Posted by Ryan on September 6, 2005, 9:05 am, in reply to "Part 6: Lynnette" So I just decided when I got back I was going to do the time and get it over with. The horror stories he tried to tell me about life in jail weren’t true, I learned—all the beatings and homosexual rapings every day by the other inmates—it just doesn’t happen in the county jails. I talked to guys at the keggers who had been there. You just sit in the cells with the other guys who had been arrested for drunk driving, and you read and play board games and things. Or bring a few books and lie down on your bunk and read them. I figured I could handle it. I went downtown and got a passport. When the time finally came, I went and said goodbye to my family and friends, and to Lynnette, rode the bus out and boarded the freighter ship that was taking the food and other charitable items to be distributed to the needy people where we were going. Once we were far enough south, most of the trip was in pleasantly warm weather in tropical regions. Some evenings, I’d sleep on a mattress out on the deck under the stars, with endless ocean all around me on all sides. It was very soothing and relaxing. After coming to land again, on more than one stop we were stalled due to paperwork in a few ports where the ship was making deliveries along the way. I had been getting to know the sailors, and I heard some of them griping and voicing their rightful indignation at the way the customs officials in the Third World countries would force the shipments to be delayed just because they were too lazy to come to work that day, or decided to take the day or the week off, and as a result, some of the starving people were going to die because of the food not getting to them in time. Sometimes when the ship was in port, they would invite me to go with them to have a few drinks at the local bars and restaurants. Usually it was a lovely, relaxing environment in the warm tropical evenings under the palm trees. They were always talking about how anxious they were to get into port and get to the “LBFM’s,” as the sailors called the prostitutes there—“little brown f(ornicat)ing machines.” When they asked me if I wanted one, I told them I couldn’t, because I had my girlfriend back home. There were a few sighs and rolled eyes, and comments like, “We ALL have our girlfriends back home. When you spend your life sailing the seas, you can’t wait.” Though a few times, when we were at the bars and restaurants, one of them would sit on my lap or something, and a time or two I got a kiss planted on my lips. I had asked the shipmates if there was any danger of them being transvestites, and they said no. Though there were queens at some places, at the places where they went, the management was strict about not allowing them to be there. No, these girls were female all through and through. It surprised me how at the restrooms in those countries, there wouldn’t even be a barrier inside, and with the doors propped open, people walking by outside could even see the urinals and toilet booths. Pretty sloppy designing, I thought. I wondered, what if a man were standing at one, and if he were turned at just such an angle, and a woman went walking by outside...? I was continuing on my own the Sexaholics Anonymous program, since I knew I was going to be without the benefit of having for encouragement the company of the people in the group. Unfortunate, but SA was one of the many luxuries unheard of in the country where I was going. I was deadening myself, going through life refraining from masturbating (which became difficult at the ports of entry sometimes, with the hookers in the restaurants sitting on my lap, planting kisses on my lips and rubbing their breasts against me from time to time), and I was making every attempt to avoid dwelling on sexual issues to the point of being led into it, in accordance with the SA training. It may seem impossible to people who’ve never gone through it and learned the techniques for carrying it out, but it can be done. When we had almost arrived at the country where I was going, one of them said the hookers there were pretty nice ones too. I mentioned something about what I had been taught in the language class concerning the culture there, that it was a monogamous culture where they highly regard the institution of marriage, and they believe sex should only be between one man and one woman for their whole lives, and that the people there tend to be modest about sexual issues. The sailors laughed. “That may be true,” one said, “but there are still whores—it’s just a fact of life.” “Yeah,” another added, “no country in the history of the world has ever been able to stop it—’cause there’s always gonna be men who patronize them.” I conceded that must be true, and then felt a little stupid for not having thought of it. When you first go to a country that’s very different from your own, regardless of how well you’re able to adapt, you still experience a certain amount of stress. The stress of first arriving and diving in while you’re there served as a help to me in deadening sexual feelings. On top of that, as part of the fieldwork we had to do, we had to go out to some of the rural areas where the people were, the ones who were suffering in the food shortage, and distribute the comestibles to them. An emergency situation had just hit one area, and that was where we had to go right away. Some of the starving people, in spite of being given food, weren’t able to survive anyway. Maybe they were suffering from medical conditions as well, that weren’t so easily detectable to the traveling medical personnel there, but I saw some people die right in front of me. It was horrifying. The first night of it, I cried silently in the tent when I went to bed. (Not something you tell people about, but on this board where everybody can confess things in their private lives under fake names, I can tell that too.) Even if I hadn’t have been trying, after getting enough of that kind of shock, plus the effect of being in the new culture and environment, plus the stress on the blood circulation from suddenly switching to a hotter climate before the blood has had a chance to thin out accordingly, and the strain on the digestive system from the change in diet, with the lower sanitation level sometimes causing me diarrhea, depleting the body’s supply of liquids and making me have to drink lots of water for rehydration, sex was the last thing I was able to think about for weeks after that. I couldn’t masturbate even if I wanted to. It was on empty. Thinking an erotic thought was like trying to lift a 200-lb. weight, something the mind just didn’t have the strength to do. After a few weeks, I was moved to the organization’s center in the capital city, working a part-time schedule, sometimes getting a week or two off at a time. I sent an e-mail to my mom and to Lynnette, telling both of them all about what things were like, that in spite of a little bit of roughing it, I liked it, being there. I told each of them about the trip on the freighter ship (I didn’t tell my mom about the hookers at the restaurants sitting on my lap; didn’t mention that to Lynnette either). I told them about the emergency situation that had suddenly hit the part of the country where I spent the first few weeks, about the people dying, and how it was a shocking experience. I told Lynnette I missed her. I talked to D——, a co-worker, one of the locals who had been hired by the company to do work there, about taking a trip around the country, including the rural areas, because he said he knew people in places where we’d be able to stay. He agreed to show me around. I was looking forward to it. There was a lovely girl who worked there named N——, who was the daughter of the supervisor of the headquarters in that country. I thought she was very attractive. Whenever we saw each other, she would always hold out her hand for me to shake and would say to me in English, “How are you?” the only phrase she knew. I thought she was a really nice girl. Once when I was sitting down at the computer, she sat down beside me and asked me, “What are you doing?” “I’m writing an e-mail to my girlfriend in the United States,” I replied. “Oh. What is your girlfriend’s name?” she asked me. “Lynnette.” “Lee-NETT,” she repeated. “When are you two going to get married?” “Oh... uh, I... uh, we... uh...” I started to respond, then I remembered that in their culture it boggles their minds how in European and American culture two people can be dating and carrying on a romantic relationship without it being established in their minds that the two of them are engaged to be married. I just shrugged my shoulders and said, “Uh, I don’t know.” (They can understand fiances not having set a date yet.) I don’t care what anybody says, I was fascinated with the country, and I was fascinated with my work there. The poverty didn’t strike me as so repugnant as it does some people. I really liked being there, and I liked the people (and I still had a few things yet to learn about them and their culture).
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Part 7: Illegal international flight to avoid complying with terms of probation
(Originally posted November 7, 2003, 6:51 pm)
I knew a warrant was going to be issued for my arrest. I knew an additional charge would probably be added, something like “illegal international flight to avoid complying with terms of probation,” or some such gibberish. I knew I was going to go to jail when I got back. I just resigned myself to it. From that point there was nothing else I could do. I was being abused by the corrupt therapist who was taking advantage of his position of absolute power over my life. I wasn’t getting anything out of his sessions, which were eating up most of my income. (The Sexaholics Anonymous sessions were helping me, though.) 
