Nothing Happened

Author’s Note:  The following story is true.  Some of the names have been changed.  No slur or mean inference was ever meant to be cast on any person, place or profession. (And don’t ask me who “he” is.  “He” could turn out to be your cousin or husband or brother-in-law or something.)

I swear I haven’t thought about this in forty-five years.  After all, nothing happened.

He first rang my doorbell in June of ’67.  Graduation from New Trier High School in Winnetka, Illinois was rapidly approaching and I looked forward to a summer school session at the University of Wisconsin.

I couldn’t wait to go.  I was going to get rid of the dreaded gym requirement and take more Italian- which I loved.  But before I headed north he showed up at my parents’ front door.

He had been sent courtesy of my cousin, Cindy.  They were both a year older than me and they both went to Madison.  She thought that I might like him.

She was right.  He was very cute.  Tall, dark, and smart.  And a handful.  As he walked into our house, he shoved an armload of record albums at me.  “Here,” he said. “They’re for you.  I just swiped them from E.J. Korvette’s.”

Uh-oh.  A little alarm bell went off before he had even crossed our threshold.  But I quickly silenced it.  He was so nice-looking and he had come vetted by someone I trusted.

And it soon became apparent that he was funny, and charming and clearly well-to-do.  He didn’t need to steal the albums.  It must have been something he had done for a lark.  And all kids shoplifted once in awhile, right?  Or maybe he was just kidding me?  I told myself not to be such a goody-goody.

We went out on a few dates before I left for Madison.  Nothing memorable.  We saw a couple of movies and probably traded a couple of kisses.  Nothing more.  And then I left for summer school.

I wasn’t sorry to leave him behind.  There was something- a glimmer- I couldn’t put my finger on it- that made me uncomfortable.  And in the whirlwind of summer school I forgot all about him.

I had a ball that summer.  New girlfriends, new boyfriends and Freedom.

(In 1967 the University of Wisconsin still had parietal rules and a curfew.  We had to be back in our dorms by eleven o’clock on weeknights and one a.m. Friday and Saturday. Virtually everyone else in Allen Hall was livid with indignation at this curb on their civil liberties.

I was ecstatic.  My curfew at home had been much stricter and I had never been allowed out on a weekday night.  You mean I could leave the dorm at nine in the morning and not return until eleven at night?  I was knocked out by the concept and intoxicated with the freedom of not having to report to anyone.)

The summer session went by in a flash.  And soon, the fall semester started and we were all back on campus.  I ran into him early on.  He was now living with a friend of mine who also happened to be in my current Italian class.

One day he stopped me. “Alan wants to have a study group at our apartment today. How about stopping by about one?”

It sounded fun.  I told him I would be there, and at one sharp, I showed up.  He answered the door and I walked in.  (And even though this was 1967 I can still remember exactly what I was wearing.  Mini skirt, short-sleeved turtle neck top, no stockings, flats.  The Twiggy look was in and girdles and nylons were gone with the wind.)

I looked around for Alan and the other members of our group.  But no one was there.  It was just him and me.

“Where is everybody?” I asked.  “Am I early?”

“Oh, Alan is coming any minute.  He won’t be long,” he replied nonchalantly.

I was annoyed.  This was supposed to be a study date and no one was here yet.  I sat down on the living room couch to wait.  He sat down beside me- just to keep me company I thought.

And then it happened.

Somehow I was on the floor with him on top of me.  His hand had shot up my skirt and he was trying to pull down my underwear.

No kissing, no canoodling, no prelude, no nothing.  Just a quick pounce and I was down for the count.

My hand grabbed his arm.  No way was I going to let him pull off anything.  But he was sitting on top of me and he wasn’t letting me up or letting me go.  I struggled.  He was heavy.

I don’t know how long he sat on me.  It seemed like hours as I argued, pleaded, cajoled, joked, and ordered him to cut it out  My arm was getting tired from trying to hold his hand in place.  Finally, he relented.  He gave in and got off me.  I got up and left the apartment.  I was shaken.

I never told anyone.

In 1967 I didn’t have the vocabulary of “attempted date rape” or “no means no.”  But even then, I knew that no one would believe me.  After all, we had gone out a couple of times.  I had come willingly over to his apartment.  He was handsome and popular.  He didn’t need to attack girls.

And besides, nothing happened.  Had it?  Was there really a crime?  Did it have a name? And if there was a crime, wouldn’t the statute of limitations have run out forty years ago?

I put the encounter out of my mind.  I got engaged, got married, left Madison.  My life moved on.

And him?  I vaguely remember hearing a rumor years ago.  Just the faintest hint of what had happened to him.  But just to be sure, when I finished writing this post, I googled him.  Yep, there he was.  As big as life.

He’s a lawyer now.  Maybe I should just ask him.