— See, just your ability to talk that way …
— Thomas, this is important. Is playing tailor fully dressed the same as having a penis thrust into your twelve-year-old rectum?
— See, you are sick. Only a sick fuck could have said that.
— I’m trying to make clear the difference between what I did and what an actual rapist does. I couldn’t even undress you boys. Doesn’t that make clear that I’m not the same kind of monster?
— Maybe you’re a different kind of monster. But you’re still a monster.
— I won’t accept that. You came over to my house. Don came over to my house. We watched movies. We played tailor. Then you fell asleep on my bed. You woke up and went home. That is the work of a monster?
— Absolutely. We trusted you and you had other intentions toward us. You used us.
— And what would you call what you’re doing to me?
— I’m asking you questions. You harmed me, and this is the least amount of payback imaginable.
— How about the astronaut? You kidnapped him to ask him questions. But he did nothing to you.
— Don’t worry about the astronaut. I haven’t harmed the astronaut. You’re the only one I would even think of harming.
— You would be harming someone who harmed no one.
— That is fucking insane.
— I did nothing but imagine them.
— So you admit that you got sexual excitement from children.
— Of course I did. Don’t you ever see a woman on the street and later masturbate thinking about them?
—
— Well, I do the same thing. My fantasies might be sick, but I can’t make it work any other way. The machinery of my mind is what it is. And mine is warped; it is societally unacceptable. But I know that touching a child, that acting on these desires, is wrong, and I have done nothing illegal.
— You don’t buy child porn.
— I don’t anymore.
— You don’t anymore?
— When I was younger I did. But I realized how it impacted actual children, so I stopped. The last time I saw an image of a naked child was 1983.
— So since then you just see a boy on the street and then imagine him naked?
— Not exactly.
— Then what exactly?
— This level of detail isn’t useful, is it?
— This level of detail is exactly why you’re here.
— Okay. I think of a boy measuring my inseam.
— Oh god. Like how old is this boy?
— The same age you were. Eleven, twelve. That’s why we played the game.
— So you could store up those images for later masturbation.
— Yes.
— And all these years since, you’re still thinking of Don Banh measuring your inseam?
— Not so much him. Listen, I know it’s sick. I wish my brain worked in a different way. I know it’s wrong, that it’s considered sick. But none of this extends beyond the confines of my head, Thomas. I swear to you.
— So that’s it? For twenty years, you just think of boys measuring your inseam? No action taken?
— That’s right. Listen. I am sorry that you came to my house. And that Don came to my house, and anyone else. I can never rectify the fact that I acted inappropriately and that I scarred you kids in some way. But again, there are limits to the blame I can assume for whatever else happened in your lives after that.
— But why Don?
— Don was from a certain kind of home. You must know that those who seek to be close to boys seek out those whose parents are missing or inattentive, or who have certain blind spots.
— So Don’s mom thought this was some great honor, that you’d invite him over to your house.
— Yes. She trusted me, and she valued my mentorship.
— Your mentorship. Holy shit.
— Again, you’ll find it unacceptably complex, but I spent many hundreds of hours with Don and his brother, and most of that time was in the role of a parent. I cooked for them, I helped them with their homework, I took care of them. I was a male figure in their lives where there was no other.
— A male figure who masturbated thinking of them measuring your inseam.
— Yes.
— You’re right. It’s unacceptably complex. And so wait — was I one of these kids, too? With the parents who were absent and had blind spots?
— I don’t know.
— But you do. Don’t worry about offending my mom.
— I don’t remember your mom, but I assume that at the time, I had a sense that your home was not as strong as others.
— So I was a target. Did you make a list or something?
— A list?
— Of targets. Kids you had identified as potential sleepover participants.
— Yes.
— Yes? You said yes?
— Because this was so long ago, and because I want to be completely candid with you, and because this was part of a life I abandoned and for which I have only shame, I will continue to be honest with you. I had a list every year of the new sixth graders who I designated as potential guests at my house.
— Based on just the parental situation?
— That, and height, hair, looks.
— What kind of looks?
— Any boys who were too tall or developed weren’t part of the list. I liked long hair. There were parameters physically, and then I cross-referenced that with the parental factors.
— And this ended up being a list of how many every year?
— Maybe eight, ten kids.
— And these you would invite over.
— Yes.
— And of them how many would come over?
— Maybe three, four.
— And that was enough?
— Yes. And from the three or four, I might get closer with one.
— One like Don.
— Right.
— And when did you start babysitting for them?
— A few months later. Don’s mom was going back to Vietnam to visit her family, and she asked me to stay with the kids.
— Lucky you.
— Yes.
— And I was on your list, too.
— I assume so.
— But somehow I didn’t get to the next level.
— Well, presumably your parents …
— It was just my mom.
— Either your mom sensed something weird about the sleepovers or you did. You said you came over just once?
— Yes.
— That usually meant that there was a sense from someone that it was not right.
— Were you ever scolded? Any dad who would have found out about this would have murdered you.
— No, not always. Some dads cooperated fully.
— God.
— But yes, it was easier when there were no dads in the picture.
— But so someone would question the sleepovers, and that kid would be removed from the rotation?
— Yes. Maybe in your case your mom …
— Not my mom. She was completely out of it.
— Well, then maybe it was you.
— I don’t know. I wish I could remember.
— See? The fact that you can’t remember proves that the harm to you was minimal.
— You’re in no position to make assumptions like that.
—
— So you think there was something wrong with my mom?
— Excuse me?
— You targeted me because of my mom?
— I have no idea. I’m only saying that typically there was something missing at home that allowed me some degree of access.
— Okay. Okay.
— I’ve told you all I can.
— Your candor was helpful to your situation here.
— So you’ll free me now?