When I was first living on my own, I dated a fellow I’d met at work. We had dinner maybe 2 times, and after the 3rd date he drove me to his new apartment–which was in a cool old home being renovated (which interested me). We had been at a Halloween party, and I was wearing a gypsy costume. Not sexy. Long skirt. Kerchief. That kind of thing. He pushed me down on the couch and started touching me. I was shocked. He hadn’t even tried to kiss me before that. He began pulling at the layer under my top. I said, ‘That’s a bodysuit, it doesn’t come off.’ He said, ‘so what.’ and pulled it off. I should have said ‘no, no, no, no,’ but I was afraid of him. And that was then, not now. I absolutely did NOT want to have sex with him. I wasn’t even on birth control. And I’d NEVER do that. I just lay there, afraid and not sure how to get away. I did not participate. My body didn’t respond in the least. I didn’t get away. He raped me. I know that now. I think I knew it then too, as I went home and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. I never told anybody for 40 years, until I was traumatized by an incident of abuse at the hands of my now ex-husband…fell apart…was drugged by my wonderful MD…and it all came screaming up out of me. Like vomit. She was horrified, and so was the old friend tending to me. And the guy? The next day when I saw him at work, he said we wouldn’t be seeing each other any longer. After doing that to me. Like it was a big nothing…and for him I think it was a big nothing.
