Donnie Pfaster: Profile of a Fetishist
by Piper Sargasso
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters within belong to CC, 1013
Productions and Twentieth-Century Fox. No infringement is intended.
Summary: “What fuels his need? It’s as if it’s not enough that they’re
dead. He has to defile them. There’s a deeper psychosis at work here.
And anger toward women, possibly his mother. This kind of killer isn’t
made overnight. He’s been fueling this fetish for years.”
Author’s Note: This is a companion piece to “Satin.” Eternal thanks to
the amazing Mimic, the fastest beta in all the land!
Growing up in the Twin Cities, I was the favorite among my sisters.
The baby of the family. Each doted on me endlessly, from my earliest
childhood memories to the day I fell from their grace.
My childhood was wholly unremarkable. I played and went to school,
like any other child, though the children at school teased me
relentlessly, calling me “weirdo”. They would toss bits of their lunch
at me in the cafeteria and steal pencils out of my desk.
Those things were unimportant to me. I always knew I was special.
Other than that, there is little to tell. As I’ve said, it was
unremarkable. Not like now. Now, my life has meaning. Substance. I no
longer crave Mother’s love.
At times I can still hear her demanding, judgmental voice, irritated
and angry with me:
“Donnie, would it kill you to smile once in a while?”
“Donnie, must you always sneak around here like a little spy? I swear,
you’re the strangest child I’ve ever seen. None of your sisters ever
behaved this way!”
Or, when she was drunk on vodka and cranberry juice, her drink of
choice after Father’s death:
“Donald Addie Pfaster, you look at me that way again and I’ll knock
the livin’ hell outta you, do you understand me, young man?”
I’d been on the receiving end of her belt for years, though my sisters
never knew it. They never saw the red welts she strategically placed
on my back and buttocks. *They* were fawned over, treated with love
and compassion. My own father never even found out what Mother did to
me while he was away on business. No one knew of the anger and hatred
that dwelt behind the smiling image of the perfect wife and mother. It
was our little secret. And I was always very good at keeping secrets.
Whenever she flew into a fury, I retreated deep within myself. I
learned to make myself numb, pretending to be Susan or Miranda,
sometimes even Rachael.
My sisters. They were beautiful creatures who accepted me and
generously doled out the love Mother so greedily hoarded. Susan was
the oldest. She married in her early twenties and moved out of the
house. Andrea was the second. Like Susan, she married soon after
college graduation. Miranda went away to Virginia Tech straight out of
high school. We saw very little of her after that. Rachael was the
youngest of the four daughters. She treated me like I was her baby
doll most of the time.
All four of them were the carbon copy of Mother – they looked exactly
like her. All four petted and hugged me constantly, maternal and
treating me as their own. This was my life as a child, the youngest of
a family of women.
It was interesting that, despite their love for me, I found myself
fantasizing about murdering them in their sleep very early on,
savoring their screams while the blood spilled readily from their
bodies onto the sheets. In my mind, I held funerals and graveside
services for my beloved sisters.
By the time I was fifteen, Susan, Andrea and Miranda were out of the
house, living their perspective lives. Rachael attended a community
college while she stayed at home with Mother and I. She took care of
the house while Mother stayed in her room and mourned for my father.
His passing the year before didn’t faze me as it did them. Death is
not something I fear, nor do I shun it. Death is beautiful. It’s a
thing to be preserved and treasured. I envied my father.
Eventually, I found a way to make myself happy, to fill in the void
Mother created in my heart, despite the love of my sisters. It was
just the three of us at that point and though Rachael was kind, Mother
still made her hatred toward me very clear.
One night, I snuck into Rachael’s room while she was away at classes
and rifled through her closets. She had the most stunning dresses of
all my sisters, but wasn’t quite tall enough to have the appropriate
sizes for me. I was discouraged and nearly gave up on the whole idea
when I remembered the unwanted clothes Susan had left behind in her
closet. My search produced a lovely green dress with ruffles and
sequins. I dressed hastily and returned to Rachael’s room.
Her vanity was filled with trinkets and tidbits of interest. I sifted
through a wicker basket of makeup she had there and chose my colors
carefully, recalling all the times I’d spent watching my older
siblings apply their makeup in preparation for a date or other event.
They’d satisfied my curiosity with their teasing answers to my
questions, unknowingly preparing me for that moment.
Once I was comfortably seated, I began a ritual that would fill my
nights for the next few years. I first used a cotton ball and a witch
hazel solution to cleanse my skin of impurities. Next, I smoothed on a
moisturizer, which made my skin soft and smooth. The trickiest part
was the foundation, which had to be applied heavily over the area
where a beard was trying to grow in. I shaved three times a day in
order to keep the whiskers at bay, leaving tiny red bumps wherever the
blade went. These had to be covered.
The eye makeup wasn’t so tricky. I became skilled at using the little
brushes and applicators and a genius when wielding my eyeliner. It
paved the way for the cosmetology classes I took later in life.
The lipstick was my favorite part. With it, I was able to create
pouty, sensuous lips. It truly transformed me. I completed my look
with jewelry and pantyhose, though none of the shoes there fit my
large feet. Then, I would stand up and admire my handiwork before the
full-length, standing mirror. I was beautiful.
Everything would be removed and put away before Rachael returned.
This was my little secret. No one else knew.
I once overheard Aunt Alice and Grandmother speaking in hushed tones
in our living room. I was seventeen, ready to graduate high school.
That was the day I found out who I really was – and why Mother hated
I was the product of a rape. Mother had been late one evening from a
bridge club meeting. Walking on her way home, a man jumped from behind
a parked car and attacked her. Grandmother shook her head and
commented that Mother had not been the same since.
I was intrigued. Who was my real father? What events in his life had
led him to attack Mother? It also explained the hatred Mother afforded
me. Would I have felt the same, were it me? I suppose I should’ve been
horrified by the discovery. Instead, I was fascinated.
As a young adult, I discovered a need like no other. I became
entranced with women, feeling urges unlike any I’d ever known.
Sometimes, on a bus or standing in line behind a beautiful young
woman, I felt the overwhelming desire to reach out and touch her hair.
The sight of a woman running long, perfectly manicured nails through
her hair was sometimes so erotic, I would spill into my pants. I’d
never been with a woman, but I was sure this was better than
intercourse could ever be.
Soon, all I wanted was to have some of that feeling for myself, to
reach out and touch any time I pleased. I began to fantasize not about
my sister’s deaths anymore, but about cutting thick locks away and
hoarding them in my house. I imagined what a pair of scissors would
feel like in my hand, the weight of them and what sound they would
make as they sliced through full and shiny tresses.
I found it was controllable. After graduating from cosmetology school,
I began working in a salon, loving the daily exposure to the different
colors and textures of women’s hair. It was heavenly.
Some nights, I would dress in the prettiest ensembles I could find in
my size, taking great care with my makeup and wigs. They were made of
the clippings I’d procured at the salon and woven by myself. I loved
to parade around at a local drag club in my new hair, but I never
spoke to anyone. I never took a lover. Those things didn’t interest
me. I wanted only to be seen, to show off my beauty. When I was found
out by a friend of the family, my sisters and Mother never spoke to me
again. I think they were afraid. I quit dressing up soon after – it no
longer held the satisfaction I desired.
As I grew older, my fondness of the dead became an obsession. I
yearned to touch the cold skin and comb their hair with my fingers.
Sometimes, I even imagined making love to them. They would be so
giving, so caring – if I made a mistake, they would patiently wait for
me to correct the problem. I couldn’t dream of a better introduction
After an unfortunate encounter with my boss at the salon, I was forced
to find employment elsewhere. An ad in the newspaper for an assistant
at Janelli-Heller Funeral Home captured my attention. Within a week, I
Watching the mourners weep for their lost loved ones was exhilarating.
I soon realized I couldn’t deny myself any longer. The dizzying urge
to snip locks of hair from the pretty corpses became too great for me.
It was what I’d always dreamed of, what I’d always wanted, but never
knew until then – the hair of the dead. The beautiful dead.
It amazed me that the texture never changed, a stark contrast to the
stiff and cold skin. I found myself obsessed with the prospect of
death, of its perfection. People would sob and cry for the loss of a
young woman, berating God and declaring the injustice of a life with
such potential being cut short.
I, however, reveled in it, eager to assist in the process of
preservation. I would let my touches linger over their breasts as I
buttoned their blouses sometimes and loved to run my hands over their
nude bodies. Their nipples were always in a state of arousal. This
fascinated me. I trembled as I applied the makeup and combed slowly
through their hair, alone in the room after the embalming. I wanted to
make it last, to savor every second of our time together and commit it
to memory. It was enough to last me until the final closing of the
casket where I would finally take what was mine.
Not even the autopsy cases bothered me or kept me from deriving my
pleasure from their cold, but giving bodies. One of my fondest
memories is of a beautiful brunette who’d arrived late in the day. I
ran my hands lightly over her stomach, up to her firm breasts and
across her stiff nipples. The Y-incision left on her delicate belly
and chest was so pretty. I found myself unable to resist licking the
puckered flesh around the sturdy thread holding her together. I smile
every time I think about it.
Mr. Toews never knew that I stole into the lower rooms of the funeral
home and collected my treasures. I stuffed a pillowcase with luxurious
hair of all colors, which I slept on every night. Every attractive
young woman that had passed through our doors contributed to my
collection. In the quiet solitude of my bedroom each night, I would
rest my head atop my soft pillow and pull out the Ziploc bag filled
with the excess hair I’d gathered. I would reach inside, rolling the
silkiness between my fingers and rub it across my face and bare chest
as I touched myself.
When I was caught at the funeral home, I was still high on the
adrenaline rush of a conquest achieved. I had what I wanted from that
place. However, I quickly realized my mistake. Soon, I was forced to
resort to grave digging to satisfy my urges. It just wasn’t enough. I
One morning, I went out to get the paper and saw an article warning of
a possible stalker in the area in the corner of the front page. It
cautioned women to be careful and listed several safety tips and
defense mechanisms, urging them to be aware of their surroundings.
That made me smile.
It also gave me an idea. What if I were to create my own bodies? They
would be fresh and I could take my time with them, rather than having
to rush around for half-decayed tidbits. A plan formed in my mind. I
would seek out the easiest, most available donors, as I liked to think
of them, and harvest from them what I needed.
The thought was exciting. Now that my supply had been cut off, thanks
to an unexpected, late arrival by Mr. Toews, I had to find a new
Driving down the streets of downtown Minneapolis, I found exactly what
I was looking for. A row of prostitutes lined the sidewalk next to an
abandoned building. All were vying for my attention, but only one
caught my eye – an angel in black, with her golden tresses falling
delicately over her shoulders and down her arms.
I liked blondes. I loved the way the light glinted off of each strand
and shone brightly in the sun.
She complained about the apartment being cold, but I thought the
temperature was quite lovely. I liked it cold. It enhanced the mood.
It was unfortunate that Marilyn at Ficicello’s chose that particular
moment to call me. It forced me to take drastic measures, depriving me
of my fantasy. Instead of taking her life in the tub, as I had so
desperately wanted to, I had to chase after her. I dragged her into
the kitchen by her hair and pulled the butcher knife from the block
where it rested, then yanked her back into the bathroom. She fought,
but weakly and in vain. I shoved the knife into her stomach, to the
hilt, and pulled forcibly upward, causing some of her entrails to peek
out from behind the splayed wound.
She took her bath then.
I refused to be discouraged by the change of plan, instead deciding to
make the best of it. I toweled her body off and blow-dried her satiny
hair, then laid her gently upon my bed. The bed was chosen
specifically for it’s wrought-iron handiwork, which reminded me of the
cemetery’s gothic fences surrounding our large family plot. I liked to
imagine I was lying atop that plot when I was alone in the dark with
my bundle of hair. Beautifully decayed funeral sprays decorated the
room, borrowed from the dumpster of a nearby cemetery.
She was perfect.
I took some of her fingers with a wire-cutter and carefully extracted
the nails of her remaining fingers with a pair of needle-nosed pliers.
The biggest chunk of the time was spent trimming away her gorgeous
Once I was finished with her, I dumped her near where she worked. The
dogs could have her for all I cared. I had what I wanted.
On my new job for Ficicello’s, I stumbled upon something wonderful.
Lisa Brumfield was so like my sisters and her mother was so trusting,
telling a complete stranger about their lax security habits. I
collected a wad of brown hair out of their wastebasket, giving myself
an appetizer to hold me over until the main course was available.
If it weren’t for Claire, I would be sampling that main course now,
rather than sitting in this jail cell, staring uselessly at the four
walls. Her hair was too short for my liking anyway. What I really
craved were those perfect, pink fingernails of hers. I’m angry with
myself for being so careless as to get caught.
She was so pretty, sitting in that classroom. I knew I had to have her
as soon as I saw those manicured nails scrape lightly beneath her
cropped, blond hair. It was a shame that I startled her. She had
campus security on me before I knew what was happening.
But all these thoughts are swept away as soon as I see her. She’s a
vision, a portrait of perfection in her serious business suit and
glowing red hair. A lawyer? No, lawyers don’t travel in such large
I hear the tall man identify himself as FBI. So she’s an agent? That’s
fine with me. I don’t discriminate when it comes to my donors.
The deep auburn of her shiny hair refracts the light, creating a dance
of colorful prisms in the dull jail. I am mesmerized by this. Never
before have I encountered such a rich and glossy shade of red. The
clippings I have at home are either too red, too blonde or chemically
enhanced. Not her. She’s natural. I can tell.
I want her to come closer so I can touch it, feel the texture and
weight of it in my hands. I want to bury my nose in it and inhale the
fragrance deeply. She’s so very beautiful.
I want her.