This article is my personal response to public reporting. The original headline is preserved for accuracy. The voice is mine.
“Sex pest.”
It’s a phrase designed to humiliate—short, sharp, and unforgiving.
You don’t recover from a label like that. You don’t explain your way out of it.
It sticks. And once it’s out there, it becomes who you are to everyone who doesn’t want to know anything more.
That headline was everywhere.
Shared in group chats.
Quoted in angry comments.
Used as a punchline by people who never met me and never will.
But here’s what they didn’t write.
The woman they’re talking about was someone I had loved.
We were together for seven years. We had a life. A history.
When it ended, I didn’t cope well. That’s putting it mildly.
After the Wonka event fell apart and my name became a national joke, I lost everything in a matter of days.
My job. My home. My sense of who I was.
And in the middle of that collapse, I started messaging her.
The communication wasn’t one-sided. There were replies. Bits of back-and-forth. It wasn’t stalking.
But it was unhealthy.
I sent her messages that were inappropriate. Sexual. Emotional. Desperate.
I sent photos of myself in my underwear. A strip tease. A more explicit image.
I used pet names we used to share—“sweet cheeks,” “little charmer.”
I said things like “I am a wolf, and you are my prey.”
The next message said, “I will win you back.”
None of this is meant to excuse what I did.
It’s meant to explain it.
Because the headline makes it sound like I was hunting someone down.
I wasn’t. I was trying—badly—to hold on to something that had already ended.
The court gave me a sentence.
I accepted it. I didn’t fight it. I didn’t run from it.
I completed my community service. I’m under supervision. I’m on the register.
But the word “sex pest” doesn’t reflect what actually happened.
It’s a tabloid label. And I understand why they use it—it’s simple, brutal, and it sells.
But what it ignores is everything else.
That I was living out of bags.
That I was barely eating.
That I was drinking too much and thinking too dark.
That I wasn’t well.
That I never once threatened her, followed her, or contacted anyone else.
It ignores the fact that I was, simply, falling apart.
If you want to judge me for what I did, you’re right to.
I crossed a line.
But don’t judge me for the headline.
Judge me for the whole story—or don’t judge me at all.
This is part of my life now. I won’t run from it.
But I won’t be reduced to a tabloid caricature either.
This is my voice.
This is my truth.
This is what they got wrong.
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