Jesus H. Christ on a cross, I never, not once in my goddamned life, thought I’d end up like this. I used to go to carnivals with my boys. We drank 40s in the parking lot and then we’d go scam on chicks—YOUNG chicks. Chicks who were just discovering their bodies, milky smooth and tight. We could always tell which ones were budding bad girls by their belly shirts, belly chains, hastily applied temporary tattoos on their exposed backs.

Bad girls who had no self-respect because their daddies hit them or their mommies were druggies, so they never learned that their bodies are precious. Worked for me. I guess you could say we lured them in, but it never really took much effort.

Bad girls, they’d find us. We’d be dismissive, even downright disrespectful. That made them want us more. We’d call them little girls and they’d puff out their still-growing chests to show that their breasts were proof enough that they were grown. We’d grab them, pull their hips toward us and breathe heavily on their necks, watching their eyes flicker between fear and what passes as adolescent passion. We’d call them names, insult their clothes, makeup, hair. They’d come closer, all big cat eyes like they were on the prowl. They’d start pawing at our dicks, licking our earlobes, whispering too sexy nothings in our ears. Those were the girls we took back to the parking lot to toke up and get BJs or HJs. Those were the girls that I lived for.

But here’s the thing. I got older and they stayed younger. Girls my age wised up to my game by the time we were in our 20s. All of a sudden they were all about women’s lib and self-respect and better choices. And I wasn’t. I still wanted to feel the elasticity of that young flesh against mine. Hot cherry flavored breath making its way from my lips down, down, down, and back up. I wanted the rush of being in public. I reasoned with myself that they’re bad girls. They’ll never tell. I’m the cool older guy. We had an agreement.

I was wrong. I was wrong. I was wrong. It all came crashing down around this girl Crystal, just three months shy of her seventeenth birthday. Three months shy of consent. Three months shy of being home fucking free. We smoked in the backseat of my 1997 Honda Civic. We felt woozy and handsy in the heat of the parked car, baking in the sun. she pulled off her flimsy dress and pulled me on top of her. Jesus, it felt slow and right and I thought I could give up scamming girls for just this one honey. She was sweet where she needed to be, soft where she needed to be. Hard when I needed her to be.

But then her aunt saw her stepping out of my car with disheveled hair and clothes, smelling of sex and weed and Old English. Aunty started wailing on her and Crystal started crying rape. Rape, can you believe that?

I fucking couldn’t, not at the time. I didn’t—couldn’t—see how what I’d done—what we’d done—was rape. It sure as shit felt consensual. I was 21. She was 16. In a few years, that five year age difference wouldn’t mean shit. But she was 16.

Sex offender. Registered sex offender. That’s what I am now. Whenever I move, I have to inform my neighbors and landlords that I’m a sex offender. Whenever I get a new job, if I could ever get a new job, I have to inform my employers that I am a registered sex offender and am potentially dangerous to children.

I guess you could say that I’m reformed, but that label will stick with me forever. I’ve given up weed and booze, for the most part. That’s a lie. I just don’t partake as much as I used to. Cut it down to one joint a day. Cut it down to two 40s a day. I understand now that yes, it was rape.

And now I’m a fucking carnie. The irony, right? I thought for sure I’d never get a job. But then the carnival came to town and I figured what the fuck, I’ll give it a shot. I expected to hear a big fat steaming NO because carnivals are full of children and underage teenagers, and sex offenders should be nowhere near such places. But that just show how little I knew about the carnie circuit.

The number of sex offenders I work with is astounding. Greg the ferris wheel guy: sex offender—likes to diddle little boys. Mikah the ring toss guy: sex offender—likes to take upskirt photos. Jarrod the cotton candy guy: sex offender—likes to expose himself to women on the street. Marcia the pretzel girl: sex offender—former middle school teacher who had sex with three separate studies. And me, Roy the tilt-a-whirl guy: sex offender—statutory rapist.

The rest of us are drug dealers, convicts, and felons. Carnivals are a breeding ground of depravity and I’ll never let my kids hang around them, not that I’ll have any. As soon as a woman hears SEX OFFENDER, she runs for the hills with Road Runner legs whooshing at her sides. And I can’t blame them. Get as far away from me as fucking possible.

I spend my days traveling with the crew and my nights operating the tilt-a-whirl. I watch snot-nosed brats cut in line, sensitive kids barf all over the place, and the occasional underage honey eyeing me, biting her lip, not realizing how much trouble and hurt I can cause in her young, perfect life. I’d like to say those girls don’t get me hard. But I’d also like to say that I’m not a rapist.

I’m not long for this job. I’m starting to feel urges. Urges that I can’t resist. I’m starting to feel like I’m going to act on them, really being a sex offender this time, and the next time, and the time after that.

Jesus, forget that. I’m not fucking long for this world. I got this Colt .45 and I’m really going to use it this time.