Legal Disclaimer: The following content reflects personal memories and narrative reconstruction. All names have been changed, and identifying details have been altered to protect the privacy of individuals. Some events have been anonymized or fictionalized to comply with ethical and legal obligations. This work is presented as a personal memoir and not as an admission or accusation of criminal behavior. References to illegal activity are made in service of historical accuracy, self-reflection, and trauma processing, in accordance with protections afforded to victims and whistleblowers under U.S. Title 18 § 2258A, 42 U.S. Code § 13031, and related state-level statutes.

Higher Education

Through Fred W, I had been taking classes at UVA for some time. He was a professor of computer science—specifically infrastructure and networking.

I learned all the math he taught me: higher-order concepts, theoretical and linear algebra, and lambda calculus. He taught me that all good programming could be distilled into proofs.

I learned C inside and out, then moved on to C++, and then Java. He taught me assembly. He taught me how route-finding algorithms worked, and the foundations of signal processing.

I was also taking night classes at the community college for other interests. Eastern philosophy was one of my favorite classes there.

Fred helped me start preparing and sending out college applications during my freshman year of high school. By my sophomore year, I’d received several scholarships.

My school of choice was MIT, and they were offering a full ride. So were Stanford and Virginia Tech—and, of course, UVA.

“We can’t let you go to MIT,” my mother said when I showed her the acceptance letter.
“It’s too far. Who’s going to pick up your brothers and sister after school? Who’s going to pay for you to live up there? I can’t live without you close.”

It sucked. She wouldn’t sign off on letting me go.

“Full scholarship, Mom. They’ll pay me to live up there. They’re even giving me a stipend for food and books and everything I could need.”

“No.”

She wouldn’t budge.

“You can go to UVA,” she said. She had already decided.
“You have to still live at home. Someone needs to take care of the other kids.”

I was devastated, but there wasn’t much I could do. I had just turned 15. I had my provisional driver’s license, but I couldn’t sign college paperwork on my own—I was still a minor.

So I made the best of it and enrolled in my first semester at UVA. It overlapped with my second semester as a high school sophomore. The high school let me reduce my class load to just Japanese and Latin, which I continued via correspondence.

At UVA, when I sat down with an advisor and reviewed my coursework, we agreed I already knew the computer engineering material well enough that I’d likely be bored.

“I want to build flying cars when I grow up,” I said.

She laughed—then realized I was serious.

UVA had an aerospace engineering program. I enrolled. I also added coursework in mechanical and electrical engineering, since they all shared a core math foundation.

I found every excuse I could to avoid helping my mother with the other kids. I was adamant: I didn’t want children, and I especially didn’t want to raise hers.

Every time I said I didn’t want kids, which had been happening since my sister was born, my mother would say I did. Or that I’d change my mind.

It was outright gaslighting. So I did the only thing I could: I avoided home as much as possible.

I joined late-night study groups and crashed in the dorm rooms of the friends I was making. Most knew how young I was, and while there were a few other kids who were 16 or 17, most of my classmates were 19–21. I was already taking 300-level classes.

The only day I saw my family was Thursday, and that was only because I had to show up at the high school for my correspondence classes.

It was brutal—but for the first time in my life, I had to study. Really study. I finally found classes that challenged me. I loved it. I maintained a 3.9 GPA over the first three semesters, averaging 25 credits per semester.

During that third semester, I started hanging out with this guy Todd. He was a political science/econ major, the boyfriend of the roommate of the girlfriend I was unofficially bunking with.

“Ever thought of building a porn site?” he asked one evening, while we were all taking bong rips.

I laughed. Angie, my girlfriend, laughed. Todd’s girlfriend Amber rolled her eyes.

“Not this again,” she muttered.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ve thought about it.”

“We should build one.”

“It’s going to cost more money than I have,” I said. “We need servers, cameras, and models. Not to mention a domain name. Those are $100 to register.”

“I’ll fund it,” he said.
“I’ve already got the domain name—coedteens.com. A porn site to see college girls.”

Angie passed the bong back to me, and I took another hit.

“And where are we getting models?” I asked.

Angie surprised me: she volunteered.

Todd looked at Amber, clearly expecting her to follow.

“No,” she said, rolling her eyes again.

He opened his mouth, but Angie cut him off before he could say a word.

“Don’t you dare be rude,” she said, blowing ditch-weed smoke in his face.

We spent the rest of that semester building the site. Todd’s family had money, and true to his word, he funded the whole thing.

We paid the girls $100 per photo shoot. Angie and I did most of the photography.

Eventually, we had to bar Todd from participating. The models kept complaining about him—he was creepy. He always wanted them to do really nasty shit.

I followed Angie’s lead. She brought most of the women in for the shoots.

Eventually, the whole thing came crashing down.

At the start of my fifth semester, I was called into the dean’s office.

He said they had proof I was the mastermind behind a porn site depicting students from UVA.

I kept my mouth shut. I’d played this game before.

“Prove it,” I said—and walked out.

Turns out, he couldn’t. But that didn’t matter.

The fallout landed me an expulsion for violating the honor code.

“Behavior unbecoming of a student,” the letter said.

Later, I learned Todd was the one who ratted. He was pissed that Angie and I cut him out of the shoots.

He went on to be part of topless spring break porn.

Eventually, he was convicted for producing child pornography.