The night was just getting started. He had joined an old friend he'd been recently reacquainted with in some drunk driving and bad, gay karaoke. After ingesting copious amounts of mixed, fruity specials and imported beers they joined a group they recently formed at a shack like bar across town known for it's cheap drinks and seedy nature. He had joked in the past you have to pull on a condom just to order a drink.
A deep, strongly baritoned voice he heard next to him while ordering a beer caught his attention. He was pleased not to be disappointed to see who the voice was coming from. Pushed back, spiky reddish brown hair and matching goatee and a leather motorcycle jacket with a tacky thick, silver rope chain necklace. Oh yeah. Just his type. He liked his men to be men. Edgy. Dangerous. He enjoyed telling people he was into the kind of guy who looks like he may up and slap him. Keep him on his toes. He'd laugh. He probably wont be using that line for some time.
He knows what to do, engage his target in some conversation emphasizing how much he doesn't have in common with the typical gay community and he feels like an outsider amongst his own people. Effective, but none the less true. Not surprisingly, they hit it off. The sexual tension permeated obviously. He quickly forgot about the flavor of the minute who followed him to this place and cut out when this new guy invited him out to his pick up truck for a joint. After smoking and some overt flirtation the guy tells him he doesn't live far from the bar and how he just broke up with his girl friend recently so he had the place to himself. He sweetened the deal with a bag of weed and a bottle of Goose waiting at his place. The guy wasn't lying. The ride was quick. The vodka strong. The weed potent.
Feeling the effects of the heavy drinking added to the marijuana, he excused himself and regained his composure in the stranger's bathroom for a moment. Getting his second wind he returned to find the guy standing in his living room wearing a ruffly, purple and pink bowed negligee with black lace stockings. He chuckle, barely able to stifle his amusement at the sight. There went any potential for sleeping with this guy.
"You're a man," he told him. "Take that off."
Even in his drunken state he noticed the slight change in demeanor. Maybe not the best choice of words. It gets dark after that. His memory choppy, unclear, as if unsure whether he dreamed it or not. He remembers that deep voice he found so attractive hours before shouting. Angry. He remembers trying to lock himself in the bathroom but his fingers wouldn't respond as quickly as they should. He remembers someone over him as he laid face down across the sofa chaise. Someone was on top of him. Someone was having sex with him.
He woke up hazy the next day. He was on the couch in his own living room, fully clothed. His mind couldn't focus, he tried getting up but needed to brace himself against the wall for support. His limbs were heavy, almost not his. He began to piece getting home. Waking up on the stranger's couch, flinching at the sound of his voice. Memories faded in and out. Nothing felt real. But something happened. He was sore. His body felt abused and the stabbing, burning pain in his back side were very real. He remembers hurting and he remembers being scared. Something real happened, and it was ugly and it was violent. Somewhere in a foggy part of his mind he couldn't seem to access he recalled angry shouting. Of being held down, pinned, triggering his light claustrophobia. "I just want to go home," he remembers crying like a child. He remembers the guy driving him home. He knows where he lives.
He looks at his watch for the time. It's gone. He turns on the television and discovers he's slept through an entire day of work. He felt disoriented. He still couldn't stand with out wobbling or holding on to something. Something was wrong. This wasn't just a hang over. Flashes. He pieces together what he can from what he can remember which isn't much after the lingerie incident.
It wasn't until he described how he felt to his friend and she went over a list of symptoms the term "roofie" even crossed his mind. She asked if he wanted company to the doctor or to fill out a police report. He said it wasn't gonna happen. There was no way. Not only was his watch and coat missing and probably still in the guys apartment, so was his wallet and house keys.