This is not happening to me. This is not happening to me.
This is happening to me.
Like a scratched record playing over and over, those were the only words that went through my head as I felt the weight of his body on top of mine. His alcoholic breath burned my nostrils like toxic waste. He wove his fingers through my hair, tugging hard to expose my neck, which he licked and sucked. I wanted to scream, but as I opened my mouth, the only thing to escape was the small, pained yelp of an animal caught in a trap. He quickly covered my mouth with his own, his fat, wet tongue darting in and out of my barely parted lips. My stomach turned. I thought I was going to be violently ill.
This is happening to me.
How did I get here?
The evening had started out wonderfully. He was so handsome, so sweet, so much fun to be with. We laughed the night away as he charmed my best friends, who seemed very taken with his sharp wit and classic good manners. He was the perfect gentleman.
After dinner at Fleming's Steak House, my best girlfriend whispered in my ear, "This guy's a keeper! Don't do anything to mess this up." I was positively beaming. Not only had he won over my affections, he'd also managed to win over my best pal, and that's no easy task. I made a silent promise to myself that I would follow her advice.
On the drive home I devised my plan. I'd let him kiss me good night at the front door. A sweet, tender kiss that would stay on his mind and have him longing to see me again. I'd be coy, with just a hint of giddiness, not my usual pushy self. I'd use my patented hair flip with a giggle as I put my key in the door, and then I'd turn around slowly, but only once, to watch him walk away and then blow him one last kiss that would hang in the air, silently connecting us until we could be together again.
When he walked me to the door and kissed me good night, I was smiling ear to ear as he promised to call soon to set our next date. My plan was working out perfectly.
I placed the key in the door, and as I turned around for my big move—hair flip, giggle, floating kiss good-bye—I was startled to find that he was still standing behind me.
"Can I use your restroom?" he asked.
I hadn't planned on that, but why not? It was such an innocent request. Why would I say no? Besides, the kids were with their father and his new wife for the weekend. As he used the bathroom in the hallway, I raced into the master bath to check my makeup. I wanted to make sure I was beautiful before he left me for the night. I wanted to stay on his mind.
When I came out of the bathroom, he was there. Sitting on the edge of my bed. Smiling.
"Come here, beautiful lady," he said. I hesitated, but only for a brief moment. Going against my better judgment, I thought I'd give him one last kiss good night before sending him on his way. But before I knew what was happening, he was on top of me.
"Whoa! OK. That's enough," I tried to push him off of me.
He wouldn't budge. "Wait. Stop! Please don't! I don't want ... no ... no," I sputtered. He ignored every word as his hand moved to replace his mouth to stifle my words. I closed my eyes tightly and could feel the hot tears that had been welling up start to run down my face like raindrops on a window pane. The more I tried to cry out in dissent, the harder his hand pushed down on my lips, smearing the lip gloss I'd just touched up in the bathroom. I was paralyzed with fear. Couldn't breathe. My body was defying me; strong, capable arms and legs that wouldn't kick or punch. A voice that had more than once been accused of being too loud, too boisterous, too opinionated, failed to scream out and protest what was happening to me. It had been replaced by a barely audible child's whimper in the darkness of my own bedroom.
As his hips grinded and gyrated roughly against mine, the floodgates opened and suddenly a thousand thoughts coursed through my brain.
Sure, I'd shared my bed with men before him, even written about a few, but they were not like this man. They had been invited. He had manipulated his way into my home, and now he was manipulating his way into my body. My soul. He was trespassing. He was taking what was mine to give, only I didn't want to give it to him.
This is happening to me.
I heard a pop as the strap of the sexy black dress that I had taken such care to select for our evening out suddenly snapped under the weight of his body. My breasts were exposed. As he bit one, I gave out a loud cry. He immediately lifted up his head and looked me dead in the eye. It was only a second or two, but it lasted an eternity as my instincts finally kicked in and I felt sure that the look he gave me said, "Scream again and I will really hurt you."
This is happening to me.
Once again, I was overcome with fear. As he pulled my panties to the side, he whispered in my ear, "You know you want it. Yeah, that's right ..."
That's the last thing I remembered as my body went limp beneath him.
That, and the fact that it was our first date.
As I stood in the shower later that night, I stared down at the drain. The water was so hot it turned my skin a bright pink. It didn't hurt. I was numb. Half of me expected to see my flesh peel off of my bones and go down the drain. The other half hoped that it would. That all of the humiliation and shame I was feeling would go down with it. What had I done to make him think that it would be all right to do that to me?
After my shower, I walked into my kitchen and poured myself a glass of milk. I took a handful of cookies out of the cookie jar and set them on the counter. I stared at them for a while before deciding I couldn't eat anything at that moment. I knew I would hurl.
Then I picked up my portable phone and walked outside. I sat down on my driveway, wrapped cozily in my dingy gray robe. I pulled my knees up and gave myself a big hug as I dialed the number that had become so familiar to me over the past year; the number of my ex-boyfriend. The last man I'd invited to share my bed.
I knew he would be asleep at that hour and wouldn't answer, but that didn't matter. I just needed to hear his voice.
"You have reached Todd, please leave a message after the tone." I hung up and pushed redial. I don't know how many times I did it. Maybe half a dozen, maybe half a million. Until I felt safe, I suppose. Then, when I lacked the strength to hold my head up for even one more second, I pulled myself up and went into my daughter's empty room. I laid down on her princess canopy bed, squeezing her stuffed doggy close to my chest; I curled into a fetal position and cried myself to sleep.
For almost two weeks I floated through my life as though in ... I was going to say "in a dream," but it was a nightmare. I quit my job, stopped writing my column, separated myself from my friends, my children. I totally isolated myself. I only left my house if I had to. When I did, I kept looking over my shoulder. Was that man staring at me? Is he following me out to my car? I trusted no one. It was one of the loneliest times I can remember.
I kept playing it over and over in my head. Wondering why he would do that to me. The answers were always the same: I had accepted the date. I had dressed too sexy. I had talked too flirtatiously.
I had not only allowed him to kiss me, but had initiated it—even after all the wine he'd had with dinner. I allowed him to come into my house. Obviously, I'd had it coming. It was all my fault.
It didn't take long for the shame I felt to turn to anger, then anger to rage as I realized that a series of crimes had been committed. The first and most obvious: I had been raped. And the second and even more humiliating: I let him get away with it.
I had become a statistic, or, rather, one number in a large, terrible group of statistics. According to federal crime statistics, only 16 percent of all rapes are reported. Meanwhile, says the Department of Justice, in America, a woman is raped every two minutes. Almost 70 percent of them are victimized by husbands, boyfriends, other relatives or acquaintances—in other words, people they know. The National Crime Vicimization Survey reports that "intimate partner violence" made up 20 percent of all nonfatal violent crime experienced by women in 2001. An estimated 20 percent of women college students have been forced to have sex.
Like millions of tiny piranha eating away at my soul, my own silence was killing me. And at some point I realized a third heinous crime had yet to be revealed: If I quit, if I let this thing beat me, then I was a loser. Then every life battle I have fought up to this point would have been in vain.
I had to share what had happened to me with someone. I started with my therapist.
"Why didn't you contact the proper authorities?" she asked, compassion on her face.
"I don't know," I said lamely. It's a child's answer.
She said nothing, which I've come to learn means, Oh, you know. It means that that's a cop out of an answer and she was willing to wait for me to dig deep and say what needs to be said.
"I didn't think anyone would believe me," I said finally, tears burning my eyes.
"Why not?" she asked, goading me to go even deeper.
"Because ... I write a damn sex column! I write about my sex life, about masturbation, about a myriad of sexual topics week after week. I was voted ‘Sexiest Las Vegan' by the Las Vegas Weekly's Reader's Choice Awards, I posed in the Weekly topless, using only my hands to cover breasts that are the size of my head!"
What did I expect? Who would believe that I didn't ask for it? That it was just a matter of time? I was crying so hard I could hardly catch my breath.
"I see," she said. "So, because you write stories, stories you are paid to write, about yourself, a single, intelligent, witty woman who has created a sexy persona and who just so happens to have a knockout figure, you deserved to be raped? Interesting. Maybe you're right."
I was shocked. I couldn't believe my ears. I had carried this weight for weeks, and when I finally get up the nerve to talk about it, the person I trust says that? It was one thing for me to think that, but an entirely different thing for her to agree! What was wrong with her? I had said "NO!" and he did it anyway! Doesn't NO! mean NO??? It doesn't matter what a woman is wearing or how she carries herself, when you get right down to the nitty-gritty, it is her divine right to say NO! And NO! does not mean try harder or use your hand to block out her cries, it doesn't mean she's just playing hard to get and that she really means yes.
"Let me ask you something, Sonja. Let's skip ahead 10 years. What if this had happened to your daughter? What if she went out with someone she trusted, and he betrayed her. What if she used some bad judgment and he was in her dorm room and things started to go farther than she wanted them to go and she asked him, pleaded with him to stop? But he had sex with her anyway. Would you tell her that she had it coming? That she should run and hide and carry the burden and the guilt all by herself? Do you honestly believe that by doing those things to yourself you are sending her the right message? What will she learn if you continue? Probably nothing, right? You need to ask yourself if you are actually protecting her by keeping her in the dark and not giving her all the facts to make informed decisions."
Man, she is good. Just the thought made my blood boil.
"Date rape is real, Sonja. It happens to people you know, it happens by people you know. Unfortunately you are not alone in the way you went about handling the situation. It is the most underreported crime committed for the exact reasons you yourself stated.
"Now the way I see it, you have a choice to make. You can keep on running, but you and I both know that no matter how far away you get, there you are. Or you can put your fingers to the keyboard and tell your story. Help other women make better decisions. Help other women to realize that they are not alone if they have already suffered through something similar."
After I spoke with my therapist I began to see things in a new light. I felt empowered. Soon I was able to share my terrible ordeal with my closest friends. They listened with open hearts and compassion. It was through their love and support that I started to heal. Eventually I came to you, my beloved readers. Optimistic that by sharing my experience, strength and hope that I could extend that healing to any of you who have suffered the horrible injustice of rape in any form, whether from someone you know or a stranger. I hope that you too will come to realize that it is not your fault. You are not to blame. You are not alone. There is help if you look for it. And, above and beyond all else, "No" means "NO!"