January 3, 2019

The Sticky Goop Between My Legs


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Laura Lee, 53, with invisible wounds and scars. I've learned to embrace PTSD and depression because if I don't own them, they'll own me.  I don't want to simply survive, but to thrive.  I hope you'll join me on my journey.  It's sure to be a bumpy road.


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I woke up in my hotel room, nude, sore, bruised. Thick, crusty, sticky goop – semen, on my legs, in my pubic hair, on my thighs, on the sheets. I sat on my bed in shock. I knew what happened, yet I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. Not to me. I had no memory.  Who? How? My head was pounding and swirling. I could barely keep it upright.  My tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth. I needed water.  I looked at myself in the mirror.  My eyes were swollen and bloodshot.  I clearly cannot hold my liquor.

I don’t pretend to know who raped me.  The throbbing between my legs though was a dead giveaway that it happened, even if the sticky, crusty goop that was semen didn’t already have my attention.

I was a trained Sexual Assault Victim Intervention (SAVI) advocate and I did exactly what I’m trained to advise victims not to do – I took a shower.  I scrubbed every inch of my body.  I didn’t cry.  I was in shock.  I didn’t know what to cry about. Was I willing participant?  The soreness and the bruising said otherwise.  Who was it?  To this day, I have no idea.

When I met my shipmates in the lobby, the only thing I recall one of them saying to me, was about my uniform belt.  I don’t remember exactly what it was….did I forget my belt?  Was it on wrong?  Still in shock.  They didn’t notice.




Up until the spring of 1996 my career in the Navy was pretty stellar.  I was a squared away sailor.  I had a few bumps in the road the first two years of my enlistment, but I didn’t have any behavioral issues – no conduct problems.  It’s just that I was nothing, but an average seaman in my early days, but after that I picked up the pace.  I grew up, matured, got married, had my first child, and got serious about my career. Pretty normal for most young people.

I had broken service – meaning I left active duty for a couple of years for the reserves and later returned.  Once I did, I promoted easily each time, once with a perfect score on my exam, and once as an early candidate and the first time I was eligible – almost unheard of.  I was doing well and I had a great support system and amazing shipmates!

My tours in Norfolk, VA and Rota, Spain were the best tours I could have asked for.  I had orders for London after Rota, but broke rotation for a stateside tour in Pensacola at the request of the Commander, Naval Security Group (COMNAVSECGRU) to work on a new project.  I was elated.  Over the moon.  London was a great tour of duty, but being asked to work on this project was a great career move.  Or, it should have been.  Instead, it was the end of my career.

We left Rota for the states where I attended school first before reporting to my command.  I was the class leader and honor graduate. So far so good.




That’s where the good ended.  There were arguments over which project I was to be assigned.  COMNAVSECGRU specifically wanted me assigned to a certain project, one in which I was considered to be the Navy’s subject matter expert, while the command had other ideas.  So, I was assigned to a different project that I had little knowledge and information about, other than the information I had just received from the school I attended.  It was made clear to me from the get-go, that I was the token female on the project.  As in, they literally told me.  Great.  That came with menial tasks the like of drafting messages and running errands while the men brainstormed new ideas about the project management.

Then, and I don’t recall why or how it came about, but I was given orders for temporary additional duty (TAD) along with someone else in the division to go aboard several ships to do installations of new software.  FINALLY!  I was going to be able to prove I was more than a warm body.

We flew to San Diego where we were met by a civilian also working the project; he was retired Navy.  We boarded two ships where we completed the software upgrade – I diligently watched and took notes.  I had never been aboard a ship before – I know, crazy.  I stayed close by, afraid I’d get lost.  I stayed between the two men, as the one in front opened each hatch and the one behind closed each hatch.  I didn’t go anywhere without one or both.  I was dependent on them.




At the end of the first day we decided to take a trip across the border to Tijuana. I don’t recall how we got across the border.  Did we walk? Drive? Take a bus? A taxi? I just don’t remember.  I know once we got there we were drinking.  Again, I don’t remember where we were drinking exactly, just the vague fleeting memory of the three of us having drinks and then the realization that I’d had too much, and it doesn’t take, but two drinks for me to have too much, because I don’t drink.  It’s an odd realization that I got drunk, because I had sworn off alcohol after an incident when my youngest, Cassy, was just a baby.  When she was only seven months old I had gotten drunk and was in a dangerous situation and swore I’d never have too much to drink again and I never did or have except for this day.  I don’t know why this day.  Of all days.  The plan, or at least my plan, wasn’t to drink.  At all.

Other than those fleeting memories, the next thing I remember vividly, is standing outside a strip club and the two men wanting to go inside. Night had fallen and there were a lot of unseemly characters on the street. I didn’t want to go inside, but they were insisting.  I didn’t want to be standing alone on the street of a foreign country either. I didn’t like my choices.  I chose to go inside with them, but I don’t know how much of a choice it was that I made on my own or how much the choice was made for me.  I remember drinking again.  I don’t know why I did it, except that once I’ve had too much I don’t make good choices anymore.

I can’t make good choices.

I can’t make choices.

I can’t choose.

And yet, I had sworn off alcohol, so why was I drinking?  My therapist and I speculate that at some point during the trip, I may have been drugged.  By whom, I don’t know.




We sat near the stage where the women were dancing and stripping down to absolutely nothing. The men I was with were pushing and pulling, trying to get me up on stage while they were hooting and hollering.  The women joined in, grabbing my arms, trying to get me up on stage with them.  Everyone was trying to get me to take off my clothes.

I resisted the best I could.  I struggled against their bodies, both the men’s and the women’s.

I had no allies in this place.

I don’t know if I was able to resist getting on the stage, but I do believe I was able to resist taking my clothes off.

Only because I must believe it.

Photo by Eric Nopanen on Unsplash

We moved to a table in the corner and some of the strippers joined us.  One sat between my shipmate and me.  I use that term loosely, he was no longer my shipmate because shipmates protect each other.  They have each other’s six.  No one had my six in this place.

He was fondling her.

She was being fondled while I sat beside her.

I wanted to throw up.

Maybe I did. I couldn’t move.

I was frozen.

I couldn’t go out on the street where I’d be all alone.  Where I thought things would be worse than they were right here in this club.  Any yet, maybe the street would be better for a young drunk blonde woman from the US on the dark streets of Tijuana.

I don’t remember leaving that club.  I don’t remember crossing back over the border.  What I do remember is being back at our hotel and our supervisor being there as well. Why was he there?  When did he get there?

Someone ordered me another drink.  It was blue, and it reminded me of a fishbowl.  I couldn’t even pick up the glass. I just leaned into it and drank from the straw.  That much I remember.


I remember laughing.

And, that’s the last thing I remember.

A blue drink served in a fishbowl with a straw.


Then, I woke up with the crusty goop of semen and throbbing between my legs.  My head bore the weight of the world.  I threw up and took a shower.

I got dressed.  Went down to the lobby.  My belt was on wrong, or it was missing….


Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash


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comments   | 

  1. Malia says:

    You are so strong for being able to tell your story and help others find their way through.

  2. Pauline says:

    What a raw and brave story to tell. Many women are silent and hide it away. It’s a story that should always be told.

  3. Holly says:

    So sorry! I and many other women have gone through the same thing, me more than once! Thank you for sharing and being strong enough to know how this can help so many others!

  4. Thank you for your strength to share this story. Your stories are going to empower so many people to speak up.

  5. Janine says:

    I can’t imagine the strength it takes to tell this story. But it’s so important. So thank you.

  6. Tricia Snow says:

    I don’t even know what to say. As a the daughter of a Marine and Naval Academy graduate I am appalled. But we all know it happens. It is the shame of the US Armed Forces that this happens. Thank you for your service and your courage in sharing your story.

  7. Your story is going to touch so many people. I’m so sorry this happened to you, but thank you for being willing to share it.

  8. It is so hard to go through these experiences and to relive them is brave!

  9. judean says:

    Wow just wow! You have to be very strong to write such a personal story. I had chills reading through it and wanted to jump in an help you at every turn. Bravery is something that is expected in the military-but many just don’t realize how much bravery one has through personal hardships. I applaud you – and you wrote this so well too.

  10. Heather says:

    Thank you for being strong and sharing your story.

  11. Charlene says:

    I am so sorry people have to go through this kind of thing – and more often than I’d like to admit

  12. Tracy says:

    There are more words except …. thank you for sharing your story.

  13. jen says:

    I don’t feel like any comment I leave is going to reflect my feelings about this post. This is deeply personal and derives a great deal of respect for your candor. These things do need to be in the open for it festers in shadows. If I may go another route, thank you for your service and the deep sacrifices you have made for this country. War wounds happen on a variety of fronts and they scar equally deep. I hope you have the services you deserve to heal.

  14. Michelle says:

    Thank you for your bravery sharing this- so many military service women do not ever speak up because they were made to feel like that they have to say about this matter doesn’t matter- the leaders just brush them aside. I have number of friends who experienced similar incidents. They are just now, years later, coming to terms and admitting it. When they tried to seek help, they were made to feel like they had brought it on themselves!

  15. Lina says:

    Thank you for sharing your story! You are a strong woman and sharing this will help and empower others.

  16. Leigh Ann says:

    This is such am impactful story. So sorry you had to experience this and to feel so alone.

  17. Cindy says:

    I’m so sorry that you’ve had this experience, this pain. I can’t begin to imagine the healing process or the courage required to share your story. I’m so glad you are telling it though. It needs to be heard.

  18. Liza says:

    You are so strong for sharing your story. It is important we do so so others can learn and find empowerment in one another. Thank you.

  19. Meagan says:

    This is heartbreaking… Thank you for sharing. Too many try to act like this stuff just doesn’t happen and unfortunately, it happens so much more than people think.

  20. Dawnmarie says:

    I am left wondering if that was the end or if the assailant was ever found out and held accountable. Maybe not. I want to be supportive but simply do not know what to say.

  21. Kim says:

    Wow, I don’t know what to say here. I am so sorry this happened to you and you are brave for writing a whole post on it. I’m positive it is what someone in a dark place needs to see. They need to see that they are not the only ones and that the decisions we make after something like this is forgivable given the circumstances.
    Thank you for sharing your story.

  22. Karla says:

    I have a story, too. Memories come and go, but I am stronger now than then. Thank you for this.

  23. What a powerful story to share as I know myself and so many resonate with it.

  24. T.M. Brown says:

    I honestly can’t find the words to say. That was a traumatic event you endured. Surely, this will have an impact on others who may need to hear this story and come forward.

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Laura Lee, 52, with invisible wounds and scars.  I've learned to embrace PTSD and depression because if I don't own them, they'll own me.  I don't want to simply survive, but to thrive.  I hope you'll join me on my journey.  It's sure to be a bumpy road.



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