The First Time I Thought, “He Might Rape Me”
Coming to terms with female vulnerability
It was when he veered his truck off the road that I wondered if I was going to make it out alive. Up to that point, I’d been grappling with a growing sense of unease, silently cursing myself for getting in a vehicle with a man I barely knew. I was 20 years old, traveling alone through rural Bolivia. I had no phone. No one else knew exactly where I was.
The hostel owner had seemed nice enough, if a bit eccentric. His was the only hostel in this speck of a town, and I was the only guest. He’d been openly enamored with me from the start, but after six months in Bolivia, I was used to the unapologetic stares and theatrical proclamations. With my fair complexion and curly blonde hair, it was impossible not to stand out. Men marveled over my “sexy freckles,” which had never been previously described to me in those terms, and often asked if they could touch my pelo de oro (hair of gold).
As a young woman, attention from men made me feel both worthy and uncomfortable. I’d been a late bloomer and hadn’t turned all that many heads in my teens. At age 20, I was just growing into myself, and I had a bad habit of being “too nice” when men crossed the line from playful flirtation to aggressive pursuit.
