“When you rape, beat, maim, mutilate, burn, bury, and terrorize women, you destroy the essential life energy on the planet.”
~ Eve Ensler, The Vagina Monologues
I was raped. Well, I think I was raped. According to the law book the detective read from I was part of the definition. The inability to give consent, I consented to the invitation to come over and have drinks. I accepted the trash can punch that came from the yellow and red, Igloo. I just did not consent to the GHB.
I remember being in a daze. The sensation was somewhere between a dream and reality. I felt beyond drunk. And I remembered only having half a cup. For god's sake I was on my period. I would never have had sex with someone new on my period.
I remember being laid down on top of a white down confronter. I was conscious, but unable to move. I remember the shift to the bed, the weight of a body on top of me, and the smell of my period leaking on top of sheets.
After a short while my phone rang. I remember the ringing lodging into my consciousness and waking me up a little. I suppose the drug was wearing off by them. The ringing continued. I was able to propel my body out from under the beast. I ran to the nearest room and locked the door and answered the phone. It was my friend Matt. I was able to utter a few words. Enough for him to realize what was happening and to go into rescue mode. His instructions were to run. Leave everything behind; clothing, purse, keep cell and keys. Matt gave me turn by turn directions to land me safely back to my dorm. I was slowly walking back to my room when the police approached. I don't remember what I said. I remember the itchy wool blanket and the female officer wrapping it around my naked flesh. I remember the cop asking me if I was on drugs, or any substances. I remember the click of my dorm room door and passing out on the couch.
The next morning a detective called and asked me to come to his office. I didn't want to go. It was my fault. I accepted the unescorted invite. I accepted the drink. I knew what I was getting myself into. Only a slut goes to a man's house that she barely knows.
Matt told on me. He called a mutual friend who helped me pull on my clothes. She held up the wash cloth for me to remove the blood stains from my thighs. She drove me to the police station and held my hand the whole time.
I walked into to the detective office scared as hell. Would there be blood tests, and swabs, and a trip to the ER? Would someone victimize my vagina one more time? The many questions of pregnancy and Aids running through my mind like hamsters in a wheel.
I told the story, similar to the one above just slightly more stuttering and tears. That is when I was shown the Texas definition of rape. Not consenting to the act of sexual contact consciously, or unconsciously.
Could this apply to me? I consciously accepted the invite, I consciously accepted the drink. In turn did I consciously accept the sex? Was I raped? Or, just caught in a bad situation. For a girl that got around it was a hard definition to swallow.
I never was able to sign the line that said I was raped. I didn't pursue the charges. I do not regret it. It was my decision to make and one I was not comfortable in signing off on.
Rape victims tend to blame themselves. I do place at least part of the blame on the bastard. He knew what was in the drink and what he intended to do with it.
I remember the day I finally admitted to myself I was raped. Ironically, enough it was during a performance of the Vagina Monologues. There was a place close to the end where you were supposed to stand up for sexual violence. If yourself, or someone you knew was a victim. I stood up.
I still do not tell many people. It isn't something I share, or label myself as. I do not rally or demonstrate for harsher sex crime punishments. It has not changed me into a radical feminist.
Occasionally, the incident crosses my mind and it angers and saddens me. I wonder how many more victims he had. When he raped me was he raping all of them, again?
A month after the incident occurred, an undercover agent contacted me and asked me some details about his whereabouts and what hot spots he frequented. They were going to do a sting operation because of the number of victims that had come forward. I heard through the grapevine that he used GHB at the bars. The last thing I knew he was shipped to Iraq. I don’t care if he ever shipped him back.