My boyfriend's best friend drugged and molested me. I trusted him when he handed me a beer, he'd done as much countless times before. I trusted him to help me when I suddenly got woozy. Up until then, he'd never given me a reason not to trust him. I mostly remember flashes of things... but I remember he only stopped because he heard my boyfriend coming down the hall. I've been trying to come to terms with it lately, but I can't stop thinking about it. Whenever I try to say it out loud, my throat closes up, and my body becomes ice cold. I hate that I know what it feels like to have a man use his tongue to push my lips apart, or unbutton my pants when I'm unable to vocalize or move to prevent it. I hate that I know what it feels like to have his strange hands run along every inch of my body. I hate they way he said he loved my panties, and, oh, how long he had waited for this moment. I hate how weak and heavy my arm felt when I raised it to fend him off, and how it felt like I was pushing it through air that was suddenly as thick as gelatin. I hate how effortlessly he grabbed my wrist and pinned it above my head. I hate that I can't remember everything he did in the thirty minutes he had with me. I hate that I feel guilty, like I could've tried harder to stop it. I hate that ALL of my girl friends have stories JUST LIKE MINE. I've never felt more unsafe, unsure, uncomfortable.