When I was 19 years old, I was date raped in a car at the drive-in by a man I had seen only once before. That year, Kurt Cobain had died. The movie on the big screen had been Mrs. Doubtfire. 1994.
We had met through the personal ads in the newspaper. He was 22, and nice looking. He had his own apartment, which I was impressed with.
We talked on the phone for at least 3 months before meeting, mostly because he lived on the east side, and I on the west. It was hard coordinating schedules, but it gave me some time to get to know him a little beforehand. I had told him that he had a cute voice, and it became a personal joke between us. I always enjoyed our conversations, which came without warning. I was always in and out back then, dating other guys, so I hadn’t taken the relationship that seriously.
On our first date, he brought me a dozen roses, interlaced with baby’s breath. Being the first time I was ever given flowers, I started getting emotional in the McDonald’s parking lot we had agreed to meet at. When I half-jokingly said that I was ready to start crying, he had given me a dark look. “Please don’t,” he had said coldly, ” I hate it when girls cry.” I laughed at him, trying not to show my surprise by his odd statement, shrugging it off.
The first date went well enough from then on. A couple of weeks later, he asked me about the drive-in here on my side of town. We made plans for the following Saturday night.
My two girlfriends were concerned when I told them about my upcoming drive-in date. I reassured them that it was perfectly fine, because I knew this guy. He wasn’t like that, I had swore, he barely kissed me on the first date. They still didn’t approve, but I was naively sure of my safety.
Things get sketchy once he pushed me down on his front seat. I did tell him to stop, and he didn’t. I tried to struggle away from him, but he was 6′ 2″ and weighed 220 pounds, according to his ad. I was no match for his strength. He kept telling me that it was okay, and I’m not sure if he was trying to make me believe it, or himself. He seemed nervous the entire time, like he knew he was doing something wrong. I had tried to make eye contact with him, but he hadn’t been paying attention to my face.
I begged him to use a condom, and by some miracle, he stopped himself from invading me long enough to put one on.
I haven’t told my therapist about this, because she will want to tinker with it. I don’t want to draw out this particular demon. I have absolutely no emotion about what happened to me. I can tell the tale, and feel nothing but a slight, uncomfortable tingle at the base of my neck.
It happened, and I never reported it. It’s over and done with now. I don’t even remember his name. I don’t want to remember.
I only hope that he didn’t do that to other women because of my silence.
I wanted to bury it under the rug, and pretend it hadn’t happened. I was afraid of telling my mother, my friends, my brother and stayed quiet. I told everyone I just wasn’t feeling good for a few days. I took hot shower after another, and no one noticed. I was ashamed, and for a long time blamed myself. I was the stupid one for going to such a private place with some random guy, and trusting him to be a gentlemen. I was the one who had started it, by agreeing to give him that back rub.
I don’t have any sexual hangups despite my twisted experiences with my ex, and I don’t from the evening I was date raped by that despicable bastard. It’s a scab that I never want to pick open, for fear of exposing emotional nerve endings set on vibrate.
We had spoken of Kurt Cobain’s suicide that night, while the dusk was still new. I had ashed my cigarette out of the window during the conversation, and noticed fat raindrops starting to fall. People parked around us starting leaving, their headlights bouncing across the wet windshield.
But we stayed behind. He turned his wipers and heater on, and we huddled close.