I Was Sexually Assaulted On 420

bonfireI feel like most people’s stories of experimentation seem to have happened at earlier times in their lives, but I’m not really like anyone else, and my experience was more than the ordinary 420 situation.

It was a Friday and one of the last few days of my first year of college. Things were so exciting. I was acting, writing, doing everything I wanted to. I felt like things couldn’t get any better. I was even attracting the attention of a boy who I thought to be pretty darn special. I was charmed by his wit, and wowed by his acting resume. It’s amazing how naïve we allow ourselves to be.

That night I had planned an end of year dinner with my classmates. My best friend picked me up after my rehearsal and we walked along the campus together. It was a beautiful campus with a dark past that I somehow always felt connected to. It was a mental hospital turned college. It went from housing the dark and twisted minds to shaping the future minds of tomorrow.

I got a text from that guy telling me to meet him and for a ride down to the lake before my dinner. We’d have to be quick, he said, because he had to head up north.

Innocently, I thought he was going to take me for a romantic walk on the beach. I was wrong. I got into his truck, but something didn’t really feel right. He said he put the seats down and brought a blanket for us, and couldn’t wait to kiss me. We parked in a busy parking lot. I could see a guy walking his wiener dog toward the beach from the window.

When we parked, he crawled in the back. I followed and he started kissing me. He was bad at it, but I liked him so I kept going. He started taking my shirt and bra off. I started panicking. I knew where it was going and I didn’t want it. Not Like this. Not when I could clearly watch a family unload their strollers from a minivan. He was on top of me and he was fully erect and I said, “I can’t.”

“I’m on my period,” I claimed, trying to grab bra and top, he grabbed them first. My cellphone started ringing. It was my Mom. He grabbed my phone too. His dick was exposed. He told me to suck it. He told me he’d give my stuff back once I did that. I considered it, but I had never given a blow job before, and I really didn’t want to.

“I don’t want to, I really just wanna go.” It was my way of attempting to free us both from becoming another college campus statistic. Sadly, instead he aggressively grabbed me by the hair and started forcing my head toward his crotch. I wanted to cry, but I was in denial. This wasn’t sexual assault, I told myself. If it was, then it was my fault. I asked for it. I just gave in. I didn’t want to be a victim. My logic in that moment was really fucked up. How could this person who 30 minutes ago was lighting up my life, be this kind of person? How could I be so wrong?

I was late for my dinner. I thought he was going to at least drive me to my dinner, Instead. He dumped me off at a bus stop.

I called my best friend and told her everything. Neither of us knew what to do. Or make of it. So we just went to dinner as planned. I told her I felt like it was my fault and that we could tell no one. Of course it wasn’t my fault, but I didn’t know that then.

Remembering that Sex and the City Episode where Carrie smoked a joint, I said, “Let’s make this the day I smoke weed!” As it was one of the last days of school, there was a beach bonfire after dinner. We all met up with our classmates at the beach include this one guy. Let’s call him Frank. He was a classmate who also dealt “the good stuff”. I wouldn’t know how to roll a joint, so luckily Frank had this pretty blue pipe. He got it started and asked why I was smoking. He had never seen me do it before.

I wanted to tell him, but he could see he was prying. He told me he just lost his virginity to a guy. The guy finished and called him a fag, saying he wasn’t even gay. He handed me the pipe and I took a hit. I coughed so much. My mouth was dry, but I was calm.

I watched the guys from the film program dance around the fire like crazy people. More friends showed. They were so excited to finally get high with me. We hugged out our year, and experiences. I was so grateful that that was the way that day ended and that it would forever be the first time I smoked weed.

As for the dink from the beginning of the story, well he’s out there somewhere. It was one of the last times I ever saw him. He tried to contact me multiple times after, but I just couldn’t. He set me up for shame and ridicule by bragging to his friends about what he “thinks” happened. Villians don’t always know they’re villains, do they?

I guess that campus was still housing at least one twisted mind.

This story was submitted anonymously. 

Advertisements

The Last Time

drunk girl

The last time I touched cocaine was January 31st. Had I have known it would be my last time, I probably would have done things differently. I would have picked up an eight ball instead of a half and stayed awake all weekend. I would have thrown some sort of epic going away party for the dirty little habit that had taken up much of my twenties.

I had quit before, but was easily seduced back into its familiar arms. Cocaine promised to take me somewhere better than where I was, to a version of reality where I was happier, where I could forget about the depression and anxiety that plagued me, the things that robbed me of my confidence and grace. I wasn’t as sad as I used to be, or at least I didn’t think I was, but I still had this shadow that followed me around. Cocaine was like sunshine in comparison, and so I always returned. But something felt different this time.

It wasn’t so much that I was sick of the drug. There’s a reason I liked it for so long, a reason I was late for so many parties, and then, once I got to those parties, why I was always one of the last ones to leave. There’s a reason I spent way too much money on it over the years, an amount I don’t particularly care to calculate. I was just sick of me being on drugs and I thought about this as I put on my shoes and headed to the party. But later, after a few bumps in the bathroom, I pushed the thought away and my night turned into a blur like all the others before it.

I woke up on February 1st and, as I began putting the pieces together from the night before, I realized I didn’t want to be that girl anymore. I replayed the night’s events over in my head thinking, was I the only girl high at the party? There used to be more of us. But over the years, people trickled off. Some quit. Some went to rehab. Some disappeared. It used to be that cocaine was everywhere—or at least it felt that way. Sometimes when I was trying to do less I would tell myself I’d only do it if someone offered it to me, knowing that it would indeed be offered to me a some point in the night. Life felt glamorous like that. I felt like a woman from a rock and roll memoir, a wild child. I felt like I had a secret that made me interesting, which is such a cokehead thing to believe, that doing coke makes you interesting. It doesn’t.

If it was a rock bottom, it was a quiet one. There were worse lows scattered across the half a decade I spent dancing that line between a bad habit and an addiction. There were nights that ended with intense fights, and others with minor interventions. There were nights I don’t remember, and scars I don’t have stories for. I have been high in the presence of people I should not have been high around in situations I should not have been high in. On occasion, I bought the drug instead of doing something more responsible like paying bills or buying food. Once or twice, I found a baggie in my purse at work and did just the tiniest little bit, to even out. One time I rubbed it on my teeth as my boyfriend sped down the highway. I just wanted to feel alive, you know? And coke made me feel alive.

Plus, aside from this, it didn’t really cause that many problems in my life. I held down a job and progressed in my career. The friends who did coke with me also had 9-5s. They were artists and teachers and engineers. We paid for our drugs with pay cheques earned the good old-fashioned way, at corporate jobs or through freelance gigs. We looked after each other. We had fun. We laughed a lot. We danced. No one got arrested. No one died. And no one seemed to mind that I was high all the time, so I didn’t really mind either.

In fact, I looked forward to it. When I first started doing cocaine I didn’t want it to become a problem, so I’d make myself wait until 10 p.m. on Friday night before I did my first line. I thought this little ritual proved that I had willpower and restraint. But after a while, I stopped waiting for 10 p.m. Then I stopped waiting for Fridays. After a little while longer, I had three dealers’ numbers saved in my top 10. I was hooked. I loved doing a quick line before I went out. I loved the way it felt riding the streetcar high through the city. I loved a quick bump before a quick fuck. I loved doing it while I was getting ready to go out somewhere, with the record player spinning as I put on some eyeliner, stopping to do bumps between drinks. It was one of my favourite routines, the act of getting ready. The act in itself.

I didn’t realize it had become such a crutch, filling a void alcohol didn’t fill anymore. I was used to coke, and I felt more like myself when I was on coke, or at least more of the self I wanted to be. I felt confident, sexy and smart. It made me social and outgoing. I thought it made me fun! This is exactly how I used to feel about alcohol. Except I didn’t realize that it had taken the place of alcohol, because the alcohol never stopped either.

I’ve been playing the part of the party girl, though perfectly cast, for far too long. Coke was helping me to maintain an image I’m not so sure I want to maintain anymore. When I came to that February morning, I knew it was time to stop hiding under a veil of powdered confidence and liquid courage. It was time to say good-bye.

In like a lion, out like a lamb. That’s how this felt to me. And maybe this means my story is a happy one and that I got out before things got too bad. Still, it’s been harder than I expected. I crave it almost every weekend, talk about it too much, and find myself yearning for it, especially after a few drinks. I haven’t yet been able to bring myself to delete the numbers in my phone, though I have stopped responding to text messages from business-savvy dealers. I’m aware that temptation is a dangerous mistress. While I have no intention of indulging, there is comfort in knowing she’s just 10 digits away. Like the ex-smoker with a pack of cigarettes on the top shelf of the pantry, I keep it just out of reach. Just for now. Just in case.

In Hotel Rooms, We Can Be Anyone

Sipping vodka through a straw at the bar in the hotel, I awaited my man’s arrival. We were celebrating our anniversary and although we lived in Toronto, felt like getting a room in the city would serve as a sexy, temporary escape from our everyday lives. It was raining lightly outside. I felt nostalgic as I reflected upon our relationship while sitting in the bar, staring out the hotel windows, but I also felt exceptionally present as I fantasized about the night that awaited us. I wanted to play the part of the sexy, mysterious girl tonight so I went to the hotel just a little bit early, early enough for him to find me slightly tipsy off top shelf vodka. I had packed a corset and a half of cocaine, just in case the night got wild.

He met me at the hotel bar, threw the bartender some money and a generous tip, then escorted me up to our room, roses in tow. I felt a bit like a call girl, high class of course, except for the flowers, which reminded me I am indeed a well-loved woman. The room was gorgeous; its contemporary design reminded me of our living room—the way the reds, browns and blacks wove together. But it was not enough of a reminder to make it feel like home. I was very coherent of the fact that we were somewhere else, and that was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to be displaced, seduced, and fucked. I wanted him to devour me, and I him. Anniversaries are a time for lovemaking, for romance, but I wanted a little bit of lust thrown in. I wanted him to want me. I wanted him to take me.

I feel like this sometimes and I let it come out in hotel rooms. Hotel rooms are where I can play the part of the whore and the devout girlfriend all in the same act; with an audience of one I can be anyone.

It did not take long for the desire for hotel sex to set in. There’s something about being in a hotel room that makes everything feel a little bit elevated, as though nothing is real. I excuse myself to slip into something else. There’s something, too, about the act of changing in a room full of mirrors that makes you aware of your body in ways you’re not always coherent of. The curves of your hips, the way your breasts sit. You pause for a moment to wonder if they’ve always looked like that, but the thought passes quickly. You take things off quickly, too, but put them on slowly. You want everything to sit just right, to hit your body at the right parts. You adjust the knee-high stockings so they’re at the same level. You know he’s in the other room, waiting. You wonder, is he clothed? Naked? Does he have something special planned? Has he topped up the wine like you want him to? You lace the corset tight into place; adjust your breasts. You remember the cocaine. You remember the romance. You make yourself forget the cocaine, for now. You fix your makeup. Make your eyes a little blacker, your lips a little redder. You turn your head upside down to give your hair some volume. You step into your black pumps, your Steve Maddens. You do one last look. You open the door.

No, you slide the door. When you’re a woman of mystery and desire you slide the door so that the noise piques his interest but he doesn’t see you right away. When you step out you want it to be so hot that you feel him get hard. This is the woman you are being right now, and she is confident and seductive. She is an alternative version of you, but she is still you. You take note of that. That this is you.

On a Tuesday night in a hotel room in downtown Toronto you transform. It is your favourite part about hotels. The music playing is the playlist you made together with this night in mind because without saying it you both know how hotel nights go, and so at first when you’re settling in it’s kind of sweet and sentimental, but by the time the first bottle of Bordeaux is gone, it’s dirtier, grittier, hotter.

The song that comes on as you slide open the door is perfect and sludgy with the kind of back beat that makes it easy to sway your hips. It makes the charade almost effortless, when the soundtrack is so good anything is possible. You walk slowly to the bed, as you move your body and mouth the words, as you prepare for what’s to come. You push him down before you kiss him, because even though he already wants it, you want him to want it more. That is the woman you are being tonight. She’s a little meaner, a little feistier than usual. She gets what she wants. He lets you have him, lets you work your mouth to where he wants it, and then he turns you over and takes your clothes off one by one. He does it slowly. He makes you want it, too.

You fuck. I fuck. I let the woman I wish I always was rise from somewhere inside of me and I take on this character for the night. By now I’m also a little drunk. If I smoked cigarettes I’d have had five by now, but I don’t smoke cigarettes so I drink and do occasional lines when I’ve got the money instead. I remember the cocaine and we’re both exhausted and drunk enough that he can’t even get mad at me for bringing it, the offer is too tempting. I pour a pile on the bedside table, its mahogany finish in stark contrast to the white of the drug. I take a 50 dollar bill, one of the new ones, and place it on top, sliding the hotel room keycard over it until it turns into a fine powder. Doesn’t it look pretty? Almost like snow, like the seasons are changing. I use the key to cut four lines. He lets me go first. They’re pretty even, but still I take the one that looks the biggest. It’s an illusion, but everything is right now.

When the coke is gone and the wine is gone we get dressed and head upstairs to the rooftop lounge overlooking the entire city. You can see the water and the CN Tower and the skyscrapers, those already built and in development. You can see the city changing. There’s a slight chill in the air and he pulls me in close as we point to the area where we live. You can almost see our house from here, if you pretend hard enough. The night slows down. I melt into the moment and lose a layer of my mystery in the process. But I know it’s okay. The act may be ending, but it’s not over yet. After a few drinks, we go downstairs to go to bed, kissing as we fall asleep. Tomorrow we’ll wake up as us again, but for now we’ll enjoy the fantasy.


Photo by Elle Hanley, part of the hotel series. To view more of her work, click here

The Balcony-Loving Stranger

vogue

You went back to your family’s house while they were away since it was closer to the bar you were at. You were drunk. It’s a random night (Monday) after a friend’s concert and a mismanaged man situation (classic).

You would not allow yourself to fail since current popular culture values performance over well-being. When you were dismissed, refused and ignored, you became vulnerable to your core and you had shivers of unworthiness and self-disgust running through your spine. Sometimes, this anxiety turned into infernal insomnia, which slowly killed your rest time and your usual cheerfulness.

The morning after, you woke up and decided to take care of yourself, which was the sensible thing to do and the only way forward. You were clearly conscious that the wild years of oblivious drinking were over and that your friends were busy individuals working weekdays. You stayed home alone and drank green tea and coconut water in the hopes of getting some sort of glow.

When there was a happening, you dressed up and you hung out with your buddies in large groups. You possessed a deep dissatisfaction about your current situation, which translated into the dangerous moments where you sashayed through the mostly familiar crowd, looking for a handsome stranger for love at first glance.

It happened quickly. Your common sense was now useless: your ideas about taking it slow since you wanted a long-term relationship were frozen like your flirtatious smile. Your worries about whether or not the novelty boy would turn out to be an asshole fell out of the window. The midnight magic and cocktail-filled evening took an unexpected toll.

You saw him casually sitting there looking sharp and regal in a crisp denim shirt. He said, ‘’Hi, I’m Paul’’ and you went on chatting about your individually exciting lives.

You took a liking to him instantly. He possessed the perfect balance of warmth (he talked about going for an aquatic date), charm, looks (tattooed to the bone, hair slicked back, dapper shirt) and intelligence. Within an hour, you both started to feel exhausted by your talking and your working hard during days. You suddenly remembered the night, Thursday, which meant that you had to work early the next day.

You told him that you wanted to leave with him so that you could smoke a spliff on his balcony before heading home. Of course, you knew that this offer was a terrible white lie and a very old-school party trick. You knew full well that “one thing leads to another”. You got to know each other intellectually a little deeper on the balcony and then literally deeper physically as you climbed into his bed. You took off your strapless evening dress and slid under the sheets. You smiled as he entered you, and you were feeling euphoric after the act, when his body was slowly recovering. You were happy, you were excited, it had been a while since you experienced a satisfying sexual flow.

You left quickly the next day. You went home to shower and you rubbed yourself clean. You felt him under your skin after washing and you knew right then and there that you were hooked.

You wrote him an online message two days later asking him out. You were walking the fine line between hope and despair but you decided to try your luck on the former.You subsequently saw him twice on his balcony where you talked your heart out. Your thoughts were slowly sliding into the ‘’falling in love’’ category. He was career-driven like you and you loved his reckless ambition. He seemed ready to conquer the world and you hoped that he would be ready to conquer you too.

You did not fancy spending much of your precious time worrying, but you did it anyway since you were dealing with a raw human need for contact as well as an emotion overload. Your story became an itch you could not seem to scratch off and you asked yourself needy questions as to why he did not get back to you yet. You checked his Facebook status, blinking, as if it would have changed since a couple of days ago, when he wrote that his phone was broken. You peeled your eyes, making sure that his relationship status was still intact and his authenticity for real. The truth that you didn’t want to hear was simple: he was not into you because he could not make time for you in his workaholic lifestyle. You were barely a distraction interfering with his goals.

‘’Women walk around thinking ‘we.’ And their vision of ‘we’ is me… and my dick!,” you remembered Samantha Jones saying with verve and anger in Sex and the City. You agreed, you thought too much about both of you together as some dreamy ideal. You cared so much, but all he seemed to care about was chatting, cumming and sleeping when he was in your presence.

You were such a people-pleaser. You were trying too hard to be eloquent, charming, sexually satisfying, and you knew full well that you worried too much about what people think, although you always denied it.

You gradually reached your limit. You could not be using so much headspace on a man who did not care. You knew that you needed to let go, even if holding on seemed much more convincing.

You were learning to be happy again. You decided to accept the harsh reality: you knew that he could not commit. Your heart was wounded again, but you knew how to get back on track. You told yourself that you would keep living and chill the fuck out (badass advice to your insecure self).

At last, you were filled with an inner peace that you forgot about a little while ago, when you became obsessed with finding a cure for loneliness: you mistook self-love with a balcony-loving stranger.

* Sex in the City, Season II, Episode 12. Written by Candace Bushnell, created by Darren Star, produced by HBO.

Photo: Christy Turlington by Steven Meisel. Vogue Italia, 1991.

Lili Monette is a born-and-raised Montrealer and an artist by DNA and by choice. She holds a Bachelor’s of Fine Arts in Theatre and Development from Concordia University and can be found around the world entertaining people and gathering stories.

The First Time’s Always Free

cocainegirl

Of course I wanted her. I knew it before she was lying across the table, pale white and thin. I knew it before I got there, she was the reason I was there after all, veiled loosely under an excuse for a party, hidden behind the music. I had heard her name a lot recently and she crept into my thoughts so intently it was as though she lived there briefly, floated away sometimes with wings like a moth, leaving a trail of powder behind.

The first time I saw her was in his eyes. He sparkled with a glow, an infectious energy, as he talked in circles about her and the way she tasted, so harsh yet sweet. I felt water form in my mouth. She normally held different company, but we found her often in dark bars that year and before long she knew all our friends. She knew where to find them on Fridays, then Saturdays, then Tuesdays, then whenever. She’d call when you were tired in bed, trying to read magazines and fall asleep, but she always offered something greater and she was so enticing, like black lace and bad decisions always are, that it would take hardly an argument before you were lacing up high heeled boots and going to meet her wherever she may.

That particular night, she kept me waiting.

That particular night, something inside me told me not to go, but I didn’t listen. My conscience, maybe, said, “She’ll change you, you know?” and I knew but I didn’t listen. I was 23 and drunk off Jack Daniels. I wanted her so badly. I had heard what they said about her, nothing good, but I needed her. I was sad. I wanted company. I wanted danger. I wanted a new secret. My old ones had become someone else’s.

I had become someone else, though I’m not sure who entirely. That night, I wasn’t wearing much at all and it was sometime in the winter though if it was December or February I can’t be sure. I remember though, because I forgot my mittens there. Ones my grandmother had knitted me when I was 10 years younger. They were so warm and fuzzy and comfortable, the way things always are before they change.

When she arrived, I was warm inside. I was wet inside. I was anticipating her so much I was almost too eager. I was almost turned on. I had romanticized her for so long I expected love right away and when I found it, I knew it wasn’t the right kind of love but I let myself fall for her anyway.

There’s a certain kind of person she attracts and I was her, the lost young girl, the one who wanted excitement and didn’t think she had anything to lose

My friend rolled up the 50 between his fingers and was telling some story about something, I kept thinking he would pass it to me but then he’d throw his hands up with expression and I would jump. I watched him re-roll it tighter, he lowered his head and I watched him take her in. I studied his movements, his motions, his reactions. Then, finally, he passed it to me.

I paused to examine her for a second as he pushed the CD towards me. All noise and conversation fell to the background. Would she be like I imagined? Perfect and pretty. I had expensive tastes, but the first one’s always free.

I bent over and I inhaled. I felt her go through my head, through my thoughts. I closed my eyes and felt the rush of warmth run through me, down the back of my throat, I felt the chill and the thrill and I hated her immediately. She was even better than I imagined. I knew I should have listened to that voice, but it was too late now. I was in love. Isn’t this what I wanted? Some new kind of salvation?

I could have stopped there, should have stopped there, but I didn’t. There’s a certain kind of person she attracts and I was her, the lost young girl, the one who wanted excitement and didn’t think she had anything to lose. The kind of girl who needs secrets like they’re currency. I fell so hard for her I saw her all the time. I saw her on weekends and weekdays and everyday, then slowly I saw more of her than I saw my actual friends. I saw more of her than I saw anything. My friends would invite me places but I would show up late because I would be waiting for her, so they stopped inviting me. Some nights it was only the two of us. I discovered a loneliness I didn’t know possible. A loneliness so great, I knew I had to leave her.

I didn’t want to. I loved the way she made me feel, it was a way nothing or no one else could. Like I could be anywhere or I could be anyone. After so long, I only felt like myself with her. I was so tired by the time I had to leave her, I couldn’t remember what I was like or who I was before we met. At 25, was I the same girl I was that cold winter night when I grabbed my jacket and my money and headed to a party practically bringing a signed goodbye card along for the ride? I suppose it didn’t matter now. Now it was time for me to write her a goodbye note, for me to say goodbye.

Like all good lovers, it wasn’t easy and sometimes I still miss her. It used to be I’d go places where I knew she’d be, but now I don’t go to those places anymore. Will I get over her the way lovers do? The way time lets loves fade away, become distant memories, where you only remember the good parts? Will she ever let me be? She filled a void, but left a scar.

I know I don’t want her but I can still taste her sometimes.

Alice Morrow is a writer, sometimes. She mostly just takes pictures and wastes time in Toronto.