Saved by a Tampon

A Memory of Attempted Rape

When I was in my late twenties, I took my bra-less, bouncing-boobs self to Greece with nothing more than a backpack and a vague plan. I was already accustomed to traveling on my own, preferring to change my mind on an instant’s notice without having to answer to anyone. As to the lack of a bra, I’ve always hated constricting clothing and when burning bras became a political statement, I was thrilled at this invitation to freedom.

I began the trip in Athens and then wandered from one Greek island to the next, checking out the beaches and tourist sites and becoming increasingly lonely despite being an empath/HSP (highly sensitive person) who needs to spend lots of time alone to settle myself.

When I arrived in Rhodes, I decided it was time to have some sandals custom-made as every American tourist seemed mandated to do. After picking up the sandals from the shop, I wandered into a nearby market dangling them proudly on my shoulder. Before long, a very handsome Greek man caught my eye. This was somewhat unusual in my experience since I didn’t have a history of attracting men. I had no idea how to flirt and had never even had my butt pinched by a sex-deprived Italian man during junior year in Florence.

But back to Greece! When I returned the handsome man’s smile, he quickly made his way towards me and said “hello.” In halting English, he asked if I’d like him to show me around the island. I agreed without hesitation--perhaps a case of lonely curiosity and innocence conquering prudence. He spotted the dangling sandals and suggested leaving them in his nearby flat. I ignored the prominent flip-flop warning signals in my belly and said “OK.”

We wandered the beautiful island for a couple of hours and he was a perfectly pleasant and respectful tour guide. I was pleased to be free of needing to follow a map and felt lucky to have such a personalized tour.

Once twilight began to shut things down, we circled back to his home. He asked if I’d like to come into his home to pick up the sandals and have a cup of tea. Once again ignoring the even louder rumblings of “NO” in my belly, I walked down the few steps to his dark, basement flat. As the door shut behind me, he locked it and I was immediately shrouded in a dark cloak of danger.

Within seconds he shoved me down to the floor and pressed his body on top of mine, struggling awkwardly to yank off the panties beneath my mini-skirt. After a futile attempt to push him off, my body went totally limp just like a gazelle being stalked by a tiger. He fumbled around clumsily, alternating between pulling down his pants and trying to locate my vagina with his unwashed fingers.

What he encountered was the string of my tampon and when he yanked it out was shocked and horrified by the dripping blood. Perhaps in that moment he remembered that he was Catholic and thought of Christ’s blood on the cross? I’ll never know…but it stopped him cold and brought him to his senses.

I have never been so thankful for the bleeding time…commonly called “the curse” in those often misguided days of female liberation.

The handsome Greek man rolled over, slowly pulled up his pants, and began to say very penitently, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I was still limp but beginning to feel my breath return.

He gently helped me up, continuing to apologize, and offered to walk me back to my hotel and once again I said “yes,” this time feeling strangely safe with him and wanting his protection and guidance on unfamiliar streets. It was a dark night and the air was still, smelling mildly of oregano and bay leaves. We walked in silence…

The next morning, when I left my hotel room, I stepped over a bouquet of pearly white yarrow he had left at my door.

Along with a sensuous breakfast of silken yogurt and wild Greek honey, I swallowed the whole incident, pushing it way down into my unconscious secret vault where all of the other violations inflicted upon my body were locked away in deep, dark silence.

It was only when I attended the historic performance of The Vagina Monologues in Madison Square Garden in 2001 that the memories came flooding back. When Gloria Steinem asked that all of the women who had been sexually violated stand, well over half of the 18,000 women in the audience rose.

And now, after eons of violence against women and a quarter of a century after we stood up in Madison Square Garden, nothing has changed and countless numbers of women continue to be sexually violated on a daily basis. As if rape and molestation weren’t already more than enough, in the aftermath we have to deal with the shame dumped on us by a patriarchal society blaming us for inciting rape just because we are beautiful and alluring by nature.

May we women continue to rise as we did in Madison Square Garden, holding hands around the earth, and chanting “NO MORE.”

And may all men rise along with us, holding hands and surrounding us with the circle of protection we all long for.