I suppose you could call this a confession. I've heard enough of them from others to know what they sound like. It's certainly my own dirty little secret. Only the children know and they would be the last to tell. I live with the fear that some day one of them will expose me, but nothing worth having ever comes without a substantial risk. It would be better for everyone concerned if one of them found the courage to do so, because I will never stop on my own. Maybe some intervention would force me to change. At the very least, it would keep them away from me.
I need help. I am the first to admit that. I have confessed my crimes to my superiors twice in the past, but they cannot face the problem either. They send me away with empty words and the hope that their prayers and a change of environment will somehow alter my impulses. But it never does.
I never deliberately set out to hurt anyone. I don't lurk in alleyways or stalk the city streets in search of victims. I don't have to. They come to me with complete trust and confidence in the collar I wear and the words that I preach. I give them advise and comfort and then it all turns into something else. Before I can stop it, I find myself touching them and making them touch me. Deep inside something evil boils and tells me that they make me do it.
Children can be very seductive. I know that is a difficult concept to explain to parents and a vengeful public. Truthfully, I don't remember when I didn't have these feelings. As I sit and look out the casement window to the lawn below where the children are playing, I admit that I don't know why I cannot stop hurting them. I look just like you. I went to college, bleed when I'm cut and had loving parents. I fear God and have served in the Armed Forces. I've never been to prison or on welfare. I could be your brother, husband, father, son or friend. And yet my terrible urges set me apart from you and make me different. Why don't you know me? Do I disgust you? THEN WHY, WHY DON'T YOU STOP ME?
I have spent many hours sitting here in my favorite chair thinking about these very things. I have been good for months, that is, until today when Jason Meyers came by to talk to me. He sat here with me on my lap, crying about his problems at home. I soothed him and spoke so softly that he had to bend over to hear me when I asked him to touch me. He tried to pull away, but I held him fast. I directed his small hand to the spot of my ecstasy.
