Twenty-three-year-old Janice Ott helped a handsome man with his arm in a sling who turned out to be Ted Bundy. Nineteen-year-old Judy Ann Dull needed money to fight for custody for her child, so she posed for photos with photographer-turned-serial-killer Harvey Glatman, aka the Glamour Girl Slayer. Both women were tortured and murdered. I’ve wondered about the exact moment they knew. When vague, ignorable red flags turned into sure knowledge that they were in danger.
The gentle, sweet man I thought I knew was gone the second he trained his camera on me. The man I joked with while busing tables at the café, who loved his mother and real maple syrup on his pancakes and always tipped 20 percent. The man holding the camera was scary and evil. The look on what I could see of his face was dark and soulless. I knew where he was going to take this from that first shot.
Scared and intimidated, I just wanted to get this photo shoot over with and go home. I wanted to wash all my dumb makeup off and put on sensible shoes and act like a sensible girl. I thought I knew better because of my fascination with true crime and that my Riot Grrrl attitude made me immune from danger, but it turns out all the books and ripped tights and baby-doll dresses in the world couldn’t keep me from becoming exactly as paralyzed by fear as I swore I never would be.
Instead, I found out how easily even a badass feminist with a head full of cautionary tales could become a victim. How charming people can make us put our guard down and how we’re all susceptible to flattery and manipulation.
Lawrence snapped away, glaring at me with his intense one-eyed stare. I just wanted it to be over so we’d leave. I posed and smiled as he instructed, while looking around for somewhere to run in case he advanced on me, but I was at the edge of a cliff, the Pacific Ocean behind me, and this man I knew nothing about, had never had more than a friendly chat with, hulking in front of me blocking my path back to the road.
Just when I thought we were almost done, when he seemed satisfied that he had gotten some good options and I was starting to think that I actually had been overreacting and nothing nefarious was in the stars for me that day, he said, “Why don’t you take your top off?”
And that did it, something snapped. I channeled the ghost of Linda Sobek, gathered up all that Riot Grrrl courage, fucked politeness, kicked Lawrence in the dick, stole his sad car, and got the fuck out of there!
The end.
OK, no, that’s not true. That’s what I wish I’d done, but the little girl who was raised to be polite, the girl whose ingrained default setting was acquiescence, and who deep down was truly afraid of what the outcome would be if I said no, that girl kicked the Riot Grrrl off the cliff, and after that, fucking politeness didn’t seem like an option anymore. Or at least didn’t feel like the smart, safe option.
I should have listened to my gut way back before we got to the part where he thought he could ask me to take my top off. The rudeness and awkwardness I would have felt when I insisted that he pull over and let me out of the car way back at the bottom of the mountain would have been a much more comfortable experience than the one I was in now. The one that didn’t have options. But I had essentially been my own horrible friend by telling myself to calm the fuck down and rolling my eyes at my paranoia. If an actual friend had come to me with this, I would have told them to get the fuck out of there. I would have taken them seriously. Why wasn’t I that generous with my own feelings?
I still wonder what would have happened if I had refused to take off my top and demanded we leave immediately rather than let him take photos of me and my perky tits at the top of the Santa Monica mountains with Catalina Island just visible in the background. But I’ll never know because I obliged out of fear and intimidation. There was a part of me that felt like this is what I deserved, to be objectified and humiliated. What did I think was going to happen when I had said yes to this?
I felt numb and in shock, like someone else was inhabiting my body. I peeled off my blouse with the cherry blossom print and ruffles around the sleeves and tossed it aside onto the dirt beside my vintage tin lunch-box purse and did the same with my bra when he insisted. As he took photos, I did everything I could not to let the rock in my chest transform into the hot, humiliated tears that were on the verge of spilling over.
When he finished snapping photos, I slipped my shirt back on and stuffed my bra in my back pocket. I’ve never been so happy to have a shirt on. My tits were now on a roll of film in his camera and he could do whatever he wanted with it, but I pushed the thought out of my mind. I was just so embarrassed. I didn’t have the capacity to absorb anything else and I was still on high alert, jumping at any action from Lawrence as we made our way to the car.
I talked the entire ride down the mountain and back to the café, shocked at every moment that nothing more was happening. When we finally arrived back at the café, I jumped out, got in my car, and locked the doors. A few blocks away, I pulled over and cried with my forehead on the steering wheel, eyeliner running down my face, relief and shame washing over me. Relief that the situation hadn’t gotten worse, that he hadn’t asked me to undress further or come on to me. Maybe he had planned to do those things but sensed my fear? And what if I’d said no? Would he have gotten angry with me? Worried I’d tell someone that he wanted to take topless pictures of me? Would he have done something to make sure I didn’t ruin his good reputation? Going along with what he wanted, being polite and accommodating, it was so much easier than finding out the answer to how he would have reacted to my no.
Of course, since then, I’ve been in countless situations where I’ve been presented with the opportunity to fuck politeness, and I’m proud to say I’ve exercised that right with varying degrees of extremism. I’m still proud of myself over this one time a guy I wasn’t super close to or comfortable with asked me if I wanted a shot. A bunch of us were hanging out at a bar. It was later in the night and most of my closer friends had gone home. Just a few of us stragglers were still hanging out, soaking up those final few minutes before last call and the subway ride home.
I told him repeatedly that I didn’t want a shot. Shots make me go from tipsy to shitfaced faster than you can say, “Regretful one-night stand.” I also know that a dude you don’t know very well wanting to buy you a shot is—you guessed it!—a red flag, and his insistence despite my firmly saying no was a red flag that was flapping in my face fucking pissing me off.
So, you know where this story goes. He bought me a shot. Because of course he fucking did. And when he handed it to me, he toasted with his own shot. You have got to be kidding me. I just stared at him in disbelief while he and some other guy egged me on to shoot this drink I’d made abundantly clear I didn’t want. I thought about pre–Riot Grrrl Georgia, who would have taken this shot to show that she was a “cool girl,” one who could keep up with the boys and would do so just to be liked.
I wasn’t that girl anymore. I was in control of my decisions and therefore my destiny because I believed in myself and had no qualms with being rude in order to keep myself safe. I didn’t owe this guy anything. So I smiled politely, looked both dudes pointedly in the eye, held up the drink, and turned the shot glass upside down, spilling its entire contents out all over the sticky bar floor. Then I swooped up my things and split.
*Hold for applause*
The first time I ever told anyone about my photo shoot with Lawrence was when I told Karen about it on the podcast, over fifteen years later. I didn’t even mention taking my shirt off, because I wasn’t ready to go there yet. Karen was talking through the story of the asshole rapist and murderer Rodney Alcala who during the ’70s convinced hundreds of women that he was a professional fashion photographer and would ask to photograph them for his “portfolio.” He took their photos and then raped and murdered them. He was eventually sentenced to death for murdering five women, although his victim count is thought to be much higher.
Karen and I try our best to never blame the victim. Victim blaming is an easy trap to fall into when you’ve never been in the
types of truly horrific situations we discuss. And even as someone who’d been in the exact same position, it was hard for me not to wonder why the hell anyone would have gone alone with Alcala in the first place. I needed to actively remind myself that I’d made the same choice; the results just happened to be less murdery.
I think up until I heard Karen talk about the women who agreed to go alone with Alcala to a secluded location under the guise of being photographed, I’d blamed myself for the idiocy that led me to my photo shoot with Lawrence. Again, we make a conscious effort never to victim blame on our podcast, but here I was trashing myself. And you want to know the shittiest part? Deep down I also knew that if I’d actually been attacked by Lawrence, I would have thought it was my fault for putting myself in a situation where it was even a possibility.
A couple of months after I talked to Karen about this whole thing, I finally brought it up with my therapist because I was having such a hard time convincing myself that I wasn’t a stupid idiot for going with Lawrence. I felt that I had no right to be mad at him or consider myself a victim in this situation because so much worse had happened to other women who had put themselves in a situation like this.
That’s how ashamed I was. I was less embarrassed about letting someone take topless photos of me than I was about letting myself get into a situation I couldn’t control. It didn’t fit with the strong, feminist persona I was trying so hard to shroud myself in.
But the reality is a grown man gained the trust of a teenage girl and took her to a secluded spot and pressured her into an intimate situation she didn’t feel safe saying no to. It took me saying that sentence in therapy to stop being so mean to myself for what happened that day. My therapist asked me if I truly didn’t feel there was any blame to be laid on the victims I’d been telling her about: Linda Sobek or Janice Ott or Judy Ann Dull. After a moment of contemplation and introspection—because if I’m gonna be problematically honest with anyone, it’s my therapist—I told her the truth: I know that none of those women were to blame in any way for what was done to them.
Sometimes responding to the world and people and difficult situations with bravery and confidence feels impossible. Fucking politeness isn’t a strict rule, it’s a practice, an art to master throughout your life. Think of it like a weapon you carry in your pocket. With practice (I recommend practicing on dudes in bars who really want to buy you shots) you’ll learn to wield that weapon like a fucking ninja in order to protect yourself. Throughout your life, you’ll master knowing what situations call for what level of fucking politeness. This is why it’s so important to recognize red flags for what they are: warning signals that, when paid attention to, are basically crystal balls into what level of “ga fuck yaself” is necessary.
So here’s your takeaway: fuck politeness. Fuck it to whatever degree you think is most appropriate to the severity of the situation. If you were raised to be polite, it’ll be hard, but you can totally do it, and you’ll feel so empowered once you do. Now, here’s the most important part: If you don’t fuck politeness, if you struggle to get the words out, or if you can’t or won’t see the red flags that would alert you to the need to fuck politeness, know this: nothing that happens as a result of your inaction is your fault. Know it. You can’t prepare yourself out of being hurt.
It took a while before I came to understand that I was susceptible to predators. And that my Riot Grrrl badassness was great for self-care and my own personal self-image, but that nothing will ever trump the importance of believing in my gut, trusting my intuition, and being kind enough to myself to be rude as fuck to those who didn’t deserve my confidence. These are some of the most important things I’ve learned, and none of them came from a classroom.
Who’d have thunk it?
Karen’s Guide to Prioritizing Your Own Agenda
Of all the life-affirming slogans born out of Georgia and I ranting to each other as we discuss true crime, I like Fuck Politeness the best. It’s direct, it’s catchy, and you get to say fuck—a true catchphrase trifecta. But it also encapsulates the worldview I was raised with and one that’s served me well over the years. My parents taught me to have a healthy disrespect for authority, so the whole idea of fucking politeness is one that’s very close to my heart. And it’s one I took for granted, as you do with parents and what’s cool about them. This is going to get sad, by the way. Just in case you’re not here for that, I figured I’d warn you now. Although I have a feeling that’s not going to scare you away. I mean, Georgia’s story wasn’t exactly a walk in the park and you did just buy a book with the word murder in the title.
My mom, Patricia Kilgariff, died on January 9, 2016, twelve years after being diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s at the age of sixty-three. It was a long and painful unraveling that pulled my father and sister and me all to pieces. We didn’t know what to do with her and we didn’t know what to do without her, and we had to cope with both problems at the same time.
This disease runs in families, passed down on the mother’s side. My grandma Grace had it, too. She was a hilarious, delighted, devoted grandmother who moved in with us when I was seven. We watched her deteriorate until she finally had to be put into a nightmare convalescent hospital that none of us ever wanted to go to. So on top of the normal pain of watching her slowly disappear, we all felt a massive amount of guilt and shame for not visiting her every day. And then she was gone. What had seemed like an endless heartache was suddenly over. We finally had some closure and some relief, but even that relief felt bad. Then, twenty years later, my mom began to repeat herself and the whole nightmare started up again.
About five years into my mom’s diagnosis, a friend at a party asked me how I was doing. My standard reply was something like, “I’m fine. It’s harder on my dad and sister since they’re home with her.” But as I went to say it, a truer thought hit me. I told my friend this: “Having a parent with Alzheimer’s is like living inside a horror movie that’s playing out in real time. It’s as horrifying and awful as it is tedious and mundane. It’d be like if you lived in the movie Jaws. You’re happily swimming in the ocean and then everyone starts screaming, ‘Shark!’ You start to panic, but then someone else yells that the shark is twenty miles away, so you calm down a little. But then a third person gets on the bullhorn and says you’re not allowed to get out of the water ever again. So you start panicking and flailing and fighting and yelling for help. You scream about how unfair it is, you having to be out in the ocean with this killer shark alone when all those other people get to be on the beach. You scream until your voice is hoarse. No one responds. You finally start to accept that it’s your fate. But then you start thinking everything that touches you is the shark. You can’t calm down because you can’t stop reacting to things that aren’t there. You grab wildly at anything that looks like a weapon, but every time, it turns out to be seaweed. Boats go by filled with happy families enjoying the sun. You hate them all so much it makes you feel sick. Then you get really tired and you cry so hard you think your head will burst. And then finally, you gather all your strength and turn to look at the shark. Now it’s 19.8 miles away. It’s the slowest shark in history, but you know it’s coming right for you. And after five years in the water, you start rooting for the fucking shark.”
When my little speech was done, we stood in silence. My friend didn’t know what to say. What I’d just come out with was heavy and sad, not something you could smile and walk away from. He looked horribly uncomfortable. I felt a wave of embarrassment. I’d overshared a very dark revelation at a low-key, summertime backyard party. But then, my friend Adam, whose father also had Alzheimer’s, pushed past my silent friend and grabbed me by the shoulder. “Oh my god, yes! That’s EXACTLY what it’s like!” We both started laughing and couldn’t stop. It felt so good to pin it down and let it out.
After that, I never lied when someone asked me how things were going with my mom. Instead of worrying about the comfort of the person who was asking, I started thinki
ng about whoever might be listening to my answer; all the other people trapped out in the water with that slow, terrible shark.
These days, when the subject of my mom comes up, the first thing that pops into my mind is this five-second memory gif I have of her from a holiday party at our house, circa 1989.
* * *
I’d like to state here that practically our entire kitchen was country blue with a goose design. The kitchen tile was country blue, the cookie jar was a goose, the dish towels had country blue piping and showed groups of geese gathered around ponds or standing in groups of twos and threes. This bold choice had been borne out of my mother’s desperate desire to break free from her ’70s design aesthetic: chickens. She’d let it slip sometime around 1975 that she liked chickens, so from then on, that was all she got. We had paintings of chickens and chicken calendars, chicken corn-on-the-cob holders and chicken serving dishes. I remember watching her opening a gift one Christmas morning and announcing, “If whatever this is has a fucking chicken on it, I’m gonna go insane.” My dad got mad that she said the F-word on Christmas. I found the whole moment thrilling. Anyway, when we moved into our new house in the late ’80s, my mom got out in front of her chicken infestation and made it clear that she was now all about the country blue goose.*
Stay Sexy & Don't Get Murdered Page 3
