Inside the Mind of a Pedophile

Know

To Protect Your Children, Know.

Inside the Mind of a Pedophile

by Angela B. Chrysler

The year was 1995 and floppy discs, “A” drives, and .DOS were new. AOL had just landed the scene paving the way for something none of us had expected: Online predators. Within five years of opening the cyber doors of “0” and “1” to the populace, warnings flowed in desperate to raise awareness to parents. “Cyber predators are online talking to your children. Know who your children are talking to.” This warning usually followed a list of do’s and don’ts to increase online safety. And my pedophile slipped right through that list and still managed to get to me. I want to tell you how he did it.

Twenty years later—and with a lot of therapy on the topic—I can look back and report. Not from the “Hey remember when” in a fit of nostalgia. I am not a representative of the law telling you how to protect your family. I am not a psychologist telling you how pedophiles destroy a family. I am not a parent sharing my grief after my child was taken. I am the victim. I am the escaped convict of a pedophile. I am the survivor. I was hoodwinked, abused, raped, fooled… and I escaped.

One line runs through my head a lot since last Sunday, “To put your past behind you. To make up for it.” – Morgan Jones

To make up for it.

My suffering was a waste.

To make up for it.

Unless…

To make up for it.

Unless I put it to use and teach others, then this… all of it, would have been for naught.

If I die, if there is one thing I could say to the world, it is this.

Fathers. It isn’t enough to love your daughters. They have to know it. Show them every day. Prove it. That is the best defense against pedophilia. Fathers. End pedophilia. Show your daughters you love them. Every day. Until there isn’t a doubt in their mind. Until there isn’t a doubt in your mind that they know.

Inside the Mind of a Pedophile

 

It was a Saturday. The house was quiet. The sun was shining and the internet was new. It was February ‘96. I was sixteen. I remember the hissing of the dial up. The grating beeps of the land line being hooked up to a microphone—seriously, what dip shit thought up that idea?—that ‘plink’ and ‘Welcome.’ The freeway was open to pedophiles eager to find primed victims at their fingertips.

I remember the day I found mine.

* * *

“Primed?” William asked.

“Yes,” I said. “It takes a certain type of female to be preyed upon. There’s a…requirement. My father, my half-brother, and Joe had done their best to prepare me for mine.”

I popped the cap of another Guinness and downed half the bottle. I savored the beer while I thought for a moment before continuing.

“I need to prepare you,” I said. “I don’t know how to tell this part of my story from the victim’s point of view. To get through this next part, I must tell it the only way I know how and that is to reverse roles. To show you the mind of a pedophile as they see it. Maybe, just maybe, if you know how they think, you’ll be far better prepared than I was and maybe…just maybe, there will be a father who reads this and learns.”

* * *

When selecting your target, you want to move fast.

Online predators have mastered the art of sitting back and scanning a forum for a “target.” They look for females who brag and boast: first sign that the target is insecure. Then they move in and feel her out. They ask about her: what she likes, what she hates. Insecure people often and easily talk about themselves when barely coaxed. Within five minutes, a predator can determine if the target is close to her father or not. You absolutely want a female who has daddy issues because if the “pinch and grab” is to work, the predator must segregate the child from the parent as soon as possible. If the female has a good relationship with her father, this can never happen and the predator knows it. The female with a healthy parental relationship will confide in the father they trust and the father will move in to protect.

The predator must segregate the child from the parent as soon as possible. This is too easy to do when the relationship between child and parent is already weak.

The pedophile does this all while appearing sincere, genuine, loving, and affectionate. They compliment the target. Tell her things…like how smart or how beautiful she is. While they shower her with praise, they reinforce one message. “I accept you. I approve of you.”

In truth, they are literally making notes as to what the target desires, dreams, and wants. They listen and reciprocate. The first three days are crucial for selecting a target. It’s all about trust and earning it fast. Time is of the essence.

“The pedophile does this all while appearing sincere, genuine, loving, and affectionate.

I walked into that room, opened my stupid mouth and in my few boasts, announced to every pedophile there that I was insecure and had daddy issues. Scott messaged me two minutes later to tell me I was beautiful.

He asked my name with such sweet words. And when I replied, he answered, “Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

I was sixteen. No one had called me a woman before. I had never heard a bad pick-up line before. At once, I was putty in his hands and he knew it.

I don’t remember what we talked about. I remember blushing and smiling a lot. We were there only an hour, and he made me feel more loved than I had ever known in my entire life.

“He made me feel more loved than I had ever known in my entire life.”

On day one, you want to select a target and study their wants, loves, hates, and weaknesses. Make an agreement to meet next day, same time, same place. This establishes a sense of dependency with the target.

“He came through for me.”

“I can count on him.”

“He is a man of his word.”

These are the feelings you want to leave her with for day two. Always remember that time is of the essence.

I signed off, smiling like a hyena on morphine. I couldn’t stop smiling. He had me. Already I was willing to give him anything all because he would accept me. I should be so lucky. I was only worth a dollar, after all.

 Already I was willing to give him anything all because he would accept me. I should be so lucky.

Day two. Don’t be prompt. Be earlier than prompt. Take her by surprise and message her with a compliment before she can even check to see if you are a man of your word. Joke and play with her. Use humor and flattery to give her all the attention she craves and will never get from her father.

The next day I woke and ran to him. The grating, the dial up, the cringing, the beep, the “welcome” of that stupid voice. I ran into that room, threw open the cyber doors, and slammed head first into his words.

“Good morning, beautiful.”

And just like that, he had me. I had passed his first test. I would make love to him. I would lick his shoes. I would build him a shrine where he could throw me down and rape me without my even knowing what he was doing.

He played and laughed. We joked. He teased. He led me around by the few remaining pieces of my heart and I willingly, stupidly followed. I was primed for what he would do next.

Use humor and flattery to give her all the attention she craves and will never get from her father.

Once you’ve settled your target into a false sense of security, she’ll have dropped her guard, which will prepare her for the next step. Shake her up, scare her and you’ll have her where you want her. After that, she’ll follow you anywhere. Beneath her boasting and bragging lies an untapped fear of rejection and/or abandonment. Play on that. The moment she is drugged on euphoria for feeling like the center of someone’s world for a change, tell her you have to go. Do it fast, like ripping off a bandage.

She will cling to you, ask for you to stay. She will beg, implore that you to stay. Act uncertain and say little because you have to go. Give her no hope, no words that can sate her current fears. She must be afraid of losing you. Drive the sense of loss through her. Convince her that the only male who ever made her feel valuable is now leaving.

“That acceptance you looked for your whole life? Yeah, it’s walking out the door.”

She will beg you to stay and try to propose the same arrangement, which can become too complacent and you could lose the target before you can snag her.

“Meet me here tomorrow?” she’ll ask.

“Eh… Don’ t know. Maybe. I’m not really on that often,” should be your response.

Scarcity enforces her fear of loss and rejection. Use that. Then ask for her number and if she declines, tell her you have to go. Do so suddenly. This will drive home the lesson that if she does not comply, she will be punished. You will need that later. Reinforce that she will lose you if she doesn’t comply by replying to all her requests with indifference. Be brief. If she presses again, say nothing. Let her think she already lost you.

Drive home the lesson that if she does not comply, she will be punished. You will need that later.

She will break because she finally found the acceptance she has needed. She will cave and give you her number. And when you do, reward her with a smile, a few more minutes of your time, another compliment, then leave—fast, while the relief is still dumping adrenaline in her system.

  I would build him a shrine where he could throw me down and rape me without my even knowing what he was doing.

“I have to go.”

He said the words so suddenly, so quickly, I felt like he ripped out my heart. I felt like I had done something wrong.

“What? Why?”

“I have an appointment.”

Well, he did say he was busy, after all.

“Well, when can I see you again?” I asked.

“Don’t know. I’m not on very often.”

“Well, can we talk tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. I have to go.”

“Well, what about tonight?” I was nearly screaming. I couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t know. I have time to call you if you give me your number, maybe I can find the time.”

I felt sick. I wasn’t allowed to give out my number.

“I can’t,” I said.

“I gotta go. Later.”

“But when?”

“Don’t know.” His tone was cold and indifferent. “Bye.”

“Wait!”

Silence.

“Please!” I implored.

Silence.

“555-856-1742,” I caved.

“Thank you,” he replied and just like that, I could breathe again.

“I think I have time to call in the morning,” he said.

Suddenly he had time to chat? Yeah. I didn’t notice. I was too relieved to see he stayed.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

And just like that, he was gone.

That is how you hook your targets.

Shower with praise and develop a sense of acceptance. Make a request and watch her obey. Punish her with rejection. Reward with approval using gifts and compliments. All of this is impossible if a daughter knows her father loves her, and she isn’t needing the acceptance from others.

You want to keep your daughter safe from a pedophile? Make sure she knows you love her. Accept her for what she is and she’ll open her heart and tell you everything. A father who nurtures the love of a daughter protects her. Mine didn’t.

The phone rang. I looked at the clock. My father was still in bed. It was 7:00. I ran to the phone and answered it before it had a chance to ring again.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Elizabeth?”

“Hi.” I grinned like a fool and I remember nothing after that.

He told me how old he was, but it didn’t matter. I was already head over heels in love for this forty-five year old monster. I was sweet sixteen and eating out of the palm of his hand.

* ~ * ~ *

We spoke every day, for hours. We made plans to meet four weeks later: March of 1996. We spent that month speaking of philosophy and music. By then, I could feel and recognize the fear. I was terrified of getting close to anyone. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew what I was becoming. I felt it only fair to warn him.

“If you hurt me, I will hurt you. If you hurt me, I will run and I will take you down with me.”

My way was simple, I thought. Don’t hurt me. He didn’t quite see things my way.

I screamed, I ranted. He let me talk. He let me ramble on from my soapbox, declaring my threat. And once I had provided him with all the evidence he needed, he tried, judged, and convicted me all while dropping the gauntlet on my sorry ass.

He became so angry. It was the first time I ever saw him angry. It wouldn’t be the last and he punished me by taking the one thing I valued: approval.

“No,” he said, “I will not be coming down tomorrow. I will not make myself vulnerable so you can attack me. I am hanging up this phone right now and you will not speak to me again until you apologize.”

Click and silence.

I sobbed. My hands shook. I cursed myself for what I had done and my hands trembled as I dialed his number.

“S-Sco—”

“Are you calling to apologize!?”

“N-n-no… I—”

Click.

I swear there was a dagger in my chest and he was holding it there, twisting it. I couldn’t see the numbers through my tears.

“S-Sco—”

“Are you calling to apologize?”

“I—”

“Are you calling to apologize.”

“No—”

Click.

I couldn’t stop crying and hated myself. I loved him and I had hurt him. He said so. I dialed the number. My fingers slid over the tears that soaked the buttons.

“Are you calling to apologize?”

“Yes!” I said before he could hang up again.

He listened. And there was my reward.

“Apologize for what?” he asked.

Yes. He was actually walking me through it.

“For arguing, for threatening you,” I said.

“What else?”

“For hurting you.”

“And?”

My mind scrambled. I couldn’t think. What else had I done?

“Goodbye,” he said.

“No, please! For…”

“You don’t know what you did?”

I punched my brow trying to remember what I couldn’t possibly know. I pulled at my hair and I rocked on my knees while I sobbed.

“I cancelled plans to come up to see you,” he said. “I had to rework my entire schedule to make it happen and you pulled this shit!”

“Well, can’t you still come up?”

“No.”

The word slammed the dagger in my chest a little deeper.

“I can’t trust you,” he said. “I don’t know if you can be trusted ever.”

Ever. I could lose him. I held my breath.

“Is there nothing I can do?” I asked.

“I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”

And that is what we did. He rejected me and delayed the trip by two weeks.

That argument was the structure for all of our arguments for the next five years. I would have my say. He would listen like the attorney he was. Collecting data, letting me ramble and dig my own grave until I stopped to sigh with relief from my vent.

He would then ask, “Are you finished?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because now, you’re going to listen to me.”

And his rant would begin. I felt like a murderer on the stand of my own trial and my defense attorney was laying drunk on the floor while the prosecuting attorney ate me alive. I watched my words get chewed up and spit back in my face. I watched my logic get shredded. I was always found guilty. Scolded for hurting him. Scolded for taking from him. For ruining his plans.

“It’s no wonder your father doesn’t love you. Now I am hanging up and you will not speak to me again until you apologize.”

Click.

That cold click. How I would grow to hate more than ever before. Scott would take my hate and refine it until I wallowed in it. Mastered it while I was left to scold myself for having imperfect logic.

Soon, he had me scolding myself. I was playing back his records without his provocation. In his absence, I repeated his lessons.

If only my reasoning was better. If only my argument was more solid. If only…

I was determined to do better. I learned fast how to hold in my vents. How to control the need to talk. I leaned to silence my tongue. I learned self-control like never before.

* * *

Did you see what he did? It’s subtle on the surface, but truly look at the words and the emotions they invoke? He knew exactly what he was doing to me.

“It’s no wonder your father doesn’t love you.”

This reinforced what I already believed: that I was so worthless, not even my father loved me. It also impaled me with fear that I would also lose the little acceptance I was getting from him.  And the, “Now I am hanging up and you will not speak to me again until you apologize.” Was all about control. He learned my rejection and used it against me. “Do as I say or else I will *add your greatest fear*

Now… what would you do? At 16, you bet I complied. Anything to prevent being thrown away again.

Scott arrived at my door six weeks after our initial online meet. The day was planned perfectly. I had played hooky, something I had never done in my life. I had told Elena about Scott and that we were meeting up. She had insisted she call me that day to make sure I was okay.

I wasn’t excited about meeting him. I was nervous and scared shitless. He had insisted I would answer the door naked and would be ripping his clothes off in a matter of moments. He was determined I would be naked and wet on the floor of the living room. He made vulgar, tasteless jokes that made me feel filthy. I was terrified. I had learned to fear men well. I wore a white turtle neck tucked into my jeans. I could not have made it more clear how I was feeling.

The doorbell rang. I felt like throwing up. I considered not answering the door. I considered calling my dad and telling him everything, but the relationship between us had taught me to trust no one. No one would help me. No one ever did. I was alone. I had hoped Elena had told someone. I slowly walked to the door, giving her time to call someone. The doorbell rang again. I wanted to throw up.

I considered calling my dad and telling him everything, but the relationship between us had taught me to trust no one.

Women have a sense about themselves. There are certain vibes they can feel. They just know. It’s survival instinct we were born with and mine was going off like a bean si on coke. I opened the door and my body clamped. Scott stepped through the door, took me up, and kissed me.

He tasted vile. I hated him. Hated us. Hated me. But he was there and I couldn’t go back. He wanted me and that was enough. I should be grateful. He picked me up and carried me to the hall.

“Which one?” he asked and I pointed.

“There.”

He took me to my bedroom. My pink sixteen year old bedroom. He stripped off my clothes and he fucked me. Cold and senseless. By then, I was used to shutting down and letting Joe have his way with me. This was just one more. Perhaps if it ended, it would go away. I shouldn’t be so selfish.

Perhaps if it ended, it would go away. I shouldn’t be so selfish.

My body was young. Already it had been shredded from the abuse endured under Joe. Already I had been beaten by my half-brother and loathed by my father. But this. His body was older. Different. I could feel it. If Joe was a two-by-four that slammed into my body and shredded my skin, his was a mac truck that ripped me apart. His fingernails dug. They scraped and cut me until I bled from the inside. Every time. His mouth always dripped cold saliva into mine. He tasted vile and smelled of every sick thing that he was and I—too desperate to be wanted, too starved for the smallest amount of approval—I let him.

He finished and I smiled. I had mastered the masquerade. He shook my hand, laughing, and said, “Hi. I’m Scott.”

And I laughed with him. I laughed at his sick joke and I couldn’t stop shaking with fear and orgasm.

“Here,” he said and I felt something hit my bed. Confused and curious, I looked over my head and gasped.

Books.

More books than I had ever seen in my life. I gasped and crawled to my knees. I couldn’t breathe. Books galore. Music books, philosophy books. Math books. Geometry. Opera scores, logic. I sobbed and cradled the books. I hugged them to my naked chest and I cried. I smelled them and touched their spines. I remember how violently my fingers shook. I buried my nose in their pages and wept. Never had I ever held so many books in my life. And they were mine. All my very own. The orgasm still riddled my body. It had barely begun to fade. One orgasm ended, but the euphoria was just beginning.

I—too desperate to be wanted, too starved for the smallest amount of approval—I let him.

I had no idea, but the adrenaline from my orgasm, coupled with the euphoria from my books…he was already training my body to respond.

 

End Excerpt

 

This is an excerpt from my new release, Broken. I cleaned up the language some and edited out the more graphic parts. Even if you don’t buy/read Broken, I want people to know this. I want fathers to know.

This is manipulative psychology. My therapist is very adamant that he knew EXACTLY what he was doing to me. He was using known psychological techniques to train and manipulate me. Now here is the sick thing about pedophiles. There are books—real books online that teach people how to do this. It’s a real thing. Pedophiles have psychology on their side. Your child is not only up against an adult. They are up against the science of behavior. Unless you emotionally arm your children, they will lose that fight.

Sex isn’t the danger of a pedophile. A pedophile can learn your child’s fear in a matter of moments and uses it against them. If the child has parental issues, the fear is usually the same for most: Fear of rejection. The pedophile takes a mentally ill child, and uses their condition against them. By doing so, they worsen the illness. That is the true danger of a pedophile.

Part of the pedophile formula is showering the child with gifts. I valued books. The books my pedophile bought me, logic, philosophy, math… they would go on to teach me the tools I needed to get out. Most girls desire dresses, makeup, and concert tickets. They stand less of a chance. It took me five years to out-argue a child-raping attorney and escape using the books he bought me.

I can not emphasize to you enough. I would have told my father if our relationship was better. If I trusted him to protect me.

On a side note: I have since spoken to my father and we have mended our relationship. In hindsight I have learned that he loved me this whole time, and I didn’t know. I didn’t know because my mother spent years telling me my father hated me. And I believed her.

I’ll say again.

Fathers. It isn’t enough that you tell your daughters you love them. Show them. Every day. Don’t ever go to sleep unless you know they know you love them.

 

About the Author

Angela B. Chrysler is a writer, logician, philosopher, and die-hard nerd who studies theology, historical linguistics, music composition, and medieval European history in New York with a dry sense of humor and an unusual sense of sarcasm. Growing up without books, Ms. Chrysler spent her early life reading the encyclopedia for fun. By mid-teens, she gained access to her school library, and began working her way through the Great Books. She spent many an afternoon in an old opera house turned library in the town where she grew up. There, she found her passion for reading and writing through the words of Hugo, Shakespeare, Tennyson, and Poe. She lives in a garden with her family and cats.

https://angelabchrysler.com/

angelabchrysler@yahoo.com

@abchryslerabc

 

About the Author: Angela