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You Can’t Date Rape Me!

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Who roofies anymore?

It was a Sunday evening, Easter Sunday to be exact, and while yes, I am Christian, I did not have the opportunity to leave the confinements of concrete buildings that surround New York City to actually celebrate. After working in a cold studio all day, I received an invite to a friendly dinner in Brooklyn with my boys (family friends) from back home. A short subway ride, to a place I hardly venture, and I am having a glorious Easter dinner- ham, veggies, mashed potatoes, the works- with two cocktails to be exact.

Dinner is over, we are content, I grab my belongings, but wait- everyone is going into the city to go out tonight- I might as well catch a ride, and while I’m at it, I can go for an hour or two, it’s early!  So I don a dress I already had in my bag and join my good friends as we hail a cab and venture into the seemingly innocent night.

Fifteen minutes later we pull up to the venue and things are looking great. I check my belongings (I came from a job so yes, I had quite a bit) and start to dance a bit. We get a table away from most of the chaos and settle down, patiently awaiting for the bottle service. Shortly after I receive my first glass of champagne, but not from our table. I succeed in receiving this beverage (which is half full due to copious amounts of strawberries stuffed into the glass) from some out-of-towners- Midwesterners, who know my friends and are pleased to meet a fellow Midwesterner (same city to be exact), along with a few guys my boys do not know (the Midwesterner’s friends from New York). I finish the three sips in the fruity glass and after a small discord, I politely leave the table to visit friends I know that are also working as promoters this certain Sunday night in this specific venue.

Time passes, in which I’m wandering around, saying hello, when I’m pulled aside by an old friend, who offers me my second glass of champagne. I politely accept and the bottle waitress pours me a decent sized glass- typical amount. I then sneak off to my original table, saying hello to associates and friends as I pass.

There, I have a small vodka and orange juice, which after a babysitting period with little interest in drinking, I put down. With a mixture of boredom and amusement settling in, I decide it’s time for a moment alone and head to the bathroom, escorted by a gentleman (one of the original friends I had dinner with). We return to the table together and I am called over to catch up with the visitors. There, they pour me a glass of champagne, which I set on the table and turn to talk to the Midwesterner who grew up down the street from my childhood home. I then pick up my third and final glass of champagne. It is 2am.

Now, I’ve heard horror stories of girls getting drugged at clubs when men buy them drinks, promoters putting something in the bottle, or even people mistaking someone’s drink for their own… but I am confident with my five years of nightlife experience as well as capability to function that particular night on a seemingly sober level, that I picked up my glass of champagne. I had a large gulp and left the table to reunite with my original group (they were sitting at the table next to this one). Little did I know, while I had a moment of trust among strangers, I managed to be roofied.

I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I had a large dinner, or I was intermixing drinks with soda water, but I remember exactly how I started to feel, and I knew it wasn’t right. The first sensation is

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  • bella

    “Pick an easier target next time” !?