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During the next year, I must have seen a hundred so-called slasher movies. Having been denied for so long, and having finally broken down my parents’ resistance, I was going to jump into this hobby just like everything else I tried. Somewhere along the line, I even began enjoying the genre with its campy scripts and predictable story lines. I began to see real artistry in the director’s ability to build tension and play with the audience’s hunger for stimulation.

Being somewhat obsessive by nature, I proclaimed my new passion by covering the walls of my room with horror posters. I also subscribed to horror magazines and read horror comic books. I even suspended a fake dead body from the bedroom ceiling and perched toy skulls on every shelf and space I could find.

Some of my friends called me weird. And they were right. But I didn’t care. I’d managed to transform my fear into fascination.

9

In Training

During my thirteenth year, I had my bar mitzvah and, in the Jewish tradition, “became a man,” prompting my father to take me aside for a private talk. I wondered what was going on because he seemed especially nervous.

“Jason, now that you’re no longer a boy, I have something for you.”

Feeling him put something into my hand, I looked down and saw it was three Trojan condoms. “Thanks, Dad.”

“This doesn’t mean you need to rush out and use them,” he pointed out, “but if you do have sex, make sure you use protection.”

“I will,” I assured him.

Soon after, I slipped one of the condoms into my wallet, hoping that by some miracle I’d get the opportunity to use it. I couldn’t believe that a girl in my class actually accommodated me. Although it was really fun, and I was extremely careful to use the condom properly, I was terrified that I might have somehow gotten her pregnant. Again, my fears destroyed what was otherwise a great experience.

For a few weeks, I believed that all my hopes and dreams for the future were over, that my life was ruined, all because I’d gotten a girl pregnant. Once I learned my fears were groundless, I resolved I wouldn’t have sex again, a promise I kept until several years later when I became involved with a much older woman, the mother of a friend.

I think I was attracted to this older woman because of the challenge of getting her into bed. It was my competitive instinct flaring up again. Looking back on it now, even I’m amazed—and yes, a little embarrassed—by my audacity.

“Look,” I remember saying to her, shortly after I signaled my interest, “I think that we want the same things out of life. Honesty and communication are the most important things in a relationship, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose so,” she said. “How old did you say you are again—sixteen?”

“But think about it,” I continued, ignoring her. “What person is really going to say that he or she doesn’t want those things? I really mean it. I want to be able to see you after you get off work, and by just the expression on your face, know exactly what you’re thinking and feeling. I want you to be able to open up about anything, and never have to fear I’ll judge you in any way.”

From her expression, I could tell I had her attention, so I kept going. “I want a relationship where we can just be ourselves—say exactly what’s on our minds. I want to know your every thought. I want to get as close to you as you’ll let me.”

I could see her actually move physically closer to me. She was staring intently into my eyes.

“You really know what you want, don’t you?” she said, smiling. “I’ve never heard anyone speak the way you do.”

Actually, she probably had. On a soap opera or something. That’s probably what inspired me.

The funny thing, though, is that I meant every word. And the point of the story is that this sort of training—this attempt to become the type of person someone else finds appealing—would stand me in good stead when it came to my later project of befriending serial killers.

Even at school, I found loads