A memory of hands all over me, a long time ago: I called to my friends, Tracy, Joyce! They were behind the door of Tracy’s bedroom and I was stuck on the couch with a handsome stranger. Blind Date’s hands went under my skirt, and I hit him. He laughed, and I laughed too. He gets it, I thought. I felt safe again. A moment of calm followed before he took off his black-rimmed glasses, set them on the coffee table and started again. He was an engineering student from the Middle East—his country of origin I would have known nothing about in the 60’s, Was he Saudi? Persian? My university was attracting guys from many countries for geology and advanced engineering studies. Tracy had set me up with him because they were class friends, and as we piled in the car headed for the student apartments, I thought Blind Date was intriguing. He sat forward on the car seat, but kept his head turned back to look at me. The glasses enhanced the dark of his eyes, his thick sleek black hair was cut short; he wore a nice sport jacket and white shirt. I felt safe.
But, hello, Blind Date, have a seat on the sofa you two, and Tracy and Joyce disappeared after the sharing of no information and the drinking of rum and cokes. Why did Joyce leave me alone with him? She and Tracy were in love, hot for each other, and soon got married. She was my bridesmaid when I married two years later; we had been in a car wreck together that could have killed us both, and Joyce and I could laugh all night telling stories and acting silly. But this memory of Blind Date I had stashed away in the ether. I never forgot it, but I never made any sense of it.
I was a virgin—you remember that antiquated notion—and had only parked and petted and let myself be felt up, but had never gone “all the way.” And this was before girls felt obligated to give such a stupid thing as a blowjob. (Girls, don’t ever do that unless you really want to, which then makes it delightful.) I did not know what a blowjob was then, and I had no intention of giving my sacred virginity, which I had withheld by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin from a boy I loved, to some stranger I’d only just met. I tried to engage him, ask questions, but I was not like I am now, when a facile question flies off my lips like greased pig flesh. Today, I would wear him out with curiosity: where are you from, what do you believe, why are you here, what do you think of America? My ideas forming then were inchoate. I was eighteen. It was hard to control the dialog with any boy for fear of seeming too smart, or too aggressive, unfeminine. Blind Date smelled good, steeped in some cologne exotic to me. I smiled at him. Peering at me behind his glasses, very shy at first, then, suddenly, there I was being attacked by the handsome foreigner, who worked up to the intent to rape me.
It’s complicated, being kissed by someone attractive, because the feeling comes up from your womb. It feels good. It is hard for a girl as well as a boy to control sexual pleasure. You like the buzz of it in spite of yourself. Things go too fast, but you don’t want the kissing to stop. I really wanted his hands to stop trying to go inside my panties, but when he struck there once, it felt good! I was terrified of my own body’s desire. I hit him so hard on the arm, he made another retreat, gave me a moment to breathe. Kissed me again. So, letting myself enjoy his mouth, but pushing him off again and again must have encouraged his masculine drive, because it became an all-out struggle. Stop, I said, finally. Really! Now stop! We tumbled off the couch onto the floor, and I was fighting him with every ounce of strength I possessed. I kicked him, I pushed him away, I slapped his face, I said no, no, no, over and over again, and I was screaming for my friend Joyce, who arrived, disheveled, just at the moment Blind Date thrust himself hard against my body, and with an animal groan, came inside of his slacks and onto my dress.
It was over.
I have a memory of feeling ashamed, and surely he was. But, I have no memory of leaving, saying goodbye to him, getting back to the sorority house, or ever talking to Joyce about it. I think I was shocked to the core, while, at the same time, felt that nothing terrible had happened—I mean, I was still a virgin, wasn’t I? He did not hit me, or hurt me. What he did was use my body for some hard foreplay, to achieve what could only be called tawdry, sad masturbation. Not cool, not right, but survivable. My space and my desires were violated, but not really hurt. Less said the better. No use crying over spilt milk. Get on with life.
The stories of date rapes come up every day in 2017. Never were they subjects of discussion in 1962. I remember how I fought him, how terrible it felt to be eighteen and clueless, how hard it was, and still is, to be young. I did not understand why sex felt so good but was so dangerous. Today, I could bring charges against the young man with the university. It never occurred to me then. Boys and men were forgiven too much, yes, and most of them have learned better now—or at least know they could be arrested. But, girls, the beasts in fairy tales are mostly male, and often have lion’s manes, long snouts, big eyes and multiple hands. To fear a woman in old fables meant that she was a witch. We have today, at last, girl wizards and female super heroes, and you would do well to live up to their standards. I’m not saying you shouldn’t wear your skirts up to your asses if you want, but I am saying don’t go anywhere alone with someone you don’t know or trust, don’t drink too much in groups of kids you don’t know, and never take a pill from anyone and swallow it, no matter how handsome or famous he might be. Don’t become a new generation of shrinking violets who expect to always be protected by males with testosterone bursting their veins, especially now with the new dawn of white male privilege reasserting itself in a shameful way by our new leader. Learn to fight, get down with defensive kicking, eye poking, and stay with groups of friends and stay aware. I know, I know, girls, you shouldn’t ever have to do anything. It’s all on the boys. It’s always a man’s fault when anything bad happens. But, the thing is, anything can happen. It almost happened to me, and I was sober and fully dressed with friends in the next room. I will probably be un-friended again on Facebook by women who say that I am blaming the victim. Telling you to be smart is not blaming you; it’s arming you. We need more than ever now to be armed.
Life happens like a speeding train, and you are helpless, no matter how awake you are, to do anything but watch it disappear into the mists. Pieces of your memory float around to be snatched up and relived. I had repressed the memory of that night, so why do I think of that boy today? The Middle East is always in the news, and I wonder, was his sister an uneducated veiled Muslim girl with no choices; was his mother a smart Iranian woman before the Ayatolla Khomeni crushed the life out of her with religion. Was he saddened and mortified by his own surge of desire and pitiful ejaculation? Was he Egyptian, a Muslim or a Christian, or was he just a guy who thought American girls were fast and he could just grab him some by the pussy? Whatever family he came from, whatever he was or might have become, I feel less compassion for him than for my naive and diffident self. I fought well, but what saved me, I believe, were friends in the next room. What might he have done if I had gone to a hotel room with him alone, taken a pill, drunk too much and found myself in a situation I could not escape?