I by Jack Olsen

for fuel.
    I didn’t think my diet would hurt me, but I noticed that I was getting a little antsy. Sometimes I would pull off the road and jog till my nerves settled down. Late one night I parked my truck on Highway 97 at Lava Butte, just south of Bend, Oregon. A corkscrew road led up to a lookout tower that was usually unmanned. I’d run up there a few times and once talked with a lady lookout, and I knew they had a portable TV and radio. Just for a little excitement I decided to steal their stuff.
    I took a pry bar out of my toolbox and headed up the road. When I got near the top, I saw a parked car. It didn’t hit me till I was starting to climb the tower steps that the lookout might be manned—better yet, womanned. I began to think about rape.
    I felt strong, confident. I felt sweaty and cunning, almost panting. I fantasized about sliding between the woman’s legs without any foreplay and making her take it, ready or not. My ex-wife Rose always said that she hated sex because I forced it on her. Now was my chance to force it on a total stranger. It has to be tonight, sister, right now! And no back talk! To me forced sex was a total turn-on.
    But as I climbed closer I began to see the downside. I realized that I could get my ass in a crack. Was a midnight jump in a lookout tower worth risking the Shasta County bullshit all over again? Getting bit in the ass months after I had my fun? No way. I decided to climb up to the top and jack off to my fantasies.
    On the catwalk I looked out toward Bend like a tourist. I was taking my peter out when I saw a flicker of motion below. A car was pulling alongside my truck.
    It had to be a cop, so I ditched the pry bar and climbed down. At the bottom I started running wind sprints on the shoulder. By the time I finished, the trooper was gone.
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    When I got back to my trucking office, the boss asked me why I was climbing Lava Butte at midnight. I told him I was jogging like I’d done lots of times before. He said the Bend sheriff called to tell me to stay the hell away from Lava Butte. My boss told me to avoid the lookout trail or he’d fire me.
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    Two weeks later I jogged up Lava Butte and talked to the lookout in broad daylight. I told her I was sorry if I startled her when I made my climb. She said that she was the one who’d reported me. I told her that from now on I’d jog during the day. She said she would tell the other lookouts that I was a regular. I think she liked me. That was the end of another near miss.
    The whole incident made me decide that if I had to have forced sex, I’d better stick to hookers. They were in no position to blow the whistle. I figured they deserved whatever they got. Most of them were dopers anyway. I picked up two or three and treated them rough—not beating them, but manhandling them, taking hard sex, getting my money’s worth.
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    One night I delivered at Smith Foods in Phoenix and then picked up a hooker with nice titties and hard nipples. After I got her in my sleeper, I wrestled her down and told her to shut up if she knew what was good for her. She panicked and gave up, and I rode her hard for an hour or so before I told her to get lost.
    â€œWhat about my money?” she yelled when she was out of the cab.
    I said, “You weren’t a good-enough fuck. Get outa here!”
    She stepped up on the running board and sprayed me in the face with a can of pepper mace. My lungs caught fire and I was coughing and trying not to vomit. The only thing that saved my eyes was my glasses.
    I drove away fast with my head out the window to dry the stuff off. Now I wasn’t just a killer, I was a rapist. What next? I was good and scared. That pepper spray could have been a gun.
    I decided to make sure of what the next hooker brought into my truck. It was a year and a half since Taunja, but the thought of taking a woman by force was stronger than ever. God help the next gal that gave me