. And they wouldn’t live with his damage. That the little girls were made worthless by their unlucky religion, their damaged frontiers. Backward families, heavily sentenced, suffering joyful brags to release. How could one possibly extend empathy after nothing. Their home. Impossible. His home. And what has always made it acceptable, even tolerable. Took him to better. Made insult and existence worthwhile. It won’t answer the murders. Mistakes, bad planning, assault. He did or didn’t have enough time to enjoy the creation he was erasing as it continued. Ask his wife. I know this, Dear, from being with men much worse than the kind of sludge that crawled on top of you. Put up with the lifeless god’s horse you’d become underneath him and the quilts and fat and tit sizes and miscarriage shit that you took more seriously than any false pain he was going to rely on to make you fucking fatback stupid and happy again in the face of anything better ever. Listen, look, it’s not sex. He proved that. Those locks. Weren’t just so he could fuck unless it was to do exactly as he had done. Which proves that fucking anything, not just you, Sweetheart, poor Dear, poor cow, you know, it wasn’t - not available - but the offer. The suggestions. The misses. The nagging. Of maybe he deserved better. The teacher. Or ten of the coming teachers. The flat ones who would be teachers later. Ragging entitled, demanding, neighborly midget. What do miracles smell like if not your kindly attenuated and carefully reblonded vagina. There are no magazines. There are no scurrilous jews hiding outside the country with pictures designed to reap rewards that don’t smell better when not insidiously working to take something away from you. Lithe spindles cloaked in blue and pink cheeks and, I swear, you ask me again later, watch, nothing is there in shape and lust but the damage that they drag behind them in the miles of history toward the waste of promise and disease and bright young more and mores with as much reason as finding one in the backseat of a car, not buggy, with her body looking remarkably similar to those who are of the same age. There’s graphs and figures to record progress. Books to learn, coming process and promise. And you’d have to be exactly as groping little as you think. To think you like it when the outfit comes off. However, soon after receiving the transparencies, Cross mailed them to Lodge to be processed and enlarged so they would be suitable for sale. Lodge developed and sent to Cross slides from some of these transparencies, but indicated that several of the other pictures would need to be retaken because of their inferior quality.When Lodge’s house was searched in May 1983, police discovered a negative strip containing a sequence of nude, black and white photos of one of the Tampa girls. In addition, the strip contained versions of these photos that Lodge had cropped to highlight the girl’s nude torso, followed by closeup photographs of adult female genitalia which he had added. The Keyes family released statements after their daughter’s murder and then again after the official summary and investigation reports were released to a public. They had viewed the governing report the day before rights release and issued their statement just as the press received the same reports. Both Roberts and Morrison had written notes that they understood would be made public after their deaths. Morrison wrote to his nephew and explained his depression and the abuse he had suffered as a child. Roberts may have lied about the children he molested. Both men did not talk about what they were, clearly, going to hope to get from what they had planned. And almost all available media on the case via favored avenues, directly written by family members and law officials in possession of much more information than the loving couched reassurances and painful details too graphic or tawdry to pry open, insisted on a blank to motive after what happened. Cozy spate of women who’ve been held captive and used as perpetual rape objects by men who carefully planned and constructed dungeons and apartments to stretch straight slit sex into years. The best selling biographies must offer a sense of overcoming and hope, fucking enormous amounts of hope, faith, god and prayer to renegotiate the stories that may spot the sexual assaults as base instead of constant. Those interested edified apparently by shorthand disgust for the crazed individual and all that sludged after the break. The inexplicable tragedy is how one can from then on deal with the lesser problems in less cataclysmic survival. The reasoning, deplorably, is more available in old pornography but these writers don’t know that. Even the babes that have been raped enough to tell their stories. Not causal, this pornography. That would be included in the books written for a wider cast audience. Not life-affirming, the sex that I haven’t been brought up on but searched for despite the information from books such as these, the movies and pictures that were shown in booths and then sold in the less thumbed sections. Before Times Square became remembered quaintly as dangerous but uninhabited by those doing their sex and porn documentaries and fanzines. Our Steven Staynor and Shawn Hornbeck. The boys told unmistakable stories. So I’m not complaining. Not bemoaning the reflected and appeased lack of my tastes; prurient as the culture would complain but only half. I’m certain that this is only for me and the bar queens who’d know the news when we slurred before confessing or fucking something. Wipes the newspaper clippings, all sections including my annotations, explaining what Mr. Roberts and Mr. Morrison were living with. Better than any officially traded and disseminated report. Both men decided the garbage that all these voices who’ve served them memorial. Were lies. Proven. Now. By the details the families and officials have continued to shout but hide. I’m not trying to get it to work out. The Phelpses, who had announced plans to picket the funeral of the amish girls but were persuaded to cancel in trade for an hour of free radio preaching time, were arguing different explanations for an only more vicious god. The incestuous amish also sat apart from the many versions. The Keyes only wishing for community be-ins. Robert’s wife sick enough to thrash herself without even knowing it, reveling in it. Her fat fed ego sucked more air than anyone else could ever pray for, praising her god as glorious and protective. While her husband and his mentor wrote letters that still tried to save them from everyone. From feeling worse than they would have to show. To get this, what they deserved, what they fought against and would have accepted anything else other than this sickness if, look, you demanding idiot, you had some way to finally stop taking care of them, stop trying to not hurt them. You should see them. Watch A Night At Halsted’s. Two naked men on their knees, licking dirty glass because the third guy in front of them cummed on his side of the smudge and not into their lipped mouths and spiritual throats. Desperate for more than this and still on their knees, still looking up at the big dicked macho cartoon, hoping he was getting something of what he wanted by these two slobs opening their yaps, waggling their tongues and staring at him like they want to succeed at bringing another beast like themselves off. There’s a part where you want to ease someone’s pain. Someone not even there. It isn’t pretending. Like the cocksuckers who pray they’re more than that, the pigs who deep end prurience, the animals who believe in god’s teachings, the men who’ve learned to speak the only language they can. You fill your days like this. The mistakes you’ve made. Who doesn’t regret their mistakes so deeply that it sounds like insanity to anyone else with less mistakes. The language isn’t available to you to deconstruct or translate yourself out of. No matter how selfish you wish you could be. Exactly like that, in fact. Robert’s mother addressed the remote possibility of rape. His wife didn’t. The news was as certain as their audience demands regarding the ease gel he brought into the school. The sections where Justine would tell her interlocutors what only barely happened, because it was too terrible to relate but not too terrible that they wouldn’t have already known the full story without the details. The audience is often left wanting dignity, graphic. And the sloppy paragon won’t demean herself to tell those listening, reading, prying. Both madams gnarled are above that slime. And the transpersonal is more applicable without the now ruined, now sexy, now demeaned as stupid. Would only ever admit not guess. He had more ammunition than he needed for himself. Bought while he was thinking what he’d like to do was not just to kill himself. He was absolutely intent on purchasing an arsenal to use against others. As well as himself. Think this. Perhaps he hated the adults who wanted him to stop thinking about something else. This, actually, is what he did say. Near Dunblane in my notes to the people he had created as a family. In-explicitly. And he must have known at his coming end that the people he figured had always taken things the wrong way would take things the wrong way again. He was insulting them. They were insulting him. He knew their level. And the level was so gravely offensive that it was going to continue in the least amount of effort. He could prove himself correct by issuing the continuance of the stupidity of what they wanted from him. He wrote and left letters, even phoned the drag that had made his life slow and less by remaining selfish so deeply that he wanted her to stay selfish. He gave her that and absolutely knew that she deserved what she queened over others. How nice for her. Not to know. I’d like to protect her. As ugly, as deeply hideous, as a person like that can and will continue to be. He called her and kept allowing her to be her. You just be this way and this is what’s going to happen but don’t do anything you don’t want to do. The wife in this case. Handled it badly. As she always would. Had done, hand to god, like justice, like family, faithfully followed since forsworn. He had never been called a pedophile. What was incorrect was the persistence of god and good and sexual thoughts. He chose pedophilia as an opportunity to discuss his graver situation. Roberts chose an example that would violently reflect the ire that he had for himself in the face of those insisting the world he should live as. And he intended to correct the worst example as possible, fix himself as wrong and duly despised, and perform the act that had, possibly, become exciting, sexually and solitarily, as sense. There is no memoir here. Tell them. No memoir worth telling, if not memorializing, no memory worth repeating, if not recreating. It has to be current. Shouldn’t be with an eye to the future. You want so little. So better private. And you thinking you’re important enough to demand recognition and simplicity will twist self-importance into legitimate belief. The way it should be. Designed. This way is better. Do not look backwards when answering every question about your past. Understand that you’re being liquefied. Assholes do that. You can’t argue with it. They do not get told. Do not look forward to guess where you would like to be when the final sentence of your psychology ridden paragraph might end. Do not pander to or second-guess assholes. Filth so typically obsessed with what you do in private; what you masturbate to is never what you do to anything. How. How is the time it took you before you stopped. The safety critique of this garbage would be to tell you that no one cares quite as much as you seem to. About what it is you or others as sad as you masturbate with. Again, to. Or even how that formed or protected you. This is not true. Any understanding of the legal documents that start with transcripts and trawl through judgment to decision to opinion will denote very little else. The experiences that are recorded, before those are contradicted by another’s badly vetted or partial argument, rely on confessions of personal moments shared. This is a lovely thing as it turns out. The prosecution melts into the very same denial that they are accusing the perfect subject of. Calling them perverts as they call you coward works if you keep it quiet. Keeping their lies and cowardice - cowardice is never louder than when someone is actually dumb enough to announce his belief in the word - at the forefront of your head rather than your lips won’t fucking do anyone any good. It’s nice that they think the same as you. You are in lousy but safe company and no longer the alone that you’ll have to tell them you are. The question, since prurience is an ideal and not an answer, is whether the orgasm, more perfectly, just the jerking constantly, is the book rather than the act. It is a book. You want to listen to Justine. You want her to repeat wrong. You just can’t tell her unless telling her is where you’ve sunk to in pulling on yourself every day if you like. 28. 1am familiar with a practice known as “morphing” by which individuals use computers and software such as Photoshop to convert images of children into child pornography. An example of this practice is taking the image of the head of a child of sexual interest from a non-pornographic picture and digitally inserting the child’s head, onto the image of a nude body. The result is an image that portrays the child in a sexually explicit manner, thereby creating and constituting child pornography. 29. Items seized from the defendants residence contain what appear to be “morphed” images of child pornography. These morphed images appear both on defendant’s computer and in the printed materials contained in the binders. Typically the morphed images are comprised of a boy’s head taken from a non-pornographic image (like a yearbook photograph or an advertisement), and that child’s head is placed on a naked body. The naked bodies are of different genders and ages; for example, some images include a boy’s head morphed onto the body of a naked adult woman, while several of the images involve a child’s head morphed onto a child’s naked body. One morphing scheme done by defendant appears to have involved using the yearbook photographs of boys from Paynesville High School in the late 1970’s. 30. An example of this is in Binder SD29784-8 which contains multiple images of the same boy whose head has been placed on many different bodies. Investigators were able to identify this male individual (“Victim K”). Victim K was born in the early 1960’s and would have been have been a juvenile during the 1970’s. An image of the head of Victim K appears to have been taken from an old yearbook photo from the late 1970’s and superimposed onto various images of nude bodies using a computer, printed and placed into the binder. For example, one particular image (page 66/124) (“Image 7”) depicts two prepubescent males standing in what appears to be a shower exposing their genitalia. One of the nude images was created placing Victim K’s head from his yearbook photo onto the naked body. Yet another (page 68/124) depicts a young male wearing a sleeveless t-shirt with his left leg up exposing his naked genitalia through an opening in his underwear. This image was similarly altered so that Victim K’s face appears on the original nude image. In addition to the printed morphed images, I have reviewed some images recovered from the hard drive of the defendant’s computer. Theface/head of Victim K appears in several of these images. A forensic examination of the defendant’s computer reveals evidence of internet searches for Victim K. 31. There are other examples of images of “morphed” pornography in the defendant’s binders or on his computer using the heads of other children in addition to Victim K. Law enforcement has reviewed these heads and have been able to identify by name at least three of these individuals whose images were used to create child pornography. The faces/heads used to create these images have been superimposed on the nude bodies of various combinations of male, female, adult and child bodies. The health is here. Both Roberts and Morrison committed suicide and before they ended what was the way they lived, planned on raping more than dreams, more than promise and hurt. They, at least, wanted that before they gave everything back to everyone else. I tell my therapist that there’s one more chance and you should explain this to the ones who may have the wrong idea. That Charles Roberts boarded up the classroom. It was a small schoolhouse. And while, like Morrison’s events, the Swat teams and police response take credit for stopping what was happening, it is completely possible that Roberts. After having these beautiful girls that he watched while he was growing up and then aging badly, contorting selfishly, tied up and crying and still spouting god and sexualized now purity and stupid as innocent, decided that all of this was for nothing. And it wouldn’t matter. And what did he do. All of this for that. If it was ending. Is this worth doing if forgetting. Who the fuck did he bring lube for. Hurting a small vagina or ripping his unspit dick a bit. And maybe Morrison was dumb enough to shrug and think he’d already gotten this far. Or was too sexually crazed and legitimized by then. But maybe, Charles Roberts, soft or overly concerned or hard and dismissed, saw it all as finally over and whatever had driven him to destroy these not naked enough dolls wasn’t going to be as small as this act was going to turn out for him. He still shot them. And they weren’t going to have a life worth living anyway. Maybe he was still being kind. It’s quite possible that he was explaining more than his depressing lack of faith to them. He just saw them as he saw himself. And this should end if that was what they were saying to him after proving it didn’t work. All those fucking automatons. Fooled like that and waiting. It wasn’t him that was doing it to them. Sex like always, wasn’t a view he’d get to remember and worry over anymore. Wasn’t part of any plan any more. Charles Robert’s mother: But the other explanation Charlie’s letter offered was even less comprehensible. Our son and his wife, Marie, had suffered the loss of their firstborn daughter, Elise Victoria, only twenty minutes after her premature birth. It had indeed been a tragedy. Looking back now, sifting through the rambling phrases of bitterness and blame in Charlie’s letter, I can see that to my son, Elise’s death was the culmination of loss that had begun with the deaths of grandparents with whom he’d had a bond our other sons weren’t old enough to enjoy; the horrible, lingering end of the Siberian husky, Suzie, for which Charlie blamed himself; and the passing of our family pet Cinnamon. His losses were no greater than those countless human beings have experienced. God had given Charlie and Marie three beautiful, healthy children. But according to his letter, he’d allowed bitterness and hatred against God to build up inside him. He saw Elise’s death as God’s punishment for past transgressions rather than seeing his three living children as God’s gifts. And now, he bizarrely thought that taking the precious daughters of families who prayed to the same God he’d chosen to no longer worship, love, or forgive for what he perceived as His offenses against him. It was not only hatred for God he expressed. He wrote: “I’m filled with so much hate toward myself, toward God, and an unimaginable emptiness.” The one sentence in that letter that brought a small comfort was among the last: “Please tell Mom and Dad and my brother that I love them.” Sadism hasn’t been adequately defined within the guidelines that enhance sentencing suggestions. The government delivered checklists to judges in order to aid the decision process within the harsh penalties the government desires. One of the many stipulations within the guidelines is to separate the depicted acts that need to be understood as violent or sadistic. An important distinction; relates to the nature and intentions of the voyeur before he justifies child rapist. As the government’s legal standing against child pornography possession is that it is a record of harm, abuse; that violence is caused during and well after, psychologically, traumatically, most judges, understandably, view any act of penetration as violence and thus deserving of the federal enhancements for harsher jail sentences. Those criminals with posed or unviolated pictures of nude or lasciviously displayed children would be less likely to receive extra years added to their sentences even though the violence of the act of recording, disseminating or manipulating the child is still considered harm. Few defendants of possession and receipt avoid enhancements due to the absence of extreme or violent content. Most child sexual abuse occurs through family and neighborhood affiliations.Few defendants of mere possession and receipt have previous criminal records. Recently, arguments of those without politically motivated concerns or fear have started to suggest that an enhancement for sadistic acts is just one example of the many contradictions within the case law that imposes subjectivity over a dangerous deficit of empirical backgrounding. One chief concern of these law scholars and academics is that the government focus on show penalties amid the phenomenal rise in cases of possession through the internet (enhancements are also encouraged by the amount of captured material when most internet access pictures download in consequential numbers from a single zip) destroys the truer language of the lawin that the focus and resources of the government and its courts and police forces should be on the act of actual or “hands-on” harm. Which would put the public on notice, almost impossibly. The definition of sadism could, for a cheap and very personal example, eventually be explained, Justine, as telling your baby you loved her. Be cute. Why are you being so naughty! So many of the few items identified within Danny Heinrich’s charges lead forward to the psychological profile of a man directly recalling or reliving the repellent events of his and his victims’ past. Whether this was an obsessive, maddening or sadistic clutch to Danny’s monomania or merely the strategic bowdlerized editing of the reporting investigator, the taste would be wider in cruelty than prurience when taken as moving whole. Amy and Vicky find it unbearable to imagine men masturbating. Those men pulling on themselves while staring at the pictures of their rapes. You’d have to imagine them. Not just their faces. We’ve all seen enough until we’ve learned that we hadn’t. Proven by Heinrich’s collection is where adult thoughts sink with proof. Personal intentions to expressed comprehension not as easy, immediate, to find fault. He wasn’t hurting himself. He wasn’t living this way. 21. During the search, investigators located 19 three-ring binders, each of which contained photographs of images of children. In the majority of the binders, there were multiple images of what appears to me to be images of nude photographs of pre-pubescent children that would fit the definition of child pornography.Several of the pornographic photographs appear to be printed material obtained from the internet. For example, some pages containing suspected child pornography also displayed what appear to be advertisements in the margins of the pages and/or Universal Resource Locator information on the bottom of the page. Based on my experience and training, this information typically displays the particular web page where the image was located on the World Wide Web. Based on this information, I believe these images were acquired on the internet using a computer and then printed and maintained in the binders as a collection. Law enforcement reviewed each binder and gave each binder an “SD” property evidence number. Law enforcement took a photograph of each page in each binder to create a computer disc containing the images from the defendant’s binders. Where this affidavit references a page number to identify an image from the binders, it is referencing the page number as seen on the disc. 22. One of the binders, labeled for reference as SD 29770-2, contains a fully nude image (page 11/151) ("Image 1”) of a prepubescent boy, laying back on a bed, with an erect penis who appears to be under the age of 12. The image contains the title "Young Blonde Haired Boys”and is purported to have been "posted by”an individual with the moniker "Jackin Boy” on December 19, 2000 (...) and bears a print date of January 4, 2001. The page contains the phrase "Welcome Danny (visitor)” 23. Binder 29770-2 also contains a fully nude image (page 9/151) (“Image 2”) of a fully naked prepubescent boy sitting on the arm of a couch displaying his genitalia. The image also contains the title "Young Blonde Haired Boys” and is purported to have been posted by "Jackin Boy” on December 19, 2000 (...) and bears a print date of January 4, 2001. The page also bears the phrase "Welcome Danny (visitor).” 24. Binder SD 29770-2 also contains a fully nude image (page 12/151) (“Image 3) of a fully naked prepubescent boy, standing nearly in profile towards the camera, with an erect penis. The image contains the title “Young Blonde Haired Boys” and is purported to have been "posted by” an individual with the moniker “Cobra”on December 27, 2000 (...) and has a print date of January 4, 2001. The page contains the phrase "Welcome Danny (visitor).” 25. Binder SD 29770-2 also contains a picture of a boy naked from the waist down, sitting in a recliner-type chair, holding his erect penis (page 45/151) ("Image 4”). The image contains the title “gay teens having fun” and is purported to “have been” posted by “gayboy” on November 23, 2000 (...) and has a print date of January 9, 2001. The page bears the phrase "Welcome Danny (visitor).” Image 4 has preliminarily been identified as being that of a known child of sexual exploitation using a national database of victims of sexual abuse. 26. A preliminary review - of only a small portion of the binders - using ioa this national database of known victims of sexual abuse, identified additional images as containing a depiction of a known child of sexual exploitation. Although there were several of these identified images, two examples are found in Binder SD29784-1. One image depicts a fully naked prepubescent boy holding his penis while he looks at the camera (page 72/115) (“Image 5”). The image contains the title “The Titan’s (Teens)” and is purported to have been “posted by”“Adorable_Titan” on December 5, 2000 (. ..) and bears a print date of January 3, 2001. The page also contains the phrase “Welcome Danny (visitor).” 27. Another image found in Binder of identified children, is a picture of two fully naked young boys with one naked boy on top of the other naked boy, the boy on top is facing the camera while he is being anally penetrated by the boy on the bottom (page 109/115} (“Image 6”) The image contains the title “Gay teen chat (14-19)2” and is purported to have been “posted by”“devonl234” on January 1, 2001 (...) and bears a print date of January 13, 2001. The page also contains the phrase “Welcome Danny (visitor).” I’d gone into a shop to meet someone who sent me a letter through a sex club. As I did back then. This particular letter offered photos but its intention was to verify me as something other than a voyeur or a cop. I’d set up a coffee with one of the guys who ran the club to answer vague questions and he asked a fella who worked at a leather store to meet me first. I’m pretty sure this was explained to me before I went into the shop. He also said he was interested in what I was doing and wanted to help or somehow be involved. Back then, young as I was, my intention really was to keep secrets and sickness. I wasn’t looking to discover myself, not at all as it turns out, and I wasn’t worried enough about traversing complicity and discretion. He took me into his office and showed me the pictures he had of him and another guy who also worked at the store covered in mud at a cow or pig farm in Wisconsin or wherever. Came with the obligatory invitation. He quickly started to kiss me and grope some, most of what he was doing was long licking my neck and tugging my shirt down off from my shoulders. Not putting his hands on my chest through the bottom of my shirt and not being unclear that he was shoving me down to his big belly and his full packed leather pants. Because I resisted all but the kissing and tonguing, pushing my face into his mouth as much as I could, he switched to pulling my pants down and grabbing more of what I was using to twist further away from ending up on my knees with him grinding cock and balls into repeating the tonguing I was doing in mouth to thick fat erection. I couldn’t not have had a hard-on by then. Which mattered to him, you’ll see, as intention rather than tool. He turned me around, pants to my shoes, and thankfully slobbered all over my ass. Sucking balls from behind as he pushed down on my back to open my ass as wide as painfully possible. So he could get more of his fat drip tongue as deep into my asshole as he could fit. Just kept going deeper and prodding and drooling and licking anything near and in my asshole. This is what happens. And I was relieved when he stuck his hard cock into my ass. I can say that I realized it then. But it was less than that. It was the only thing I wanted after being softened wet and him and his face dripping with his own spit and need and design and I pushed as far back into his thighs as I could take the cock he had because he slid in too easy and seemed to slow down and that’s not where either of us were thinking. I grinded and moaned and stopped flat when he started fucking me harder finally. Just let him pound slob into me. For as long as it could take, as long as he wanted, and I think now if he had pulled out to suck or push cock into my mouth. I would have hard slapped his must’ve beet red huffing face. Could have been spitting on my back as he kept making growls and scratched my flabby skin with the shirt up to my neck now. I’d have insisted he fucking finish. Fucking me with hard shoved cock and cumming so I could feel it inside my ass. And I did. When he cummed, throbbing as he stopped and filling lows with hot wet filth from his dog cock and my balls and asshole dripping with his sweat and smell. It’swarm and shoots not spills but I register thick and push and stop and weight instead. I didn’t cum at the same time. My hands were on some small filing cabinet or a table used to carefully cut leather straps. And I kept his tight straight cock in my ass until he slid out and he started to spread my legs further apart with his hands. Kneeled behind. Sucking on my ass loudly and drawing his own cum out. Tonging deep in again. Way further so he could taste my greasy shit and mess and his tepid cum and more of my shit and down to my balls. When I started to reach my own cock to tug enough to cum before he put me legs up and kept fucking, no cum, so maybe he’d piss. I cummed quickly and purposely and fairly adolescently. This I remember very clearly. I cummed immediately after being fucked like that. And he supposedly wanted my cum but my fist wasn’t going to push my dick back to his face past my balls like some queeny tucker. I wanted his cock in me again. After I cummed. And said put your fingers in. If you’re not done. You know what evidence you have. I didn’t say I wanted and I didn’t do different versions for the rest of my life. I didn’t realize anything central after, not that I could cute pinpoint like you would, scum. Or keep that I was so ashamed at what I did or what I felt or what I now wanted or had to avoid so deeply repressed. Something so cheaply anecdotal as submissive or used or traded. As personality, lust, drive and point desire. Think of little else. As long as you claim personal worth first. And this comes with the constant clippings. Run off the bottom of every memory I recount so badly to a worse audience and ignored parenting. It didn’t bother me the way you’ll insist against the evidence. There’s proof that nothing I went looking for was clumsy thrashing to assuage or salve. Rather to buy and inculcate and only divest. What was learned, if pivotal, was the equilivation and valuation of the material at hand and what wasn’t available in legitimate price. And all the sexual slop created in the stories of self were going to sound fake because I knew those sells could be turned around by fat old unnumbered cocksuckers and lousier forgettable niggers and asking crying whores. As simple mistakes. I wasn’t nearly like any of them. I knew they were lying. And, even then, the lies weren’t strictly or perfectly dismissive. I was right in seeing illness as long as it wasn’t going to be defined by own experience shot by cultural sympathy and sorry critique, eventually filed incongruously as defense. I wasn’t looking to find the dark corners in characters and events by receiving tips and tits of light in my own search. You haven’t seen the shasta penetrated, you haven’t had her the way you talk about her, you haven’t had. You don’t get to say you would or wouldn’t want to. You don’t get to say want at all. A man exposed himself to three Millard North High School students on Wednesday, police said. The Millard school district says all of the reports happened within a little more than an hour, at multiple locations in the parking lot. The victims were female students leaving sports practices. The first victim said she was in the parking lot of the high school when she was approached by a black truck. She said the man in the truck was between 18 and 20 years old, white, with a dark complexion, dark brown hair that was spiked straight up and wearing a blueish-green tie-dye shirt. She said the man asked her to help him, and when she approached the vehicle, she saw the man exposing himself. She said the man drove off. The second victim said she was walking to her car in the parking lot when she was also approached by a black truck. She said the man, possibly Hispanic, appeared to be 20 to 25 years old with a medium complexion, dark hair and eyebrows and a Spanish accent. The victim said the man asked, “Can you help me with this?” When she approached the vehicle, she saw the man exposing himself. She described the truck as black with brown trim with a possibly 9 or 10 County Nebraska plates. The third victim said she was leaving the school when she saw the black truck parked near the curb by the building. She described the man as a Middle Eastern man in his 40s. She said the man asked if she knew where the closest hospital was, and as she approached the vehicle, she saw the man exposing himself. The victim said she backed away and the man drove off. An Allentown man and registered sex offender admitted to exposing himself to women, once outside Central Catholic High School and once at Cedar Crest College. John Recker,49, was sentenced today to 1 to 2 years in Lehigh County Prison, with a condition that he not be paroled until having served 18 months, according to court testimony. Recker has been in prison since June 2011, meaning he will go free in four months, after which he will serve three-and-a-half years of probation, said Judge Maria Dantos. Recker admitted parking his van next to a womans parked car in the Cedar Crest College parking lot May 16, 2011, then getting out of the van and approaching her. He was naked from the waist down and masturbating, according to court testimony. The woman drove away as he approached. Recker also admitted to a similar instance in June 16, 2011, in which he approached the passenger side door of a woman parked in a car at the parking lot of Central Catholic High School. Recker asked the woman what time practice let out, then walked around to the driver's side window, when she noticed he wasn't wearing pants and was masturbating, authorities said. Both victims described the same white van and eventually picked Recker out of a photo line-up, according to court testimony. Dantos agreed to a request by Recker to allow him to seek a private counseling plan, at his own success, rather than a program within the prison that he said has not helped him in the past. “1 pray and I hope the treatment will be directly oriented toward my needs," Recker said. “I know I need help.” Recker is a lifetime sex offender due to an aggravated indecent assault conviction for raping a woman tn an Allentown McDonald’s bathroom in June 1994, according to reports. He also has multiple theft and drug charges over the past 18 years, and pleaded guilty in 2002 to one count of indecent exposure, according to court records. When Dantos asked Recker if anyone forced him to enter his plea, he responded, "God." "It’s the right thing to do, that's what I’m trying to say,” he told the judge. Recker is on the state’s Megan’s Law list as a lifetime sex offender as a result of a 7994 conviction for sexually assaulting a woman in a restroom of an east Allentown McDonald’s. He also pleaded guilty to exposing himself to women at Muhlenberg College in 2002, according to court records. According to police and Stephen Van X'atten, the county's chief of prosecutions: Recker exposed himself to a woman around 10:15 p.m. on May 17, 2011, in a Cedar Crest College lot at 100 College Drive, the woman told police Recker drove a van by her car. He then parked next to her, got out of the van naked from the waist down and masturbated. Then around 11:30 a.m. on June 16, 2011, he did the same thing to a woman who was parked in the Central Catholic lot at 326 Gordon St. The woman said Recker initially approached her passenger-side door and asked what time practice let out. He then walked around to the driver’s side and asked the woman, “Are you lonely?”and the victim noticed the man wasn’t wearing any pants and was masturbating. She rolled up her window and drove away, and Recker ran back to his van. Both women were able to identify Recker through photo arrays. Baldly explaining to me that she wanted to see the photos that she assumed her father had taken of her. She remembered posing. And I asked her if he used a camera while in his bed with her. She didn’t remember but, fixing me and my collection, jumped to his having had to. I could show her others. Like her, in still, as brutal as she would like to explain the side she’d like to adopt. And eventually she’d turn on me. Saying that I was cruel and that she was misguided and drugged current and tragic ever since to even worse. And her therapy questions were thin so I should have known that. And her sucking cock and taking cum to spit it out on the photos underneath her fucked adult body wouldn’t be helpful unless she chose between gross hog and sorrowful sell. And I haven’t been arrested because I refused to help her. And it wouldn’t have been better than the sentences where she cooed and I helped. The news, the rotten lying facts, may well mean enough to me that I couldn’t see her as collective. Which is what offends me, psychotically as privately. I wouldn’t role play. I could. They’d accept my money. But I wouldn’t. I’d be destroying what it is I was doing. Which was better, which happened. And if retold to you; sick as you not sicker. Or less, that’s all. Told her to take her pants off and not point the camera down. I didn’t need to see it. When she asked me to give her a name, I refused. The next time I’ll tell her to take off her top. And keep her face closer to fill up the screen. Block all else. Done with a tranny and she’d think I was looking at her hides. At her lies and the mistakes and humiliating her. Just by asking to stare at his face. Count. Show his cock by standing and become angrier because it was outlined in girl panties. End up getting hard, that was the job. Keep it soft, I’d ask her. Keep it half-hard and fat and let it become just big enough to fill out your panties. Wouldn’t think to ask a man to do this. Just to show his face. A young boy probably. I’d like to see his dick. And his girlish ass. I don’t tip extra if they think they can cum again. I’m not going to explain it to any of them. Especially not those who think they’re providing a deeper listening service. You are not doing god’s community therapy work. I know you move towards kind later in retelling if it wasn’t exactly your first impulse. We are not all similar, we have not made the correct choice to sell sex instead of stealing from shops to ditch in pawn stores. I will not accept that the people I expose myself to are the ones I should be fucking. The workers who accept frustration amid a straightening curve and then name skinny shasta as more than she is, to me, are the same who offer mouth instead of cock thinking, as the difference matters to them, they can condescend by repeating details without arrogance. These improbables lick their fingers as if you want to imagine them licking your cock. She sticks her tongue out, she says, because she likes sucking cock and wishes she could be here with my cock in her mouth. I’d stand in the booth, pull out and off, cum on the floor, preferred, and get nothing or slight from that smash watching me, drooping his short tongue out onto wood and wriggling lips, then eye, till groaning warm when I quicked to point down fat. Let me lick it off. I’d watch the tv screen that still had money running. Didn’t care what was on it before as long as it wasn’t subhuman. Stick his dick through when he saw I was done. Let it hang there, not jut, not enough yet, keep tooling or start sucking because he watched me and we weren’t finished he’d insist. He told me he masturbates two or three times a day, every day. Said he’s always thinking about young boys and if he can’t cum at the end of the day, he looks at pictures he keeps of the youngest ones he has. He kept his collection of illegal pornography because I asked. This is why the police and judge want to keep you away from the internet. You meet the men who keep their photos. I don’t have to search for images that will be tagged digitally and view them. I prefer that he take his prints and hold them to the screen and by the time I know he’s watching me jerk off, staring at my face, I don’t stand up and show him my cock, that I want him to do the same. I’m watching him show hard and how he strokes it and I’m seeing him cum while I tell him to suck that kid’s asshole. To put his big cock into that kid’s tight asshole and pump harder and faster because it hurts him and the kid can just take it. I’ll want to cum again, I know, as soon as I watch the child molester cum on camera and then he watches me. Silent, I tell him. Just watch me and it takes so little time. I cummed twice, you cunt, I like watching your cock and your kid and we’ll end up meeting and it would be exactly like sticking your cock through a glory hole in some adult bookstore when you finally don’t care if it’sa mexican or a faggot shopper out for disease dick. A detailed interview was conducted at the Rogers Police Department with defendant Josh Brown on September 27th, 1999 by Detective Sergeant Hayes Minor. Brown told Sgt. Minor that he and the victim had been sexually involved for approximately two months. Brown described the sexual acts as “games”and “playing”with the victim. He said that the morning of the victim’s death, he had performed anal sex on the victim for the first time. In sex acts up until this point, Brown said his penis had never penetrated the victim’s anus. Brown told Sgt. Minor that on this occasion he used his fingers, his penis, a cucumber, a sausage, a banana and a douche bottle to anally penetrate the victim while the victim was immobile due to the bindings. Brown was questioned about Carpenters involvement during the rape and told Sgt. Minor that Carpenter stood in the doorway of the bedroom, naked, and watched Brown and the victim while he (Carpenter) masturbated. Brown was also asked about the notes that were found in the residence. When asked about the note found in the kitchen addressed to “Baby” and stating “Could cause serious damage-back to 3” sticking out and duct tape in place,”Brown stated that as he was using the cucumber to penetrate the victim’s anus, Carpenter stood in the doorway trying to get his (Brown’s) attention without having to speak. When Brown walked to Carpenter, Carpenter showed him the note indicating that he should not put the entire cucumber in the victim’s anus as it may harm him. Brown stated he returned to the victim and duct taped the cucumber in place as it penetrated the victim’s anus approximately one half inch. Brown was also shown the diagram that depicts a person bound to a bed, much the same way Brown described the victim. He stated that the drawing was completed by Carpenter on a much earlier date. When asked about Carpenter’s knowledge of Brown’s and the victim’s sexual activities, Brown stated that Carpenter had walked in on the two in the past. After that occasion, Brown stated that he and Carpenter talked about Carpenter watching as the victim and Brown participated in sexual acts. I knew he was lying. I told him I used to center on the photograph of the victim’s sister. The kid who murdered the tomboy was also centered on the sister and the way she’d parade around him without either of them knowing what was going on. This confusion could have irritated me until I confessed to this stubby fat pedophile that I kept returning to the photo I had of her, clad in tights, doing a very graphic yoga position. I could see her cunt and her face and not naked cunt. That triangle you can see anywhere and now I like seeing anywhere, as often as possible, I imagine. And I kept taking it with me, whether in reality like my fat pocket or in my head. I’d masturbate thinking about it. Didn’t matter. Didn’t have to see it again. But it was good to keep seeing it. You’d want to keep seeing it like a beg. And I had told this cumming cock tugging faggot that I would show people, strangers, criminals, scroungers lying as badly and given as him, when I was closest to being locked up, deserved to be in so many indicial ways, that I wanted to masturbate looking at the photo with them watching me pull off after sucking and getting sucked or fucking or talking or all hog compliance. And I knew what I was doing again. He asked me. And I watched him. And it was easy for him to do. But I didn’t want to do that again, I lied. And that’s what we started talking about so much that every shit helpful conversation would, goddamn it, man, come back to how we first fucking met. He would use it against me until I told him he wasn’t that smart and he should understand that I knew what he was doing. He’d say he was horny as if it was acceptable. Like exhibitionists, fantasy-driven offenders can realize their sexual fantasies without seeking physical contact with someone. I wasn’t going to offer him a concept of health. I was aware that it wasn’t what I wanted to see. I kept that forefront. Either because I couldn’t stop the conversation from insisting that was all that would be in the back of my head or because I made a concerted effort to keep it there. There was nothing that could keep an idea of honesty away from what we were talking about. We’d have to create that sense of trust and we both knew the lard we were stuck in. I avoided, because it was the only reliable technique available, acting as if we didn’t want the same thing. I couldn’t do otherwise. I had no intention of doing anything else. The best you can say is that you have a fear of jail. It also wasn’t my job to keep him out of jail. I tried to insist that I couldn’t do what he did and that I didn’t care if he thought what we were doing was a struggle to stay safe. I had more contempt for people like him than he did for me. He liked it and recognized himself, he said, when I called him slimy or typical or cocksucker like all the rest of the scumbags who search and wait and itemize. He wasn’t nearly as pretentious as me but he was also far more susceptible to compliments and succor. He didn’t follow up as well as he should have. This exhibitionistic behavior would not necessarily meet diagnostic criteria because the survey we examined did not include questions about motivation, frequency, persistence, or intensity. He’d constantly ask me if I like his cock. I’d ask him what he wanted me to say. I told him I’d like to see his ass as well and that he wouldn’t ask if I like that. We shouldn’t talk about what we’ve done. It didn’t apply. I was following the medical texts and refused to separate fantasy from reality. It wouldn’t work; the same way that if we started to gracelessly give in to our thoughts about what we wanted to do. Or acting. It wasn’t going to get us anywhere, I honestly didn’t want to hear his wishes or dreams and I’d have to reiterate constantly that I didn’t want to have to believe him or not and waste my time looking for little slips in his stories. Based on what I would have done or what I’ve seen and done or how it does or doesn’t work that way exactly. Mostly, I didn’t want him to insult me. He was either going to look good or sound bad. That’s what cocksuckers are, you can’t argue with that. Stick your finger in. As if that will feel better than it looks. For him, I didn’t, and told him, couldn’t, care. The question then is why men who expose themselves seek minors (mostly adolescents). One possibility is that they are exposing themselves to both minors and adults because the activity rather than the target is sexually gratifying but the adults are less likely to report it or to have another person (e.g. parent, guardian) who would report it if they found out about the exposure. Because his background involves a significant history of religious jobs, he’d talk about his interest in abusing boys. He started off asking youngsters to let them take pictures of them, paying them to let him take polaroids of their genitals. He had one little fucker agree but only if they took and exchanged pictures of both their dicks. I wasn’t going to be able to listen any further and told him I had to see it too and I wanted him to masturbate telling me about it. But just to get hard. When I asked him to stop talking about what happened and just let me see him stoke and grab balls until he cummed, he was quiet until he got near the point when he obviously couldn’t shut up and started to talk about me watching like his kid. But the kid didn’t watch him masturbate. And didn’t talk He didn’t know why kid wanted a picture of an adult’s penis. I kept my mouth shut. Didn’t extend tongue. Never once glanced up towards his face. Just let him cum on screen. There is evidence that real-world exhibitionists have a high rate of recidivism, usually for exposing themselves again. However, there is also some risk that they will escalate to contact sexual offending particularly those who have another atypical sexual interest such as pedophilia. Firestone et al (2006) conducted a follow-up study of exhibitionists and found that those who showed more sexual arousal to children when assessed phallometrically were more likely to subsequently commit a violent offense in the future, including a contact sexual offense. I asked him if he knew a film that I had seen and in particular the rape scene. An adult female gang-raped and they use a bottle on her. I paused on the quick tasteless cuts and found I could see her stripped butt closest to an actor’s face. I like the way he was staring at her ass. I explained that the theory for many of these genre-specific films has to do, on one hand, with the outrage of critics denouncing the work as appealing to rape fantasies. But an academic argument counters that the appeal of the film is to hate the men who torture and violently perform the acts. The obvious sell of the film having to tie up morally what you indulged watching was, in fact, truly the wrong cheap idea. The experience of the film would be more in keeping with hating pornography than enjoying pornography. You could easily see yourself finding a market in agreeing with those who do not hate sex or hate women but hate men and justice. You could enjoy the revenge narrative far more than the measly rape scenes. You do want it to end well, you do want it to move towards reifying your decision to see a contact offense as less than what is happening. You, basically, shouldn’t be convinced with what the court tells you because they aren’t telling you something on your level. Their sympathy is thin, their reasoning contorted and they haven’t done near the superhero work you have. The prurience of the court system is remarkable for those, of course, this explodes. The staid psychology gets burned off while the experience only proceeds. You’re not likely to be convinced or have your opinions formed, reformed. You’re not angry about how you were suckered in. Your obligation is to stop the film into ideal. I want to be very clear here. My only job is to serve these clippings as best and inescapable as I can or they might be. These, having come back to them, are as important to me as I remember them. Knowing whether someone detected using child pornography is also interested in other kinds of sexual content is potentially important because research on contact sex offenders have suggested that those with multiple paraphilic interests pose the greatest risk of sexually reoffending. Evidence of multiple paraphilic behaviors is not uncommon, with studies showing that sizable minorities of sex offenders with child victims have also engaged in exhibitionistic or voyeuristic behavior or have sexually assaulted adults as well. One single boy with his cock out thinks for a second that he’s supposed to shoot his load all over the girl’s face or her clothes and that scene gets excised. Perhaps the one man that can’t do anything else or proclaims that since I was an asshole and he wanted to knock my silly instructions at the same instant that he burning realized he was proud of his little child cum accomplishment and the pretty cheap prostitute that I had provided by ad first. Later I’ll look at the footage and decide to keep it for myself. Which tumbles back that I would, of course, eventually include it in this perfect documentary about what I want to see but not what was supposed to tell me what I actually, really, wanted to watch until I couldn’t get rid of it in editing. I can’t decide if this exists solely for me, I say kindly, and I’ll try and explain this to the cobblers looking to see women treated badly as if to appreciate the job doing it for them. That explanation as to why it has to exist works against the very reason to put myself through all of this. And it’s not a movie or a collection of documentary shorts or a mirror through the same act modified by wait and taste. It’smuch easier to pick apart and it’smuch easier to say just fucking see it as noise. The director tells his actress. You’re going to find yourself lonely. You’re going to wish you had a way to contact some of the men who did this. You’re going to pretend you want to discern what allowed them to behave this way. You’ll want to use that discussion for more than the sympathy they’ll placate you with. You’ll understand that quietly but privately admit you don’t want to be lonely either or this bored all the time, all alone. I wouldn’t imagine putting myself through this sort of work. Which is why I wouldn’t do it. In recent years, the market for such a thing has skidded to impossibility so, thankfully, money is no longer the reason that I’d lose the argument over why an idea didn’t become more than that. That being something I can see. That being other men doing what I want to do. That, better, being that I filmed the men like me out of the frame and saw exactly what I wanted to see except for the absolute truth, apparently, that I’ve been too frightened to either do it myself or took the easiest laziest way to brag about something, apparently again, brave. Braver in accomplishment, experience and shamelessness. Brave in distancing all chances at humiliation from the women that I’ve paid or artfully asked or cajoled by stink, alcohol and boredom to do whatever they want while I masturbate quickly and embarrassed and already humiliated in front of them. Dom doesn’t exist, fool. And not even on them. I wouldn’t, for example, I’d explain, spit on them. And if they’d ask. And say that they didn’t care because it didn’t matter. I’d say it matters, I know it doesn’t mean what others would say it did, I don’t want to do something like that to you that I’ddo to others, but not you. Even though, we know, seen, the whole idea can get ridiculous. And I understand the little idea that these things just happen and I would, probably, do anything you like. But I think we should think better than that. And there’s enormous amounts of public that would do that. And not think the wrong thoughts either. Not caring basically. One more stupid jew on grey eye’d drugs and past painting classes starts to tell me about how her father taught her what not to do, you know, and I shut the fucking camera off and you can get paid anyway and, honestly, then nothing like the chance caught gets to exist outside of your bodega naked body. How to get the first everyday creature to keep her clothes on is going to be our first job. I would rather you, first, as a lesson, understand that I have to tell you all this. It’sme that gets to talk you into thinking all of this is as just as, absolutely correct, boring as you merely listening and timing. This is what’s wrong. You don’t get to do this. You don’t show me pictures of a fifty-year-old former mom cleaning her house, depressed and beaten or eager as expected, and not then show me the pictures of her as thirteen-yearold prostitute. That, listen, dear, is what we’re doing. I need you to stop acting like you’re showing this isn’t a job. I don’t care what it is that you’re wrong about this documenting. That you think you may be fucking part of. Understand that I know you wouldn’t admit outloud that you’re happy to be involved in something that you couldn’t be better than. The idea wasn’t yours. And. You’re lucky to be asked and you’ll skim off the involvement to those you talk about it with though everyone, especially you, will know that you did shit. Nothing to help, lucky. I don’t even think that’ll be important later on. What you think. How you’ll ruin it with insight and cheaper anecdotes. I wouldn’t dare ask if you think you should be here or shouldn’t. Now. Later, of course. What you thought then versus how you imagine it was now. It’s not much of a choice, I agree with so little of what you’re thinking now. This will always stay clear. Better luck then. Lingerie, see. If you remember you were better looking when you were much better only ever younger and it’s truly revolting that men prefer that. You’ll plead. Or men preferred that then when you didn’t have the begging voice you’ve learned to speak with now. Or if you think you’re just tea fine now, fuck then. All things considered. And it’s going to work well later on. You weren’t thinking like that then, princess. You’ll, again and again, simply have to consider that this isn’t much of an opportunity anymore, not like before or back over what it was like when it all didn’t work to add backwards. It’s not ever about age. Stop that, finally. Form that. Rework that in a timeline that helps the days that just passed, rewrite the wrinkles on your future sales chances. As an actress, put yourself in my immature perspective. In that. I’m only interested in you thinking more like me. So I can hear how you do me outside of your pervert dumb mind. I want to recognize that I’m not hard to misunderstand inside your quick wits, underneath your refusals and preferences and concessions. Quietly gorgeous. You aging so well. And the fact is. That these little children are given names by the very same men and women who rape them. Repeatedly. The ones that are not stand-ins for horrible life ending or otherwise mysteriously unfair picks. Safe children are filmed and those records disseminated by the ones that, also, take care of them. These men, sick as they don’t think, share the material. That was a pivotal distinction for me when it came to making the decision on whether to include the criminal names. The men who would say their daughters’ names as they took off their clothes with intent rather than contempt, say. Or without love. Or with illegal thoughts and fears and the weakness combined from sheer breathing insult or, still, love and guessed guilt becoming definitions of desperation and selfishness and just lapse. They say the names that aren’t included in the transcripts. And those names must sound a different tone now. After they learned that, not only did that happen, him and his fat fingers and red dog large cock, but I’m left with that name and the way he said it. And everyone says that name and it reminds me of him saying it. Even when he wasn’t saying it with his tongue pointing out or his hands in places that they shouldn’t have been. He wouldn’t, as I remember, now, say my name when he was raping me. I think that’s also important. He couldn’t say my name maybe. I’d call him dad all the time anyway. It wasn’t any different. This is why I came to the case. Start here. The books that have been written on the Nickel Mines shooting are entirely written to convince the Christian reader their continuing rite of passage as ideal. Ostensibly written to investigate the concept of forgiveness. Loosely constructed on the mainstream, read “English,” media’s reaction to finding the Anabaptist theories at bad play after ten little pure Dutch Pennsylvania beauties were attacked by a miserable early thirties milk truck driver from around the heathen bend. The same kinder media that pushed the stories of the only possibly prepubescent bloodied and screaming merely hooked the tragic non-answers to who the fuck has milkmen still. Forgiveness, that shown to the shooter’s wife by the amish grievers, has been the cover story ever since the doomed from the cities descended on their backward living pleasantness. And the publishinghouses that traded the stories of those at least closer to the case than NY news vultures have, without exception, been Christian services. That make more money off the lectures from the authors than booksales, I suspect. Come hear her message of hope and not the raw details or missed chances to tie something together from something not at all mysterious, apparently. Pretty pink wrong about which details you think I’m after, sump. The title for the first release will be La Nouvelle Maria Monville and, thus, the first actress will be Dear Maria, the ex-missus Charles Roberts, and, redux, every actress that performs exactly the same script afterwards will still, thankfully, be poor Maria. This sack of arrogant mucked sat before men she doesn’t know; who understand her better and faster than she can recalculate. Maria wants to talk enough non-stop to drown out any possible chance at only hearing otherwise. Whether she’sconvinced herself by now, deeply, is of little equity to those who have to perform their duties in front of her, with her, fuck forbid, for her. She’s convinced herself of her little perfect sparkling thoughts so well that she’s the perfect actress. Become the character that, more perfect, will become her, lucky enough. She knows her lines, her reductive improvisation, so convinced, that she lives the part that can’t be a part any less than a lovable life. This, her lies, her defense, her pretty face and knowledge are more constant than any argument the plug ugly cock in front of her would grasp at more successfully. This is honesty. Not just hers. No longer lies, no longer a moat of fighting against the little minds that seek to dismiss her. Her rape. Isn’t a possibility anymore. Her lack of innocence finely woven into far more than the financial benefits she’s denied and truthfully accepted. She hasn’t written a paragraph, or remarkably very few other than the narrative necessaries, that doesn’t contain god in a sentence let alone every fucking mawkish sleazy pure hunch. Saint is created by her audience in that she’s continually barking faith at them rather than details. And any fuck spilling cunt with a low intelligence that demeans her effortless effort to run the news behind her can’t help but look and sound merely typical and uglier than anything else she’d like for you. Her hope that you’ll see that god has provided isn’t as desperate as anything you work out, cunt, and her audience, not being cunts, but the monsters that she represents in extremis, rather than simply depressed over bad rearing, bad luck, bad rejections, are anything but mere support. Her audience is in every line that sees something good in everything bad as long as the definitions of good and bad are completely reversed. Not as desperate as you, groundless cunt, see? You shouldn’t think that I’m looking for a way to explain. A way to clean it up. And say, after any trouble, that I have enough proof the other way to show hard; how genuinely conflicting and, even more, how careful I was actually being with the subject. If there is sympathy there. Not that genuine compounds. Not that there’s not a perfect truth you can’t ruin by saying you also showed both sides of the story. And you can’t help it if you were misunderstood. You shouldn’t talk to the people you’d have to explain these things to unless that’s a sexy drip in your sickness. You’d have to. You’d get the answer back. I’d like to see you masturbate now. I’d like to see the things you fucked and when you’re telling me, I’d ask, for you, I’d hope, more than me, barely, that you’d like to get even more just relief by letting a cocksucker take care of that problem for you. Given the Defendant’s aforementioned attributes, the Court believes that a sentence well below the guideline range is warranted. Defendant is unlike many other child pornography collectors in that Defendant is not a pedophile. He is not an appreciable risk to the community, and he is getting treatment for the underlying medical condition that spurred this deviant behavior. Moreover, Defendant will suffer the lifelong social stigma of being a sex offender. He will be required to register as a sex offender, and he will face the accompanying severe restrictions on his liberty. See United States v. Garate, (noting it was appropriate for the district court to consider, the “lasting effects of being required to register as a sex offender”) (citing United States v. Anderson). However, a mandatory minimum sentence would be inappropriate in this case given the number and nature of the underlying photographs. Consequently, the Court believes a sentence of 84 months, seven years, incarceration, with ten years supervised release is sufficient, but not greater than necessary. Defendant’s proffered expert, Dan L. Rogers, Ph.D., conducted a psychological examination of Defendant lasting over six hours. Rogers reached several conclusions based on his examination, considered in light of the facts contained in the pre-sentence investigation and those stipulated to in the plea agreement. The Court received a copy of Rogers’ Psychological Assessment Report (“Psych Report”) of Defendant and heard from Rogers who explained his findings at Defendant’s sentencing hearing. Rogers concluded that Defendant does not meet the diagnostic criteria for pedophilia but found that Defendant is afflicted with several disorders, including mild bipolar affective disorder and depressive personality. He attributed Defendant’s interest in pornography to the “compulsive, obsessive aspects of bipolar disorder [rather] than [a] strong preference for pornography.” Id. Rogers concluded that Defendant was depressed at the time he began to view pornography depicting adults but could not speak to Defendant’s mental state when he first viewed pornography depicting children because the first occurrence of this behavior is not clear. Rogers concluded that Defendant’s risk of reoffense is “very low,” relying (1) on low statistical recidivism rates, generally, for pornography offenders and (2) on the fact that Defendant does not display the primary risk factors for further offense, such as antisocial personality, major psychosis, a desire to financially profit from pornography, or substance addiction. In response to Rogers’ conclusions, the Government attempted to undercut the reliability of his opinion on cross examination. The Government first brought out the fact that Rogers had never seen the underlying photographs in this case. The Government also highlighted the fact that Defendant derived at least some sexual pleasure from the photographs as he admitted to masturbating frequently to photos of several girls who resembled his former classmates. Further, the Government pointed out that Defendant was not fully aware of his treatment needs, even though Defendant admitted he needed help. Finally, the Government questioned Rogers about the recidivism statistics of child pornographers. Rogers testified that “[t]he best data there are indicates that it’sa very low recidivism rate for individuals whose only offense is child pornography, possession, or distribution,” despite the general lack of reliable scientific studies on the subject. Pick one. Ihe brute doesn’t feel anything. God will provide. The bore doesn’t feel anything but worships god after god tells her to and she loves that she can feel that. God talking to her as well as worshiping him. Anything I will do in front of her or, like this, behind her back will not be in the chance to offer her something more real, more truthful, than what she has and she is absolutely correct in ignoring and being disgusted by my immaturity, my pathetic puerility, my overpowered sack of small thoughts and, above all, slick tiny rosy responses. I don’t get to be satisfied with just this. This - truly - is nothing important. And the make-up talks to those behind me to laugh. To, she’ll say, not laugh. Not pity, not disgust, not opprobrium for the worthless. It doesn’t stop long enough to reconsider and it shouldn’t. Pig is correct, I’m being as honest as I can here. Pig knows. Pig wants me to get better is the best I can get from her; thank you. Thank you, pig. Inside her full length outfit and slather and my snide wash all over it and her high school skank understanding of what little we both know I want and she doesn’t. Pig doesn’t need to look, doesn’t want to, doesn’t enjoy what I do. Every page of her book and every word unfairly isolated from her many speeches in proselytizing and accepting and encouraging and promotion is proof of my failure, not as god-fearing but, as inchoate sentient. She rightly refuses to mention anything in her book about what her husband had more repulsively wanted over what he repulsively created. For her. Pig stays true. God guides her away. Tell her that the dildo in his truck would show her more. Wouldn’t say anything you don’t already know. You have the same pull towards such things. Like buying dildos, start there. You don’t know, otherwise, do you. I’m assuming that there’s nothing new there. That, the problem with me and my bigger problems, is that I just want to talk about it like someone who thinks you’re dumber than I’m correct about. That’s not true, is it? You don’t know that talking about it, telling myself, hearing myself, is the sex part. The part where I get hard and controllable and perfectly synced with what it is that happened. Though everything I drool out did happen. I’m leaning over a table in my living room, beating myself off while I lick this plastic rubber, it does not taste like dick, a neck, a forearm, and it does taste like what was created to stretch out whatever comes from your asshole to your stomach. It fills to stay a block to shitting down to stop up at the drip of my dick until it relieves itself in someway other than releasing shit to thought. Just because this cock is industrial and, let me knot it back down for you, idiot, was maybe your size, I hope, when he was fifteen, seventeen at least, when law over lord made it illegal. And this is what made boyfriends wheedle that we perform sex for money. Is what I’m thinking while I slop rubber like a retard. When I finally forget that. And concentrate on what it feels like to get fucked. I’m thinking of the tool I’d fuck and never got fucked by. Think of it this way. Correctly, again. A late developer for puberty so worried on that he was fed hormones. After he detailed his plight to his mother, who still lies shamelessly and was no stranger to being used like a plug. Mother and son. Plugs. The trend hot drugs he was feeding himself and keeping from his family. Later. Unlike the faggotry that was more inclusive than the kind you stare up to the sky and wish for an easier life. Our boy isn’t this dildo until I get sick of myself and my drops in sense to relative lonely psychosis and see myself doing this, not talking about it, and throw the fucking thing away. The acts that our boy ran through, sadly, perfunctorily, include the very things that the Westboro Baptist Church started complaining about before they ever sat down on his mother’s life as if they were wrong instead of him. They knew where men would cruise and cottage. Mom didn’t know the dirt her boy got up to. It wouldn’t change and, no matter what, every motherfucker says, it shouldn’t matter. It does matter. I have the dildo to prove it. I don’t use lube because I rank myself and spit slip is a better way to fit than slick, honey. Use your greasy sweat soon enough. Cock that sinning boors begged and manipulated, fuck me, not at all, and spend life patently hounding for sucks and naked jacking off. It’swhat I would do right now. Half in and stopped to look at what I’m doing. If my blonder wisp was depressed and it was about money, later on it would have turned into the horrible things he was doing just to get himself fucked in inadequacy and fine little huggable conversations that didn’t always end with wiping coke off the table and tasting hard cock different than usual and shit stains off my fingers and the bedsheets. It is always as base as this and whatever I do alone is never quite as bad as regurgitating it for effect. Like these monsters telling their families. Charles drawing diagrams and carefully penning notes to ease worm pain. After he’sgone and done what you don’t need to know about. Worse. Like listening to them act like they’re not picking type over availability. I want to stop doing meth. At least it’sa white pump. I want to stop doing that more than staring like a dolt at pictures of naked children and grown men. I understand what panties hold and it’s not a problem. Buy heroin and you get muslim dirt wipe, buy meth and you purchase gay rights straight from the guy who fucked and murdered another faggot. I understand the political messages enough to know that I sound more twisted into caring about the children and the speech than the ones who don’t know what being a coming queer is really like, mother. Take away the drama of acting like you’re not understood and you have the man who let you blow him until he wanted to blow you, well after sticking his erection in your open ass like you wanted that more than his mouth around you, quell, and eventually, drug fueled and crazed or not, beat your brain stem into a future of nothing but a hospital bed with the ones you kept lying to and still loving on. They started to miss the mess you were and the mess you’ll be worse in memory for at the very same identical moment. I know what it’s like to get fucked on that drug. Fucked while speeding. Giving into blur and difficult frenetics while you screw down in to move off like a coyote. And that’s what I want to stop. Not because I can’t remember it. I do. Or because I don’t know what’s ever going on when that’s the direct reason to do the drug, easy as it is. Again and again, hopefully. But I remember not wanting to get beaten up and murdered by being so stupid as to believe what these old faggots cried about. One. That sex is natural. Two. That this is given. Your condition, made this way by sinking vain, stating that you’re supposed to recognize the drive and overcome the struggle back to you without the pain and the drugs and fun and silly come-ons. I know the ones that are looking at this correctly, bible reader, enjoying his yelling and kind cruelty, as he well should, and can’t help himself, the one that got it right from the start. Who knew what was happening in Gage park near his home and never really cared enough about kansas kids and what home was or his god that hated him first, wisely he knew, to forget what the men had become, smart and desperate and lessened and sexy. This was what you learned when you were heterosexual first so hard that you’d know you couldn’t bring yourself to do what you wanted to do to the gender that looked better in pain. So you opt for men, ignore the lies, and they can take it better than the women you don’t want to hurt. And the men that do that. You don’t want to be. Where the men become both, victim since they were sick, filming themselves doing what no one kind would do and not women who’d take it and not know that they looked prettier, more sexual, softer when crying and screaming. No one doesn’t recognize what is going on in the pictures of them lying bloody on floors, ripped inside and torn open on the outside, when they view and go back for more with their no better spent money to this time just seeing them fucked. Not fucked. Not plainly stupid. But filmed being fucked. Not caught being pigs. Propagating pigs. These nells in the bars who don’t care how easy, how common and shrugged. Tina is in these bars now when it used to be cock. Some coke, mostly alcohol and the lifestyle was disease not memoir. They’d be so deeply into their bodies, not health, so sunken in what their bodies could take and their eyes could see that then, like crystal, like bathtub gin, they’d destroy themselves and brag and keep quiet. They were protecting their mothers. Not by not coming out. Not by confessing reality and gloved pain as if it existed otherwhere than fantasy. But by not treating all these women who reminded them of the ugly sinfully stupid forgettable mothers by not fucking them and slapping them across their made-up faces like they would take it. I’ve seen it in every single photo, whether it’ssold back to me or not. And I’veseen it get quieter and cutting and desperate to the point of listening to them talk about it like any other crying jag having become tedious. The dildo was there because he wanted to watch that use it on herself. a10 I’ve always repeated the names. Happens to be more compelling than camming or crying. No matter how much more I truly wanted to see the names obliterated and the compensatory pornography of pain and mental instability soak all of them all of the same now. When the actress is seen in tights. The reason to see, rather than discern, facts. I like the child and her learning acting. Her acting this story. Not having the entirely bright history at her age and mine. I could tell the actress. I don’t know what she really did but I know what she says about how she felt by reading her boring autobiography. So I looked at films of children her age being raped by men as much like her captor as I could find. And I think we’ll get as close to the real horror as we can by seeing her as one of many. We may get the real truth this way since her autobiography is full of conflicts and censorship and pruning and never enough denial and pain to trust her when she says she’s keeping stuff to herself to protect you. Making sure we don’t repeat the name to acknowledge that we can’t ever know everything would seriously fly against the idea of trying to show, to even come up with the idea to turn words to images. We want the real truth, you understand, sweetheart. I’d explain to the producer that the real movie, the best movie, is in the extras we could provide. It would be behind the scenes footage of me telling the actress that I watched the illegal footage of such acts. I couldn’t film the actress getting her motivation otherwise. Her getting history in color. Sat down staring at the screen. The flimsy training of what to remake of herself. Then as opposed to what would contort decades later. So just me slithering the gaudy concept. That would be the entire film. But the other shit would have to be made and, sexy, would change thereafter when anyone knew what they were really watching. It’d still be yearning for more and the comments of how it couldn’t be seen would detract and humanize and be far worse an experience when considered by the frame I crumpled all that tedious work into for every not bored customer hoping to talk more than walk away happy and wanting to repeat. The rape scene in one of the first rape/revenge films, I’d tell her, was started when the filmmaker found himself listening to a woman he knew talk emotionally about her rape. As he resells the story, it was right then his desire to show, not see, the brutality that she was yipping explicitly. This, I’d explain, was impossible. Especially now that you know how to watch the film. The commentary running directly over the half-hour rape scene, not placed in the extras after the story finds her victorious and sad and strong. His words, not hers, her acting screaming nude, saying what happened in detail. You wouldn’t pause at tits and ass or look for other films where the actress lifted her skirt. I’vegot no more stories to tell, exploit, refigure. That’s it. I can hope that this will work. I’m going to pretend that these saves are better now than the way they’d be presented if they didn’t have me moaning next to them. Everything, listen, that I’ve been saying about what these contain will be correct because, without me, you’d read them as information. They’re not news. They’re going to back-up the subtraction in my self-report. I no longer live this way. It wasn’t going to stop. There are statistics that counter most therapy theories by citing drop offs in criminal behavior as simply age contingent. The urge or interest in criminal acts in those who haven’t been twisted by prison or psychopathy decreases dramatically by pure dint of aging. Naturally to stop, end, shutter. And this is a simple history that shouldn’t be dramatized. Backless static links have replaced the work, if not only time spent, that it took to keep these more than find them. And so many of the articles are local, including the national and international reporting that still came from Chicago newspapers. The networks were national and recorded. The documentaries were purchased through distribution webs that concentrated on big cities like mine as important markets. You’re going to have to get over this. They aren’t pictures of Samantha Runnion splayed in a heap with her back broken from being naked raped. It’snot news. It’s inaccurate. And no longer separate. CALLER:Oh my God, I found a dead body. Please hurry. OK? I'm in the Ortegas, OK? Ortega mountains. I’m in Riverside County, OK? Listen to me, I'm scared to sit here, there’s another truck up the street and we want to get out of here. We’re scared. This had to be explained to her. I would never write a script. I wouldn’t tell someone where to stand or what pose to keep. So that they look like I would apparently want. I wouldn’t ever even think of telling someone what to do. You don’t get to call her shit. I’d ask them to stand up. I didn’t like it if they’d lay back on their beds anymore. I’d prefer if they didn’t talk, really, please don’t jiggle or grind. Especially. You shouldn’t feel like you have to comment or manipulate. I know you gotta go. It won’t help then. This is far less important than you’re thinking of an irregular. You understand that speed was the significant concern, aside from the prole consideration. DISPATCHER: Calm down. CALLER: I’m sorry but I have a 3-year-old son. DISPATCHER: You have a 3-year-old son with you? Justin, hey, hey was it an adult? Was it an adult’s body? CALLER: It’sa baby. I think it may even be the little girl that’s been on the news. It’sa little girl. I swear. We just looked and as soon as we seen, I left. I don’t know what to do. It must not figure correctly that I prefer the pictures of her smiling or caught anywhere doing nothing I would have guessed. I wouldn’t look for anyone else though. You don’t have to be that wide open to complaint. It never even works that way. Smiling, I don’t mean innocent. Watching someone else do something that might please or anger her. Tease her before the next picture completed the story. Watching someone else do something. It doesn’t have to be family. CALLER: I’m freaking out, man. I’m sorry, but this is the scariest (expletive) I’ve ever witnessed in my life, OK? Idiot has two choices. I either picked out stories that I couldn’t help plunging or ones that made the subversion guess clear to an idiot like this when pointed out as theme. Constructed a job, an undercut. Devoid of sadism, malignant narcissism. Instead. I was forming every story to slyly or formally highlight the ones that were predation that I leaned into. Watched a hooker suck on some Mexican in a queen bar and I could have stood there with my arms folded or wrenched guilty pedophile hardon out so I could pronounce some dirge of inclusion. Before I started the same sticky lipsticked dick that she was jamming in and out and not licking or push forward into that’s mouth like I wanted to share cock with all three of us. Felt around her hard ass after I lifted its skirt and slobbered so maybe she’d think I wanted to slip in back there before she decided to stop or spread further so I can glom sac. I swear, this is true. It was my first thought on how to be able to get what I wanted done. Which I timidly had to do by licking its hoary ass. Which was to spit on her. Act like it wasn’t disgust or beneath me and keep it quiet to myself. Move her away so she could get me wet, I suppose. And back to sucking on both, one hard and one flaccid but punctured, when I eventually knelt on the small wet restroom floor. Doctor says you were spinning. I remember enough to keep it till I cum quicker now than then. You have no say here. I can see what didn’t bother me enough, like drunken rapes that sound insulting to women who were beaten instead of dazed, sweetheart. Around 6:30p.m. on July 15, 2002, five-year-old Samantha Runnion and her six-year-old friend, Sarah A., were playing outside of the Smoketree condominium complex in Stanton. Sarah observed a man driving a green car pass by them, go around the block, and approach them a second time. The man got out of the car and asked the girls, “Have you seen a little puppy?” Samantha asked about its size. Suddenly, the man grabbed Samantha, threw her, screaming and struggling into the car, and sped away. Samantha’s nude body was found the next day in a remote area near Lake Elsinore, near the intersection of the Killen Truck Trail and Ortega Highway, that is popular with hang gliders. An autopsy performed the next morning revealed that Samantha had been sexually assaulted both vaginally and anally. She had suffered at least two blows to the head at least half an hour before she died, which caused her brain to swell. In the pathologists opinion, “she died as a result of mechanical asphyxiation through a compression of the neck and with the blunt-force trauma to the head contributing significantly to it also.” The pathologist could not determine exactly what had caused the compression of the neck. Based on the degree of rigor mortis, he estimated that the child had died 30 to 36 hours before he conducted the autopsy, that is, roughly between 8:00p.m., July 15, and 2:00 a.m., July 16, 2002. These were never pictures I’vemoved away from. There hasn’t been enough agreement to keep me from presenting the clippings and the explanations as giddy. I’ve had to make them weigh, perpetual, news-less and still fucking come up with proxy antagonistic excuses. I couldn’t begin to imagine to match the details. Left to historical medial teachers, all my own facts dwindle into love stories and perversions of that. That do not exist. Demonstrably, I’ve refused the sentimentality and skipped the abject apology that you draw. Easily. It’s very quick. I don’t despise the ones you do, don’t pick the ones you would, I assume. You could prove it. I’m not an idiot about what they’re doing. I’m simple when I masturbate. It sounds like you’re choosing idiocy. It’s not how you define the information, nor shame, not how you’d lick off the finer details in what you’d be ashamed doing because you’ve seen the mannequins and transfers. It stops and you don’t want the thoughts to stop. What happens later doesn’t figure. How I answer like a simpleton. You mix and it is the single best idea you get to stop. It’s appropriate, private, worthwhile, immediate. I don’t forget that. I try to remember that fact in particular. For it to stop, that’s what I’m looking to do. I’ve chosen or not chosen to do otherwise. It won’t be my decision. If there is a memoir to it, I’d prefer to keep the anecdotal out of it. Unless the names are erased and then the acts become subject and the sex becomes human. It becomes impossible to, at once, talk about it and stop talking about it. I’ll tell you. The times that pass without doing a thing. Are far more frequent. And I can’t ignore that anymore. Doesn’t make something particularly worth telling you. I’m not making a film. I’m not rewriting anythingwhen I repeat those names as I scrawl them over paper. I can reduce a full movie to a single centerspread recall. This is what you do. You don’t tell the little actress when frozen with her tights wrapped legs, little, spread to shut up. You don’t blame the actress or the director for your minute strokes of brilliance when you figure out that everyone has been working at lying over the delivery of finally exciting your little defect. You can’t say they’re lying and stupid and knowing all at the same time. Reverting to impulse, you make a mark, and remember that you’ll go back to it if you don’t find something better. If it was a better film, not a best single image, it would have more drifts and blames than the director, clearly now sunk into the court appointed testimonial therapist, could have drawn back into a frame. But that black slam over its entirety, where there was no mistaking, would allow perfect. And I’ve been trying to explain to the court that his repulsive efforts to get me to keep telling him how much better it is to jagoff at the pictures he wants reproduced in his folder as a final problem and infinite possibility at diffident ecstasy, are galling in his bother to either understand or help. The help he needs, not offers, can’t be provided unless he agrees to stop talking forever and accept that he’ll never be better than a single image. Worse, I have to tell him and he’ll have to become angrier after he leaves, that it’s not the problem that I suffer from. And I just want to help so much that I can’t condescend right now to make up a problem so that you don’t feel all alone. We grew up with pictures in magazines. Grew through tearing apart the images I’d return to. I didn’t go into films to watch movement and appreciate narrative cums. I watched damage unfold with the anxiety to stop when I saw it thicken to coherence. Wanted to see why you looked better than all the rest. You talk to yourself, you’re praying. Whether you say you believe in god or not. A god, it doesn’t matter. You ask something to take care of what you can’t do or do badly. This that is beyond yourself, listening to yourself pray. I didn’t tell him that I didn’t believe in god I would politely imagine; just that I didn’t know anything about basic religions. He smelled, seriously, probably enough drink and wear, to know that, of course, I was the type that talked to myself, probably out loud half the time, and I couldn’t say it was the lord that I was straining towards when I ran the abnegating thoughts around in my head as if to, what, fuck, please, just let some of this shit work out. Perhaps he wanted to win smarter or clued. The way these men do, no matter what they say. I know, dad, prop your nigger up to yourself or down to pentecost. There’sa point in Justine that you’ll reach. When Justine’s refusal to be swayed by any of the libertines in her way is clearer than plot. You never expect her to fulfill anything her cruel monologists, betters, masturbating lecturers toss as final sense and the opportunity to finally change. What may happen, maybe when you recognize your own excitement, sexually, meaning that you’ll want to finally cum after working up fitfully to a point of acknowledgment of something more than metaphorical arc, is that the pleasure, rather than the desire for such, is in our suffering Justine truly believing in god. It isn’t about the logic that destroys the idea of god. It’s in the pretty resilience that doesn’t just keep her there but that also makes her combine hatred and pity for you. It’s not a set up. And it isn’t righteous enough to make anything that happens to her body and what happens to make her cry while her beautiful shapeliness becomes groped and spread and pushed and cummed on and in and slapped and fingered, a particular favorite at some point again. Don’t think purity. If you could separate all the noise. All the body. Female. Her youth. From her whitewash squall of belief. You’d be missing joy. Don’t think pompous; don’t think robbing innocence is possible or important. Think of telling one of the exact same blonde amish twelve-year-olds to take off her amish curtain dress and finding her naked and pretty and her butt firm and her vagina hairless and try not to imagine what it was like seconds ago when she was entirely covered. Hiding the same exact body that one of the little same-aged sluts barely covered in leggings and a backpack. Remember you told her. To take off her clothes. And showed her your hard-on. Exposed yourself. What no one wanted from you. And you had to insist. And she was better squashed. She was fine before. Didn’t look adult yet. Maybe before the wear and bile. That she could be young enough to trust you not being the worn version yourself. You didn’t pick listening, did you. You have to know as a man of age that your focus is almost always on what you’ve done. What you remember. It would be better, I often think, if this wasn’t true. I self-report to the extent that I’ve been able to destroy the provenance of every name in the newspapers and magazines simply because I bought and kept and stored the deteriorating paper. Every read contains nothing but the named histories of those there past will by desire. Terrible self-destructive mistakes. None of this is desired, adult. You have to focus very hard on what exactly they needed to complete. You can get over that. In jail, a murderer told his interviewer about his past serving god through giving missionary work: I was religious when I was on my mission. I went partly for my mother and partly to get control over my sexual urges but I had testimony of the work I was doing and when I was active in the work I felt that God was pleased with me. The quick blond amish youngsters would or wouldn’t glow at strong kind Mr. Roberts as he delivered and fetched milk from their farms. He must’ve looked forward to seeing them. They look very much the same. You and I understand each other. I’ve seen photos you haven’t. The jailed always review the clippings as a loss of control: When I tried to stop having the desires to molest children, the harder I tried to stop, the stronger those desires became. I got tired of trying to control them so I gave up trying. I didn’t have any urges to go out and find children to molest at that point but I accepted the fact that this was who I was. You don’t think you can find anything better. You honestly think this is as good as it can get. This cesspool without. Why do you have to deny yourself. Which voice from which part tells the fathers not to fuck their children when they do nothing else better for them. The answered culture is rife with quietly misunderstood violence. It is pernicious, you can see its malevolence in every soft smile that comes from looking at you like you’re sick and lost and lessened and deeply unlucky: I was reading a book the other day where it was talking about psychopaths. It said something to the effect that strange gods call after them and that calling is dearer to their heart than anything else. I thought, if that doesn’t describe pedophilia, I don’t know what does. It’s a god and it controls everything you do. It disgusts me, it’s true. I haven’t seen anyone be alright. I like that I can make an argument for quelling nausea by cumming. Make it a bodily treatment provided for by grace and nature. I don’t think it’s acceptable. That voice is there as well. All I have to do is watch and, to a person, without exception, the filming to delivery and seductive moves and repeats are certainly repugnant. I’m never not aware that with adults, sex is a grotesque act. Full of insults and demands for acceptance of such. You’ll get used to it and worse as you grow older: I got to the point of being so aroused by boys that I conditioned myself, unknowingly, to want to get sexually involved with them. I would masturbate two or three times a day, always picturing young boys, and I would still feel unsatisfied. It’s like I just couldn’t get enough. I have never been out of control. You don’t have to worry. I do nothing but search for worse, or singularly more, pictures. Find them without even doing that illegally. I despise the producers as well as the actors. Not because I think they owe me more not to tempt or convince me with less. The artists, these arbiters, recognize the market as atypically me: What do you mean by helpless? Well, in my case, boy sex became my god and the desire to please that god was greater in my heart than any desire because it was more realistic. There was more compulsion involved with it, more pleasure involved than in any other thing I’ve known. And so, as much as I may hate myself at times for feeling this way - and a lot of times, I wish I could live a normal life - at the same time when the sexual urges arise, that god takes over and I’lldo my best to please him. Told me to show her how I jack-off. I want to see you do it and I’ll tell you when to shut up. I cared as little for what I was thinking as she was. I had been trolling webcam girls listed as MILFS because I didn’t want to be caught trolling for teens, they’ll say. I don’t know how anyone can think it’s acceptable to pay someone to dig inside their vagina. I had no intention of talking about the photos I knew or the status of individuals who would find their last ditch efforts appeased by watching older or younger women root around their flaps and displays. States the dildo but doesn’t clarify the shots of her fingering herself. It was me making myself cum whether she wanted to tell me that the men who come and pay her always assume they’re the only ones who can be truly honest or, like a gay man rather than a heterosexual woman, she liked just seeing nice cock and naked men more than the way they would try and please or show or respond or appreciate her first. Add they weren’t ugly. The acting, she’ll tell you, is where the guys assume the confession is their role. Typically smaller ugly. And then that most enjoy being abused a little. Whether they know it or not yet or whether they fight or puppy. I didn’t especially want to hear what it is like to be exactly like or somewhat separate from most of the others. Sounding exactly like that. I knew the following: how it is to be watching men cum all shift. One after another and waiting for another. I didn’t want to hear her opinions on indecent exposure drives or laws, sadly, because there was nothing I was getting from the differences between her make-up and garters to her morning coffee and boss requirements. Safety wasn’t going to make it any less worthwhile for me. I understood the fetish words she’d repeat when she’d want me to exit as more interesting literally than clinically or personally. The best way to do this was to pay the entrance fee and scroll through the morning availables, watch them interact with whatevers, tip to make them move and run away when they say thank you and peel for the reason you tipped. Just lean back on the bed but sit up. Sit straight. Spread your legs like the shots I would see when I was just discovering what people like you could do. The ones that would spread wider and shamelessly and not touch themselves, just rudely let you see what the others were only pretending was too rude to show that way. Leitenberg and Henning (1995) defined a sexual fantasy as any imagery that is sexually arousing or erotic to the individual and is deemed more elaborate than a fleeting thought. Kahr (2007) added that the fantasy would produce pleasurable mental and/or physical sensations. Through his work in psychotherapy and undertaking the British Sexual Fantasy Research Project with 19,000 respondents, Kahr described how sexual fantasies can both provide immense pleasure and feelings of shame, anxiety, guilt, and confusion, and should they be used for masturbation and result in orgasm, they can be seen as “masturbatory paradox.” He suggested that sexual fantasies could serve a number of purposes, including wish-fulfillment, trial action (experiencing a new thought or action), self-comfort and medication, discharge of aggression, mastery of trauma, defense against intimacy, and defense against negative mood states. Barties and Gannon (2011) discuss the role of sexual fantasy in offending, highlighting the links between sexual fantasy, managing mood, and risk. Quayle, Vaughan, and Taylor (2006) suggest that sexual deviation can be a form of self-medication used to avoid anxiety, loneliness, or depression, thus reducing stress. The ground of every interview question I’ve ever answered for myself, primarily, is how the questions come from someone with a position dedicated to blaming me rather than helping me. I swear, I was never looking for help. I swear, in fact, that I’ve never been bothered enough. The material that I chose to respond to has always had the structure of worth and rate of criminal liability. Of course, it would. Interviews that came from some form of skewed sexual obligation. I used sections from the pornography market. Sleazy affirmations from scum with cameras fixed to their faces talking to figures those interviewers most wanted to keep on camera since the acts or body types they were filming could be extended to, most often not the interviewers’ fault, humiliation. Even then, though. Help was very present. Helping to see the concessions behind what was only performed, the ridiculous concept of sexual abandon to be more of what you really were instead of who you were forced to pretend to be. And, often snidely, the chance that your experience would enlighten beyond the simple lust stupidity of those who could only offer the pretense of surplus. The way everyone knows what’s really happening. Psychologist and studio dicta reviewers used the same questionnaires. The exact same pejoratives. God or coward but never not without the same recursive function. The pay rates versus the genuine interest in getting you to stop saying the dirty events that make you dirt. Tougher, tragic, hard-eyed and murderous if you looked like you could fit the same marks as those looking for the darkest bits in the everyday piles of, just, more common empathic dirt. This is important. According to new techniques in the research of sex offender clients. To help the offender understand his troubles and vault those aw nags comes an academic critique that the conversations essential to psychiatric exegesis are likely impossible. None of this is true because my disgust for these men has very little to do with the cheap way I sing around my own revulsion. If this guy’s porn brag dick is a memory that can gain re-ignition and significance, then the following is, I’d prefer frankly, more formative. Since that point has been articulated, I no longer contend that it is formative but absent. Such are the louche possibilities of exegesis. Anecdote and adjective. I was walking away from one of these blowjob joints and watched an old man, a degenerate familiar to anyone, heading his way in while I headed guiltily away, I suppose, by him. This degenerate didn’t clock my face which was focused on his. He was intent on making the point of staring directly and only at my crotch. I haven’t turned into this sort of filth at least. I didn’t see this as possible then, the abreaction deep and correct for fucking once, and as much as running towards one faggot and away from another. This as much is true. He was something I still see. As different. My recasting shit recalls from bloat has its offense to brag honesty, but nonetheless, the closest I got to this hasn’t been cocksucking. Hasn’t been in not choosing cock, any cock, whether old and desperate or young and stupid. Read available to all sides. I cummed in some fat queer’s mouth one evening when I drunkenly remember being so lost that I didn’t, I seem to know, know I was getting sucked on. I’d tempered the action of that evening at Touche by sucking on some hulk standing in front of me while more queer had slithered below me and between by legs. I made room for him, I offer. But, honestly, can just about only grasp that I thought about what happened on the way home because I exited the joint pretty quick before the two of that cummed about the same time. No sensation to fondly prize. No animal instinct as much as that would work for those praising prurience the same time as god given favors and the lies that get you through one conversation before the next has to be retread beforehand. It doesn’t have to be at all. Just remember the offense of what happened underneath as what could have happened. The pain that I’d want recorded and re-watched wasn’t going to look like that. This is when I was being silly. But there was a visual condensation, a fantasy that sought out the image before the deconstruction. Which, idiot, happens forward not backward. I’m sure that seeing this cocky faggot lean back proud had little effect on me. I’m sure hung stud wouldn’t have been any less suicidal if this hadn’t happened. I’ve always wanted the photos and newspaper reports to be dispassionate enough so that I wasn’t obligated to misconstrue the assholes from the life. If I think about how the faggot walked away after he was carried out on a stretcher to a hospital and spent the rest of his lifetime walking very slowly drooped and stuttered up the stairs to his doctors' offices, I immediately see his cane, his wheelchair, his television, his bills. See them when I pay mine. I don’t fault what anybody does for money. God, cowardice, biology don’t interest me within this. I despise that I have to mention it or even lowball that you’re doing all or some of this for money. Worse, that you may not know that. Worse that I have to sound of the same brain since I’m dragging what may be a better conversation down to what bucket of shit you’d eat for what price. Every miserable documentary on prostitution turns into a drug addiction documentary. I can fault you for how you spend your money though. I can find serious problems with what you do for extra time. It’ll, I’m confident, come down to a corollary for masturbating. When you say that’s my problem. And it is or I would have stopped talking about it now. I know that talking about it is the issue. That starts with you. I like that there’s proof to be had. Foolishly, that’s going to come from the act rather than the words. It’s disappointing, isn’t it, when the criminals are pointed out as doing everything, running the websites for example, for money. That’ve picked this brand of criminality as a lazy guess-what from which to get rich. Dog fuckers eventually if not first off. You know where the real money is. The history that comes from family members solidifying their familial acts offered a way for entrepreneurs to make full hands of cash. These entrepreneurs weren’t jobbing from the top. They’re of little interest to the health profession and to me. The ones that take photos are less interesting than the ones who rethought the photos and then disseminated them. We could stay there. And forget about the cash. The police will announce: No one does this for money. It’s always a cottage industry. We’ll have to address the need to take those solid photos. Because they wanted to masturbate afterward remembering and this was a nailed concrete idea. You cum quicker, asks the doctor. That’s correct, isn’t it? This is always. If I recall what happened. I do want to do it again. I’m not making a room for men to masturbate. The story has been destroyed. And I’ve picked the material to support the argument. I need a bowl for myself. And I’d like to see you convinced that it would be for me. I don’t trawl backwards to my childhood. I don’t see this as important and find my disgusting tendency not to go back there not near as disgusting as the tendency for others to do exactly the opposite. Where I listen to what happened and what they thought and what terror they’ve constructed to help reshape events. This is not what doctors are looking for these days. They’ve given up. They now offer options based on human goods. General testing of so many lies that the industry has come back to television families and work pride. Why wouldn’t I take that down to single images, perfect stops that grow back into the films that I want to make. Without actors. Without telling them, manipulating mulch to experience details between telling and getting. Follow further and you turn the women into children because that’s what they’re acting for. It’s not my own reductivism that’s pathetic. I’m spotting their own. I’m not even fucking creating or, worse, responding to it. I’m not drawing the truth out of them. You’d have to be a moron to miss it, a moron to make a point so that you can draw others’ attention to it. Fuck them and their lack of attention, their own degrees that have sunk further down than mine so that someone else might be disgusted enough, like I am fucking not, to scream at them and politicize it so that they fucking finally get it and, what, change or leave me the fuck alone. That’s not it. You’re not going to be in someone’s head and say you don’t enjoy it or that it disturbs you so that you had to examine the now worthwhile critique. The way that these chronic cummers say that I want to see more of her rather than I want to see more of that. Instead of saying I want to do that now. I understand, sweetheart, I get that you’re here beside yourself because you’re doing everything you can to forget your constant readings of truthful rape and disingenuous pleasure when, every faggot says this, I don’t want to even look at a vagina but I suspect that it feels better than an asshole. Don’t underestimate the very real disgust that these places that sprung up after the freedoms started to simmer until those freedoms start to explain. They aren’t there anymore. There are none. I’ve been talking about the bars that had backrooms and busy toilets off to the side. You could cum alot unless you wanted to suck dick and you’d do that less, which is the history of these places. That formed the politic. The places that did away with the social aspect, the meeting joints primed by alcohol fueled community as pick-up, those pits are simply shut and forgotten. The neglect won for a very good reason. And missing it doesn’t happen. Learning then you were wrong and they aren’t close to being correct is what did happen and does continue. You shouldn’t be able to have this sort of pornography. Has nothing to do with limits or control of a wild worry about the future. It doesn’t involve anything other than the absolutely correct fact that one of you irate fucks should have opted for containment. The others would have likely followed. You put the photos on the floor of the bathroom and you stand up off the toilet and do the only thing that is available to a watcher, one who enjoys seeing rather than being seen. Being seen is incorrect. Unless you perfectly understand the slights between embarrassment, shame and the truth behind having seen what is lying on the floor of the bathroom with you, exactly, standing above it pulling yourself off. So that the answers. Do not ever stop. They’re not officials, doctors, chorus, they’re gossips. I haven’t told you a thing. Not anything you’re looking for. And yet I’ve told everything that I have. It looks the way it was slapped together. I wanted to read them. I’m showing them for that hurried implacable reason. I’ve compiled them to give a better picture of the pedophile hide and mind than the one I’ve been provided, largely literally, after all these years. I’ve come to this, now. So few of these men are pedos but you’ll understand the shorthand. There’s a ridiculous amount of years added up to a fairly good stop. I didn’t transcribe the articles into a fit text. I wanted them to be as embarrassing as a collection of such things could be. While still weeding them back from now. I wouldn’t edit the actual articles into bits that I felt especially sexual or prescient. The graphic bits or even the more sympathetic or unveiled double-talk sections. Nothing censored or highlighted to file direction. Compiled as they existed in my sad newspaper cutting or hungry mollifying life. It’s a different reading now. Not all that different. So many were forgotten. The entire scrap heap was osmosis, I hope. See, I remember them now. There are streams that carried on and I haven’t bothered to footnote or update the little ugly inconvenience for you. Though I’ve been tempted. They only just exist outside of my reason for choosing them but not, here, as examples of how badly life and justice and grief can be handled. Roy Whiting, I believe, has been attacked three or so times in jail. Sarah’s mother was phone hacked by the people who helped tell her pain and campaign large and she suffered a stroke before that heartbreaking news broke. She had another baby. She divorced Michael and both cited the death of their daughter’s aftermath as the pivotal reason. Michael died of an alcohol related disease, quietly to an extent, alone where his body went undiscovered for days. It’sworth noting here particularly that recent statistics and meta- analysis show a very small incident rate of attacks on sex offenders who’ve been publicly named in the press or on wife stalking registries. Shasta, in the press updates, has been presented as strong now that she left rehab and overcame her body issues. She has been photographed pregnant and smiling along with her dysgenic hugging boyfriend. Just off the corners of the long bars, where the mice go to have sex before the backroom. Always liked that a you could sit at the bar back there as it gives a sightline as well as a place to slouch while you treat yourself differently than you would at places like The Ram or Bijou that don’t have the brain stupidity to make cash off of bottle increments instead of flat fees full at the door. Saying that, the idea of paying one single amount, saving some extra for the meth or whatever you can glean from the younger dealers, trade, posing as trade, was a stable level that also made quiet sense to me and I’d sink in pretty easily. They eventually had to bring in vending machines, didn’t they. The small bar just a few steps away from where you’d cruise among the collected few waiting for sex instead of conversation and staring. There would always be one form set of pig that would like to keep his cock out while he sat. I’d hope there would always be one. Because I saw one and waited long enough to see another. I know that I had to make it happen finally. So it happens all the time now. Not as a flimsy memory but the others realized it was a good idea and after I did the work for them, you know without checking again and again that they’ve worked this into their routine. I barely go back to this shithole and I’m sure as fuck that this is happening all the time now. As it should have well before. It made sense. And it wasn’t me that started it so perhaps I kept going back and staying on the wrong nights so I was just doing what happened all the time and think I had to work the place, and the guy on the stool that I had wrenched from his button down fly, was working me and my tiresome, pugnacious, charmingly naive self. They’re all crotch rubbers. Not their own. This truly is constant when things get drunker and more aggressive and especially more loving and concerned and one becomes the good listener these men need pre the show it phase. I could have kept making out with him. And this has happened before, where he takes your hand while you kiss and rub each other, I like a hard cock before it gets hard, and walks you to the corner where it’ll still largely happen just through the zipper unless you get luckier. There’s a crowd you’ll have to contend with so, unless the bar is slow and you’re alright with being the show for the rest of the old stoolers, the kissing at the bar is likely to become less intimate and more grunting gay community. This being a leather bar that, thank fuck, has seen its cocoon years as the way in for still less and less younger local clientele that desperately hopes for tourists. The bar gaggle, I can’t decide, do well with men opting away from their wives or not. I wish you’d stop. I hope you don’t mind. I use her boy as the starting point to get meth. Like a code word wink you have to know to get into a website that sells child pornography not on Tor. So much like her child, she should think in public. I see that I’m bringing up that short boy of hers more and more and it doesn’t strike me as damning. Disappointing, more. Any best twinkie porn use tends to resemble that one more than, sadly, Jason Swift whom I finish far more often. Because of his age, use and death among his talkative, finally, family. The two of them have become conversations that I don’t dissolve as readily as that miserably cute thing with the nice cock when it stays soft getting fucked and the better mouth when it’s full under closed eyes and faggotry. He did the correct life if he met the design with the desire, desire always being the ugly word faggots use to discard what others do unless they’re being personal to the point of repulsive. It’s not remorse or respect or taste or drive. It’s ridiculous. I wish you’d stop. I also told this idiot who wasn’t old enough to think he wasn’t last gasp and I said this while he was moving the conversation to the men he thought were cute and the movies he liked with the actors who had bodies and the girls who were actors. This happens too much. I told him that he was making me hard which, I swear, was also telling him to stop. When he checked. And I wasn’t. I knew he would. I was shouting it at him. I asked him to take his dick out of his pants. Which he let me do, just under his belly. Told him I was pretty sure that’s what he wanted. And that he wanted everyone at the bar to see him sitting there with his cock exposed. I adore men who expose themselves in public. I understand these men and search for them. I asked him if I should get him hard. Or if he wanted the bar to see it without being obscured by my hand. He asked me to keep stroking it by putting his hand over mine and squeezing. They won’t be able to see this beautiful dick of yours if I fuck you. He told me to stop and I asked him if he wanted to go to the corner. I should admit that before this, I was worried that to the corner is where he would prefer and I didn’t. But then, I told him, I wanted to do more with his cock than only show it to everyone. If he wasn’t just going to lean back a bit and let it jut out long and quivering and happy like a fat old man at the bar with his cock out in public. These men who do this, with children, like a few I know, on the el, like I’ve been forced to do myself, transparently want to entice someone to come over and put mouth on pushing cock. This is where thought goes. I’m fairly sure this is not altogether true. It’s what you’d assume. You don’t want anything else, I asked him, firm full childish cock being tucked away. I’m not stupid, I know what I was doing and how little the scumbag cared. You don’t want to hear yourself say this being truer than embarrassed. That you wanted to suck something, insect. I don’t like men who won’t do this. I don’t care what they want if they don’t sink to where they should be and I get no serious pleasure from either sucking this tool if willing or thinking about how he’d just sit there and let the others become excited like the unsuspecting gloriously shocked brethren should be as he lets it be just this, this alone, pudge like a pervert in public and dumb enough to either be drunk or proud or less for anything short of beating the child so hard on the head like a dog and a baseball bat that he crushes its brain stem. I don’t care to be there otherwise and I don’t think he was capable of wanting to do more, neither was I, not knowing what more or whatever something higher would have learned and taught and instructed. It’s best that you put it away. You shouldn’t do that. Don’t worry about it later. It’s not a particularly wrong place for that. He won’t tell you. He’dbe past it. Too far from the honest dullard of where you’d like him to return to; the way you stayed. Where you still want. He’d be talking about what he’d like you to say. He’d say; so you could hear it. I like that you’d like to hear it. Would you rather watch me jerk off to something. That fetish rings to where you need to hear the words that you think and all the monotone reasons you came with into this job. Most of all, to where you need to stop and stay. What you offered wasn’t what he wanted back then, why would he want it now, he’d like to demand from you. Exceptions in what he remembers all compiled to fit the conversation down to your most frequently imitated cum. Talking to a jury. Lawyers don’t talk truth to juries. As much and as often as they repeat that this is their mission, the single reason they exist. Truth because facts are unrecognizable. Have to pretend to believe in truth because lawyers, bless them, know the jury thinks too highly of itself. Talk to the judge, wink to each other, dumb it down for those listening. Listen to decide, these idiots are told, your decision makes the judgement, listen carefully, consider all arguments, your thoughts matter as final impact. The lawyer insults the jury, the judge understands the insults, and the process is so deeply sick that the judge has his job defined as corralling the jury as procedure. Also keeps telling them how important they are. Until the jury believe they have a say. It’swhat they’re there for, to produce more by having someone else talk about their rights. I couldn’t care less and the ones that worry about them, in any fraction, insult me enough that I’ve proven avoidance, drunk and sober, as much as possible. He won’t tell you that he masturbated then, sitting in court, in the galley, because he didn’t. Revisiting the self-report. It’s all he thinks he should have done. Doesn’t know why he didn’t do the obvious back then as it happened. As the events didn’t unfold but ran over him. Masturbating wasn’t possible. It was. And now, it being only a cum with the added grace of self-control, would be too difficult to ruminate on. Better that he thought of it back then, didn’t respond to the life that the others were explaining, and does or even doesn’t now. Since it’sonly a cum. You can have six a day, I figure, probably more and it shouldn’t be less if what we’re talking about is the degrees that create these thoughts through to self-indulgence as well as self-management. I learned to masturbate through my pants. It’s rather like a child learns. Increase pressure. Rubbing herself without using her smelly fingers. This is not fair. Because it is entirely presented as a fuller picture of the self-report I intend to give. This is either what my intention was when I started it or now after I’ve seen it and can’t deny it. The complaint that I picked these to represent a picture of me, so far away and removed from anything like the troubles these poor men have seen or caused. Is exploded by the mud defensive fact that they are newspaper clippings. It’s quite clear what little and privately I’vedone all the years. Another nauseating answer should be found in that they had to be cut and pasted to paper. I haven’t fetishized artifacts. I hadn’t before. There’s a pull when I revisit, so to speak. And there’s some that shine and beg far more aggressively than the mess that surrounds them. On the other hand, they’ve been used for fodder such as this and everyday thoughts for too long to mistake them for anything more than has been described by others, myself, and, thank fuck, grieving coached parents. Same is true for the criminal men. Here predestined, mostly. And calls of self-pity would only make that dead walk sexual. Which would be a fine universally constraining wish. Currently. Masturbating, putting yourself inside a picture. This is what is expected of you. And you’ve gone from that to this. It is where your problem lies. They’ll all tell you this. The parents know, highly important. These men who expose themselves to you have not been looking to see the expression on your or your child’s face. Reading all of this, in order, I can see that I have nowhere to go. You’re going to have to apologize. I’ve imposed Charles Roberts as the central text to lessen the offensive conclusion that would otherwise blow all the rest of this up. Against all evidence. I don’t feel like apologizing and wasting either what I’ve done all these tacky egoist decades or the limbless future. And I don’t have anyone to apologize to. No one would want it but me and the lowest level of protected babies. It seems unfair to have asked me. I’m looking for what’s wrong. Not in general. I’ve found it and it doesn’t match cowardice or bravery. Or no one worthy of the brags. It’s cheap and private and lacking in quantity. The response is inadequate so the offer becomes suspect. I’ve had to make sure that Charles Roberts explains how it is, actually, enough. The offer was legit, as it turns out. Everything in here, lowers head, merely informed everything I can’t shut up about. Seeing what I’ve done, what I remember, is contingent upon inspecifics within a great mass of specifics. Middling works exponentially. Internet sex offenders represent a heterogeneous group of men who engage in sexual offenses against children that have a lot in common with voyeurism. While we have some understanding of which men pose the greatest risk to children in the offline environment ( offending history, age at first arrest, substance use, and sexual interest in children), these do not apply to many of those convicted of Internet-only offenses. The challenge is whether they have a need for treatment at all, and if they do, whether those treatment needs can be met by existing programs and alongside other sexual offenders. Jung et al (2013) have suggested that this may not be a cost-effective approach as many, but not all, of these men would benefit more from interventions that are tailored to maintaining their inhibitions (both internal and external) to the commission of contact offenses, and focusing more on decreasing their unique characteristics of emotional loneliness, interpersonal difficulties, and emotional regulation. I The inaccuracies are not presented as severe enough to annihilate every single meta-analysis available for review. Instead, deeper than the conflicts between psychiatry and criminality, justice versus treatment, revenge over protection, are the impossibilities that only need start the talking. Get him to tell you. The contradiction and faults in the procedure come in treatment. Not in the truth you can eventually just clamp. Inherit in all research is the mind that rejects first thoughts while relying absolutely on its chief worth. Cunt next says: I’ll give you an example. He reminisces; I didn’t know. Now I do. And I have a larger responsibility to the present draw than the last one. I wish, he says, it was different. Less obvious. I wish, he confesses finally, that I had done more. This being actionable. To the lowest dregs of barn-fed itemizers. I can only add. That what is there in facts weren’t facts that stayed put, simple as they were, when I didn’t understand what was happening. How detestable to admit, outloud, me being ethologist, and listened to as if there is compensation, that what’s different now is more knowledge and care amid reappraisal of what you might have fucking been thinking and wishing too. It works more like this. Lying on your back with him above you, over your face, telling you to just lick his balls as he keeps mauling sac into your mouth so you can’t do anything but gasp around for side air. You’re trying to lick and suck more than breathe. The coke doesn’t help you delineate unnatural degrees. Had a couple fingers in his asshole. Poking in as deep as longer could. Wanted to fit more. Got the third one in and I was going to have to slow down since the only thought in your then stupid sloppy head at that point was to fit in the rest of my fingers to form a claw and rip thicker not wider. This is the natural not somehow, this exact, that would be pleasure for him as you were doing what you thought was honestly you, giving that up, and it works if you’re doing what you want, he’ll certainly recognize that he is getting more than he thought. You push further in until he realizes. This would be good for him. And he was being crueler already than he thought. He wants to be hurt. Not torn. Not cut. Everytime I slid, finally, my four fingers in further than my tongue had been, I responded faster and more aggressively in trying to force more balls and bulk and wet filth over my huffing angry face. Would you just get your cock in here. And you do know, not intuit, non chien, that if he pulls out and jerks and spills slime onto your face instead of directly into the mouth that had been sucking and lolling to suck deeper and again, that you’d get up and beat his face with his own fists instead. You don’t masturbate on my face like there’s a camera catching it. You’re not making a point. This is no film you’re in, no story you’re going to fuck up later. And he’s been sucking you harder. What kind of low slung hung beast wants to cum together. You kiss what, cunt. You tell the director. That’s not what happens. But I learned it. I learned how to do what I was watching at the same time as performing. I was told early on that it meant nothing. It was not a signifier of distaste or hatred. To cum all over someone’s face, whether or not you were going to lick it off later as another limp of your personal stored and shared experience. Being this way. The director is the lessened. The director takes your interview and compiles his notes so that he could, after the negligible facts, present them to the head office to, he’ll tell you, fuck it up. The director is your liar, another one, but one with say. And, yet, this is what I’vedone more convincingly before. I understand that I should be recognizing something I hadn’t seen before. It would be terrible, conversationally, to have remained the same after all these decades. I still. Instead. See something different in the way I’ll tell you about it and what happened. Add really to happened. That’s a possibility. Past my condescending. But. This garbage. That stays ignorant. That continues to be my mess. This. Actually. Doesn’t continue at all. There’s a difference. That you’ll review. Not me. As far as you’re concerned. And I am better at this than you. Fuck you, you lying cunt. Which is what we’re both saying, fuck you again. Dancing girl’s gossip. I don’t care. I think you’ll like this. You get wallpaper. I’m supposed to say what was happening when I was reading treatment. I’m bound to what slipped. I’ll oscillate around what was shown and what might have been secret. Significance depending on what you already know. Simple machinations. We understand that I’ve thought a great deal about this. How could I have not. You’ll see, first glance, this has been a long life of thinking about this. Just this. Hyperbolic, not confessional, extent. Objectionable and significant. If I acted like I was only doing this for me. Which is highly likely, no matter what we’ll prefer, no matter what. I’dbe letting you, point withdrawn, take the blame for me. This is how it works. What I’ve done is compile these items for you and, because there’s so hideously many over so many long years, I’ve decided that the best way for you to enjoy them is to understand how I’ve ordered them. Make a better item of lesser chances. I didn’t want to lay them consecutively and, most of all, I didn’t want to structure crime stories out of them. All of those curatorial decisions have their place, have been made, though not as well as I could have done. So I’m not worried that I will have particularly the wrong decision. I couldn’t. We’veseen enough of that. I do not want to be the one that takes you through the periods of time that highlights the tiny little self-impressed notions that these newspaper clippings were once central to a remarkable cultural discourse. Pin down the little inconsistencies that every cunt living now will spot as the terrible thoughts of those who weren’t thinking back then. And I see that I can come off rather self-impressed. The academic and pulp press versions are both better than the one where some old queen leans towards you and asks if you’re staunch and truthful enough to listen carefully to the horrible story that he has to tell you. While you know that it won’t be all that bad, it won’t be all that real, it won’t be essentially destructive enough, fucking ever, to make you get up and walk out. Unless you’re even more arrogant than he is. It’s just this time, you’ll have to agree if you want, I’m not asking you to see these items as removed from anyone’s life as conveniently as you could if you keep imagining I’m being subversive. This has proven fairly difficult so far. I just can’t keep second-guessing how dumb you’re going to sound when you pick either of these reasons to have this. It’smy sickness, or society’s. And all that shit is going to get worse when we start discussing the industry that moves sex offenders from quiet room to interview room to public worth. I’ve decided the following with some degree, I hope enough, of how best to enjoy flip to pause through these dated old scraps of paper that I need to get the fuck out of my life and can, very well, thank you, very kindly. If it’s a question of room. That, at least, has been solved with this. The internet pauses what these do into color pictures even more quickly rehearsed and replaced by more coming. I do intend, by offering more, to insist on pictures. Try not looking at pictures, not stocking away a masturbation log of inexplicit and unspecific stares. This is more of that, as far as I’m concerned, made and labeled unstoppable. Now irreplaceable. I’ll tell you what I didn’t do. This is literal. And it has more to do with self-report and the surfeit impossibilities within that frame. I’ve had to hem. I’ve wanted, conspicuously, to do that. Not entirely or uniquely selfish while, I’d insist, completely utterly perfectly selfish. Insults and their meandering de minimus elevating worth included. I could have cut them up and created the sort of narrative to appease you. I could also have compiled them to look as if it’san overwhelming amount of material about nothing other than one simple mistake. Also, it continues, that the complexities in each separate case about a very single subject construct a brutality that is more compelling for its infinite digressions and precise differences. The least I could have done is remove the headlines so you didn’t stay or get cheap. Some difficulty when you consider that it might have been nice to include the photos alongside the text. Exactly the way they came, the way that they are intended to affect you in the way you respond so diagonally correct between public and private. Might have been very nice to include the photos only. I’ve done that before. Somewhat spontaneously with set limits so they collect in the minds of those who review me instead of those who think like me. One issue that would be clear to those admirers, of which I’m one, would be that the photos left at the end of the book would be only, or mainly, murdered children. The photos that you’ve come to know and might like to see without poignant soundtrack. Opposite the media. And, somewhere, a pedophile might really be happy that it came as an anthology rather than a closet quirk for once. The familiarity of these images, these wonderful girls, could be delivered and yet fucked with enough, by context, to merely wink and run at all those who’d be back patting or punching depending on the strength of their wallets and the pain of that particular time. I did do that with photos of sex offenders. It would be very much in keeping with the idea to now have the text of those times. All the text is going to be about arrests anyways. You won’t have most of the men to look at. But you, those of you who aren’t finding men of this bent and aged specifically very, very attractive, will have the exact same reasoning from all these biased reporting highlights. I find older things. Photos. That could still mean alot to me. The newspapers don’t use the smarmy dissipating concept of soul. Any spirituality blather is presented as psychosis. Thin excuses, wholly appropriate. They’re not listened to, not objective; the difference in the tabloid versions to the quality version is entirely in the difficulty in remaining dispassionate. Your right to know versus your right to say. What you enjoy versus what you do. Your answers for the questions. Are honest when you’ve worked on what you can say beforehand. You will be addressed by your role. The courtroom judge that’s seen so much he knows the full problem before he even hears about your case on the same morning he has to deal with your bullshit. He adds up is all. Same thing. Same root, all the time, with few strengths, more weaknesses handling, badly always, the same fucking thing. Judges, more than cops, more than governors, know why you’re here no matter what you say you did, let alone how you were taught to repeat believe what the personal problems are. How sad for you. It’s the judges who tell the politicians in exponential terms what they’re seeing so often and then the politicians who tell the police what they then have to do from now on. Because the cops deal with the hedonics bleeding and hate them too much to care beyond their own struggles in what fun and shit luck is. The exhausted sad are the judges. Morals sat there as legitimately as they can be by job. And the court, when the law is allowed, will give misery the voice that the authors and the ones who dish out the top filth in compatriot terms can’t. I’ve heard it just as much. And I’ve chosen to watch. And when I make a cop mistake. Which I hope will be in keeping more with a way to hide it rather than stop it. I’m guilty of doing the wrong thing. That I wouldn’t have done. Because there was a start that didn’t sound like their biblical water marks. Shouldn’t have done this because I thought about it. All the different sides, right. All this, this, is proof of me thinking about it and discounting what is the worst thing I can do until I do it. I see that. I’ve always wanted to see that. Braless, bless him after the preaching family, now seen as a drug dealer and the mother who cared for him because he was lost and horny and soft knew forever less than the psychotic lunatics screaming at anyone with a camera that her lifestyle did yet didn’t cause this. I learned to lose prim but I stayed interested. As more and more facts simpered him to just another methhead faggot. And the boys who killed him, without fucking him or letting him suck on them, I love that they’re going through empathy training in jail. I look the other way if the crime doesn’t have a precis of rape, more itemized something that didn’t beg to be penetrated. Absolutely needed by those who carry a declining lifestyle but know how to deal with it, better sometimes. My taste is for the entire white family that held small marches to promote the message that unavailable was wrong. And the mother, now known to be jobbing, still sympathetically of course, quite well, thank you, never knew her son and what it was to be told and raised to think that this was alright when it wasn’t, clearly, empathetically. As well as the old man. Who started worrying too hard when he learned that a park near his home was rife with crawling bestials cruising. Never once thought it was alright to hunt for men then babies. As a lifestyle. As a skirmish down. Never thought it was acceptable. To be like that. Been there too often. Knew fuck, sailors and lenders, where to go. In every single town I’ve been to. Loving these boys this way. Loving them enough to know and understand why they’re the ways they are, impaired enough on drugs and rotten old men groping them, these are beautiful young men that turn porn fed acts more ably into the crime that it is. The littlest femme on the team gets to sell himself for sex, traded around like cattle cash, all three of the open assholed youngmen, not always so loathsome, daddy. Not always bad. Always knew what I was doing. It was the drugs. I’ve tried to talk to the monsters and they don’t want to know how much drugs the old creep wants and how come this old creep isn’t selling but only buying. He must certainly, because that’s how they are, it matters to them, want to suck and get his old saggy ass fucked. Fucking old lonely faggot queen. I’m a bore, here and always. Tell me that they don’t deserve to be wiped off the face of the planet, not just gone, but fucked and beaten so badly that they wheeze while fucked and beaten. Beaten as a hustler, someone who doesn’t care about his plight unless he can sell that badly to his parents without telling them what he was going through with the drug deals becoming more convoluted and dirty as he went higher up the chain to procurer so that he was finally being forced to suck dick in public. Trade where everyone, including the secretaries that say later they loved and worried and now miss you, could see what you would do as you said before you got caught up, before you got the chance to get out and act like it wasn’t, was, being smarter and stronger than the rest of the bores will always be, have always been. That kind of deep knowing love is going to come from wanting to see it naked, wanting to probe boney ass the way you treat a black junk hooker instead of a gullible lover. Don’t talk like a boyfriend who sees himself a girlfriend. We’re not doing a thing for each other. You pump harder and use lube that someone bought knowing that it’ll be good when it’s more violent, less gentle, faster and wider and staring in when you stop panting and wait a few seconds to appreciate the shit drip and white dusty head frying areas circling around you. I like the way you fuck, thank you, comes after I like the way you looked, dancing slightly while you disappeared into the back to fetch chlorine instead of goat balls and which boy your age do you find cute. I’ll giveyou my version. Mysightline. This old bag of a woman who sells her weekly sex acts compiled monthly filmed by her husband. A deeply old woman who isn’t old enough to be called haggard but is at middle life of large watery breasts and a droopy riddled fat wobbling ass that she doesn’t block from being seen crumpled further as she sits below any cock that will either pay to fuck it or take huge sloppy cunt for free as long as a film can be made and released. As if her market thinks it, her, is sex. Instead of tired. After awhile, you give in and start thinking you’re picking open the genre, judge. More of the same except enough to keep you looking where they sell it, knowing it’sslightly better than everything else in the same bag that they only use as an introduction. Tosomething better. The marketing language and technology demand the stereotypes for those who are ultimately thankful that they were drawn, suspicious but lucky, they found you in among all the obvious. Let me tell you, I’ve stopped masturbating a long time ago. This monster got her addled start stuffing huge daubed to tallow objects into her holes; three at a time with obscene circumferences, parading prolapse and bare moans and winces because sheer size and mental ply were on offer for the clinical crowd, the mothered ones who prize sliding damage instead of children. Moved into her whore life as a documentary joke and kept churning out the meetings as if they were interesting in and of themselves without understanding that you don’t want to see the same hung pig naked day after day or care like a teenager on the possible crying jag by the twentieth issue or so. Your focus will be on the men like you. Not transference, you can hire her and wouldn’t. Get anything more from sloshing your cock in that. The men that crowd around her, with their keep out and their faces blanked unless they signed. You can’t help, realize that you prefer in the same group as all the others, look to the back, that’s where the men who know go and wait, watching the things that these cocks do to her that she doesn’t mind. The stories, even, dad, don’t matter, don’t serve passing time as well as the numbers and rush. I lived at a wonderful time. My mother welcomed me home every day and my father supported anything I did. I was safe among neighbors, uncles or cousins due to the delightfully repressive influence of the time. I married, and the hedge of protection about my life was not breached until 1966 when my 10-year-old daughter was molested by a 13-year-old adored and trusted family friend. She told him to stop, but he persisted. He knew she would like it, he said, he knew from his fathers magazines, Playboy, the only '‘acceptable” pornography of 'the time. The boy left the country a few weeks later, after it came to light that my daughter was but one of several neighborhood children he had raped, including his own little brother. My heart was broken for all the families involved. Concordant went from thinking it all ended at the tip of his dick and it did as far as the slugs who’d chase you around to suck you before you cummed with someone else. To thinking should see women do that. To me as well. To assuming it was closer to what I wanted to suck off of them instead of having me in their mouth. To wanting to only fuck asshole. Just lay them politely kindly down and never sound out what it was doing to them because you were only interested in what you were doing to yourself at the same time, fucking shit. She wouldn’t remember it on her own. I remember her spreading it. Dilating with fingers. You’ll want it up your ass after awhile. You’ll enjoy the twitch that has absolutely nothing to do with selling at all. It’swhere you go indirectly that isn’t part of some ceiling design or low slip or fast count. You just end up, or start there, pulling yourself so that you stay hard, while they fuck you like the ethnic trash and men all at once like it doesn’t matter. I swear, you do this and you know it so you don’t have to say that either. Are you so sick. You’llend up appreciating the wrong thing. Child molesters typically divulge their troubled narrative internally. While rapists recreate their therapy blame from external pressures and circumstance. Psychologically, if not generally, the first factor in determining precondition used to be motivation. Essential in defining deviance as that which turned from thought to act. However, as theories and models have been tested or applied in the current post univariate field, motivation has slipped to fourth place and further. Reinforcement and opportunity have collided in rapidly changing social contexts to widen gratification demands from cognitive patterns to mis- and under-regulation of self through stress, anxiety, depression. Up to now including adverse emotional effects of struggling with denial and release strategies. Placing many of those cranks charged with pornography offenses within spitting distance of rapists and sexually frustrated fathers. You understand, I was taping and cutting these that became items. I was rewatching and rereading them. Clearly, you’re wrong. You don’t. Masturbating was what the slobs who didn’t keyed and kept banging at. I’vehad to listen to more potential causals than they ever did. You, studied, can smell them after awhile. Sexually explicit conduct was defined to include “actual or simulated ... lewd exhibition of the genitals or pubic area of any person.” Neither Lodge nor Cross claim on appeal that the Tampa pictures or the scenes they depicted were not “lewd” within the meaning of the statute; therefore, we do not reach this issue. However, even if they had raised such an argument, we would still affirm their convictions on this count. The Tampa photographs displayed pre-adolescent girls fully nude from a frontal view, and were arranged by Cross in order to be used to satisfy the sexual interests of himself and other pedophiles. Moreover, Cross had also ordered that the children be photographed in the nude, squatting on their knees, but the Tampa photographer felt uncomfortable with and ultimately refused to shoot such pictures. Based on these factors, we are of the opinion that the photographs taken or planned involved “lewd exhibition of the genitals or pubic area.”We reach this conclusion despite the obvious fact that the photographs did not portray the models as sexually coy or inviting and the Tampa photographer who had been duped by Cross did not knowingly or intentionally exhibit the girls in lewd poses. I can’t buy anymore of these fucking things. The place I walk by every morning. Where the women are doing whatever gym class it is. Wearing stretch pants. That transsexuals strip off in porn before they walk around like these girls who act like they don’t know it. The surgery cases stroke so you can see bulge before they let hard cock out and bounce it. Hot tips from Viagra. Harder and more insistent than when I was a kid. Almost painful. Before they spend the next twenty minutes jerking it over the camera for men who like dick since it’s in close-up save the few painted fingernails. The movies that feature big mom girls in tight t-shirts and younger perfect assed girls in bikini bottoms. Old man saying that he can’t wait to jerk off now. But that won’t be what he’s fucking. Is wrong, it is. And the concept that it isn’t rape. When he runs off, quietly, perfectly silent, and knocks one out fawning that bubble butt on the street or in the rooms where he knows they’re bending over. And what am I supposed to do, not look. The way they walk. They don’t like to think that I’m getting hard and masturbating thinking about how great that ass looks when I can see the firm shapely’d shake so outlined and tight and moving back and up like it could without being as virtually naked as it is now. Having it sit and rub that way on your face, not your cock. Which is best this way. Diving your face into ass, finding pretty pink asshole and licking it like a dog, but not fucking it, not moving head, and I can cum this way, by pulling myself. The government presented evidence that Cross’s ulterior motive in pretending to act aS an informant was not only to avoid criminal punishment if the Tampa hoax were detected, but also to further the scheme itself: A then-fellow prison inmate testified that Cross had told him that he was attempting to parlay his cooperation with a Senate subcommittee investigating child pornography into a parole in the New York area, where Cross hoped to establish a phony office in order to take additional nude pictures of the Tampa girls and sexually molest several of them. It’sfine now. You go to the breasts and vagina store. Or search online. Even a safe search. And it’s the best you can do, really. And find all these girls now, shots taken in just those outfits. Some presented because they know you. Others, when aid has to be sold, and you notice, easily, that more and more yoga pant models are being offered. So this happens a lot. And those girls who act in porn and not in taking care of their young asses and little bellies, must think that these men for whom this is made are sick and lonely and sick of seeing these girls without seeing their assholes. But know that it starts there. And this is a good way to take care of all that. Including reining the rapists in. So that they’re tired and calm like dry mutts and controlled like fathers. And there’s some faggot outside the courthouse that is telling them, no worries, come into the john in the building and I’ll take care of you. I’ve told men when we’re drunk enough to just tool off. I don’t care where they cum. But I know I have to lie and tell them to do it directly to peg. You think you’re actually protecting them, this happens all the time and you’re a better person for wanting to help. I know. Or I promise. I made a mistake or I’ll never do it again, I swear. I don’t want to see anyone else fuck on film or including myself. It’s not something you can share but you suspect it might help small quick version. I like the assist that says that poor boy was doing everything he could, including all the hustling and meth, to stay away from doing what he did before he had counseling and that didn’t work. He molested two boys. He had been molested before that. He was raped after that. I’m not driven to these things. These tight cleans and slits hidden barely, without or certainly with their safety and well-being before and after. Just leggings as fashion or thongs underneath. I couldn’t care less, I hope. Everyone thinks like this, right. I don’t think like everyone else, I’m guessing. They dress their children, their daughters very specifically. Until someone in a hotel room decides to squeeze their effeminate charge in. Or a father lets his baby boy dress up like his sister. These being the bourgeoisie: I imagine their daughters. They put the same clothes on their wide baby kids and the kids get excited. In no time at all, lately, it reaches the public, half correctly. See Mishkin v. New York, (1966)“Where the material is designed for and primarily disseminated to a clearly defined deviant sexual group, rather than the public at large, the prurient-appeal requirement ... is satisfied if the dominant theme of the material taken as a whole appeals to the prurient interest in sex of the members of that group.” I know what a honeytrap is. How pretty when wanted. I know the major differences and same ends in being seduced, manipulated, guided. Based on how dumb they see you are. How vulnerable and eager you are to have the life they’re offering you after they’ve cinched the flattered brand you agree on. You should hear how well you’re loved and intelligent and on the right track in company together. How you know what’s wrong and how you’ve formed that morality, naturally, already and we propound no resentment. Illegal, after the fact. A court dismissal of entrapment that is explained as particularly brutal since it took unfair advantage of the very sort that need to be protected. To attack you in that way. To be seen again as the tawdry treatment of your good self. By using the collected you against the lonely you. By constructing lies about, of all things, love. Not only sex, mite. The best sex should be love, pervert, didn’t you know. Your complicity makes sure someone like you can’t even be insulted finally until someone else tells you that you have been destroyed in the very same careful tone. You’llcontinue repeating that, read all the plans, admit you feel stupid now. The police told their buddies how lonely you were and how typically you responded to their lowballed cues. Their minders tell the public how sexually deranged you were and how obvious it was that you were more dangerous than the evidence might only reflect. Peers register elsewhere the cute little crushing feelings you were developing among the quiet snickers not that far underneath. Should have fucking got it long before. The newspapers and therapists don’t recognize the law. Keeps cops in check. The teen way of getting smart, needed if it doesn’t sell anything even quicker, no longer works for me because I’m not looking to take advantage of the same offers. My choices are old and then either sucker or bitter. I have to remember all of this when speaking with this voice.