I hesitate to write this, for a number of reasons. It’s a story that’s simmered inside me for some time now.

I hesitate because, to some, it may seem as though I am insensitive towards the plight of women. That couldn’t be farther from the truth - and it even frustrates me that I have to put this disclaimer in here. But I do, so I am.

Some time ago, I met a woman through an on-line dating platform. We got along well together, and although there were some minor bumps along the way, in general it was a promising beginning to …something.

I’ll call her “L”.

L and I hadn’t been seeing each other very long. A couple weeks, at most, but it was one of those scenarios where we saw each other a lot in just those couple weeks. I believe the final count was 6 times in those two weeks, ranging from outings in the evening to spending the night at her place. We became active, in the bedroom, after the 3rd outing (a fact that is important to note, for the sake of the story).

It had been an exceptionally long and obnoxious day at work. I text L that I need a drink, preferably a shot. L sympathizes, and we plan to meet that very evening at the same bar that we had our first date at. As I walk in, I notice that she has beaten me there. There is a shot on her side of the table, and a shot on mine. I thought it was sweet that she’d gotten them ready for us.

We meet, we hug, we chat, we take a shot. I need a beer, and notice she doesn’t have one of her own, so I grab myself a Guinness and her a black berry cider, which I knew she liked. We sit and talk for a while, drinking our beers, and decide another shot is in order. Back I go to the bar for two more. We take those shots, I notice we’re running low on beer, so I grab two more. 1 more Guinness, and 1 more black berry cider.

Eventually a pool table opens open. L, knowing I enjoy pool, points it out. We grab it before someone else does. By this time, L is certainly feeling the effects of the alcohol. I feel slightly tingly, but otherwise fine. It’s around this time that I go to the bathroom.

When I get back, L tells me that one of the guys at an adjoining pool table approached her. He said something that I suppose was meant to be flirtatious, like “I’ve been noticing you”, or something along those lines. She pointed out to him that she was here with someone, and that was the end of it. I laugh, think nothing of it, and we continue our game of pool. At one point, another shot is ordered.

To count. 2 Guinness’ for me, 2 black berry ciders for her, 3 shots of tequila each.

L goes to the bathroom. She comes back. I go to the bathroom again, I come back. We leave the bar.

At this point, L was quite drunk while I was slightly buzzed. We were both in that giggly, “everything is funny, but let’s leave and make out” portion of the night. So we do, and get back to her place in a short time. L makes a b-line towards the bathroom, and I step out for a cigarette.

It’s at this time that I realize that L is much more intoxicated than I originally believed her to be. When I get back inside, she’s still in the bathroom. I knock, ask if she’s ok. No answer. I slowly open the door, and there she is, on the floor of the bathroom, naked with her head between her knees. A little worried, I kneel down and ask if she’s OK. She starts, says she’s fine, and tells me she’ll be out in a bit. I stand up and leave the bathroom. 5 minutes later, she comes out and joins me in bed. As I said, I realized that she was much more intoxicated than I originally believed - sex wasn’t happening that night. We fall asleep.

The next morning, as per usual, I have a pounding headache. It doesn’t matter how much I drink, 2 beers or 20, I always get a headache. L feels fine. We both wake up, have morning ..err ..”relations”, and then get ready for work. I leave shortly after.

Later that evening, L and I joke about the night before. I mention how I was a little worried. She says that maybe she drank too much. She confides in me that there were big parts of the night that she simply didn’t even remember. She didn’t remember falling asleep in the bathroom. She didn’t remember laying down. She hardly remembered leaving the bar. She also tells me that the guy who approached her earlier in the evening apparently slipped his number inside her jacket pocket. We laugh about it, end the conversation, and I finish my day.

The next day I get a text from L that stops me in my tracks. At some point during the night of our shenanigans, she apparently lost, or took out, her diaphragm. After finding that out, she immediately went to the clinic, took a dose of Plan B, and the doctors suggested she take a STI and toxicity test.

STI test came back negative. Toxicity test? Positive. Somebody, somehow, drugged L’s drink.

Was it the guy that slipped the number in her pocket? Who else could it be? And why? Did he think I was just going to leave her there? Not that it matters why, but these are the thoughts that went through my head. And when? Was there ever a moment that my bathroom breaks, and L’s, overlapped each other and her drinks were left unguarded? I didn’t think so, but it’s possible, I suppose.

These were, apparently, also the questions that were running around in L’s head. She, like myself, couldn’t think of a time that her drinks were left unguarded by either me, or her.

Which leaves, really, only one suspect.

Me.

To her credit, she didn’t outright accuse me of anything, but I never saw her again. She felt humiliated, and violated, and I can’t imagine how that feels. It makes me seethe even thinking about it. It left a mark on her, and a mark that wouldn’t go away. She couldn’t see me without the reminder that, when she was WITH me, this thing happened to her. Even if she didn’t accuse me of that, it happened while I was there, as a person she trusted.

At first I felt horrified that this thing happened to her. After it became clear that she didn’t want to talk to me after this, I teetered between horrified, and angry. I became angry because even though she didn’t outright accuse me, there was still that thought in the back of her head that I was the culprit. I became angry, because for two weeks afterwards, I constantly waited for a knock on the door, or a tap on the shoulder at work, from the police.

I became angry because I knew, without any evidence to the contrary, it would be her word against mine, and I would lose. I would lose because even in my head, the head that remembered everything about that night, I couldn’t think of a single time that our drinks were unguarded. So unless I were to lie ….I’d lose.

Thoughts started running through my head by this time. Thoughts of how horrible I felt that she had to go through this, and thoughts about how horrified I was that someone out there that I cared about thought I was capable of doing what, to me, was one of the most reprehensible thing a person could do to another human being.

I became angry with her. In my cluttered head at the time, I thought … “She was drugged, but she was safe. She was safe, because she was with ME. SHE may not have felt safe, BECAUSE she was drugged - but ultimately, she was, because she was with ME. Yes, she has to live with the knowledge that someone out there drugged her drink, but she was safe. I, on the other hand, have to live with the knowledge that someone out there thinks I’m a horrible person capable of doing that to someone else.”

That was frustrating. It was frustrating that I could end up on the wrong side of the law because of something another man did, and it was frustrating knowing that when it came to my word against hers, I would lose. I had no doubt about that.

But then my brain took a turn.

She didn’t call the police. She didn’t outright accuse me, because no matter what the back of her mind said, she didn’t truly think I did it. While she couldn’t NOT associate me with the night that this happened to her, that doesn’t mean she thought I was a horrible person. She just didn’t want to be reminded of that vulnerability. Unfortunately, I would remind her of that. No matter how cluttered and confused my mind was, hers was ten times worse. My frustration was nothing compared to her feeling of being violated by another, faceless human.

There’s a reason why the law would lean in her favor. It may not be fair, but the reason is there. I’d rather the law lean in her favor, than in the favor of the gender statistically more capable of the crime.

I am NOT my gender, and she knew that even if it didn’t lessen her feeling of vulnerability. She is NOT a faceless person unfairly accusing me of violating her trust. A bad thing happened, but it happened to her.

I was frustrated, and I still am frustrated, but I accept that frustration until we reach a time when we don’t need to feel that way, as a people. It’s the least I can do. I wish her well, and I truly hope she doesn’t allow the actions of one shitty piece of garbage to keep her from trusting other men in the future.

She deserves to feel safe more than I deserve a little less frustration.