Chapter 1: Caught Red Handed

My life of crime started when I was fourteen and lasted for almost two years. During that time I shoplifted approximately 50-60 girlie magazines and sexy paperback novels, all from the same place, Sam's Newsstand. When I finally got caught I thought my life was ruined, but what happened next was unexpected, wonderful, and had a great deal with making me the man I am today.

It was 1960, when I became aware that girls were something more than boys with high-pitched voices who wore dresses. Nothing new about that, everyone develops an interest in the other sex when the hormones kick into high gear. For me, what should have been a healthy, normal interest in the other sex became somewhat of an obsession. It was like I had been unaware of girls for all my life, but suddenly they seemed to be everywhere and began to dominate my every thought. I just couldn't stop sneaking peeks under dress hems when legs were casually crossed to see how much forbidden flesh I could see, or looking down blouses even when the bosom that would eventually fill that space was a few years from developing. I wasn't even sure what the attraction was, I just knew I had an insatiable curiosity about the female body. Unfortunately, at fourteen I was also painfully shy, actually talking to a girl was almost impossible, and the idea that I could even have a 'girlfriend' was about as likely as me winning a Nobel Prize.

That was why I was so excited when I discovered my dad's not-so-secret stash of glossy pinup magazines. AT the time, Playboy had been publishing pictures of girl-next-door (if you lived next door to heaven) models, with bare bosoms and butts, for a few years. No pubic hair, of course, and certainly no pussy shots. Hustler wasn't even a glimmer in Larry Flynt's eye in those days. Playboy was successful enough to have inspired some competitors; Nugget, Knave, and a few others whose names have drifted out of my memory. But even the modest, airbrushed pictures of that era were enough for me. At last, I could see what a naked female actually looked like.

It was shortly after I discovered my dad's collection that I also became aware that looking at naked ladies had a very interesting effect on my body. I got erections just from looking at the pictures, and I didn't quite understand why. I was at the point in my life where I would find myself getting woodies at the strangest times, and for no apparent reason. Sometimes it would happen while I was sitting in class, not thinking about anything in particular, leaving me in a panic that it would go away before the end of class. Waking up in the morning with a hardon was becoming a normal occurrence. But now I found myself getting a lump in my pants every time I checked out a centerfold. I didn't really know why that was occurring, but there did seem to be a cause-effect relationship that seemed natural, so I didn't worry about it. I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I was so naïve it took me a few months to progress from getting erections while looking at those pictures to actual masturbation. The first time I took matters into my own hands, well... that's a story for another time. Let's just say that I have spent the rest of my life trying to replicate the intensity of that first orgasm.

My craving for more and more pictures of naked women intensified after that. My Dad only brought home one magazine every couple of months. But I quickly grew tired of spilling my seed repeatedly while dreaming of Miss July, knowing that Miss August and Miss September were out there also, waiting to be discovered. I couldn't buy them myself. The stores wouldn't sell anything that marked as 'adult entertainment' to kids any more than they would sell them cigarettes. Even if they had, my allowance wouldn't stretch that far. That left me with one solution; shoplifting.

I had never considered doing anything like that before, but I was desperate. I was as addicted to the sight of naked breasts and bare bottoms as a drug addict is to their heroin or crack. I soon came up with a primitive, but effective method for feeding my need. I would go into Sam's carrying a package with something already in it, usually another magazine. I would nonchalantly wander around, observing, until the perfect moment presented itself. When there were no other customers near the magazines I was interested in I would position myself close to my target. When the clerk was busy ringing up a purchase, I would quickly slide whatever publication I had my eye on between my body and the bag I was carrying. Trying to stay calm and look innocent, I would slowly walk out the door. Like I said, it was primitive, but I got away with it a couple times a month for almost two years. Then, like most criminals, I got greedy.

I was so confident in my light-fingered abilities that I was stealing two magazines at a clip. My downfall was the night I couldn't make up my mind which ones I wanted, and tried to take three at once. As I was leaving the store, I felt them slipping out of my grasp. I tried to get a better grip, but they all slid to the floor. I thought about making a run for it, but before I could the clerk that I had been victimizing for the last few months came running out from behind the counter and grabbed me.

"Hey, kid, I don't remember you paying for those."

I didn't bother to attempt a denial. It was almost like I was glad I had been caught. I just looked up at him, and tried to hand him the magazines, hoping that he would then let me go. "I've been watching you. You come in here all the time, and I was pretty sure you were helping yourself to the merchandise, but until tonight I haven't been able to catch you. Come on." He gripped my arm tightly, and I meekly followed him toward the back of the store.

He dragged me to an office in the back of the store. "Sit down," he growled. "I've gotta figure out what to do with you. I really don't want to call the cops and wait on them to show up. Punks like you aren't a high priority for them. It's almost time for me to lock up and go home. Hell, I just work here, it's not my problem. The owner will be here in a minute to close up anyway, so you just stay here until then." He locked the office door behind him and went back to his duties.

I wasn't looking forward to facing the owner. From all the time I had spent hanging around the store, I knew a few things about him. His name was Sam Martin, and he was kind of scary guy. He reminded me of Broderick Crawford, broad-shoulders, gravelly-voice, always scowling, and I could easily imagine him taking me into the alley behind the store, beating the crap out of me, and stuffing me into a trash bin. I knew there would be no mercy from him. I had overheard him one day complaining to a friend about all the merchandise he lost to thieves, and what he would like to do if he ever caught one. I didn't try to take anything that day, and sincerely wished I had quit before this terrible night.