Scared Selfless

by Michelle Stevens, PhD

  Tricks Are for Kids

  Pedophiles and sadists are kind of like the philatelists and numismatists of the perv world because, like their stamp- and coin-collecting cousins, they pursue their hobbies with passion. Yes, pedophilia and sadism are cherished hobbies for these men. It usually starts out with an interest in pornography, which sexual deviants collect with fervor. But because child pornography is expensive and hard to acquire, a lot of pedophiles like to hook up with one another to trade images. Over time, these relationships can become quite beneficial. Besides porn, the guys start to swap stories, tactics, even kids. A feeling of camaraderie develops as all these guys with the same hobby form their own little club. The media call these clubs “child sex rings.” Gary belonged to one of them.

  Some child sex rings are purely recreational. Others are run for profit. There’s big money to be made selling child pornography. There are bigger bucks still selling live children. Gary liked money, and he had a new commodity. So, soon after we met, he started selling me to other men.

  To understand how this worked, it’s important to explain a little more about Gary’s businesses. As I’ve already mentioned, he owned an antiques store that was open on weekends. He also had a mail-order business he ran out of his house. In addition, when he wasn’t teaching during the summers, Gary would travel around the East Coast, selling his wares in small-town shopping malls. These “mall shows,” as he called them, were housed in a different mall each week. They ran from ten a.m. to nine p.m. Wednesday through Sunday. Since most of the malls were far from home, this necessitated spending four nights of each summer week in a motel.

  I’m sure it was no accident that my mother, who worked a full-time job, was rarely able to join him.

  Mall-show life, like carnival life, was peculiar and hard. Every Wednesday morning we would show up with a car full of merchandise, load it onto dollies, and wheel it into the middle of the mall. We would then have to unload all the merchandise onto folding tables, setting up a makeshift shop in the mall’s corridor. In order to prevent theft, the booth had to be manned eleven hours a day. Most mall-show carnies traveled with their spouses, so they could trade off food and bathroom breaks. Gary needed help too. But, instead of a spouse, he brought along kids.

  The mall shows, though legitimate, were much like Gary’s other activities—just a clever way to molest kids. But unlike at school or in his store, this ruse provided ample time and privacy to fulfill his grander sexual fantasies. These fantasies often played out like a fucked-up Club Med commercial—the Econo Lodge becoming a romantic getaway for Gary and his current child sweetheart. After their long day at the mall, Mr. L. would treat his darling to a nighttime swim in the deserted motel pool, where they could float around in the moonlight. They would joke with each other and splash about while Gary “innocently” touched her legs, her stomach, her ass, her unformed breasts.

  What he was doing, really, was lowering the girl’s inhibitions. He was getting her accustomed to his touch so she would be a little less guarded when they got back to the motel room. Getting into the room with the child was, of course, the true goal of Gary’s day. For it was there, alone with his conquest, that he could help her out of her wet bathing suit and into her Raggedy Ann pajamas. After that, he could summon her to bed. (There was usually only one.) Once the lights were out, he could offer to cuddle or wrestle or find some other devious way to get his hands on her.

  —

  IT MAY SEEM STRANGE that I’m speaking about Gary’s motel conquests in third person. There is a reason for this: More often than not, the conquest was not me. While I was the sole kid at a few mall shows, Gary usually chose to bring two kids—one to keep and one to sell.

  So, while Gary was in one motel room cuddling a student, I was usually in another motel room being raped by a total stranger. Gary had a few motives for doing this, I think. Partly, it was an S/M thing. In S/M culture the slave is seen as a possession, no different than a lamp or a cow. As such, it’s the master’s right to do as he wishes with the slave, including sell her, trade her, or loan her out. Giving a slave to other men for sex is considered essential training in S/M culture. It humiliates the slave, puts her in her place, and reminds her of her utter worthlessness.

  In Gary’s case, I suspect that money was also a serious motivator because the first time Gary gave me to another man, I actually saw the cash change hands. It was in a motel room during that first summer; Gary and I had just returned from an eleven-hour day at the mall. It was late at night, especially for an eight-year-old, and I was very tired. I couldn’t wait to get back in our room and cuddle the big stuffed bear I’d brought. But when we got out of the car, instead of going to our room, I was surprised to hear that we were going to meet a man. Gary said it was a friend of his, and I’d better behave. Having already endured some of Gary’s slave training, I understood what this meant. I was to do as I was commanded.

  Gary led me to an unfamiliar motel door, gave me a stern look—a warning—and knocked. The door opened immediately; Gary walked in, and I followed obediently. The motel room looked exactly like ours. Same king-size bed. Same night stands. Same air conditioner sticking out of the wall. The man in the room was equally nondescript: middle-aged, medium height and weight, a moustache, kind of bald. The mood in the room, though, was anything but normal. Both men seemed very serious and stern. I had already come to recognize such gruffness as play-acting. This was the beginning of an S/M scene.

  “Here she is,” Gary said. “Just like I promised. Does she meet with your approval? What do you think?”

  The man stared at me intensely. He eyed me up and down, even walked around me slowly to get a full look. Having been trained, I immediately understood my part in this impromptu but well-rehearsed scene: stay immobile in my position, head down, eyes cast to the floor. Do not talk. Do not make eye contact. Do not show emotion. Just submit.

  “Is she pure?” the man asked, still eyeing me intensely. (This was code for being a virgin, although I didn’t understand it at the time.)

  “Of course! Of course! Look at her,” Gary lied. “I just got her. She’s brand-new.”

  “I want to see her,” the man said.

  Gary nodded, then motioned for me to take off my clothes. I understood the signal, a quick flick of his hand. Again, I had been trained; I knew what was expected of me. Still, I hesitated. I felt embarrassed.

  But my feelings didn’t matter to Gary, who was clearly annoyed. Impatient, he yanked up my shirt. I took it off, baring my child’s torso. Then I quickly pulled down my skirt and stepped out of it.

  And there I stood, absolutely rigid. Exposed. Mortified. I stared at the ground, pretending not to exist. Praying this was enough for them.

  It wasn’t.

  “I want to see all of her,” the man said.

  Gary threw me a menacing glare. I knew what I had to do, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I felt sick inside. Panicked. I wanted to run, to hide, to get away from that room and those men and the way they looked at me. But I was a well-trained slave, so I stood there motionless. I put away my feelings, my fear, my shame, my anger, my humiliation, and I pulled down my underwear.

  The man looked me over, then ran his hands across my body. Shocked, I looked to Gary for help. But he just stared at me with the same cold, emotionless expression he always had during these S/M scenes. It was like he was a different person, a total stranger from the stepfather I spent my days with or even the lover who took me to bed.

  “How much?” the man asked.

  “Exactly what we talked about,” Gary said.

  The man nodded, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Gary.

  “I’ll pick her up in the morning,” Gary said, opening the door.

  It was only at this point, with my father walking out of the room, that I realized he was going to leave me there. Terrified, I broke my position and moved toward Gary. “No
!” I pleaded, grabbing on to him. He shoved me back like I was some kind of pesky dog. His face was absolutely cold. No hint of sympathy.

  “No, Daddy, please, please, no!” I cried. I would’ve run to him again, grabbed his legs and not let go, but the strange man was holding me back. I was still struggling mightily as I watched my father leave.

  —

  AFTER THAT, I don’t remember much. The man had sex with me, of course. But I don’t remember it being particularly kinky or him being particularly mean. He was as gentle as a grown man can be having sex with an eight-year-old. So the next night with the next man I was a little less scared. And by the twentieth man, it had kind of become old hat.

  The routine went something like this: I would spend eleven hours at the mall with Gary. Sometimes there was another kid with us, sometimes not. At nine p.m., when the mall closed, we would drive back to the motel where Gary would immediately take me to a strange man’s room. Sometimes we played out the S/M inspection scene, but usually we didn’t. Gary just knocked on the door, waited for it to open, and shoved me inside, promising to collect me in the morning. Frequently, the man would look familiar because he’d come to the mall earlier in the day. The men often did this; they’d show up at the booth to check out the merchandise before handing Gary a wad of cash. I was aware of these transactions, aware of being displayed for potential customers. The men never talked to me while I was at the mall, though. All the initial arrangements were made through Gary. My job was to just show up.

  Once in the motel room, it was usually awkward. I would stay by the door, feeling self-conscious as the guy looked me over with a lascivious grin. Little me, standing before some grown man I didn’t know. Thankfully, most of them were nice.

  If that sounds weird, there’s something you should know about pedophiles: They claim to love children, and they really believe their own hype. To a pedophile who’s not a sadist, the idea of scaring or hurting a child is anathema. Pedophiles are looking for romance. They see sex with a child as the ultimate act of love. Who can forget Michael Jackson saying, “The most loving thing you can do is share your bed with someone”? So most of the johns who bought me spoke softly and handled me with kid gloves. When they asked me to disrobe, they were exceedingly polite. They were equally polite when they asked me to suck their penises. And they expressed great concern about my comfort as they stuffed their man-size dicks into my tiny vagina. This is the narcissistic delusion of the typical pedophile: to believe that if he ensures the child’s physical comfort as he plugs her orifices he isn’t really using her like a blow-up doll.

  These men paid good money for me, and they expected a very full night. Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep. Maybe a few hours in the early morning, but it was hardly enough rest for a growing child. The lack of sleep often made me feel nauseated. And as the sun came up, it felt very awkward to be lying in bed with some naked man. I was never quite sure what to do with myself in the mornings. Getting dressed meant getting out of bed and exposing my naked body. This probably sounds silly considering what we’d done the night before. Still, I never got over the embarrassment of being nude.

  But I had to get out of bed. If I wasn’t ready to leave when Gary came, he’d be mad. There were practical concerns too. I often had to go to the bathroom, but I didn’t know quite how to manage it. Again, I didn’t want to traipse across the room in my naked state, and I always felt ashamed about some strange man listening to me use the toilet. Then there was the bathing issue. Just like anyone else, a night of sex made me long for a shower. I never dared to ask for one, though. The thought of standing naked in a shower with my eyes closed made me feel too exposed when all I wanted was to disappear.

  Usually, I would just quietly slink out of bed in the morning, crawl across the floor, and attempt to put on my clothes before the man in bed could see me. Then I would sit or stand in the corner of the room trying to be invisible until Gary knocked on the door. When I heard the knock, I immediately stepped outside. Gary then took me back to his motel room where I could quickly pee, shower, and change my clothes. By nine a.m., we were headed back to the mall for a long day of work.

  As a concession to my sleepless nights, Gary always allowed me to set up a makeshift bed with blankets and a pillow under the tables in the booth. There, enveloped in the darkness provided by tablecloths, I would sleep on the mall’s concrete floor in the middle of the day. At nine p.m., we would leave the mall and go back to the motel, to another stranger’s room, to do it all over again.

  This motel routine went on for about five summers. There were variations, of course. Once in a while, Gary would keep me to himself. Some nights, Gary would keep me and another child, and require that we perform sexual acts on each other as he watched. For the most part, though, my summer job was having sex with strange men in motel rooms, and I got quite used to it.

  I know that’s hard for most people to understand. How does a child get used to having sex with a different man every night? All I can say is: When something becomes routine—even rape—it tends to lose its shock value or meaning. Whatever fear, disgust, and shame I felt in the beginning eventually went away. Once I knew what to expect, I simply did what I had to do. I went on autopilot and shut off my feelings, my senses, even my memory in the process. That’s why, if someone asked me to describe every individual man—what he looked like or said to me or did to me—I couldn’t do it. Prostitution, to me, became as mundane as eating dinner. Over time, the individual episodes have all blurred together in my memory.

  —

  SOME EVENTS DO STILL stand out, though. These were the times when Gary veered from his usual MO. Most of these events happened when I was older. Twelve. Thirteen. By definition, pedophiles are interested in prepubescent children. So when I hit puberty Gary lost interest in me. Not because I’d grown breasts or gotten my period. Many pedophiles are actually attracted to a woman’s body, and Gary was definitely one of them. What Gary didn’t like was the attitude that came with the boobs.

  Gary was on a constant quest to feed his narcissism. He always had to feel like the smartest, funniest, most special guy in the world. He needed to be adored at all times—worshipped, even. Grown women wouldn’t put up with that shit.

  Lonely little girls, though, bought his act. They were so desperate for attention that they’d accept anything, even their teacher’s wandering hands. As the girls hit puberty and started to notice boys, they naturally grew rebellious. They wanted a say in things, but Gary-the-control-freak never permitted dissent. And why should he? When a girl hit puberty, he could just move on to the next.

  Dropping a child mistress, though, is not always easy. According to former FBI agent Kenneth Lanning, the biggest problem for a child molester is not how to procure victims but how to dump the kids when they get too old. Children tend to develop deep attachments to their abusers. If a guy suddenly cuts ties with a kid, he risks a spurned lover who might seek revenge. This is where a sex ring comes in handy. The pedophile can simply pawn the child off on another member who likes older kids. If this is done with proper skill, the child victim never quite understands that they’ve been rejected.

  For Gary, I posed a more challenging situation, as he had asked my mother and me to move in with him. At the time, I think he believed that, in me, he could finally create a sex slave who would psychologically never grow up, a partner who would never leave him. But despite his best efforts, I did hit puberty, and I did want to become my own person. I started to assert myself more and demand a say in my own life. I wanted to pick out my own clothes, choose my own activities, spend time with my own friends. While these are the normal requests of every adolescent, Gary saw even my smallest attempts at independence as major rebellion. He continued to try to control me in every conceivable way—easier to do since I was still stuck in his K–8 school. When I wanted to play flute in the school band, he insisted I play trumpet. When I wanted to take French as my fo
reign language, he insisted I learn Russian. When I wanted to wear the current style—blue jeans—he forbade me to own even one pair.

  But despite his constant attempts, Gary could not preserve the eight-year-old version of me. And his suffocating control tactics only made me want to rebel more. The watershed moment came in seventh grade when Gary announced he’d be directing a production of Peter Pan. In the past, I’d been the star of his shows, so he assumed I’d play Wendy. I didn’t want to do it, though. For a seventh grader, being in the elementary school play was embarrassing. So, in an act of unimaginable rebellion, I refused to be in the play. In Gary’s world, this was treason, punishable by complete and utter exile.

  Almost immediately, a new little girl entered the picture. Madeline was pretty and bright and had been a student of Gary’s. While other kids had been around over the years, none were as omnipresent as Madeline. Suddenly, she was everywhere—at the store, working the mall shows, visiting our house. Gary gave her a gold ring much like the one he had given me years earlier to symbolize our “marriage.”

  I was replaced.

  Just like that.

  For years, I’d been told I was Gary’s lover, rightful partner, and one true wife. I’d done everything he asked of me—in his bed and with other men. Now, suddenly, I was invisible. The whole thing was hurtful and terribly confusing. As naïve as it sounds, I’d actually bought into the façade that Gary was a devoted father. I thought he loved and cared about me. But once he got Madeline, I was disregarded and treated with utter contempt.

  A perfect example of this involved the musical Cats. It was a huge hit on Broadway and I, like every little girl on the East Coast, was dying to see it. Before I became persona non grata, Gary talked about the show frequently and even bought me the cast album. He’d been the first person to introduce me to musical theater, and I’d developed a genuine passion for Broadway shows—a passion I thought I shared with my father. So, when he announced that he’d bought tickets to Cats, I was overjoyed. That is until he announced his intention to take Madeline, not me.