My Honda Civic, July 1989

It was a night like any other that summer. Short skirt, fishnet stockings, thick lines of black eyeliner, ruby red lips, and dancing. I’d had a line of coke before the night began, and part of a bottle of cheap wine—seriously cheap, dollar-a-bottle Strawberry Hill. It was early in the night for us, a hallway mark of 1 a.m. David Bowie’s “Suffragette City” was at the part of the song where everyone screams along.

He was tall and lanky, Halloween skeleton skinny, with ridiculous hair, and sharp cheekbones. He was just the way I liked boys back then. We’d been on a few dates outside of the boom-bang-beat of the club scene. We’d had sex before. The clumsy backseat kind after sharing a bottle of whiskey that we could taste on each other’s lips when we kissed. I wouldn’t call it good sex, but it was consensual, and we considered ourselves as “seeing each other” afterward.

He liked to sing songs to me. He said over-the-top romantic things. On Valentine’s Day, he’d driven two hours to my house to see me, a bouquet of red roses in hand. It wasn’t love, but I liked the look of him, and he made me laugh. He also had one hell of a glam rock record collection. At nineteen, there were way fewer reasons to date, or have sex with someone.

I thought he was harmless.

On that not-so-different summer night, he’d wandered in without me noticing. He’d seen me dancing with another boy. Knowing the club, and the night, he’d most likely seen me dancing with quite a few boys, some of them friends, some not. He’d been drinking when he stumbled up to me on the dance floor. I could smell the whiskey on his breath and oozing out his pores when he pulled me in for an almost too tight embrace. He whisper-slurred words in my ear. I couldn’t make much out except “come outside with me.”

I agreed. I wasn’t reluctant. On the contrary, I was glad to see him and took his hand willingly when he held it out for me. He pulled me through the crowd, leading the way. I suppose it was rough, but I didn’t think much of it as you had to be a little forceful to navigate a full dance floor. People don’t just part the sea for you.

It was when we were finally outside in the chilled night air that I noticed his rough pull on me. I said, “Hey,” and, “Ouch,” which he ignored. I dug my heels and pulled away, trying to free my hand from his. He softened then, letting go and smiling crookedly at me, motioning for me to come closer. He took me in his arms, kissing the top of my head and saying, “C’mon, baby, let’s go talk in your car.”

Going out to the car to talk could mean just about anything back then. It could mean sharing a bottle of booze bought on the way from a liquor store that didn’t card, it could mean sharing a bump or a pill from whomever was holding, or it could translate to “wanting to be alone” to make out, or fuck. It was never a conversation invitation.

I wasn’t afraid of him, though. I trusted him, for the most part, as much as I trusted anyone back then. Truth is, I’d have followed him even if I had been afraid. At nineteen, I had a strongly held belief that I was not a pretty girl, that I wasn’t worth all that much, and that any attention from a boy I should be grateful to receive. I didn’t trust myself, or my instincts, even though my insides were screaming at me to turn around and go back inside, to find my best friend, to be where the music was, and not out here in the cold.

I didn’t go back in. I led him around the corner to my car, instead. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck while I fished car keys out of my bra and leaned down to open the passenger-side door. He pushed me in face first. My stockings were the first to be torn off, then my skirt and underwear in one hard tug. The smell of stale cigarettes and Coco Chanel perfume, along with something fast-food greasy (probably from spilled french fries fallen between the seats) filled my nose as I tried to breathe. I tried to speak, to say something, to scream, but every time I tried, he pushed my face harder into the seat. I kicked at him, hard, hitting mostly the metal of the door frame. The bruises up and down my legs would last for weeks after. I tried to reach out, to claw my way to the driver-side door, but the position I was in gave me little room to move at all. I felt the rush of panic spread across my skin, and a burning pain that kept increasing. The taste of bile coated my tongue and my head started to go dizzy. I didn’t feel scared, no, what I felt was beyond fear. For an extended time that I couldn’t define I believed I was going to die.

He used a knife on me, leaving cuts inside and out. I never felt the blade, though. As a girl who’d gone through a childhood of abuse, I’d long ago learned the art of going numb from the neck down. He finished eventually and abandoned me there, legs painfully spread, face still pressed into the driver’s seat. I was paralyzed at first, scared to move, scared he’d come back, scared to still be alive.

When I could finally collect myself, I sat up carefully. I tore the rest of my stockings off and balled them up in my right hand. I fished out a pair of black pants from the backseat (we’d always brought along changes of clothes back then) and winced as I tried to pull them on. My hands shook violently as I tried reapplying my makeup. I raked them, shakily, through my tangled hair, then gave up, opting for a messy ponytail. I forgot to put shoes on.

I tossed the ripped stockings into the gutter drain as I walked back toward the club.

No one took any real notice as I stumbled back inside. I knew the boy who worked the door. He waved me right in with a wink and a smile. I didn’t tell anyone. My best friend gave me a sideways glance when I said I wanted to go, and jokingly asked what cute boy stole my shoes. I said something about leaving them in the car and she teasingly laughed, saying, “So you stole a cute boy instead.”

When I got home, I didn’t take a shower, even though it’s all I wanted. I was too afraid I’d wake my mother and have to answer questions in just the right way to avoid any risky “Are you okay?” kind of questions. Not that she’d ever really noticed when I wasn’t okay. I crawled into my bed instead, sticky with blood and with him on the insides of my thighs. I curled into a ball and shut my eyes tight. I didn’t cry. I didn’t move. I didn’t make a sound.

I did blame myself, though. For all of it.

I didn’t report it.

I don’t know if he did to anyone else.

I didn’t think anyone would believe me because really, I asked for it. I wasn’t sober. I was wearing a short skirt. I was with a boy I was “seeing.”

I’d never heard the term “date rape” before.

All I’d been taught was how to defend myself, what not to do, what not to wear, and that it was my responsibility to not be raped.

I didn’t tell my best friend for a decade. When I did tell her I softened the story, leaving out details.

Mine isn’t a unique story. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

Years later I ran into him again. He came up to me in a crowded venue at a show for a band I liked. He leaned in close and said, “I miss those times in your car.” I froze. When I was sure he’d walked away I ran to the bathroom and threw up in the sink. For three weeks after I couldn’t sleep more than an hour a night, if that.

I still believed it was my fault.

Sometimes, I still do.

-Laura Foxworthy

Laura Foxworthy works in advertising and is working on her BA into an MFA in Creative Writing. She is currently working on a novel set in the desert, as well as a series of short memoir pieces, all with song names as titles. She has authored and published the Music Blog lyriquediscorde.com for nine years and helped create the literary magazine The Battered Suitcase. Laura has been a part of writing workshops with Francesca Lia Block. Laura lives in a Los Angeles suburb with her three children. She is a third-generation Southern Californian. She is currently working from home and writing her way through this pandemic.