What It Feels like to Escape a Sexual Assault

When you're in your early 20s and you've just entered the PR industry, you can't help but be overly excited. Overly friendly. Overly everything. Yep, that was me. 

As a Gemini and a textbook ENFP, meeting new people always excites me. As a new media relations officer at a local PR agency, relationships were everything. You attended product launches, magazine anniversaries, not just because you wanted to, but because showing up was important. You met editors, writers, photographers, other agency people, celebrities, and musicians. Oh! And by the way, this was before influencers were even a thing. I honestly thought everyone was there for the same reason: to build relationships. 

Fast forward to 2026, I still think I'm that extroverted PR girl. Maybe a little wiser now and more guarded. Apparently, being friendly can sometimes mean something completely different to other people. Or to a few men. 

This happened back in 2008. 

My manager and I attended a magazine anniversary party in Makati. It was one of those nights where it felt like everyone in media knew everyone. You'd see familiar faces everywhere because Manila can be small.  

An acquaintance introduced me to someone who worked in television. I recognized his face but I wasn't particularly familiar with his work. Throughout the night, every time my glass of wine was empty, I'd head to the bar for a refill. I noticed that he started accompanying me. 

And honestly? I thought nothing of it. 

I remember thinking, “Oh cool. Maybe one day we could work together. Maybe I could pitch him for one of my clients' events or get him as a host.” So I continued being my usual friendly self. 

Around 9 p.m., I decided it was time to head home. 

Back then there was no Grab and Uber. My older brother and I had an arrangement whenever I attended events at night. We'd meet at Tiendesitas and drive home together. As this was halfway from where we lived then. 

Going home meant lining up for a taxi. Back then, the guards would hand you a small piece of paper with the taxi's plate number written on it. It was their way of making sure passengers had something to refer to in case anything happened. There were so many horror stories about taxi hold-ups back then. I even had my own little safety hack. I always sat behind the driver because I figured if anything happened, I could open the door and run. 

As I walked toward the taxi queue, this personality offered to accompany me. I remember thinking it felt a little weird, but I didn't want to put meaning into it. When it was finally my turn, I got into the cab and told the driver, "Tiendesitas, Pasig." As always, I sat behind him. 

Then, to my surprise, the guy from the party climbed into the taxi too. 

He sat so close beside me that personal space no longer existed. You know that feeling when everything suddenly becomes a blur and your brain is trying to catch up with what's happening? Then he asked me something I will never forget. "Do you shave or wax down there?" 

That wasn't right. I honestly don't remember how I reacted. I just remember feeling weaker and weaker as the taxi kept moving. Coming from Makati, we passed EDSA. Then Pioneer Street. If you're familiar with that route, you probably already know where this story is going. He suddenly instructed the driver to turn left into one of the motels. I froze. 

I don't know where the courage came from, but I placed my left hand on the taxi driver's shoulder and said, "Kuya... sa Tiendesitas mo ako ibaba. Sa Tiendesitas lamang." (Kuya, please drop me off at Tiendesitas. Just Tiendesitas). The driver didn't ask me any questions. He didn't argue. He simply turned the wheel, drove out of that goddamn motel entrance and continued towards C5, Pasig. 

I don't remember much of what happened after that inside the taxi. He kept talking but I couldn't hear a single word anymore. All I wanted was to get out. When we finally arrived at Tiendesitas, it was divine timing. A rock awards show had just ended nearby, and suddenly there were people everywhere. It was loud, chaotic, and celebratory. 

To this day, I don't remember how I paid the taxi driver. My only regret is that I never kept that little piece of paper with his plate number. As I stepped out of the cab, he was still behind me. I bumped into a friend who worked for a record label. I looked at her in the eye and just mouthed, "Help me." 

Girl code is the best. She didn't ask questions. She introduced herself to him and started making small talk as if nothing was wrong. Then her phone rang. She answered it, "Yes... okay... got it." 

When she hung up, she looked at me and said, "Your brother's already here. He's waiting in front of the coffee shop." She grabbed my arm so that we could walk together and we both never looked back.  

I honestly believe it was divine timing. My friend being there. My brother arriving exactly when he did. The hundreds of people outside because the awards show had just ended. The moment I got inside my brother's car and locked the door, I completely broke down. I cried like someone in my family had died. The only words I remember repeating over and over were, "I'm not that kind of girl." 

Maybe it’s because when something like this happens, you somehow feel like you have to prove your innocence, even though you've done absolutely nothing wrong. 

He eventually tried reaching out through social media. I saw previews of his messages and his friend request. I never opened them. He didn't deserve a space in my life. Sometimes I wonder if I was the only woman he ever did this to but maybe I wasn’t. 

The world has changed a lot since 2008. A few years later, the #MeToo movement happened. Conversations about consent became louder. Boundaries became clearer. I hope young women entering the workforce today feel safer than I did. And to the men reading this, I am sure that you already know that friendliness is not flirting. Walking a woman to her taxi or Grab doesn't earn you access to her body. 

But here's the funny thing. When I think about that night now, I don't think about him anymore. I think about the taxi driver. One man spent the evening trying to convince me he was a gentleman. The other never had to say a word. He turned the wheel. He drove away. I don't even remember what he looked like anymore. I still wonder about him from time to time. I pray for him. I hope he won the lottery or something. I hope his kids graduated. I hope life has been kind to him.  

Because if that night taught me anything, it's this: There are men who mistake power for masculinity. And then there are men who quietly use whatever power they have to protect someone else. Eighteen years later, I still believe there are good men in this world, I know because one of them was driving a taxi that night. 

Photo by Lexi Anderson on Unsplash