First and foremost, regarding the title, I initially had NO intention of ever working with any pedophile of any age. I didn’t mean to. I know that sounds really shallow (or honest, actually) but the story of what drove me to the human service field (long version of said story here) was my idealistic intentions to help male adolescents dealing with depression and mental issues. One Associate’s degree later and I find myself in working 60 plus hours a week in one of the most famous (infamous) group homes in the entire country.

I will not say the name of the place because confidentiality and such, but I will say this, loud and clear as possible. Yes, it was exhausting and daunting work and I did it for way too long and it took something from my soul I will NEVER get back. But what I can tell you and what may surprise you here is, I learned as much from them as they did from me. Not about the pedophile thing–that was all them. I mean about the inhuman victims buried within those monsters. And if ruining my soul and taking 20 years off my life from the stress (seriously, my hair turned mostly gray while working there, in my early 30’s), but if that means one of YOUR children didn’t or doesn’t get molested down the line, I am incredibly fucking proud of the work I did, and know I helped better the world.

Now what it did to me? Well, that is little more scarring. I don’t care who you are, if you are not some porno creep and you walk in on two minors fucking, it tends to do something rotten to your soul you can never fix, even if in the process, you are still fixing them. The real question for me at the end of my grueling, soul sucking days was, who is fixing us (as in staff) after this shit? The stuff we saw, which you will hear about, is enough to make most people drive screw drivers into their eyes and ears just to shut out the world, and that is what drove many of us in that exact position to seek out other means of income.

I write now, but at least I have some damn interesting stories to tell as a result of my time there. This is one hell of a ride so buckle in and make sure you have a vomit bag nearby, as some of this gets really nasty in between all the miracles we performed.

First Off, The Inevitable “WHY” That You Are All Asking Yourself

Remy, why did you work with pedophiles? That is, literally, a sect of society that most (as in 99%) of the world would ignore or hide way from or be too disgusted to be close enough to without killing? This is where the fine print of my field of work kicked in. I wanted to work in human services field, helping young teenage boys who were coping with rage issues or depression or whatever else ails young boys. This is because I could not save my best friend after high school when he killed himself, and I didn’t want anyone going through that if it could be avoided. Rule number one, never go into human services to fix something that was broken in your own life. You only end up taking on more broken and it helps no one in the long run.

But I didn’t know that back then. I was wide-eyed, right out of college, and a still little naive (even though I went to college later in life than most). I wanted to be Superman without the fucking cape. Little did I know that was not the right job for that. I learned that my first week when I kid tried to stab me in the neck with a pencil. A kid that I went on to become quite close with, actually. But don’t let me get ahead of myself here. There is a timeline here that will help make this story more coherent for you.

The Timelines of Doom

Friend kills self. Remy feels powerless. Remy then decides to work with other younger men to prevent what happened to his friend from happening to someone else. Does great in program, so school helps to place him in group home with internship. It was only once I was there that I was taught the fine print of the establishment. We help fix children pedophiles. Kids who rape even younger kids. Yes, that is a thing. I am now going to give you a minute to collect your bearings before you move on.

You’ll need it, trust me. Walk away and get a coffee or beer before you read on.

But I Chose to Stay, Right?

Yes, and there as a very specific reason for it. These kids needed help, and getting to them while they’re young is their ONE chance for them at not becoming that person, fully. Which also prevents future rapes, which is a pretty huge thing to know you may have accomplished. If I saved one young girl or boy from being assaulted sexually in the future, there is nothing more I can ask for. Also, what I learned quickly was every single one of these kids who did this act (on a younger kid) had it happen to them usually from a parent (Mom’s new boyfriend was a big one too.

Careful who you bring home, people. So at 12, when they mirror that behavior, they are just doing what they see as giving affection because that is how THEY got affection. Am I undermining the sickness of the disease of pedophilia?  No, not at all. But I am telling you why I didn’t leave. I couldn’t. These kids were fucked and they needed someone who understood that. At times, though I worked with some amazing souls. I felt like that was my job to save them (or at least to save society from THEM).

Also, these were kids. You need to understand that. You could see they were broken and the best of them fought it. The worst of them, on the other hand…

The Horrors I Have Seen

I have watched every horror movie ever made. Hell, I am semi-internet famous for that sorta thing. But please, let it be known. Nothing in the world that I had ever seen or read, fiction or otherwise, could prepare me for some of the things I witnessed, walked in on, and straight up had to stop. These kids were diseased as a result of living in squalor and sexual abuse. On top of that, they were all dual diagnosed. This means they were all mentally retarded and had psychological problems as well (from bipolar to schizophrenia), and then you add the pedophilia thing and you can see why this was no normal job. This was like telling someone you wanted to drive go-karts for a living and then being pushed into a Formula 1 car and told nothing more than “good luck.” I went from 0-100 in two seconds flat in the field of human services with no instruction manuals when I was handed the wheel.

But the truth is, unlike adults who perform these inexcusable act, we were all coming in at the ground floor, so all of us at that job (and I am close with people who are STILL there) genuinely believed we were going to help these kids. Did we? We got through to some of them, yes, and the feeling of pride you come home with for your job on days like that is beyond description. A kid gets released into an independent living house, gets a job, and calls two weeks after they “graduated” to thank you. It may seem small to someone on the outside, but that is about the best phone call you can get. BUT (and there is always a but when it comes to these kids because they were predisposed to putting things inside other’s butts) the longer we worked there, the more we realized the reality of it all.

For every one kid we helped, five would leave (because the state would kick them out once they hit 21, as it was all privately funded) and end up in jail or dead within a year. No joke. Yes, I just told you of a state that pushes pedophiles back onto the street, unrehabilitated. Your state does this too, believe it or not. This is not an uncommon process. This happens countrywide in this field. Business is business, and as much as I would love to tell you the weird ass old couple who ran the place were altruistic, I don’t believe that for a second. They had kids sleeping in bed bugs at one point, (which employees contacted the state about and the state did NOTHING) but the owner of the company was driving into work in a fucking Rolls Royce for christsakes. Shows where his heart (and the bitter cold, worm filled, black heart of his fetid wife) lay.

In making bank and paying us barely eleven dollars an hour for a job that took parts of the soul it never gave back.

Did I Mention Pretty Young Women Took This Job, Too?

Wait, what? Yes. Now I know what you are thinking. Should Pretty woman not get that job? YES, if they any sense of self preservation and respect, no matter how altruistic they are, no woman in her right mind should work with overly sexualized boys who solely know perversion as their only lifestyle. Guess who the kids would attack if they got sexually frustrated?

By the way, in this case, attack can mean anything from grabbing a staff’s vagina (which I saw) to a kid straight up punching a woman out. Not sure if you have ever seen a man (or any male for that matter) ever punch a woman unconscious but fighting your urge to kill that kid in that moment was PART OF OUR FUCKING JOB, and it was hard.

That is when we would get in restraints.

What is a restraint? Peep the video below for the best answer to that question. And the longest restraint I was ever in was close to three hours long, whole time, full on wrestling as this kid tries to bite your face or rip off your dick. Yeah, we had an average of 250 of those one year, so out of 300 day work year, those are some spectacularly shitty odds. You would drive into work every day (hour ride each way) with a frog in your throat and a coal of anxiety burning deep in your guts.


I won’t even tell you the story about the pregnant girl who chose to keep working even though she was almost to term and then got caught in the corner by one of the most disturbed kids we had while he repeatedly punched her in the unborn baby. Luckily, it was me and four other staff there to save her (and her baby’s) life, of which we did both.

The attacker, on the other hand, did not fare so well. Craziest part is, the restraint was going so intensely with this kid (the kid was all strength, madness, and a killer) that, at one point, one of us hit the floor so hard the light bulb in the room shattered and we had to battle this kid in pitch blackness. No fucking joke, I have yet to see a horror movie convey HALF OF THE HORROR OF THAT MOMENT, and this real fucking life.

Again, not sure if you have ever tried to dodge a human bite in the pitch black, but when I say it was a living hell at times, I am not over exaggerating. He was trying to kill an unborn baby and then us, in pitch black.

If you have had a scarier scenario than that in your life, you are in my prayers even though I don’t pray (because when you see the shit we saw, God is all but dead in your life after that).

Lives Saved for Lives Ruined

So here are just a few of the things I saw at this particular job across six years:


Boys inserting coat hanger tips and folded paper clips into their urethra

Boys pulling out their dicks in group therapy for no reason.

Too many odd things shoved in assholes to even speak of

A (naive, weird, and creepy) group therapist took two kids outside, and we told her not to. We told her one of the kids (older) was our worst predator and even with her outside, he would molest the other (younger) one. She didn’t listen, took them out by her herself, and the younger kid got molested. How she didn’t lose her job is still fucking beyond me. There was a therapist right before her let go too because of an inappropriate relationship with one of the boys (and a female supervisor lost her job for screwing one of them, even though she was married with a child and the kid was a pedophile. Suffice it to say, some staff were more fucked than kids, Literally and otherwise.

I caught one kid trying to “skin” his cock. (Same kid who attacked preggo earlier) and when I called him out, he said, in a monotone voice: And when I am done doing this, I am going to kill you. I won’t even tell you how that story ended, but I am still here, right? He isn’t. He is dead. Don’t worry, I didn’t kill him. His parents did once the state pushed him back on to the streets. They let him catch pneumonia and die, which was probably a smart choice as he had told us all he was going to “bury his Mom under her favorite tree on Mother’s Day”, and his mother was very much alive, so we all knew what he meant. When we heard about his death, no one was shocked, as sad as that is to say about any child.

Boys molesting one another (once at a church during a Christmas mass, under the hymnal book while we were all singing about Jesus’ birthday. There was a second coming happening but it was not of Christ, make no mistakes. Pretty sure Oh Come All Ye Faithful was playing, just to make it extra unsettling).

A kid makes giant, water filled ben wah balls with a Glad trash bag. He came out of the bathroom, and a long trail of thuds revealed this as his giant anal beads fell out of his ass and broke open upon on the floor, spilling ass juice and water everywhere. For the truly morbidly curious, he would get a trash bag, fill it with a little water, tie it off in water filled sections with thin spaces in between, lengthen it, and do it again. He would then insert the whole trash bag up his ass with the water sections being the proverbial ben wah balls. Keep in mind this was a kid who couldn’t spell his own name but knew how to make the craftiest ben wah balls this side of prison.

And thankfully, I just left shift minutes before one of our most “intense” kids took a steaming shit on the floor and proceeded to eat it until he was tackled by staff in Hazmat suits.

And the funniest (saddest) part in all this is, I just mentioned the span of months. TWO MONTHS OUT OF SIX YEARS, which is exactly why this piece is titled part one. Because this is just the genesis, people. A chapter in my life SO insane, even I would not believe it if you told me it in 30 years. So I am just writing all the real stuff now so down the road when I forget how to wipe my own ass, I will still be able to read this and know, for a small moment in time there, I helped save lives and kept people safe, even though it sorta ruined me as a person.

Really, once you see a kid rape another kid, I decided I no longer wanted children. Not because I am utterly convinced my kid would get molested. But more so, because I KNOW if something like that happened to my kid, whether a kid did it or not, I would kill them. With my bare hands, no less.

But there was a time. A time when all I wanted to do was save them. But who was I kidding, I was there with slash scars on my wrist under my long sleeve shirt, I could barely save myself at that point….

End of Part One