RED LIGHT: Nearly raped and murdered, before I got ‘woke’ ‘bout being a man pleaser…

Peter was a stocky six footer, blond and wealthy, a European of Nordic descent. Currently making his home in Los Angeles, he was the owner of and brains behind a very successful sportswear company with offices in London, New York, L.A. — and Hong Kong, where we met. I was newly arrived, getting over an aborted cruise ship gig; Peter was in town on his quarterly visit, and looking for a playmate. He came on strong, confident, aggressively cocksure of himself. Like many successful businessmen, he was a bit overweight for his thirty-six years. Having occasion to observe him excessing with food and drink, I judged it to be his habit. Peter had very bright, almost gentle blue eyes that seemed to contrast with his almost annoying persistence on getting me into the sack and “getting acquainted.” He was strangely determined to win me over.

He wasn’t my type, inasmuch as I’ve ever really been able to ascertain just what that is; but Peter was lavish in his praise of me, my intelligence, my singing talents, my body, and I was prey for that kind of attention. His brash sexuality embarrassed me, but my Midwest, Kansas upbringing made me ashamed that I felt shy, so I talked myself into meeting him and two of his associates for a drink after my last show that fated evening. The rendezvous was set for 1 a.m.

It was a Saturday night and the third time I’d ever spoken to Peter. I’d been in Hong Kong all of three weeks, a refugee from a Greek cruiser that had simply not worked out. I had stayed aboard one month, long enough to sail up and then down the south China coast and exit as soon as we arrived back in Hong Kong. It had been a physically, emotionally and mentally grueling experience. After disembarking, I’d spent an intensive thirty-six hours looking for some work. I finally landed a gig singing at “Bar City,” Hong Kong’s newest entertainment/night club complex; I did six mini shows nightly, six nights a week. Excited to be the “featured” act for four weeks, I’d initially been glad to be there, but it had grown disappointing. Its substandard working conditions included no rehearsals. I was hurried from one bar area to another, singing country and western music in one room, pop middle-of-the-road fare in another, and old standards in the third. On top of it all, in order to avoid the local high rentals, I’d taken a small room in Hong Kong’s infamous ChungKing Mansions, living with one of Bar City’s many Filipino musicians and his family. There were seven of us sharing the flat of four rooms; I had one of them to myself. Living like the poor Chicanos back home in southern California, complete with cockroaches, was a difficult adjustment for this middle class woman. I could scarcely believe I had done it, made this arrangement. It was better than the other housing provided by Bar City: fifty-four slaving Filipinos all crammed into one large flat, with one telephone among them. So, here I was. I wanted to stay in Hong Kong for a while and explore any possibilities to rocket myself to stardom. Who knew what opportunities there might be for a good performer with perhaps little local competition, talent-wise; also little in the way of good paying performing jobs so far, but I was determined to give it a try, so I’d taken the job, taken the yellowing room — non-air conditioned in the heavy summer heat — for $650 HK, 130 US dollars a month and cooking privileges.

Peter had the Presidential Suite at the Hyatt Regency across the street; also a company flat in luxurious Repulse Bay that was virtually never used. I had been invited to stay at either place at no expense with “no strings attached”…I had declined. At least for the time being. I wasn’t, as the old adage goes, born yesterday. Yet the idea of it was tempting and haunted me regularly. God I was tired! Bodily, mentally drained from the ordeals of the cruise ship, the hours of trudging the callous pavements of Hong Kong looking for work, and the relentless heat and humidity that lately was keeping me from sleeping at night.

I hated to admit it, but I was lonely too. Just a bit. No one to lean on, to feel protected by. Granted, it was all by my own choice: I’m very independent. Still, it would’ve eased the load. No sex life, either. Not an unusual state of affairs for me, though, I must confess. In spite of being a singer in fashionable night spots, I’d always been choosy — to a fault. Few men sufficiently attracted me enough to go to bed with them. A bit old fashioned, perhaps. It had always been my cross to bear. Officially, Peter praised me for my stance, but I think he really believed I was easy: everyone, after all, knows how entertainers are. Well, not this one. So there we sat, the four of us in the Polaris Bar atop the Hyatt. I was a quarter past one in the morning. Peter was quite talkative and energetic in spite of a long day’s work. I was flattered that he and his friends had come to see my show, and had enjoyed it. When I had bumped into him a week earlier and taken his business card, he’d promised that if I didn’t call, he’d drop in. Most men wouldn’t have — I hadn’t called. It seemed like a good sign that he had come in as he’d promised. The conversation centered around me, with Peter and his employees asking for details about my luck in making contacts and the history of my arrival in Hong Kong.

Fifteen minutes passed. It was about 1:30. I was mortally tired from my long day and hard night’s work performing, and yet I had agreed to go over to the Regency for a nitecap. I didn’t want to seem rude or ungrateful, so I didn’t say anything about my state as we all walked from Bar City over to the hotel. Peter took his drink, and the Bar City glass with him; it bothered me that he’d done it. It seemed like taking just because he wanted.

I dropped the thought. Peter walked with one arm alternately tight around my waist or draped around my shoulder. His arm felt slightly heavy and my feet hurt in my two and a half inch heels. I smiled and tried to act carefree while somewhere, remotely, inside, I wondered why I didn’t just go “home” such as it was and try to sleep. Was it Peter’s offer for a nice place to stay in? Creature comforts that you don’t find in ancient, dirty ChungKing Mansions? The chance to have a man around who might Take Care of Me? Someone to lean on? Did I dare hope that this blond wonderboy might be somebody I could love?

We arrived at the Hyatt a few minutes later. Peter discarded the wayward glass on the pavement just outside the door. I hoped nobody saw it.

Upstairs, I ordered an Irish coffee. I don’t drink; I sipped on it until closing time at 2 p.m. Peter wasn’t done. He invited me to come and see “the presidential suite” before heading back to my homely sanctuary across the street. A red light went on in the back of my head; something wasn’t right. I turned my attention back to Peter who was urging. OK, I said. All right. A quick look, then home and out of these tortuous shoes. After all, I had never seen a presidential suite.

Peter took my hand and led me down the stairs, smiling at me, telling me I shouldn’t work so hard, that I deserved so much better. I inwardly agreed, and felt guilty that I had harbored any ill feelings towards him. Red light? Pooh. Silly to worry. He was really a nice guy. Just because he was sexually more liberated, not awkward like me, I reasoned, that’s no reason to avoid him. After all, his whole background is culturally different from mine.

The suite was gorgeous:lush blues, whites and golds greeted me. I wanted to lie down right there on the thick carpet and sleep forever. Again, Peter took my hand, this time leading me over to the plush sofa to sit me down. He took out a Linda Ronstadt album and flipped on the power for stereo. I rallied to protest. I had agreed to see the suite, not to stay! Peter strode over firmly and began to remove my shoes. Something in his eyes stopped my protestations, and as I limply acquiesced, I noted again that there was a mysterious red light flashing in my cranium. My gut was in flux. Something was amiss, — but what? A familiar, rational-sounding voice inside of me said, “Calm down. Stop being silly. Relax! He’s a very intelligent, successful guy who seems very taken with you. If it doesn’t work out romantically, he’ll be a good contact.”

Peter sat down beside me, taking my face in his hands. “You really do look tired, poor baby,” he lulled. There was a slight trace of a European accent. “Why not sleep here? There’s an extra bed: I won’t bother you, if you don’t feel like having me around. Or we could just lie together awhile. You’re really special,” he crooned. His voice was soothing. Thoughts batted about in my head. God how I would’ve loved to have just gone to sleep, safe in the arms of someone to whom I was ‘special.’

No. I’d better not stay. Stick to plan A and head back to the shack. “No, thanks, Peter,” I heard my voice say, “but I would really like to spend some time getting to know you better while we’re both here in Hong Kong.”

My escort smiled and abruptly took me by the hand, pulling me to my feet. “Come, I’ll show you the rest of the suite, then walk you to the lift. You may decide you want to stay here in the suite, so why not see it?” He pulled me towards the master bedroom.

I felt my whole body tense and pull back, but the wisdom of my body was not heeded. My mind raced ahead, telling me I was the dingiest broad around, and no wonder I spent so many nights all by myself, what with my defensive attitude!

I allowed myself to be maneuvered onto the bed. “You’re too tired to go back to that steaming flat,” said Peter. You must get some decent rest or you will get sick.”

True, I thought.

Peter reached for my blouse and began to unbutton it. That was going too far: I automatically grabbed his hand to put a stop to it. Instantly, I felt myself pushed onto my back, the weight of the man’s chest against me, his lips hungrily seeking mine. I smelled whiskey. Fear grabbed me.

Suddenly Peter was off of me, standing by the bed, pulling off his pants. Abruptly I scooted to the edge of the bed, preparing a hasty getaway. He grabbed my shoulders and taking hold of my arms, pinned me to the bed. Now I was pissed: “Let go of me!” I spat.

Peter laughed and laid down on top of me to better hold my squirming in check; again, he tried to kiss me. Or rather, force his tongue into my mouth. I felt his penis heavy between my legs. I tightened the space between them. How could this idiot be trying to kiss me, I wondered, confused and angry. Could he really be insane enough to think I want this? Did he think my protestations were a mere formality?

Disgusted, I struggled to get up. Peter seemed to be enjoying my trouble. I felt his desire growing stronger. My consternation turned icy: I was becoming frightened. He found this, too, stimulating and pulled at my slinky bell-bottomed pants, having little trouble moving the elastic waistband downwards, since I wasn’t wearing a belt. My legs were useless as weapons; Peter lay heavily on my feet, hurting them. He put his mouth to my left breast, having succeeded in freeing it from my low-line bra. I was furious: How DARE he do this to me!!

“Goddamn you!” I blurted in between chokes and cries. I attempted to wrest my poor body away from his sacrilegious advances. “Let me go or I’ll scream!” In an instant, I hated him. I wanted to hurt him back, kick his balls in. Peter was poised just above my knees, his groin unprotected. For one split second, he was vulnerable, and I was afraid! Oh dear god, one year of karate lessons down the tube, because I’m too chicken to kick him. He was so much stronger than me: what if I missed?!

Too late. My moment had passed. Peter was again sitting on me. He reached for my panties, tugging at them, and I let out a tortured cry for help, grabbing savagely at his hand to stop him.

Angrily, my attacker slapped my face and grabbed a pillow, placing it squarely over my mouth, face, head. He held it down, tightly.

In the blackness, I knew my end had come. I had totally blown it, totally fucked up. God, please let me go, please don’t let me be hurt, please, and I’ll never be this stupid again…

Suddenly the pillow was removed and I was breathing. My eyes were tightly closed and I sensed Peter was watching me, waiting for my movements to dictate his next. Fighting him was not going to work. Peter sat on my abdomen, on his haunches. He held my hands tightly, keeping my arms pinned on either side of my head. My face was wet with tears and perspiration. My nose was running. I was a mess. Ugly. I wanted to hide.

We remained in this position for a small eternity. I was afraid to move. There were no audible sounds except for my sniffling.

He climbed off my stomach. Was he calming down? Still gripping my arms, he sat to the left of me, intently observing. My lower body, of its own accord, folded into womb position to protect me from further intrusions. “I don’t understand,” I murmured. “why do you want to hurt me? What have I done to you?”

His response was to reaffirm his grip on my arms near the wrists. But he was definitely listening.

Without warning, a furious wave of self-pity pitched through me and I sobbed, tears sliding wretchedly down my cheeks, my chest heaving uncontrollably under the weight of my degradation, powerlessness, abandonment, my helpless womanhood. I dared not open my eyes to look at Peter, and face the humiliation I was sure I would see reflected back at me. I imagined him red-faced, gloating, his eyes a crooked blue, smiling lividly at me as he imprisoned me against the bed. He was everything I’d ever hated in a man. I was everything he had ever hated in a woman. I grew numb and wept softly now, weary tears trickling into puddles on the pillow. I was aware of Peter’s gaze as he spoke: “I haven’t hurt you.” He sounded both astonished and annoyed. “You just kept saying ‘no.’ It was my will against yours.”

It was my turn to respond. The actress in me stirred; Once awakened, she came quickly to me aid. We began to calculate the number of tears I could shed, the exact force with which they could safely fall, the ebb and flow of the silences, the pathos level of every sigh. We began to plan my escape.

I worked on occupying his thoughts, distracting him, probing for a weak spot. “I haven’t hurt you,” Peter repeated, pouting, stroking the word, “hurt” as if he himself was hurt to think I could suggest he could do such a thing.

— Guilty? I pricked him again, cautiously, crying softly: “I trusted you. You seemed so sensitive, intelligent, like such a nice person. And I though you really liked me, wanted to be close. How could you hurt me so?” Moved by my own performance, I began to sob all over again.

Peter let go of me. He sat in a tired heap near my feet, staring down into the rumpled bedspread. “I would never hurt anyone,” he muttered. “I’ve never been like this before. I have a wife. I’ve got children. By three different women. They all love me. I’m a very kind person.”

— Vulnerability. Information to work with. The image he cherished of himself. I stared at him. He was scared like me; only worse. Much worse. This man was terrified! Terrified of rejection, that he was not the sexy, desirable man of his boastings. His eyes grew moist, but no tears fell. I realized that his buried suffering inside was huge, maybe as great as his anger at women for not loving him, wanting him, desiring him.

I realized all that anger was being directed at me. And might be again shortly, unless I continued to manipulate that painful load off of me. Peter believed he didn’t deserve a woman’s love.

We both sniffled. Peter got up and went into his plush VIP bathroom, bringing me back a fistful of kleenex. I still moved very slowly, afraid that a sudden movement on my part might land me on my back pinned to the bed again.

“You’re really tired, huh…?” Peter’s words came tumbling in my direction. I lay crumpled on my right side. The tissues, still unused, lay by my head. Peter took them, placing them into my hand. I said nothing.

“Guess I didn’t exactly help you rest, did I,” he searched. The words were asking me to say I wasn’t angry with him. I turned my eyes to look at him, afraid now that ignoring him would rifle him.

“No, I guess not,” I ventured.

We talked for a long time. I don’t remember what I said, what he said, none of it. In looking back, however, I understood that Peter was mirroring remnants of my own anguish, my own aloneness. I understood the desperation that drove him to violate me that night, the kind of pain that eats at you when you reach out to be loved and get your hands slapped for grabbing. I caught a glimpse of the pain that necessarily follows ignorance of knowing what your real needs are, and the inability to ask. Furthermore, although I wouldn’t realize it until writing this book sixteen years later, I had had a mighty lesson about paying attention to my instincts, — that red light. Never again would I be able to ignore them or it so haplessly.

I managed to gather up the pieces of my clothing: my watch, my purse, my nylons. Somehow I got dressed and made my way to the front door. The entire hellish episode lasted five hours.

“Hey, call me up this week sometime, and I’ll take you to lunch,” Peter called out, as I walked out the door, into the hall, and disappeared into the elevator. “You’re really special.”

P.S. Art helped me gain clarity, both with my emotional mayhem, and about what had actually happened. Sacred artistry also helped me find understanding, forgiveness, and the teaching that was life-saving: to honor and note my gut instincts for danger. While some remnants of PTSD remain, I am mostly grateful for the experience, and how it’s shaped my ability, as a counselor, to help other people with their own pain and healing process.

P.P.S. “Red Light” is featured in my 2018 memoir, ON WITH THE SHOW: THe Performance Of A Lifetime.