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One went to the other room and then they both descended the stairs down to the kitchen with no lights on and went into the garage where one would do the other. It would take 15 to 20 minutes or so, half hour if we both did something. And its wild fucking standing up, as all one has to do is lean over the car while the other raises the robe, spits in the hand and strokes the muscle then another handful of spit to the back side, and in it went.

I put the letter aside for a moment, not only to purge the sickening image Gacy was creating but also to quiet the eerie sensation that he’d invaded my house. The remaining pages read like what I imagine the Blue Boy equivalent of Penthouse Letters is. It was tough—real tough—to get through.

Gacy projected that my brother and I would eventually have sex three or four times a day. His own sex drive was so strong that this was perfectly normal to him. Of course, not in a thousand lifetimes would I even think, for an instant, of initiating anything like what Gacy proposed. But I had to “feed the beast,” as it were. So in my next letter— fiction at its most blatant—I let on that Jarrod and I had begun to “experiment.”

Once Gacy read that, a barrage of questions followed. He used disguised terms and code words referring to us so that he could deny any responsibility or involvement if we ever got caught.

His numerous queries actually provided me with the guidance I needed to create scenes that were sufficiently realistic and detailed.

“In your first encounter,” Gacy wrote in his quirky, ambiguous language, “this took place with you being dominated by the other factor, and once the project was joined. What were your first feelings of what was happening? And as it picked up and discharged within, what feeling did you have for a first time? Thoughts of who it was and knowing this what were your feelings too?”

When I tried to field these questions, I discovered to my horror that I had to actually visualize the events as he described them. Mentally, the cumulative effect was something like sexual abuse. He was actually making me think of the most horrid, revolting sexual scenes I could ever imagine. And, in fact, for several months afterward I was totally asexual. I stopped having sexual fantasies and didn’t think about sex whatsoever. This seemed to be the only way I could enter Gacy’s world, or rather, allow him entrance into mine, without completely breaking down.

One technique I came up with that actually yielded a fair amount of insight into Gacy’s habits was sending him two sets of letters, one supposedly from me, the other supposedly from Jarrod—both describing the same acts of “experimentation” from differing points of view. To carry off the deception, I used different levels of diction and different typefaces. Result: Gacy actually believed he was getting the stereo version of a brother-to-brother sexual relationship.

He reacted predictably—by writing to my brother in the most seductive way possible, feeding him graphic sexual fantasies in an attempt to bring him under his control. Of course, I intercepted all of Gacy’s correspondence, whether it was addressed to my brother or me, so, thankfully, Jarrod never had to slog through Gacy’s mental cesspool.

At the time, as stressed as I was by the burden of keeping up this increasingly sick deception, I felt a certain excitement that my efforts had served to cement our relationship. After hearing about my brother’s and my “activity,” he finally embraced me as his servant. He now believed I was completely under his control.

And in a sense, I was.

28

Hook, Line, and Sinker

I often wondered why Gacy, one of the most cynical and suspicious individuals I’ve ever known, so easily believed the stories I spun for him. While I’d like to claim credit for being a master storyteller, the truth is that Gacy needed my tales to be true. At this point in his life, he had nothing else but his fantasies—the letters I was sending him were his only reality. Later I learned from one of his acquaintances that he did in fact believe that