The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [83]
As I was turning the logbook’s pages, fascinated by the details of Gacy’s life, I caught a hint of movement just outside my field of view. Somehow Gacy had gotten behind me again. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his handcuffed hands raise up and reach behind my neck. His mouth was open and he looked as if he was in some type of trance.
I felt his hands on the back of my neck and I tried to pull away. His grip tightened, and, with the leverage that came from his standing over me and my being seated, he pinned me against the wall. Just when I was about to fight back with all my strength, I realized he wasn’t trying to hurt me at all.
He was trying to kiss me!
In some ways, this infuriated me more. The idea of his putting his lips on me was disgusting. In one quick burst, I broke away from his grip.
“What’s wrong, Jason?” he coaxed. “You need to relax.”
I could tell he was confused that I was being so resistant to his overtures. He’d gone to great trouble to get rid of the guards and arrange a private setting for us to be together. He’d spent months fantasizing about how this scene would unfold. Now I wasn’t playing my part.
“Sorry,” I offered, trying to regain my composure. “It’s just that you scared me, grabbing me like that.”
By now, Gacy’s libido was like a freight train hurtling down the track. And mixed in with the lust was ferocious anger. “You’re so pretty, you little hustlin’ bitch,” he snarled. “You like to get fucked, you little shit.”
I cast my eyes downward, afraid to say anything that would escalate the situation.
“You wander the streets hustling,” he said, working himself up. I noticed with revulsion that he’d now taken out his penis and was slowly stroking himself. It was obvious he was becoming more and more aroused. “You sell your ass. You do have a pretty tight little ass.”
What the hell do I do now? I thought. Unable to think of anything, I just sat mute, noticing as I did that my words and actions had ceased to matter much. To Gacy, I’d become an object now—a thing for him to sexually fixate on.
“You can’t pull that hustlin’ shit on me,” Gacy warned, continuing to masturbate.
“I know, John. I’d never try to hustle you, because we’re friends, right?” I tried. As had happened before, I hoped that by invoking our friendship I’d slow his psychotic momentum.
“Look at my cock, Jason!” he demanded as he continued pulling on his penis. He must have thought that the sight of him—fat, old man that he was—would turn me on, get me in the mood, as it were.
As if . . .
“John,” I pleaded feebly, “come on.”
“Did you hear what I said?” he screamed. “Look at my fuckin’ cock!”
“Yes, John,” I answered. “It’s very nice.” I couldn’t believe I’d said something so stupid, but what could one say in such a situation?
Having apparently come to a decision, he pushed his penis in the direction of my face and ordered, “Get on it!”
“Quit fuckin’ around, John. I’m not going to do that now.” Would the promise of something later appease him?
“Do you know how many little shits died for this cock?” he asked. “Do you want to die for this cock? I should have you bend over. Then I can tear the shit out of your tight little ass. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You want me to beat you, don’t you?”
His breathing was becoming more and more labored as he continued to stroke himself, standing up. His face was turning bright red. He looked like he was going to have a heart attack.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered, “so I can piss down your throat. You should like piss. You’re just a big pile of shit yourself.” Then he cackled insanely. It was just like a scene in a slasher movie. Except the movie was real, and I was in it.
I continued assessing my options. I wondered if I should kick him hard or really hurt him with the chair I was sitting on. What if all I achieved