I remember sitting in a farmhouse chair in his tiny kitchen, back straight against the wall, chain-smoking. Boy, was I nervous.

He was on the other side of the room, fussing with something at the kitchen table. I looked uncomfortable, he said. Did I want a drink?

I was a young 18 or 19 at the time, doe-eyed and eager to discover the world beyond my parents' downy nest. He was 20 years my senior, a professor who was famous for his motorcycle leathers and long hair (was supercool in those days), swearing, smoking in class … circling.

He challenged his students to think beyond the obvious, to dissect, to question, to rebel. I had never had a teacher like him, loved his class, and did well in it, too. So when I needed an academic letter of reference for something or other, I mustered up the courage to approach him.

He invited me to his office to chat. I was a very interesting woman, he told me. He loved my ideas, my mind. But he wanted to get to know me better. And so we talked for a while, with the office door wide open.

Of course I was flattered and loved the attention and felt special. Who wouldn't want to believe that someone finds them interesting and smart, no matter the age or circumstance? But especially a naïve girl who so badly wanted to be taken seriously, to be more mature, more worldly?

When I returned to pick up the letter, he closed his office door, stood in front of it and wouldn't let me leave until I promised to meet him outside of school. He really wanted me to meet his artsy friends, he said. I would love them.

My curiosity got the better of me and eventually I agreed. He knew I would. They always know.

Back in his kitchen, I looked around, taking in the small apartment. It was basically one big room — a living/bedroom that opened up to a dining room, off a small hallway.

He asked if I wanted to smoke a joint and I eagerly accepted. (I smoked a lot of weed in those days, but almost none since.) He rolled a tiny pinner, handed it to me and within minutes my limbs were so heavy I could barely prop myself up.

I asked if he put something … different … in it. It's just strong, he said. But I was dizzy, felt like I was being pushed down by weights. I could no longer sit upright, so I found my way to the floor and started to crawl into the hallway, toward the front door.

He continued to walk around, chatting excitedly about his life, his friends, his travels. He was fine. I collapsed in the hallway, unable to move at all at this point, barely able to speak, still aware of my surroundings. He appeared over me suddenly and I managed to whisper that I couldn't move. He leaned down, picked me up and put me on the bed in the adjoining living/bedroom.

And then he kissed me. I asked him to stop, tried to move my lead limbs. He berated me for not being the person he thought I was, not being worthy of meeting his friends, not being mature enough to be in his home. Then he kissed me again.

I don't know if it was adrenalin that got me out of there, or what. All I know is, somehow I managed to get out from under him, get to my car. I drove a couple of blocks and then just sat in my car for a long time. It was 20 years before I'd go anywhere near that neighbourhood again.

I never filed any kind of complaint or report. I blamed myself for going to his place, for putting myself in that position. And even my friends at the time told me I was making too much of it.

Talking with a friend about Jian Ghomeshi, this weekend, I told him I understood why Ghomeshi's alleged victims never went to the police. My friend pointed out that every woman he knows has been victim of some form of assault or aggression.

And, indeed, the Twitter hashtag #BeenRapedNeverReported, started by former Toronto Star reporter Antonia Zerbisias, is full of stories by women who have been sexually assaulted and never went to the police.

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So let's keep the conversation going, out in the open, where they can't hide. And hopefully, eventually, attitudes will start to change.

- Two Liberal MPs kicked out of caucus amid allegations of misconduct