My Least Traumatic R*pe

Written by: Alex

TRIGGER WARNING: graphic desicription of rape

The weirdest thing: we were in full view of about forty Bay Area social justice warriors. People who took care to use the correct pronouns. They had posted plaques on the wall about enthusiastic consent. They reblogged Everyday Feminist articles and discussed risk-aware kink.

The costumes were also bizarre. I have been raped plenty of times--that’s just my life as a female, a drug user, a sex worker--but never have I had anything so surreal happen to me. Wonder Woman moaned next to me, thoroughly spanked by the Incredible Hulk.

I slowly reached for my date’s hand as my head rolled on the filthy cushion on the floor of the “Play Area. ” Emmy had dressed as a unicorn, refusing to go along with the super hero theme of the night, opting instead for a polyamory joke--the “unicorn” is the hot bisexual woman willing to become a plaything for a heterosexual relationship. And she had been. In fact, maybe if this dude had just asked her instead of cutting our molly with some unknown substance, she would have been giving him head by now. I couldn’t really turn my head to see her. I kept having this feeling that there was something I just needed to remember, something that I should do to attract attention, to get help. “Is there a phrase you are supposed to say in these situations?”

I felt nausea rising. I sat as an observer to my internal dialogues. “Okay, you don’t want to die being raped in Harley Quinn lingerie and pigtails. ” “That’s right! I didn’t come all this way to drown in my own vomit at a play party. ” “There’s something you need to do if you are drugged and about to throw up. You have to move a certain way. ” “What way is that?” “You have to like, lay on your side, girl. Move your body!”

But then I remembered the ongoing rape. “I don’t think this dude will be cool if I try to change positions. Maybe turn my head. ” “No, not towards the unicorn. She’s being raped too. Well, I guess not at the moment. ” “Maybe I can wait to throw up until he goes for her again! That will get me time to roll over!” “No, there’s no time. You better turn your head. ” “I hope Wonder Woman isn’t mad at me. ”

In retrospect, had Wonder Woman noticed, I’m sure she would have put an end to it. Or maybe she did and just ignored me because it was gross. I don’t know.

But I was jubilant. I was so much less nauseous, so glad I had successfully not drowned, so proud of my achievement. “I think my throwing up turned him on. Like in porn!”

After he was done I spent what seemed like hours lying there next to Emmy trying to become okay-enough to walk. Time dilation is one of the things I don’t love about drugs--at least, whenever they aren’t going right.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, wondering why I wasn’t feeling super traumatized. “Maybe the molly is preventing me from registering this as trauma?”

The same wasn’t true for Emmy. As soon as we could talk and move, she was sobbing. Then people noticed, but the dude was long gone, and by that point we just wanted to be left alone. Emmy shooed them away. I helped her to the bathroom. Tank Girl was being fucked on the sink by some guy in a shirt that said “This shirt is my costume. ” I held Emmy’s hair as she kept throwing up, over and over, sobbing.

I think Tank Girl got concerned because an event organizer knocked on our bathroom door, concerned we had gotten too drunk. That’s a violation of the rules. So was using drugs, so we decided not to tell. I became the spokesperson. I apologized in a clear, strong voice. “She’s not drunk; she’s ill. We are leaving as soon as I sober up enough to drive. ” He didn’t believe me but walked away. The bathroom was abandoned now. We cleaned up at the sink. We instinctively knew a rape kit was out of the question--we had done something ... illegal. As an onand-off homeless person, I am great at ho baths. Emmy was less experienced, so I taught her the art of the public clean-up. I tried to make her laugh, and succeeded.

I got us water, and we sat on cushions against the wall in another room of the building, waiting for me to be okay to drive. She lay her head in my lap, sobbing on and off, but I kept reassuring her that everything would be okay. Apparently she had liver and gallbladder issues, and certain drug combinations are life threatening for her. And of course, nobody like us had insurance back then.

I drove us to the motel, stopping frequently for her to hop out and throw up. We arrived at 4am, and slept until my phone alarm went off at 11.

I brought her home when she refused the emergency room. She told me to go, but first I tucked her in bed and set up a handy trash can. She thanked me for being a good human being.

Later I texted her. After a couple hours of silence, I messaged again: “Emmy, you never have to message me again, I get it, but please text me a thumbs up if you are alive and I don’t need to call 911. ” I got a thumbs up. I fell asleep. The next morning I messaged: “Final check in. ” Another thumbs up.

This is one of the traumas of my life that never really hit; maybe the molly did in fact prevent it from ever really cementing itself the way so many other violations have.

I saw Emmy at a burlesque show last year. She was with a boy and I was holding hands with my fuck buddy/BFF. Emmy chatted with us for a minute then gracefully left the event. I gripped Calysta’s hand. “That’s the girl I was raped with, ” I whispered.

This story was written by Alex for her participation in WHRIN (Women in Harm Reduction International Network) and USU’s collaboration on 16 Days of Violence Against Women. Alex wrote this story as a crossover project between 16 Days and NCSU’s (North Carolina Survivors Union) Narcofeminism Storytelling Project, where women and non-binary people learn to break down common tropes they are indoctrinated into incorporating into their stories and begin to tell their own stories with their own voices. Alex wrote this story to illustrate the casual way that women in her community are accustomed to dealing with violence and to showcase the lack of support that women who use drugs have from law enforcement, social justice movements, and the medical profession.