My Untold Story of Sexual Assault
Read Time: 5 Minutes
Words and image by Katherine Mansfield
Trigger warning: This story contains a graphic depiction of sexual assault. Reader discretion is advised.
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It’s an island separated from the mainland by heavy, silver beaded drapes, one step up off the casino floor.
Everything is black and red and silver accents, and high tables and high chairs secure the perimeter. Toward the back of the club, overdone women in low-cut shirts lounge on low, black leather couches and men in designer jeans feign interest in their sloppy stories.
The DJ entertains from the back of the bar. He blasts the music a little too loud, if you’re trying to converse, but no one is here for conversation.
The bar – the Belle of the Ball, a large, glinting black horseshoe boasting shelves and shelves of liquor lit by blue lights – takes center stage. Four flat screens kill time for you while you wait for your drink.
I’m a 22-year-old college dropout who’s just finished the closing shift at a local deli. I changed into a tight white tee and form-fitting yoga pants on the car ride here.
My clothes cling to me, and my friend Nikki’s clothes cover her but reveal too much, too.
I’ve never picked up a guy at a bar but Nikki said it’s fun, easy.
Silver beads sway as we step up, into the club, and Nikki’s small frame catches the eyes of a tall, handsome stranger. His friend, tall and blonde and fit, smiles at me.
Introductions are brief. Blondie asks what I’d like to drink.
“White wine,” I answer, because I know from experience I can enjoy four casino glasses of Sauvignon Blanc before my face flushes, and I’ll be good fun up to drinks nine or ten, the way I was a blast that one karaoke night I shouted Ed Sheeran’s Sing, the way I carried on to the tune of a machine spitting out winnings when I hit the jackpot, the way I was too much fun so my friend took my keys and drove me home –
Blondie heads to the bar to grab my drink and I excuse myself; I’ve got to run to the restroom.
I step out of the club, into the casino, wind through rows of dazzling slot machines, past the empty refreshment stand, into the bathroom and back again. When I reach my group, my wine waits alone on the high table.
I Cheers! Blondie. He tells me he’s in the Army.
We sip. Nikki tells the guys a little about herself. Blondie’s friend loves hockey, but Blondie is more of a football guy. Well, naturally. Go Army, right?
Blondie laughs at the right time, interjects with a zinger now and again, but he doesn’t offer much about himself and he doesn’t ask about me. His Friend does most of the talking; he’s outgoing, a world traveler and natural storyteller. Nikki is infatuated, I’m entertained. I know about His Friend but all I gather about Blondie is that he serves our country, enjoys gambling in high roller rooms and loves whiskey (me, too).
He’s a touch off, alluringly dangerous, so when he offers me another drink I say yes too eagerly.
A few sips into Drink Number Two, I feel Drunkenness lapping gently at the shores of consciousness. The four of us shout small talk over the music.
His Friend asks if we want to bounce, head to a local dive bar, and I say sure.
Blondie asks if I want to ride with him. I say of course and we walk like celebrities through flashes of slot machine lights and Blondie walks so self-assuredly, he’s so good looking, I touch my face and think maybe I’m a little drunk.
Image by Katherine Mansfield
We arrive at Blondie’s sleek black car at the way back of the parking lot. He leans in for a kiss; I meet him halfway; his hands crawl under my shirt and then we’re in the backseat. I’ve never done this before with someone I don’t know well, not with a stranger, but his mouth tastes like Jameson and ginger ale and when he unzips his jeans it’s okay, it’s still okay, it’s all okay –
until everything begins to hurt. He grabs my hair, slams my head hard into the back seat and I think I say, wait, but I can’t tell because holy shit, my head is swimming, how did I get so drunk off two drinks?
The car is too small for two bodies, it’s too hot for a summer evening, I can’t breathe, stop, wait, you’re hurting me. Everything is so rough, my body shakes in the worst way, and was that only two drinks?
“Stop!” I scream, now, my voice finding its way out. A large hand clamps my mouth.
“Shut up,” he yells. I’m held down, powerless, finally it’s all over and then we’re at the dive bar.
I stumble out of the car; he presses me against the passenger’s seat, whispers something sweet, my head is really reeling now, and when he grabs my wrists and tosses me into the back I know there’s nothing I can do, whispered pleas of Stop won’t save me.
I cry. When he finishes pounding my body into the back seat, he lovingly leads me into the bar, smiles, tells his friend we just fucked and orders us both a drink.
I disappear to the bathroom. I’m bleeding, that heavy period bleed, and I ache, everything hurts, I’m nauseated, but I asked for it, didn’t I?
Don’t accept drinks from strangers, my grandma’s voice lectures from memory. Never leave your drink unattended.
I’m a fucking idiot.
I clean up as best I can, join Nikki and her man candy at the back of the bar. Blondie smiles widely, pulls me into his lap, kisses my neck, I grab my drink and down it and order another, and then a third and then –
Holy shit, I’m so drunk, and we’re shooting pool, and I’m singing karaoke like this is the best night of my life, and the bar closes and Nikki gives the guys her address, we’ll keep drinking into the morning light.
I say I want to ride with her so Nikki tells the guys we’ll see them soon and the two of us sink into her small sedan.
I tell her in a drunken disjointed way about how I ache, and she’s livid.
“Do you want me to uninvite them?” she asks. I say yes, say I don’t know how I got so drunk on two drinks, I’m just so stuck on that.
She calls an old friend, asks him to come over and kick our new friends out. Blondie tries to hit me, threatens violence, His Friend holds him back and says, “Let’s bounce.”
I help myself to another drink, and take something white, when it’s offered to me, and Nikki and I fade into a state of being that leads us gently into sleep.
I wake up in the arms of her old friend, a stranger to me; he strokes my hair sweetly.
Usually I don’t remember Last Nights but I can’t shake last night from my mind, so I get busy burying the memory like a mob boss burying a body.
I don’t identify as “victim,” don’t proclaim #MeToo. My therapist has never heard of Island Casino and I’ve never told a soul about what happened there until I just told you.
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About the Author:
Katherine Mansfield is a Pittsburgh-area storyteller who aims to capture the essence of people, places, things and emotions in her photographs and writings. Mansfield's first chapbook, Nancy (For Nancy), was self-published in April 2020, and her photographs appear in Spilled Ink and Images volume i, a collaborative art book that was released in December 2020. Mansfield's images have appeared in and on the cover of local magazines; were published in Okay, Cool! Magazine (Issue 4); and a selection of prints is currently on display in Pittsburgh's Blue Steel Gallery. When she isn't writing, taking or editing photographs, Mansfield enjoys drinking black coffee, running and watching Twin Peaks.
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