Rachel hadn’t fared as well. Daily shooting had scarred her arms and hands terribly; not to mention the terrible acne she developed as a result of all the dope and coke.  Kenny had heard it was an allergic reaction that developed from prolonged use but he wasn’t really sure.  He wasn’t nearly as scarred as Rachel, his wounds concentrated along two nearly identical tracks that ran along the underside of each forearm.  Rachel called him Frankenstein because it gave him the appearance that his arms had been sewn on beneath the elbow.  It was several months before the veins in his arms collapsed, forcing Kenny to look to other parts of his body to inject the dope. Even then, he always drew blood easily.  Rachel resented his veins.  She would spend hours poking around her thin frame, constantly stabbing and missing and cursing in frustration as she stuck a needle into an ever-growing landscape of hardened scar tissue.  She spent nearly as much time trying to get the heroin into her body as she did waiting to score it.  No part of her body was spared, whether it be her neck, behind her knee, or in between her toes.  Sometimes she would just look at Kenny, crying in frustration but always too proud to ask for help.  It was then that he would lay her down and gently slap at her thigh until it turned pink. There was a vein there that he could always tap–a few inches below her pussy next to a tattoo that bore his name.

Yes, the dope had made Kenny better looking, provided you weren’t looking too closely or the room wasn’t lit too brightly.  As Ruby had put it, dope had made Kenny “suitable for fucking” or at least, suitable to get paid for fucking.   Ruby was a pre-op transsexual that worked the meat-packing district.  Rachel met her at an NA meeting–which she attended religiously for reasons Kenny didn’t understand because she had no real desire to quit–and brought Ruby home to get high with them.  She was from San Jose and spoke in a raspy voice with a tempered Mexican accent.  She was very passable, with a demure frame with feminine features.  Ruby wasn’t a shooter, instead she just snorted dope.  She had what you would call a “manageable habit,” only snorting about a bag a day, just enough to keep from getting sick but not too much so as to increase the need.  Kenny had learned that most junkies could not maintain this discipline for long.  A cloudy fucking day could provide an excuse for doing more.  Still, Ruby seemed to have her shit together more than most.

Ruby claimed to make a few hundred dollars a week fucking straight tricks looking for something kinky or getting her dick sucked by closeted, middle-aged married men.   It was enough to pay for her share of rent, clothing, hormones, counseling, and of course, one bag of dope a day.  Kenny never believed that was all she did.  He suspected she got a lot of drugs from her tricks, because she was always carrying.  Rachel, Kenny, and Ruby became fast friends, at least for a while.  Perhaps it was because she was such a novelty to them, but Rachel and Kenny were attracted to Ruby.  The first time Rachel had brought her home to their little studio, they all got high and took turns kissing each other.  They weren’t capable of much more than that at the time.

It was Ruby who suggested that Rachel and Kenny do a “show” together.  She had regulars that would pay to watch them fuck.  Rachel was turned off by the idea. “Gross,” she said.  ”I don’t want some old creep jerking off while he watches us screw.”  Kenny loved the fact that she still used words like “screw.”  Rachel, however, had no problem with Kenny getting paid for sex acts.  In fact, she seemed excited by the idea.  At least, she seemed excited by the thought of steady dope money.  It was agreed, in a huddled conversation between Ruby and Rachel, that Kenny would “turn pro” and Ruby would be his mentor.   Kenny didn’t have much to say in the matter.  To be fair, he didn’t mind.  He too, was excited by the idea, if not a bit nervous.

Back then, the St. Mark’s hotel offered hourly rentals and it was the sort of place that was fine for an hour but dangerous if you hung around any longer than that.  It housed mostly transients and served as a place to “do business” for the hookers and junkies that populated the area between 7th and 10th Street.  The hotel sat adjacent to a punk-rock clothing store called Trash and Vaudevile, above which which Rachel and Kenny rented a tiny studio apartment, carved out of  a two-storey duplex. Their apartment had a small roof deck that looked out on the rear of the hotel, providing a unobstructed view into the rooms.  Before they were junkies, Rachel and Kenny used to get a six-pack of beer and hang out on the deck, smoking menthol cigarettes and rolling joints while they watched the hookers at work .  They would slowly get stoned amidst an endless parade of asses, tits, and bobbing heads. Most of the rooms were poorly lit, save for the glow of a crack pipe or the burning embers of a cigarette. Now, a mere year and a half later, it was the location of my Kenny’s first “trick.”

Ruby knocked on the door unexpectedly, announcing she had a regular next door who wanted her and Kenny to do a show together.  Rachel was in the throws of some serious dope sickness; all sweaty and curled up in a fetal position on their couch.  Kenny wasn’t too far behind her.  He was already starting to get the tingles and his skin was starting to hurt.   He brushed his teeth, as it seemed like the appropriate thing to do, and quickly followed Ruby over to the St. Mark’s.  She had promised him some quick cash in exchange for his participation.

They climbed the stairs to a room on the third floor.  Ruby gave a quick but quiet knock on the door, whispering, “it’s me.”  The door opened a crack.  A large, hairy man peered out at them.  He was wearing a fucking eye-patch.  Kenny would never forget that.  He had grown up with the expectation that only pirates wore eyepatches, not fat, middle-aged men from New Jersey.   Captain Hook looked gave them a disdainful once-over and Kenny thought for a moment that he didn’t recognize Ruby.  Paranoia. Coke-fueled paranoia.   Kenny felt uneasy.

He slowly opened the door so they could enter.  Ruby introduced him to Kenny as Dennis.  He was already naked, except for his eyepatch.  In the yellow light of the hotel room, Dennis gave Kenny a second, more careful look.  He nodded to Ruby as he sat in a chair opposite the bed and began to stroke his flaccid penis.  Ruby brought Kenny over to the bed, which was a mess of tousled gray sheets. Kenny noticed a single, errand pillow sitting on the floor and wondered how it had ended up in that exact spot.  The room smelled of sweat and tobacco.  Seeing that he was nervous, Ruby whispered softly in his ear, “Just relax.  I’ll do all the work.”  She pulled Kenny’s sweater up over my head.  She gently ran her hands over his chest and pinched his nipples playfully.  Ruby leaned over and kissed him, and Kenny began to feel more relaxed.

“I don’t need the fucking foreplay,” barked Dennis.  On the dresser beside him, several lines of coke were layed out. He picked up a rolled, twenty dollar bill and quickly snorted a line; his other hand never leaving his now semi-erect cock.  Ruby quickly got undressed. She had small breasts–the result of hormones, rather than implants–and smooth skin. She had a smallish cock, that was slowly becoming aroused as she pulled off Kenny’s jeans.  ”Suck his dick,” commanded Dennis, now fully erect. Ruby adeptly slipped a condom over the head of Kenny’s penis, using her mouth to unroll it over his shaft.  Kenny thought that was a neat trick.  Ruby was skillful, massaging his balls as she took his cock all the way into her mouth.

“You want to fuck him, don’t you?” asked Dennis, without really asking.  Kenny hesitated.  This wasn’t quite what he had imagined.  Ruby picked up the pillow from the floor and slipped in underneath Kenny’s butt. “Relax,” she said. “I won’t hurt you.”  Ruby placed a condom over her own cock and got a tube of lubricant from her purse.  ”Wait. Don’t fuck him yet. Make him suck you off,” commanded Dennis.   Ruby winked at Kenny as she moved onto the bed and hung her cock over his chin, partially blocking Dennis’s view with her body.  Kenny took her in his hand and guided her dick in his mouth.  It tasted like rubber from the condom.  Still, it had a musky smell to it, very different from pussy.  He could smell a hint of coconut in Ruby’s pubic hair.  As he continued to suck on Ruby’s cock, the smell grew stronger and stronger, until he felt it would overpower him.  Now Dennis was barking orders at Kenny from beneath his eye-patch, like some coked-up, modern-day John Ford. “Beg her to fuck you. You want to be her bitch.”

Ruby pulled back to the edge of the bed and began to apply lubricant to Kenny’s asshole; she slowly pushed a finger inside of him, stretching him out.  She applied more lubricant to her own cock.  Dennis was still barking at him.  Kenny offered an unenthusiastic plea, “Give it to me, Ruby. ” The eyepatch was masturbating furiously now.  Kenny thought he might rip his dick clear off his body.  Ruby whispered to Kenny that he should inhale quickly as she pressed her cock against his asshole.  With only a little discomfort, she was inside of him. “Pound that bitch!” shouted Dennis.  Kenny closed his eyes as Ruby began to jackhammer him.  It hurt a little, but wasn’t so bad.  He wondered if Rachel was on the roof deck of their building, watching them through the window.  Dennis cheered them on, as he came all over the carpet. “You love it , you fucking slut.” Kenny wondered if all of the carpets in the hotel were all caked with semen. Ruby gently withdrew from him.  She handed him some tissues from her purse. “You did good. Clean yourself up.”  Ruby turned and went into the bathroom to wash herself off.

Kenny quickly got dressed.  Dennis ignored him as he snorted another line.  Ruby came out of the bathroom and handed Kenny forty dollars.   She smiled warmly as she whispered, “You should go now.”  Ruby took a seat on Dennis’ lap as he offered her some coke; the perverted John Ford and his mistress.  Kenny left the hotel.  He was feeling very dope sick by now.  He made his way over to 7th and  C and bought two hamburgers and a cheeseburger (two bags of heroin and one bag of coke). On the way home, he stopped in the deli and bought a pack of Salems and a tall bottle of Coca-Cola.  Rachel only liked to drink out of the old-fashioned glass bottles.

Rachel hadn’t been watching from the rooftop. She was too sick to get out of bed. Kenny set up her works for her and helped her find a vein.  Then he cooked up his own bag and shot it home on the first try.  Slowly, he began to feel “even” again.  As their sickness retreated, Kenny curled up on the couch beside Rachel and recounted his first experience in the sex trade. They laughed together as Kenny did his best impersonation of Dennis, then slowly nodded off.

The Roman Polanski scandal raises a lot of issues about the culture of celebrity and how we treat or should treat America’s royalty.  In describing these incidents, I don’t take lightly that much of what has been reported as  ”facts” in recent news reports, was denied by Polanski and has never been tested in a court of law or considered by a jury.  That said, here’s what we know so far:

• In 1977, Polanski gave alcohol to a 13-year old girl, Samantha Geimer, who had been modeling for some topless photographs taken by the director (Polanski admitted this but claimed he did not know she was 13.  Oddly, though, he did request the mother’s permission to photograph her. The mother claims she told him Samantha’s age.)
• Although Geimer claimed Polanski also gave her a qualude, he has denied this.  (He did give a statement that he had discussed qualudes with her but that he did not offer them to her.  Qualudes and photographs of the girl were found in his hotel room.)
• According to Geimer’s grand jury testimony, Polanski performed oral sex on her, then had both vaginal and anal sex with her.  Polanski has admitted that he penetrated her vagina, but pulled out before climaxing. (Semen was found in the victims panties.)
• Geimer testified to the grand jury that she repeatedly asked him to stop.  Polanski claims the sex was consensual and that she was somewhat listless throughout.

What can we conclude from all this?  It seems beyond dispute that Polanski plied a girl with alcohol (and possibly drugs) that he knew or should have known was underage and then fucked her.  This girl was 13, and there was certainly evidence to suggest he knew she was underage, if not her actual age.  This was rape.  Further, if we were to credit the victim’s testimony–that she repeatedly asked Polanski to stop and that he refused–this would be, As Whoopi would put it, “rape-rape.”  (In my book, giving alcohol and qualudes to a 13-year-old eliminates any possibility of consent).

When Polanski was arrested a week or so ago in Switzerland and it was first proposed he may be extradited to the United States, a cry of outrage could be heard from the Hollywood community.  Indeed, many of America’s royalty have signed a petition calling for his release.  Over the past two weeks, I’ve heard many friends and colleagues, perhaps influenced by the celebrity apologists and general lack of information about the underlying circumstances, express sympathy for Polanski and a desire that he be granted leniency.  (I have to admit my initial reaction was sympathetic until I started to learn more about the case.)  The opinions expressed, both explicit and implicit, can best be summed up as follows:

• The Whoopi defense (it was something less than rape);
• Creativity as a mitigating factor (he’s made good movies, so he doesn’t belong in jail with other rapists);
• He’s suffered enough already (Loss of family in Holocaust, Loss of Sharon Tate to the Manson family, and a Life in Exile); and
• The victim doesn’t want him to go to jail and has forgiven him; and
• The prosecutor struck a deal with Polanski for probation and the deal should be honored.

While these opinions are clearly asinine, what’s most disturbing is that they seemed to have gained some traction in the media.

The Whoopi Defense.  Whoopi Goldberg infamously argued on The View that what Polanski had done was something less than rape, that clemency was in order because it wasn’t “rape-rape.”  What’s rape-rape?  Is that like Duran-Duran or cous-cous?  I know things sound better when you say them twice, unless of course, you’re being fucked in the ass against your will.    Whoopi further explained that European culture is more permissive when it comes to sexual relations between an older man and a younger woman, so we should be more understanding of Polanski’s conduct.  Is anyone buying this?  Do the French condone non-consensual sex?  Even if consensual, do they endorse giving alcohol and possibly other drugs to a child in order to obtain consent?  Would Whoopi have made these statements if the rape had been performed by a gym teacher from Orange County?  I think not.

Creativity as a Mitigating Factor.  Hey, Hitler knew how to swing a paint brush, maybe we’ve been too hard on the guy?  Polanski makes movies, that’s all.  He’s made some great ones. (Some terrible ones too–hell, I’d put him in prison just for giving us “The Ninth Gate.”).  Is this a mitigating factor that should influence how we treat him?  It’s not as if he spent his subsequent years raising money for rape victims or became a child advocate.  He spent his years furthering his own career.  This defense is most disturbing because it endorses a double-standard and a class-based penal system.  Celebrities shouldn’t be treated as harshly because they’re sensitive artists or because they are so beloved.

He’s Suffered Enough. I have a lot of sympathy for what happened to Polanski’s family, both in the Holocaust and here in the States, and I can certainly see how that would have put him in a very dark place for many years (perhaps his entire life). That said, Polanski hasn’t exactly been repentant. (In an interview two years later, Polanski complained he wasn’t fairly treated because, and I’m paraphrasing here, everyone wants to fuck young girls.)  Also, amazingly, most Holocaust survivors did not go on to become murderers or rapists and we certainly haven’t excused the ones that did.

Over the years, Polanski and his advocates have complained about his life in exile.  Last I heard he was a French citizen, living in France with a multi-million dollar vacation home in Switzerland.  While at times, I feel exiled in New Jersey, how can a French citizen be exiled to France? Quite a miserable life he’s led, a well-respected film director, cursed to a diet of pastry and rich sauces, and the Sophie’s Choice of having to decide which home to summer in.

The Victim Doesn’t Want Him to Go to Jail. Geimer has stated on more than one occasion that she does not want Polanski to do jail time.  In her view, he has admitted wrongdoing and has been punished enough.  Yesterday, it was further revealed that in 1993, Polanski agreed to pay the victim $500,000 as part of a confidential settlement.  It also appears, however, that he never paid.  Geimer’s position is consistent with her endorsement of the plea deal for Polanski in 1977.  The victim and her mother, expressed the view that they would be satisfied if he admitted wrongdoing and sought psychiatric treatment and wanted to forego a trial in which the then 14-year-old Samantha would have to testify about the incident in open court.

It’s not clear to what extent Geimer’s position is motivated by her belief that Polanski has been sufficiently punished or by her desire not to be in the spotlight once again regarding this incident.  That said, while the victim may be sympathetic to Polanski, we need not be.  If the victim of a crime wanted the perpetrator stoned to death, would we honor that request?  No.  The victim’s wishes are certainly important and should be considered by the sentencing judge but if we really want to honor our “social contract,” the driving factor in criminal sentencing should be the rule of law and judicial determinations.  In our legal system, crimes like rape are viewed as crimes against both the victim and society.  We choose to punish such crimes largely as a deterrent–so that the perpetrator and others will be dissuaded from committing such acts in the future.   What message do we send if celebrity crimes go unpunished while other transgressions receive harsh sentences?

The Original Plea Bargain Should Be Honored. I must admit, I’m somewhat sympathetic to this argument, although it’s deeply troubling that Polanski was offered such a sweet deal in the first place.  There can be little doubt that if it became public today that a child-rapist, who had drugged and sodomized a 13-year-old girl was being given probation instead of a jail sentence, we’d be out in the streets flipping cars and smashing storefront windows.   Why anyone would be okay with Polanski receiving probation for such acts is a mystery to me and says a lot about how we view America’s Royalty.

While Polanski has claimed that he fled the country because he had information that the presiding judge intended to quash the plea deal and sentence him to state prison, the evidence on this should be viewed with some skepticism, coming primarily from a later-recanted statement made by another prosecutor (who was not involved with the case) in a documentary about Polanski that was released a couple of years ago.   All we know is that in 1978, the prosecuting attorney recommended a plea bargain for probation.  Was he influenced by Polanski’s celebrity status and people of influence around him?  Possibly.  Was he influenced by the requests of the victim and her mother that they not be put in a position of testifying about the incident in open court?  Most definitely.  I’m sure he believed he could not make his case without the victim and mother’s cooperation.   That said, a plea deal has to be approved by the Judge.  A Judge always has the power to override the deal if she thinks it’s inappropriate–whether too harsh or too forgiving.  Polanski got on a plane to France before that was determination was ever reached.  It’s hard to make an argument that he should be in a position to enforce a plea deal when he fled the country on the eve of sentencing.  That said, I’d like the confidence of knowing I live under a legal system where court officers are held to their word and that if the prosecutor and victim make a joint recommendation for leniency that this will carry some weight with the court.

It’s not clear that Polanski will be extradited to the United States or in the event his is, whether he’ll spend any significant time in jail.  Indeed, if Polanski had been put on probation in 1978, his subsequent conduct would have been model behavior for any criminal on probation–he went on to have a successful career, a family of his own, and as far as we know, never committed such acts again.  The situation is further complicated by the obvious point that the prosecutors do not appear to have made any serious attempts to extradite Polanski prior to this date, suggesting some other motivation than justice.  In the end, a court will decide the appropriate sentence, undoubtedly considering many of the underlying circumstances described herein.

If we fucked this case up from the start, then so be it.  Unfortunately, we don’t always end up with an appropriate or just result.  Lessons can certainly be learned all around.  But let’s not attempt to justify our mistakes in how this was handled by excusing and minimizing Polanski’s abhorrent behavior. That sends a horrible message to our citizens and to the rest of the world, and is disrespectful and insensitive to the victims of such crimes.

If love truly is going out of fashion forever, which I do not believe,
then along with our nurtured indifference to each other will be an even more
contemptuous indifference to each other’s objects of reverence. I thought it
was Iggy Stooge, you thought it was Joni Mitchell or whoever else seemed to
speak for your own private, entirely circumscribed situation’s many pains
and few ecstasies. We will continue to fragment in this manner, because
solipsism holds all the cards at present: it is a king whose domain engulfs
even Elvis’.  But I guarantee you one thing: WE WILL NEVER AGAIN AGREE ON
ANYTHING AS WE AGREED ON ELVIS. So I won’t bother saying good-bye to his
corpse. I will say good-bye to you.

Thanks to Reverend Timmy  (RevTimmyJames.com) for setting me straight today.  The entirety of the Lester Bangs quote can be seen here: http://bit.ly/1aBshZ