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"Can we, as a country, all agree
xmag.com : March 2002: Sex Offender

 

Everyone on the face of this planet thinks there's nothin' cooler than bein' a sex offender. When you ask kids what they wanna be when they grow up, they all shout "SEX OFFENDER!" in unison. Parents proudly emblazon their station wagons with bumper stickers which say, MY SON IS A NOTORIOUS SEX OFFENDER AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY. Jewish mothers talk with pride of "my son, the sex offender."

But I really gotta come clean and tell ya, Chief--it really ain't as glamorous as you might think it is. Sure, when I tell people I'm a Registered Sex Offender, their faces light up and they start inviting me to parties, but the lifestyle isn't as cushy as everyone assumes. Sure, the chicks get really horny when I tell them I'm a felon with a sex beef, but many nights I feel lonelier than I should. Sure, I make a lot of friends, but they don't see my spirit, only my rap sheet.
For starters, I'm somewhat of a poseur when it comes to sex offendin'. Hell, I never even went to the Big House for cool offenses like Rape, Sex Abuse, or Sodomy with a Foreign Object. I was convicted of the non-sexy crime of Assault. But all I had to do in order to earn the Sex Offender Badge was admit to a counselor during a Psych Evaluation that I once slept with a sixteen-year-old when I was twenty-one. And that's all I had to do. I tell one state worker that I had one sexual rendezvous with an underaged girl while I was barely overaged...and POOF! I'm a sex offender. I was on top of the world! This was too good to be true! I thought that life couldn't get any cooler...
The next thing I knew, I was attending sex-offender groups, being forbidden from consuming my beloved porno, and having some weirdo doctor attach electrodes to my penis. Yeah--some fun THAT was. Plus, no contact of any kind with anyone under eighteen. I can't own or view any type of pornographic material. I have to take a regular polygraph to prove that I ain't out fucking sixteen-year-olds. And a weekly group at the Center for Behavioral Intervention.
All this for fucking a sixteen-year-old when I was twenty-one. And the girl had an orgasm to boot! The bitch came buckets! She weren't no victim!
The polygrapher assigned to me resembled a late-era Mel Brooks, a shrewd old New York gent of Hebraic descent. After hooking me up to the p0lygraph, he hammered me with questions in his Brooklynese accent: "Didja ever touch a woman's genitals in a forceful way?...Ya ever expose yourself, kid?...I don't mean to your girlfriend, 'cause I'm sure as hell guilty of dancin' around naked, with my little shmekel bouncin' around in front of my wife...Porno? Ya like porno, do ya? Ya ever look at any? Girlie magazines, perhaps? Internet?
Lotta porno there!" Nervously I'd answer, and in between questions, he'd tell me stories to calm me down. "I ever tell ya about the time me and the wife went to see the Mets back in 1978?" It was torture! You can't imagine the indignities I've suffered merely by being a sex offender.
Another trauma they made we endure was the penile plethysmograph. A counselor would hook a rubber band around my pecker and connect it to a machine which measures growth. The pictures and sound they provided were of young naked boys and girls--the government actually shows me child pornography. Straight kiddie porno. HOT stuff. They place you in a closet-sized room with a window open to his office. You sit in a comfy chair and fill your mind with images of twelve-year-olds spread-eagled and boys
of all ages sucking each others' wee-wees. They use the machine to determine whether these images arouse you, but I didn't get no boner.
When I walked into the room to attend my first behavioral class, all eyes were on me. I felt like it was my first day in the Major Leagues. Wow! This is it! This is where the magic happens. I sat down and was asked to share what crime I committed that brought me to this group.
It was pretty intimidating. I felt like a half-assed poseur. I felt inadequate. I felt like I didn't belong. I mean, these were rapists. These were cool guys. There was a middle-aged white guy in for sodomy...another in for child molestation...one for indecent exposure...and a Negro in for three counts of rape. He was my favorite.
We bonded with one another. I would sit there in awe, listening to these loveable rapists thoughtfully relive their stories of passion, lust, and sex. I know they didn't try to make me feel this way, but I felt like a pretty big geek. But they were cool to me and would pat my head and comfort me. They were as tight as a family...tight as a perverted platoon of Marines. Around the eternal spinning circle of sex offenderdom spun this tight-knit little circle of middle-aged men--some black, some white, some fags, some not. Here we were, a circle of swinging penises brought together by the genuine love of offending people sexually.
These poor souls. Society has broken their spirits. Everything they live for, all the pleasures from which they derive joy, are now denied them. Who are the victims here, really? Definitely not the women and children.
And now people who don't even know me will discriminate against me because I'm a sex offender. Cripes, haven't I been through ENOUGH?

 

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