She has been raped, but doesn't remember the rape because she was passed out and only knew later, the next morning, by the state of her clothes that it had happened.

We sat at a coffee house on our first official date, after the obligatory dinner and movie, to talk about the film over steaming cups. Nearly as soon as we sat down she told me about this part of her past. I wondered as she blew and then spooned coffee into her mouth, if she was telling me this to let me know she'd been victimized or because she wanted to warn me about whatever sexual trauma she must have experienced. Because I was disquieted, I didn't say anything.

I had met Dianette in the office where we both managed information software for an insurance company. She was a beautiful blonde woman with a pedicure.

"I used to date this guy who was a writer," she said in between each blow on her spoon. "He was really terrific because he knew something about the movement of story and the delivery to make a story resonate with the reader, but at the same time in life he was rather drab. I think he lived in his stories and not in the real world."

I wanted to ask if he had been the one who raped her, but I figured since she told me that it had occurred, she would tell me the rest soon. "I dated a poet once who was dramatic and ridiculous. She spent a lot of time staring out a window seeking inspiration, but looking out her window all I saw was skyscrapers. I never understood how her poems got published, considering her muse." We chuckled over the trouble of dating. "Since then, the women I date went to college and haven't really used their major, but at least they're realistic."

"I know a lot of people like that. I was always happy that I stuck with MIS, minoring in computer science and web design. What do you do with majors like anthropology or philosophy?"

"Think and ponder," I said.

"You can think all you want, but you have to pay the bills."

"I admire practical women. Those who have nothing to hide and tell it like it is."

She smiled when I said this.

"So where do we go after here?" I asked, divining that we would sleep together the first night. Much as I had coasted from one woman to the next in college, during the past decade, women seemed as ready for sex as I had always been. A woman searching for marriage as a life goal was an antiquated ideology. Many women seemed to treat sex as their right after a date. After all, they'd listen to some guy blather on for hours and demanded at least an orgasm as their reward for their stamina. As she emptied her coffee cup, I knew she was ready.

"I'd invite you to my place, but it's kind of a mess."

We ended up at my apartment and I found that she was as interesting in bed as she was during conversations. She seemed to rationalize each movement before she made it, as if calculating how it would produce a particular result. The only thing that seemed to surprise her was her own orgasm. Much like the initial revelation, it seemed a non-sequitur in the conversation our bodies made.

Dianette was one of those women who had full possession over her body and knew how to use it. I'd watch her on the dance floor and wonder how she could have been raped. There was no sign of it, at least what I expected, and after several weeks of dating, not another word had been spoken about it. I became obsessed with the depredation of which she had no memory. But it wasn't my right to ask, so I waited for it to emerge on its own. It became an entity outside of us, the proverbial pink elephant in the room.

I took her to a movie that glamorized a prostitute who killed several of her tricks after she had been sexually assaulted and brutally victimized by a couple of them. During the whole film, I watched Dianette rather than the film. I wanted to see if it made her cringe or if she would leave, but the film didn't seem to affect her any more than it affected me. She grabbed me when she was supposed to and jumped at the expected moments. There was nothing strange about her behavior, except that it was expected.

"Did you like the movie? I found it disturbing," I said as we walked to the car.

"There are worse movies."

"Like what?"

"I can't stand military flicks or slapstick comedies. I thought this was pretty good. A woman is hurt and she takes a stand. There should be more films like this."

"She was hurt viciously. I would have killed the guys myself."

"Aren't you the hero," she said but would say no more. I deplored my motives, but was a victim to them.

I tried to work the conversation around to the incident, by getting her to reveal the people she had slept with. However, this was no easy task, for even I would never divulge this aspect of my life without dire necessity. Yet, her reserve was not as firm as mine and she told me of the men she dated seriously starting at about three months and more. It seemed that after six months, most of the men disappeared for one reason or another.

"Why six months? Is that a magic number?"

"I don't think so. One guy took a job in another city. Another wanted to start a family right away and I was not ready for that. Some just fizzled and died as relationships do. "

"How could anyone leave a beautiful woman like you?" I asked, spooning her in bed disgruntled.

"You're very sweet."

"Aren't all the guys you date sweet?"

"Maybe the guys I date, but not necessarily guys in general."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Not everyone is who they appear to be. And not everyone is good and kind, like you."

I hugged her for reply, worrying that perhaps I did not really meet her standards after all. I saw myself as a member of a long line of men she would call her past when she was old and gray and laughing about her youth with her husband over homemade peach pie. The image was unsettling and I made love to her again until she had cried three times, always in the sound of consternation.

Part of the reason I couldn't get the rape out of my mind was her beauty. She had angel blonde hair styled straight and jagged at the edges. Her lips were pouty and pink, only occasionally colored to match her attire. She had striking blue eyes that exuded intelligent adoration. She seemed absolutely together in every way and I wondered how a woman who had been defiled could be strong. She had not even the weaknesses that I had myself: the occasionally doubting what I said, rethinking a particular discussion with my boss, the loneliness that only alcohol and women seemed to fill. Where the rest of us struggled daily with our own internal dialogue, she seemed to have none of it. I wondered if she took something, because didn't we all?

When she finally invited me over to her house, I searched her bathroom but found nothing more than aspirin and a dusty unopened bottle of St. John's Wort. I decided to work it into the conversation. "I didn't know you took herbal antidepressants."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your St. John's Wort."

"Oh. My sister came down for spring break last year during her senior year in high school. She was into goth, wore only black, and was just dreadful. I bought it for her in the hopes that it would release her from teenage angst, but she left it here. I meant to send it to her. I must have forgotten. You can have it if you want."

"Dealing with a depressed teenager must have been hard on you," I said ignoring the invitation to take the antidepressant myself. Did she imagine I would actually self medicate myself?

"Hardly. It's just a phase. She is doing better now in college."

"How did you know to get St. John's Wort?"

"Just about everyone in my sorority house was on one type of drug or another. Living with sixty women you learn a lot about solutions to emotional problems."

I left it at that for if she knew psychological cures, I didn't want her assuming I was in need of fixing. I dated enough women who thought they could solve my problems and for what it's worth, I didn't have any more than the next guy.

Her apartment was otherwise astounding. It was one of many converted commodious apartments in an old industrial building. One whole wall contained arched windows showcasing the river to the south and the cityscape to the east. From her apartment, she could walk to work and thus had access to the downtown nightlife. Once I realized this, I spent many late nights downtown with her to stumble home into her mysterious arms.

She was untouched in this way. Perfect. Cured. I didn't understand it. There were slights in my life that though I hid well, I never got over. Like the time I walked in on my parents and they told me to go play. I'd carried that with me since as an emblem of my confusion on women. Their desires were the same as men, even as culture tried to tell them otherwise. To survive it seemed a miracle in and of itself.

But a rape, that was different. That was terrible. Why didn't Dianette mourn her lost purity? Why didn't she wake up in the middle of the night terrified it might happen again? Why didn't she need feminist empowerment groups like Take Back the Night or speak outs? Why didn't she need anything besides herself?

When her hangover was worse than my own, I would get up early to explore her apartment for clues. I knew I was being ridiculous, but felt powerless to my own curiosity. I had to know her secret and was determined to figure out how she could move from the most debase of acts forward seemingly unscathed.

I dissembled how much I drank when we went out so that when she passed out, her apartment was mine. I went through her e-mail accounts. I read her opened mail and even sought out photos in her album which were filled with glamorous smiles on girls partying all night long. But nothing got me closer to the rape. It was as if it never had happened, but was a half remembered dream just beyond the grasp of one's mind. It hovered there beyond me, taunting me, forcing me to conjure scenes in my head. I hated myself for it. Each time I thought I had reached my ultimate low, the next time I went lower. Wherever my bottom was, I was hurtling toward it to the sound of silence.

Sometimes after she passed out wearing nothing, I could see how it had happened. She was stunning. But the moment I thought these things, I nearly gagged on my own vulgarity. I might be low enough to fondle my curiosity, but never could act on it. The next day, I would bring her flowers at work or surprise her with a romantic outing. I didn't like who I was when my thoughts took over. I pretended to be someone else because it was my only option.

About six months into our relationship we came back after closing and I couldn't take it any longer. I purposely had drank cola all night claiming it contained rum. She was drunk enough to reveal who killed JFK, if she knew it. I decided now it was time for the talk.

"What's with you tonight?" she asked.

"You have to tell me."

"I have to tell you what?"

"It's just obsessing me. It's making me crazy. I want to know how it happened when you were raped."

She shook her head slowly, the silence stretching between us. "Men are so predictable," she snorted finally.

"We're not predictable."

"Yes you are. Don't you think I've had this conversation before?"

"I'm not like other guys. I just want to know. What's the big deal?"

"I told you. I was raped and I don't remember anything."

"Then how do you know you were raped? Are you crazy or making it up? Is it some kind of weird ploy that you use on men when you start dating them?" I immediately wished I could put those words back in my mouth. Words can't be undone - only written over, embellished.

"Look, we're both drunk. Why don't we go to bed and talk about this tomorrow."

"I'm not drunk," I said triumphantly, as it took her a few seconds to realize what I had said. It made me feel sick and powerful to know I could lie and pretend.

"I didn't know you had joined Alcoholics Anonymous," she said trying to laugh, but her mirth fell flat.

"I didn't, but you have to tell me. What happened? Why aren't you tormented by it?"

"Listen, maybe this relationship has gone a little fast. Maybe we need a breather."

"No," I said, feeling as crazy as I sounded, but I had to know. "I just want to know what happened."

"I told you all you need to know. And frankly, it's none of your business."

"Why?"

"I just told you."

I got up and stormed around the room for a minute. I poured myself a large glass of water and drank it, the glass shaking in my hand. I wanted to smash something beautiful. Why was she being so difficult? I would tell her anything she wanted to know about me. Anything, just to know this.

"Look, I'm going to bed," she said.

"I don't want to go to bed. I want you to tell me." I banged the glass down on the counter, the water splashing out the sides. I felt pleased as if reducing her to a victim was what she expected out of me. And I felt guilty, because I had never raped a woman or forced anyone to do anything with me, as far as I knew. But perhaps, in her sick twisted way, she demanded that from men.

She got up and tried to lead me to the couch, but I pushed away her hand. "Just tell me. It shouldn't be that big of a deal. We've been together for months now. We will continue dating but only if there are no secrets between us. Ask me anything you want to know and I'll tell you. Just tell me about the rape."

"You've told me all that I want to know tonight," she countered.

"Fine. I don't see what the big deal is."

"Okay, I'll tell you," she said. "But if I tell you we're breaking up."

"You've got to be kidding. That's stupid."

"So is your request."

I walked out of the kitchen and into her bedroom slamming the door. I lay down on her bed shoes and all, but I could not sleep. An hour later, when she slipped into bed, I got up and moved to the couch. The next morning, I left before she awoke and avoided her for a week at work. I knew I was being juvenile, but so was she. In a relationship, wasn't a couple supposed to tell each other everything? Weren't they supposed to trust one another and give one another their secrets? Though I had no intention to narrate my past conquests one after another, I figured if she asks specific questions, I would answer them. If she didn't ask all the questions, then that was her problem.

She came to my desk after our silence had reached a fortnight and asked me if I would have a drink with her after work. I agreed and we met at a small bar that catered to business individuals like ourselves.

"I'm sorry," I said, hoping that she had come to her senses.

"I'm sorry too. But, since we seem to have broken up, I'll tell you anyway."

I wanted to tell her we didn't have to break up, but felt powerless to stop her. My desperation to know outweighed any desire I felt for her at this point.

"Like I said, I don't know how it happened. During college, I went to a party with a bunch of my friends and I guess I got drunk. It's likely. When you go to parties you get drunk. On the other hand, I could have been drugged. It happened to more than a few of my friends. The next morning, I woke up and I didn't remember much from the night before. However, my clothes were messed up, as if they were hastily put back on. Now it's a possibility that I got up to use the bathroom and was unable to button my clothes, but I don't think that's what happened. There was other evidence."

"Like what."

"Use your imagination."

"I thought you said you were going to tell me."

"I did," she said and stopped for a moment, cutting me with her eyes. I met her gaze as long as I could and then took a drink watching the ice tumble against the glass. She continued, "Do you need to know how much I drank that night? If I should have been at that party? Who I was with? Or maybe what time I woke up the next morning? Or do you want to know what I was wearing? Perhaps, what you are really dying to know is if I deserved it? Was I asking for it?"

"Anything, just tell me how it happened."

"Grow up. That's all you get to know."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

I decided to try a different tract. "But weren't you traumatized? Didn't you wonder who it was or how it happened? Don't you have nightmares about it?"

"No, I don't."

Giving her my most skeptical look, "Come on," I said.

"I did at first, but then I figured, what was the point? If you can't remember it, it certainly can't hurt you." She pushed her glass of wine away from her and crumpled the napkin before placing it inside the ashtray. "Well then, now that you know, I'll see you at work. Let's stay friends."

"All right," I said. I watched her walk off and felt slightly satisfied that she experienced something, some pain. But suddenly I felt ineffectual. It was as if I was no longer able to affect women in any way. She had money, power, a job equal to what I had. When subject to even the most abase acts of power and control, it did nothing to her. As I stared into the dredges of my glass, I began to wonder if anything I did mattered. I fantasized spreading a rumor about her rape at the office, but even as I did so I knew it wouldn't make a difference. She was above it all. She was hurt by nothing. She was something altogether new.

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