The Moment I Realized I'd Been Roofied

With his arm around me I felt safe — something I hadn’t felt with a man in a very long time. It was only our second Tinder date, and I was determined to take it slow. But holding hands at the baseball stadium felt natural, like we’d known each other forever. Beers, selfies, laughing at our pitiful home team — that night I broke my four-date rule and slept with him at his hotel. My gut said it was fine.

We planned to see each other in two weeks when he’d fly in from Florida and stay at my place. I was nervous about hosting him, but we were already sleeping together and texting daily, so asking him to get a hotel felt silly.

Having met online in late July, by early September we were talking constantly. Facetiming, texting, sharing photos of our lives. It felt easy. Dan was tall, funny, smart, kind to strangers, irreverent, handsome, and stylish.

“Can’t wait to see you,” he texted the morning of his flight. Same. We kissed at the airport and headed to my place. After I wrapped up work, we walked to the waterfront for happy hour. We’d had a glass of wine at my place, then a cocktail and appetizer there. Dinner: martini, a shared shrimp cocktail, and a plate of pasta. (The food and drink list matters.)

After dinner we wandered into a pub with live music. We made friends at the bar, laughing and talking. A man on my right handed me what I assumed was a beer from Dan. I didn’t think twice. It’s when I excuse myself to go to the bathroom that things begin to take a turn. My head goes fuzzy and after I get back to the bar and find Dan — nothing. Total blackout.

The next morning, I woke up naked, Dan snoring softly beside me. I crept out of the room and immediately knew something bad had happened. I pulled on sweats. The shower curtain was half ripped down. My toothbrush was missing. Downstairs: mountains of freshly washed laundry — including my underwear — couch covers drying outside; some still covered in vomit. I look around at this crime scene and all I even remotely remember from the night before is sitting down and completely throwing up everywhere. Then darkness. All I could think was: How? I think about what I ate. How much I drank. I check my body. Nothing felt violated. But the scene around me was … a lot. How long did it take for Dan to wash and clean up? Would a man who cleaned all of this be capable of doing something to me while I was blacked out?

When Dan came downstairs, his smile eased me for a moment — until the strangeness settled in. He asked me what I remembered. I shook my head. “Nothing."

He told me his version. At the pub, he saw the man next to me hand me a beer. He noticed I was drinking a Coors Light — his first red flag — but said nothing. (He assured me he would never order me a Coors Light.) Humor lightened the moment. “We were having a great time,” he says, “but after you came back from the bathroom you went from fine to slurring and swaying. I ordered an Uber home, knowing you were in no condition to walk. A security guard had to help me get you out.” I have no memory of this. “I carried you home,” he continued. “You started vomiting. I got you upstairs, out of your clothes, and into the shower. I even washed your hair.” The way he was telling the story is both kind and gentle. I was mortified.