11 First Hookers

Solo again, Keith was driving on Highway 97 near Goldendale, Washington, when the headlights on his Peterbilt silhouetted a female walking her bicycle in the rain. “She was shivering, and I stopped to give her a lift. I gave her my coat to get warm. I noticed that she was Indian, maybe fifteen years old, but stacked. Something about Indian girls always turned me on—maybe it went back to the ones I knew in Chilliwack. My rape fantasies were running wild even before I stowed her bike in the load of scrap steel.

“I decided to take this girl on the spot. My heart was pounding in my shirt as I parked at a wide spot on top of Maryhill. She must have read my mind. The second I reached for her, she opened the door to get out. I grabbed at my coat and off came her sweater, exposing her bra. She ran like an antelope. I had the sickening feeling that the situation was getting out of hand and I was headed for deep shit.

“After she ran about fifty feet, she turned around and yelled for her bike and sweater. I said, ‘Come back! I was just trying to get my coat.’ By this time I was really scared. I handed over her sweater, reached into the load and pulled out her bike. Then I took off at top speed.

“I kept thinking about all the ways I could be caught. The name on the truck. A load that could be traced. My log. There weren’t many drivers as big as me. I’d tried to take a minor against her will, and that was a penitentiary offense. I figured she’d go home and tell her sob story to Daddy and I’d be on my way to prison.

“I didn’t sleep for a week. I kept listening for a knock. Every birdcall sounded like a siren. When I was on the road, I looked in my rearview mirrors more than my windshield. Whenever I spotted a police car in a truck stop or a rest stop, I rushed off to the next one.

“But nothing ever came of it. Everybody knows that most rape victims don’t go to the cops. I kept reminding myself what a close call I’d had. I swore I’d never try anything like that again. I would still chase women, but on their terms only. If they wanted sex, okay. If they didn’t, bye-bye. The Maryhill moment haunted me. I knew that from now on I had to control my fantasies. If I wanted sex, I had to get it from Rose. Or masturbate. There was no other choice.”

 

Within a few months of the near miss, Keith had to conclude that he would never be able to satisfy his sexual needs at home. For a while he vented his frustration on familiar targets. “I hit a cat with a rock while my son Jason was with me. He began to cry as I kept stoning the cat. I threw the carcass in a ditch down the roadway. When I was by myself, I caught a neighbor’s dog and killed it in steps, holding its head underwater and then letting it breathe, then up and down till it drowned. It was an early version of the death game that I played later. The technique made it last longer and gave me a hard-on.

“I couldn’t hide my attitude about animals from my family. My children knew that their father would kill a cat or dog if he caught it. I would corner cats and agitate them with a pole till they struck back, and then I’d wring their necks. In winter I’d douse them in cold water and put them out in zero weather. I’d splash them with gasoline and light ’em up. I beat my own kids’ dog to death. He had bad hemorrhoids and I had no patience with problems like that. I took him out back and smashed his head. My kids cried for days. Nothing I did would console them.”

 

With the incident at Maryhill still fresh in his memory, Keith decided to give professionals a try. “My first real hooker experience came when I drove into the Oceanside rest area on I-5 between San Diego and Los Angeles. Linda was petite, had little titties, and wore a long peasant dress and glasses. She looked more like somebody’s kid sister than a truckers’ whore. She was very energetic and I spent three hours getting my twenty bucks’ worth.

“She liked my loving so much that she gave me her home phone number, and I called her whenever I was near. Great sex, and free! I fantasized about her and requested loads to San Diego just to see her. Every encounter was the same as the first. We kissed like lovers, and for an hour or two we were lovers.

“On a trip to Denver I sat three days waiting to get loaded. I took a waitress named Dee Dee into my truck and screwed her. Turned out she was a kiss-and-tell gal. Pretty soon the other girls were sniffing around to see if I was as good as she said. I decided I didn’t need the publicity and dumped Dee Dee for good.

“By now I was getting pretty good at sex, and one of the reasons was because I could never arouse my wife. That made me work extra hard on the others. I treated every screw the same. First, I would hold them to feel the warmth of their skin against mine. Then I would use foreplay to get to know them better. To me, the ejaculation part was almost an afterthought. Hookers knew they could get more out of me than just sex.

“A whore named Sharon told me to slow down and fuck her till she came. I did what she asked. We went at it a second and a third time before she let me go. She put out the word that I was big and patient, and other hookers wanted to do me for free. It reached the point where I was almost annoyed if they asked for money.

“On my truck routes I had whores from eighteen to fifty-five. When I got home I’d try to have sex with Rose, but it was never anything to scream about. By this stage of our marriage, once a week was too often for her. I needed it every day, two or three times if I could get it. I was masturbating more than ever.”