When Your Gut Says, ‘Leave,’ But Your Heart Says, ‘Give Him a Chance’

For the love of all things holy, listen to your gut!

It was the best Christmas gift ever — tickets for my sister and me to fly to Disney World on our own! I was 19 and had been living away from home for two years. Kim was 17 and about to graduate from high school. We were going to have so. much. fun!

The sad thing is that I have just one memory of those four magical days and it does not include posing with Goofy, buying Minnie Mouse ears, or the It’s a Small World boat ride. And I love It’s a Small World.

On our last night at the hotel, a mascot that had been flirting with us — as best a mascot can do when wearing a giant plastic head — introduced himself out-of-costume while we had dinner at the restaurant. He was 21 or 22, kind of cute, and funny. He asked if I wanted to go with him for a beer, away from the hotel.

Being a horrible sister, I left Kim in the hotel room and jumped into his car.

Since I wasn’t legal drinking age in Florida we stopped at a convenience store and grabbed a six-pack. He said he was taking me to a spot with a great view. In my mind, I imagined we’d park on top of a dune with a bunch of other underage drinkers, listen to music and look out at the ocean. I was excited to experience Florida as a local teen, like in an innocent John Hughes film.

But Mascot Man didn’t drive us to a spot with a view. He drove to a remote area that had anything but a Disney energy to it. I didn’t like where this was headed and asked him to take me back to the hotel.

No dice. I felt like I had no choice but to stay since we really were in the middle god’s know where. He handed me a beer, told me to drink, then unzipped his pants and told me to blow him.

I was a virgin. I’d never given a blow job and I had zero interest in starting now. But he was insistent. Said that I owed him. “Beer isn’t free, you know.”

I don’t remember if I cried or begged but I know I felt lucky that he settled for a hand job. He came and then drove me back to the hotel without even offering a second beer. No surprise since it was my first-hand job—I can’t imagine it was even worthy of one Budweiser.

Kim was furious that I’d left her alone to go on this date. I was so humiliated that I didn’t tell her what had happened. All I said was that she was lucky I’d gone, not her. And, I was so ashamed that I didn’t report him to the hotel management.

I’d like to think that 21 years later if I’d found myself in a similar situation, I’d have reacted differently.

Sadly, I did not.

I was only a few months post-divorce after a 14-year marriage to the first man I ever dated. So, yeah, dating was a new concept to me at 40 years old. I’d met a handful of nice-ish men using an online dating app. None of these dates had gone past dinner or a coffee.

Not that I was wild by any stretch of the imagination, but I was finding men in their 40s who had white collar jobs to be so boring. And I could tell that they found my irreverence and extreme social progressiveness a challenge.

So, I said ‘Yes’ to a date with a man who admitted he was between jobs and living with his brother. He’d recently moved to Vancouver from Seattle, was divorced, had a 4-year-old, and made me laugh when we chatted on the phone.

He didn’t have a car and asked if I could pick him up at his place to go to a jazz bar together. Sure thing!

It was a miserable, rainy night. I parked outside his brother’s house — nice enough place in a nice enough neighbourhood — and Joe came running to the car with his hoodie up, covering much of his face. He barely said “Hello” before saying,

“Let’s go. I don’t want my brother to see that I’ve left. And I need cigarettes. Mind if we stop at the 7/11?”

Okay…spidey senses tingling just a little, especially since his face was still covered by his hoodie, which he left on even in my car.

He got his cigarettes and directed me to the bar. As I looked for parking he said,

“So, I’m not actually allowed inside the bar. I was hoping we could sit outside and listen. But the weather is kind of crappy. So, do you want to come back to my place?”

“Why not go somewhere else then? There are lots of places on Main Street.”

“Truth is,” he said, “I’m not allowed out after 9 PM. Sort of a house arrest kind of thing.”

As I drove back to his place I decided that I’d just drop him off and call it a night. We sat in my car, outside his place, and I told him that I wasn’t comfortable going in. I asked him why he was under house arrest, or whatever it was.

And he gave me the whole story. He’d been arrested for assaulting his now ex-wife and did time in a US jail. He was on probation with a condition he not drink, not be out at night, and probably some other things I don’t remember. He showed me an adorable picture of himself and his son.

“My brother’s home. We can play cribbage. I’m dying of boredom. Please come in.”

My gut, heart and head were arguing. I parked the car and went with him.

He told me to be quiet, not to wake his brother, who was asleep on the couch in the living room at the end of the hall. TV on loud enough to camouflage the sound of our footsteps.

We went into his bedroom and he closed the door. And we did play cribbage. I beat him twice. Then he rolled a joint and blew the smoke out of his window. I remained 100% straight and sober. But that didn’t make me any smarter.

He told me to get naked. I said, “No thanks. I’m going to go.”

“Don’t go. I promise — no sex. It’s been over a year since I felt skin on mine. Just lie with me. Keep your underwear on. I promise I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to.”

And… I was an idiot. Long story short, I narrowly escaped another forced blow job by giving him a hand job with a promise I’d blow him after another game of cribbage. After he climaxed, he sat up and rolled a second joint. While he was leaning out the window smoking it, I got up and put on my jeans and T-shirt.

He grabbed my arm with the enthusiasm and strength of a man who had been in prison for assault. D’uh.

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” I said. “Be right back.”

“You don’t need to get dressed to go pee.”

“Yeah, I do. I don’t want your brother to see me in my underwear.”

“Whatever. Just don’t wake him up. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Then he leaned back out the window with his joint.

As quickly and quietly as I could, I ran to the back door where I’d left my coat and boots, got them on without doing up either and was out the door, down the stairs and into my car within 30 seconds. I locked the doors and drove two blocks before collapsing into tears of fear and shame and humiliation.

He texted me later that night. Called me a cunt and a cock-tease. I called myself much worse.

That was 13 years ago. I didn’t report him, though I considered it. The fact that I’d willingly walked into his home knowing who he was and what he’d done made me feel too naive to deserve any better an outcome.

Honestly, I felt grateful that I’d escaped with just a dirty hand and a small bruise on my upper arm.

I’d like to think that 13 years later if I’d found myself in a similar situation, I’d react differently…

But since I’m not sure I would, I’m just not going to allow myself to get into a similar situation again. Safer that way.

Thank you so much for reading. If this piece spoke to you, my story of what went terribly wrong the time a handjob wasn’t enough:

Or this fiction piece which, in another dimension, is how I would have dealt with the aftermath of my illegitimate rape: