Hey, Trump, Grab This.

Trigger warning: Rape, sexual assault

UPDATE: My rapist was finally identified and apprehended — on December 7, 2019, exactly 29 years to the day from the rape. Curiously, his last name is Smith.

Twenty-six years ago tonight, I was raped.

Pearl Harbor Day, 1990. 8:15 PM. Louisville, KY. My small apartment on Main Street, which I’d just moved into about three weeks before. I was 24.

I’d been expecting a friend who lived in a studio apartment across the courtyard, so when I heard the knock on the door, I assumed it was my friend and …

I opened the door.

It wasn’t my friend, of course. It was a man I’d never seen before, who mumbled something about looking for someone named Mr. Smith (not the name he used — I’ll come back to that in a minute). I remember feeling immediately uncomfortable and shutting the door as I replied “Sorry, wrong apartment.”

He pushed his way in. I screamed and managed to bang on the wall in an unsuccessful attempt to alert the next-door neighbor before he grabbed my arms, then gagged me with my scarf that was draped across a chair near the door.

He demanded money. I had none. I was a barely employed stage actor. But I indicated to him where my wallet was, noting in some remote, more detached corner of my brain that he’d touched the wallet and thus, assuming I survived this, I could tell the police and maybe they’d get his fingerprints. (They did, but the prints weren’t…