1 January, 1991, 0130
That's a very close approximation of time I fought off sexual assault.
I'd been raped previously, but that's not this discussion.
About 1900 on the 31st, an acquaintance from the mixed group of gamers, SCAdians, SF fans and others called me at my Rantoul, IL apartment, asked if I was doing anything for New Years'. He was having a small party, he said. He asked if I wanted to come over.
I'm not naming the party because it's a common enough name I don't want anyone getting harassed or mistaken, and as far as I know he's never amounted to anything.
I drove down to Champaign, to an apartment I'd have to find on a map, if it's still there, but is easy enough to find. I arrived about 2000. He let me in, we talked for a bit, I had a beer that I opened myself.┬á I asked where the others were, he said they were coming later. He brought out some sandwiches and other snacks.
Looking around, he had Kodak pictures of a couple of the teenagers (I was 23ish.┬á I don't give out my exact birthday) in the youth fighting group he helped sponsor. It seemed a bit odd to have photos of a single teen standing in a field, with no context or activity.
There was the usual TV New Year's entertainment, and about 2200 I opened another beer.┬á I asked when the rest were showing up, and he said they were going to be last minute, doing stuff.
About 2300 he brought through a drink for me.┬á I don't recall what it was supposed to be, but it was liquor and mixer.┬á It tasted slightly strong, but not out of line.
Then I started feeling completely plastered drunk.
I remember asking when the others were arriving, and him saying, "I guess they're not coming."
Midnight, the ball dropped, and I was half asleep.
He sounded so supportive as he said, "Look, if you're that tired, you should just sleep here."
He suggested I undress, but I'm actually quite comfortable sleeping in a field jacket--years of military experience.┬á I lay down on the only bed and passed out.
I have no idea what he did until 0130 to amuse himself.┬á I'm afraid to speculate.
I remember being rolled onto my back, a fat, sweaty, half-bald-half-stringy haired thing I wouldn't touch intimately even if I swung that way, shorts halfway down the crack of his ass, sitting astride my chest and unbuckling my pants.
I woke up very, very fast.
I said "No. Stop." Rather loudly, in fact.
"I'm not going to stop, Mike, so you may as well enjoy it."
In nine seconds, I was able to express the point that even if he outweighed me two to one, I was going to put his face through the wall in five seconds, and he'd already used up three.
He sighed dramatically, flounced off the bed, and shouted, "FINE!"┬á
Then he turned on what he apparently thought was the guilt trip.┬á "It's not fair. I invite you over, feed you, then you come to bed in a field jacket, for Christ's sake. Do me a favor and lose my number!"
Yeah, we have to remember who the real victim is here, right?
I drove home, half asleep or intoxicated, I'm not sure which, very carefully because I'd be the one in jail, through very quiet streets, in subzero temps.
I did not file a police report because what would be the point? There wasn't a mark on me, and no witnesses.
I did tell a close friend the next day. I told the boss I contracted to (now deceased), who, being in the same circle, called the guy who ran that youth combat group (still alive). I told him.┬á Mr X was then told he was no longer affiliated with the group. The next convention, I told another friend of mine. ┬áThe next year I had a long-term girlfriend, eventually a wife. She knows. (Though she may not remember due to memory loss from a medical condition.)┬á My current wife knows (and has known for some time).
Several years later, (this is slightly hazy because I did a LOT of conventions professionally then, but I can certainly date it from their records if need be) I was in the dealer room of a Midwest convention and I heard, "Hey, Mike!"
I turned around and it was the vile fat fuck who tried to molest me, apparently having forgotten the "Lose my number!" bit, or maybe he'd been hoping it would cause me to beg to come back to his greasy hands, or maybe he was just desperate at that point.
He was selling gaming supplies and sounded very cheerful and just thrilled to see me.
I unassed the area, found friends on staff, and informed them, "That asshole drugged me and tried to rape me. Now, I don't expect you to remove him based on my say-so, but I would recommend watching him very carefully around teenage boys and young men."
They took the advice seriously. He was watched.
So if there's ever another incident, not only can I testify to his (lack of) character, a dozen other people can testify that I told them.
Which is why when a certain professor says, "Oh, yes, by the way, sometime between 1978 and 1982, I'm not sure, but I was 15, I was drunk at a party somewhere with 2 or 4 guys, but I don't remember where, or how I got there or home afterward, but anyway, one of them tried to force himself on me, and I don't know why none of the several witnesses say it never happened, but it didn't matter until 2012 when some 'therapist' recovered the memories, but then she wrote them down wrong, but I don't care that this guy's a federal judge, my only concern is that he not get to SCOTUS because I say he was a drunken ass in high school,"
I say, "Bullshit, you politically-motivated whore.┬á There are REAL victims out there, and you're degrading all their credibility with your narcissistic ploy for attention and money."
Because I guarantee there'll be money, even beyond the $350K gofundme she has.