I put all my danger and destruction into my books. I read about serial killers like John Wayne Gacy and William Bonin and The Smiley Face Killer (as yet unproven beyond a lot of conspiracy theories), and I get excited by them…but I could never do to a human being what they have done. It just isn’t in me to hurt a young man in that way.
I don’t know what that means, psychologically. That I’ve written several books that have kidnappings, rapes and tortures in them, perpetrated against good-looking young men…always by other good-looking young men. It’s like I’m living my fantasies by proxy. Which is good, in a way, because it means I won’t really do anything.
I learned this long ago, even before I started writing. I’ve had the opportunity, a few times, to take advantage of a guy. First time was during the whole Dean Corll Houston mess, which showed me what my darkest desires were. I picked up a drunk kid in San Antonio, who was stumbling down the road. He was really out of it, and was really cute, and it wouldn’t have been any trouble to take control of him. Hell, he was so far gone, I doubt he’d have even remembered what happened. Instead, I drove him home and saw to it he got inside his parents’ house, okay.
Another time, a guy fell asleep on my couch (really a day bed with cushions as its back), face down and fully dressed. I actually stood in a doorway and watched him for ten minutes wondering if I could tie him up before he woke…but I didn’t. Instead, I put a similar situation in Dair’s Window and had Dair kick away the guy trying to rape him.
There were other times, but I just never could follow through with my inner desire. The thought that I might cause damage to someone else stopped me before I could pass a certain point. I don’t know why this is, but I’ve found my writing is the best therapy I could ever have had. It’s shown me who I really am, in so many ways.
I’m only dangerous on paper…