I knew him from the college cafeteria, where he worked in the kitchen, because I was the kind of girl who was friendly and said hello to everyone.

His name was Duane.* I was an attractive young coed, and drew the attention of many young men in those days.

I don't know what he was doing in my college dorm building that day, but he said I didn't give him his birthday kiss. I honestly don't remember now, if I did, or didn't, give him a kiss. He followed me to my dorm room, but I still wasn't alarmed, because everything was very informal on campus.

The conversation, however, soon became uncomfortable. He started describing his genitals, and this was beginning to set off alarms in my head. We were very liberal in those days and able to discuss sexuality very openly, but he wasn't in any of my classes, nor was he among my close friends -- and in any case, the subject was inappropriate.

Suddenly he stood up from where he was seated, and locked the door to my room. I walked over and unlocked it.

"No," I said, "We can't be in here with the door locked."

I don't know how many times the door was opened and closed, locked and unlocked. Within minutes, he had his body pressed up against mine, pinning me against my desk. I was a psychology major, and the subject matter came naturally to me. I used words I had rehearsed in my mind in the past -- my version of psychology, in the event of an assault.

"If you were really in control of yourself, you wouldn't be doing this," I said.

That threw him off, just a little. Meanwhile I physically fought him off, continuing to fight with him over the door.

I truly believe that God was watching over me, and looking out for me. While I wasn't a believer at the time, it wasn't the first time a guy had tried to force himself on me, and I believe that God honored my efforts to fight back.

Suddenly the phone rang, and it was my mother! It was even a struggle for me to get to the phone. But the timing couldn't have been better.

When I finally did reach the phone, and was able to speak into it, I uttered three words: "Mom! Call Security!"

And Duane bolted out the door.

I reported the incident to the college authorities. Within a few days, Duane returned and wanted to speak with me. I allowed him to do so, in a safe place. I asked him, "Why did you do it?"

"Because I was angry," he replied. No big surprise there. This was attempted rape. The primary motive for rape is not desire; it has more to do with power and control. Anger was the best explanation he could manage -- and it made sense to me.

He asked my forgiveness, which I granted. He would be fired from his job anyway; but this was forgiveness on a personal level -- the best I could do. I don't know if he would feel forgiven when he lost his job. But I couldn't take a chance on what he might do, the next time he felt angry at another college coed.

This happened in the late spring of 1980. If it were today, knowing what I know about rapists and recidivism, I would have to make a police report. I couldn't let it slide. It would have been kind of tough, then: maybe a he-said, she-said. Fingerprints on the doorknob? Maybe. You can't waste any time.

DNA evidence wouldn't be used in criminal investigations until the mid-80s, and there wouldn't have been any, because he didn't rape me. Fortunately, he failed.

I don't know what happened to Duane after that. I would like to think he got some help, but how? All I know for sure is that he didn't get me.