Image: iStock. By Mel Currier for Yourtango. Warning: This post deals with sexual assault and could be triggering for some readers.
When I was 17 in 1965, I moved to New York City to attend secretarial school and lived at The Barbizon Hotel for Women. Men weren’t allowed past the lobby, so that provided some security and sanity for my parents. But what happened outside the walls of The Barbizon was another story.
Malachy’s, the first ever singles bar, was just around the corner from The Barbizon. In an exclusive Upper East Side neighborhood, it was a dingy, hole-in-the wall bar, but it was the place to be.
Even though I was underage, I had my first drink, a Seven Seven, there. My friends and I went there frequently, but I rarely saw anyone that appealed to me — until I saw John, one of the most handsome guys I’d ever seen.
His tall, blonde, preppy, clean cut look instantly attracted me. He said he was in prep school and was a year younger than me. We saw each other at Malachy’s a few times before he walked me back to The Barbizon one evening, gave me a passionate kiss, and said more than once that he wanted me “completely.”
I was flattered, but having sex with him wasn’t an option. I was a virgin and had no plans to lose my virginity. (Shelly Horton talks to the MM team about victim blaming. Post continues after video.)
He finally asked me out on a Saturday afternoon to meet his brother who lived in the city. When the day arrived, I was thrilled to be on a date with John and clearly remember how wholesome I looked in my cranberry-colored cotton slacks, a madras blouse, and Bass Weejuns.
We took a cab and arrived at his brother’s brownstone in Greenwich Village. After walking up the steep front steps, John unlocked the door. As we walked into the apartment, it was chillingly quiet.
John nonchalantly commented that it looked like his brother wasn’t home and ushered me straight into a bedroom. Before I knew it, he was violently ripping off my clothes and forcing himself on me.