But there had been no true words for the act then: rape was what occurred when some maniac jumped on you out of a bush, not when your formal-dance date drove you to a side road in the mangy twice-cut forest surrounding a tin-pot mining town and told you to drink up like agoodgirl and then took you apart, layer by torn layer.
The scene may not present any kind of truth about being a stewardess in 1963, but good luck telling that to the little girl in you, who for those few seconds utterly buys this dated, Darin-stoked depiction of freedom and adventure.