What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?
I was holidaying to celebrate my boyfriend’s 30th birthday. This was our first overseas trip away as a couple. We had spent many, many hours planning – and a decent chunk of money.
On our first night, we had a power nap to combat the jetlag of the long haul flight and we’d definitely put our drinking boots on. We ditched the big American meals for big American drinks. A few huge margaritas started the night…
Within a couple of hours I realised I’d had too much to drink, too soon. I’d had enough of watching everyone gamble so I went outside for a cigarette. Then, I got lost finding my way back to the blackjack tables. Everything looked the same.
I’ve been told countless times I’m lucky nothing has ever happened to me while I’ve been blackout drunk. This time, I ran out of luck.
Being drunk is not an invitation for sex. Post continues below.
My memory was pretty hazy after leaving my last drinking hole of the night. This is what I actually remember: not knowing where I was. Using my hotel key with no luck. Crying and trying to call my boyfriend through Facebook and Viber. Asking others around me for help. Being in a laundry type area. Having my pants aggressively removed. Having a dick rammed down my throat. Spitting cum out. Spitting some more because I can’t get the taste out of my mouth. Taking a photo of this creep on my phone. Crying to the point of blowing snot bubbles out of my nose. Finding a service lift and getting in. Speaking to a robust African American woman in a hat (police hat? Security hat? I’m not sure) who practically laughs at me because it’s my first night in Vegas and some people just can’t handle it. Finally making it to my room.
Sitting against the back of the door for safe measure.
I do not remember his face. My phone is nowhere to be found. I find it two days later in hotel's lost and found and all the photos are gone. I download a photo recovery app to no avail. I don't know how to get back to the laundry area. All I feel is shame. I avert my eyes to any staff member (because presumably it was staff). My head is down whenever I am in the hotel. I am on constant alert.
I used to consider myself lucky not to be a 1 in 3 statistic. I wonder how the guy knew I wouldn't recall his face the next day. I analyse everything, down to what I was wearing. Ballet flats, jeans and a black sloppy joe. Not exactly fuckable.
It plays on my mind. Do I tell my boyfriend? I should do it sooner rather than later, right? I wonder how he will react. Will he think it was consensual and I cheated on him? What if he breaks up with me and we have 2 weeks holiday already paid?
Will he think I brought it upon myself for drinking too much? (Hell, that's even what I think). Will he look at me differently? Will he no longer be attracted to me? Will he want to kill the guy? The last thing I want to do is to spend time, or waste time and bring attention to myself. I feel like he'll resent me for ruining his holiday.
I am in constant search for the right moment. The next day I'm as sick as ever but make it out to that day's activity. We are constantly surrounded by people with not a second to ourselves. We are sharing a room with others, so even a bedtime chat is out of the question.
My qualms about telling him turn into pure resentment. I try to remain level-headed but when I ask him to walk me back to the hotel with me at 3.30am and he chooses to stay with his friends playing the pokies instead, there is nothing I'd rather do than slap him in the face, tell him to wake up to himself, be a gentleman and walk me back to our room.
I wait, wide-eyed until he returns and, shaking like a leaf, tell him. He is concerned, but I want a more severe reaction, for him to be so enraged that he marches straight down to hotel reception to get some clarity on the situation. I expected his reaction to be like a cartoon character with steam coming out of his ears.
Our relationship is rendered practically dead when I ask why he didn't try to get in contact with me, and at what point he noticed I was missing. He responds that he didn't realise I was gone. Boom. Grrrrrrreat.
I ask him a week later if it bothers him that someone has messed with me. He says yes, but his tone is quite apathetic.
My realisation that I can confide in my sisters and friends a million times more easily than him hurts more than the actual night itself.
I really felt like he was the one and someone I could always depend on. But is he? I doubt he'd ditch his mates or not realise that they were MIA for hours without making at least make some effort to contact them.
We are still dating at the moment and I know he is a great guy.
I do not hold him responsible in any way - but I'm doubtful that things will be the same again.