My mother was unimpressed, or at the very least, she was determined not to
seem
impressed. She simply refused to talk about it, except to mention the money: “If Gacy is willing to pay for it, then fine.
I just think that what you’ve got yourself involved in is ridiculous.”
That’s the last time I would tell my parents much about what I was up to. I’d make sure they received all the checks Gacy
eventually sent to cover the phone calls, but beyond that, it was information blackout. Whatever I was going to do, I’d have
to do it on my own, with only a little support from my brother.
I spent the rest of the day talking to Jarrod about the phone conversation I had with Gacy. My brother seemed impressed that
I’d been able to keep my cool. But he was also worried: “Look, I don’t want you to think I’m a pussy or anything, but I’m
not going to answer your phone anymore. It could be him calling and I don’t want to even hear his voice.”
I later learned that this was when Jarrod began having terrible nightmares that would disrupt his sleep for weeks at a time.
My own would soon follow.
I
received a letter from Gacy the next day, obviously mailed before we’d talked on the phone. From this point forward, he kept
an almost constant stream of mail coming to my house, often three or four letters per week. He sent packages as well, one
including the painting he’d promised me, others filled with pornographic books and photos of nude men.
In addition to the increased presence of sexual fantasies in his letters, there was also a certain egomania. Again and again
he touted his “accomplishments” to demonstrate his superiority over me. One letter reminded:
Much of what is known about me is slanted from a media point of view so as time goes on I will try to explain fact from fiction.
Keep in mind there are 11 hard bound books out on me, 42 others with full chapters on me, two screen plays, one movie, one
off Broadway play, 5 songs written about me, and over 500 articles on me. And 80% of them are fantasy and fraud.
As absurd as this “list of credits” was, there was also something remarkable about it. Here was this stone-cold killer—just
an old, fat man sitting in prison, whose one distinguishing trait was a willingness to take lives without remorse—and yet
he had the whole world clamoring at his feet, including me. Something was wrong here.
Such was the intensity of the spotlight that shone on Gacy that he forgot at times that it was his
crimes
that had made him famous. Rather, he convinced himself that it was the force of his personality or his intellect that had
won him all this attention. Even though he was about to die for his actions, I don’t think he ever had a single regret. He
absolutely loved the attention he was getting, the hundreds of requests for interviews, and all the fan mail.
Eventually, I would learn that, even though he was stuck in prison, he still managed to live like a celebrity. He had a private
cell, a television set, money to spend from the sale of his paintings, and guards eating out of his hands, willing to do almost
anything for him. He’d even alleged that he met with the warden a few times each month to extract various privileges. Such
was his regal status.
After wading through pages thick with braggadocio, it was almost a relief to see Gacy return to his favorite subject: kinky
sex.
Almost
a relief.
One of Gacy’s obsessions was a form of masturbation called “head-over-head.” It consisted of lying on the ground and leaning
one’s butt against a wall in such a way that the hips (or as Gacy would prefer, the head of one’s penis) were higher than
one’s head. Once in this position, the masturbator would then proceed to stroke himself, and when an orgasm was achieved,
the semen would discharge all over his face.
He spoke about this technique a lot, although he claimed that because of his weight and age, he could no longer practice it.
He was insistent, though, that I give it a try—obviously because it was one of his favorite fantasies of what he wanted to
do to me. Since he couldn’t be physically present, he wanted me to act out both roles. I also realized that, in a way, he
was
training
me. Since I’d admitted to him that I hadn’t yet had a homosexual encounter, he was preparing me, little by little, to move
in that direction.
After I confirmed—in the face of relentless hounding— that I’d at last given his special recipe a try (I’d done no such thing),
Gacy soon let up on the subject and assumed I was “head-over-heading” on a regular basis. Every now and again he’d ask about
my most recent “self-loving” encounter, and I’d make up a new story, logging it in a journal with the date so I wouldn’t forget
what I’d said.
After he and I began speaking on the phone, the letters took a different turn. They now became supplements to our conversations,
which would often last for an hour or more every Saturday and Sunday morning and sometimes even occur midweek.
Partly, my willingness to spend that much time talking to Gacy was attributable to the boredom I experienced as a college
student living at home. Partly, it was a testament to his ability to adroitly shift gears from luridly entertaining to supportive,
depending on my mood.
• • •
Gacy always sculpted his letters in such a way that they’d be specific and unique to each person, yet disguise his own wrongdoing.
This became even more true once the phone relationship commenced.
At first, I didn’t understand why he’d care what anyone thought. After all, he’d already been convicted of murder and was
waiting for his execution. He’d exhausted all of his appeals. What else did he have to lose? As it turned out, though, he
actually believed that someone—a judge, a Supreme Court justice, the governor of Illinois, even the president—would eventually
commute his sentence. He’d vowed to be very careful, since he believed his behavior would be subjected to close scrutiny.
One of his tactics was to use code words—to disguise people’s names, incidents that had occurred, or things he wanted me to
do. Though he told me he was using the words to protect my privacy, they were there to cover his tracks if anything went wrong.
“Look, Buddy,” he explained, “if we talk about some stuff on the phone that’s unique or about something you’re into, when
I write you next I’ll say something like ‘How’s the project?’ That way, your parents won’t get upset if they find one of your
letters.” He was always positioning himself as someone who was looking out for my best interests.
Because part of me knew that he was trying very hard to manipulate me, I felt less guilty manipulating him. I suppose I shouldn’t
have felt guilty at all. One could make the argument that Gacy, as someone who’d brutally killed thirty-three men and boys,
wasn’t entitled to honesty or fair play. But such virtues were sufficiently ingrained in me that it was sometimes difficult
to keep up the deception.
In the end, a part of me realized that if I
didn’t
deceive him, the relationship would yield nothing positive. Direct questioning was not the route to go with Gacy.
I knew, for example, that if I asked him, “How did you feel and react to your father beating you?” I’d get nowhere. That’s
the usual approach taken by psychologists who interview serial killers, and it yields little useful information because there’s
no way you can trust the answers given. Gacy had probably been asked that question a hundred times, and if I asked it for
the 101st time, I’d get the response he gave everyone else.
I figured it would be more productive to concoct a personal situation that he could offer his opinion on. So during one phone
conversation, I batted away yet another question about my sex life and adjusted my actor’s hat.
“John, I don’t want to talk about that stuff right now. I’m really fuckin’ pissed off.” My voice cracked, adding the proper
authenticity. “I told you my father was giving me some shit again. I just want to die,” I said, seemingly on the verge of
tears.
“Jason, you need to calm down. Now, why do you want to die?”
“My dad beat my ass again last night. He fuckin’ threw me against the wall and my head smacked into this nail. I hate that
asshole. I really hate that fucker.”
“Jason, you don’t hate anyone,” Gacy replied in his most soothing voice. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a “TV dad”—
The Brady Bunch
’s Mike Brady?
The Cosby Show
’s Dr. Huxtable?—on the other end of the line.
“Fuck that, John,” I replied, starting to feel pretty bold at this point. I waited, hoping he’d catch the drift of where I
was heading.
“Jason, just relax,” he finally responded. “The same thing happened to me. My father would smack the hell out of me for no
reason at all. They love you, but sometimes they get angry. Once my dad hit me so hard over the head with a broomstick that
I opened my eyes and found myself being held by my mother. I forgave him, just like you’ll forgive your dad.”
“But, John, it’s worse for me. I’m not sure I even want to live anymore. I have nobody. I can’t trust anyone. I can’t talk
to anyone. It’s just . . . you know . . .”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gacy jumped in. “I know what you’re going through. My old man never even told me he loved me. Sure, there were
times I wanted to kill myself, but if you die, then they are the ones who’ll win.”
His voice was now getting very serious and low. “I learned to turn all my anger inwards. Jason, you’ll soon learn how to not
let people like that get to you. There are other ways to handle those situations.”
I was shocked at the direction this conversation was taking. If I wasn’t mistaken, Gacy was actually telling me about how
he’d learned to strike out at others for all the abuse he’d suffered as a child.
He continued, “I’m here for you, Jason. I’m your friend. Your
only
friend. The only friend you need. Right now you need your parents because you have nowhere else to live. Keep hustlin’ and
the money will be rollin’ in and you can move out. Maybe I could help out in the future, too.”
I couldn’t believe it. He was getting really emotional about all this. It almost seemed as if I’d opened a back door to his
psyche, gained access to emotions he hadn’t expressed in a long time, if ever.
He went on to confide that he’d thought many times about killing himself, especially when, in the midst of serving a prison
sentence—his first—for rape, he learned his father had died.
“Jason, the Bible preaches against taking your own life, but sometimes it’s the right thing to do. Your life will hit rock
bottom someday, and when the time is right, you’ll know what to do, and also how to do it.”
Was he telling me there’d come a time when he wanted me to kill myself, maybe after his execution? Or maybe he was admitting
his plan to take his own life before the state could do it. Either way, I couldn’t get his words out of my mind.
J
ust when I thought there was nothing new that Gacy could surprise me with, he brought up an idea on the phone that broke new
ground: he wanted me to have an incestuous relationship with my brother! The notion of a homosexual encounter was, to me,
distasteful enough—but sex with
Jarrod
? It was beyond sick.
I tried to change the subject immediately, redirecting things toward a safer area. But Gacy could be persistent. In the past,
he’d suggested I have sex with friends, my mom— even my dog! But my “doing it” with Jarrod—the image drove him crazy.
So obsessed was he by this notion that I eventually decided something might be learned by appearing to entertain it.
During our next phone conversation, I acted stupid for not considering the possibility of sex with my brother sooner. It was
natural I’d show reluctance, and this only stimulated him to increase the intensity of his sales pitch. As he methodically
ticked off the reasons for sibling sex, he sounded like a spokesman for H&R Block.
“You
need
to get off, Jason. I know your girlfriend is not giving it to you every day,” he said.
“You’re right, John.”
“You know guys can get you off just as well as girls. We’ve gone over this before.”
Still acting very hesitant, I mumbled back, “Yeah, I guess.”
He continued pressing. “Your brother isn’t gettin’ any either. Don’t you see what a waste this is? Why hold out when you guys
have each other? You and your brother can trust one another completely. It’s safe, clean, and discreet. Hell, why not get
him off a couple of times until he keeps coming back for more?”
As I listened without responding, he said, “You don’t know how lucky you are to be in the situation you’re in.”
“What do you mean?”
“You guys can use each other to get off all day long. At night. In the morning. All day long.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It just doesn’t sound right. If my parents found out, I’d be thrown out of the house for sure. I’d
have nowhere to go.”
“Relax, Jason. Nobody will ever find out. Just slide into his bed at night, or in the morning, and start wrestling around
with him until you get him hard. After a while, he’ll get used to it, then just let your head end up in his crotch and just
take it in your mouth. He might get nervous at first, but then he’ll begin to get into it and let you finish the job. After
you get him off once, then he’ll be yours. If he gives you any trouble after that, you can just remind him: ‘So, I was good
enough to blow you once, but now it’s not okay?’”
“I guess” were the only words that I could get out of my mouth at this point. I wasn’t sure how much more of this conversation
I could handle.
Eventually, I learned to distract myself during Gacy’s sicker tangents. Sometimes, while he was talking, I’d read a magazine;
sometimes I’d watch the television with the sound down low; sometimes I’d jot down notes.
But at this point I was meeting his prurience head-on, and it was tough to take.