French Adventures or, why I'm probably not your new best friend

For the past couple of days I've been taking a break from my routine of drinking, smoking, passing out in a stranger's bed and not remembering any of it the next day to battle what my friends lovingly call swine flu. In reality, it's just a really bad cold that I made worse by missing two nights of sleep, walking around the weed march in the rain and then missioning it to Hamilton to partake in my regular schedule of see above. Watching countless Two and a Half Men reruns and drinking pot after pot of green tea might seem relaxing, but I have never been one to handle downtime well. I get restless. And when I get restless, I get to overthinking (that is, more than usual, which is already quite alot) which inevitably leads me right back to my past.

Lately, I've been thinking about men, and my ridiculously flawed relationship with the male gender. I've never been one of "those girls"; the best friend types who laugh and joke with their male friends and then high five over hockey or whatever. I'd like to be, minus the organized sports part, but the fact is unless I'm wasted I feel slightly awkward around almost every dude I hang out with. I can think of a couple reasons why; the fact that I was discouraged from making friends with boys at a young age, the unhealthy relationship I have with my father, how I was treated as a sex object by grown men before I'd even reached puberty. But like always, knowing why doesn't bring me any closer to fixing things. Maybe writing about it will.

I'm toying with the idea of writing a novel, or if I'm honest more of a memoir, about a promiscuous young girl and her strange relationships with alcohol and men. It's going to be called Conversations With Men in Bars, and I'm not nearly ready to start working on it, but I thought I might try to tell a few of my stories, I can't really deal with keeping them in my head any longer.

A little more than a year ago, I was packing my bags to head to Quebec for my very last March Break before graduating high school. It was a trip my family took every year, but I'd been looking forward to it for two reasons; one: for the first time I got to bring a friend, two: instead of hanging out with my alcoholic uncle and playboy grandfather in their small town of Baie d'Urfe my friend Val and I had been given the use of our very own hotel room in downtown Montreal. The room, my parents specified, was to be No Smoking but we would figure a way to get around that. Val and I usually did; even the drinking age, which I was about a month shy of, didn't worry us. This was before the fake id crackdown occurred and you could basically glue a picture of your face on a piece of cardboard and get served.

It ended up not even being an issue. After we checked in, Val and I immediately asked the concierge where we could find the nearest LCBO. Blank stare. Apparently, French Canadians felt the need to distance themselves even further from the rest of the country by changing the name of their liquor stores as well. Whatever. We headed down to the VQO or something that sounded similar and had our first in a long line of experiences of not being carded in Montreal. We went back to the room, Val fucked around with the window until it was wide open despite us being on the 15th floor and we proceeded to get very, very drunk. It was around 4pm. At some point we decided that getting ready to go out would be preferable to passing out in a wine and room service induced haze because it was after all, Saturday night and Val was pumped to check out the Montreal club scene.

I have to add something here. I will never, ever be comfortable going to a club. Not then as a nervous and over eager 17 year old and not now as a wizened 19 year old crone will I say to myself, hey, let's go dancing tonight! The fact is, I can't. I really, really can't dance. I have no rythym, I can't get down in the club, whatever. I will always be the girl sitting at the bar downing my seventh rum and coke and beckoning you with a come hither (read: hey, wasted chick right over hurr!) glance. That being said, we were both newly single, and I wanted to make sure Val had a good time seeing as she had saved me from spending my vacation with my family. She did me the favour of taking us to a bar to pre drink beforehand. Three beers later, Val was deep in conversation with a preppy type who didn't strike my fancy at all and I was ready to leave. I told prep boy we had to go meet our husbands or something equally ridiculous, and dragged Val across the street to a club that looked appropriately "bumpin"

It turned out that I didn't even have to worry about the social anxiety nightmare that is dancing because the second we entered the club Val and I were accosted by a group of loud, drunken British men in togas. My liquor addled brain did a silent tally: I liked guys with accents, I liked drunk people, and hey, togas were pretty awesome too! I decided they were going to be our best friends/drink purchaser's for the rest of the night and immediately latched myself onto a lanky blonde guy that was a little fucked up looking, just how I liked them. Well, it turned out he was 37 but at the time I didn't have a problem with that at all, I just looked at it as an interesting story I'd get to tell one day (and hey, was I wrong?). I still have no idea why a bunch of 30 something British dudes were having a batchelor party in Montreal but I didn't particularly care as long as the drinks kept coming.

Eventually Jason (I am 95 percent sure that this was his name) and I decided it would be a really good idea to head back to the suite he was sharing with his about to be married friend. At this point, I can see you asking yourself: really, Natalie? You're going to go by yourself to a hotel room with some dude you just met who doesn't seem to care about the fact that you're wasted, and uh, underage? Yeah, really. The fact is, at 17 I didn't care about much except for want, get, have and it wouldn't be for a couple more months that I took a breath, looked back and said what the fuck?! to my whole lifestyle. Maybe I deserved what would be coming to me soon. Maybe I was asking for it. Fucking questions like these are what make it so hard for me to move on. But back to Jason; he was sweet, and considerate. Wouldn't fuck without a condom. Had considerably less skill than I expected from a man in his late 30's, but he kissed me outside my hotel room the next day, gave me his card and told me to keep in touch (I never did, but it's the gesture that matters right?). "You're beautiful" he said, and you know, I felt it for real but it was time for him to go back to his adult life of weddings and international flights and time for me to go back to getting wasted.

Val and I decided to grab lunch first. Her night, while not as eventful as mine, had been fun and we did the whole girly morning after gossip thing over hot wings and pints. It was Easter Sunday, and the city was near dead. Yeah, it was Easter; Jesus Day, and I'm laughing to myself now because I just remembered this. I'm laughing because it has to be fucking funny. We went back to the hotel, smoked some pot, had a nap, I don't exactly remember. And then we began the whole getting ready process once again. The second night didn't progress as obviously. We went back to the club we'd been at the night before, but it was dead, so we hopped in a cab and scoured the city for something to do. The only promising place had a mile long lineup of hipsters in skinny jeans and was, as the doorman informed us in clipped tones, a club for 21+. Our ids said we were 19. Slightly irritated and out 20 dollars, we headed back to the original club. It had gotten busier, if only by a few people, but we decided to go inside anyways.

For the first time that trip we bought our own drinks, and slid into a booth, already planning to get the hell out of there and find a better place to party. The night had different plans for us. Only a few minutes later, three men slid into our booth. They were well dressed, but in a greasy Euro way, and their accents identified them as natives of Quebec even if they looked like they came from somewhere more exotic. They introduced themselves; their names elude me. I was bored, and a little skeezed out by our new 'friends' so I decided to head onto the balcony for a smoke. Two of the guys decided to join me, whatever, maybe they'd toss me a smoke.

They led the way, and it took me awhile to realize, longer than it should have, that we were going downstairs, to the exit. I asked why, and got back a vague reply about the balcony being too crowded. Okay, said Natalie's drunk brain, that makes sense, continue on. We ended up outside the club. And then in one of the guy's cars. I was getting pretty confused now, but the guys weren't offerring any explanation. They just lit their smokes and continued chatting like everything was as it should be. A thought swam languidly into my drunk brain; maybe you should, you know, get out. But we were already driving away. I didn't know where we were going. I couldn't focus. It's kind of hard to when you're trying to unlock a door, tell some dudes to take you back to the club, and fend off four hands that suddenly wanted to get all up on you. We parked in some dingy back street. Classy. Had I invited this? By dressing the way I did, getting drunk, going out for a cigarette with strange men? By the way I was telling them to fuck off and trying so hard to get up from under and undo those goddamned locked doors I would say no, but the question fucking haunts me. It was disgusting, dirty, and not in a hot way, like really, really bad. Being force fucked by two strange foreign guys usually is, so maybe I need to stop stating the obvious. At one point I think I just said to myself "forget it Natalie, you're fighting as hard you can to get away and they're hurting you for it so maybe you should just turn off your brain and they can get it over with" So that's what I did. At one point I think they started filming me which was just too much to handle, so I lashed out. Why they honored my request not to be videotaped but they couldn't do the same when I asked not to be raped I will never know. Sometimes I wish they'd put it on the internet or something, because I'm pretty sure they didn't know I was underage. That way I could sue their asses for child pornography and maybe feel some semblance of vengeance.

It ended eventually. Everything does. They drove me back to the club and didn't say a word. Finally I could open those goddamn doors and get the fuck away, which I did, sprinting back into the club and shoving my id in the bouncers face. He pulled back, looked at me. Asked me "are you okay?" What made me say "yes", I'm not sure. I just knew I wanted to get Val, and get the hell out of there. Natalie's night was over. Val was exactly where I left her, chatting to the third guy, the non-rapist. It looked like he'd bought her a couple of drinks. They were having a lovely time. I wanted to go home. Val didn't see why, "Natalie, it's so early, come on, stay out! We can go to another club" She couldn't be persuaded, and I don't blame her. I couldn't even form my lips around the words needed to tell her what had happened, I just wanted out of there. So I left her. I left her, drunk, at the bar with my rapists. You know, that's the part that hurts me the most? Months later, I told her everything and I was so sure she'd be angry at me for not warning her, for not being there but all she wanted was to know that I was okay. She's a better friend than I'll ever be, and I'm still sorry.

It was raining by then I think, and somehow, despite my horrible sense of direction, I found my way back to the hotel. I put on pajamas, ordered room service, and stared at French TV for a bit. I tried to sleep, but it wouldn't come. After a bit the phone rang. It was Val, asking me how to get back to the hotel. We talked for a bit, before one of the French guys grabbed the phone. He said something about how I should come back out with them and no, Val didn't want to come home. I wasn't having any of that shit, and let him know, which led him to promptly hang up on me. Awesome. There was no way I was letting this happen. I kept calling her, slamming the phone down on her voicemail. Eventually it stopped ringing altogether. Instant voicemail, her phone was off. I think I might have gotten sick. I paced the room, smoked countless cigarettes, pondered calling my parents in their separate hotel but what exactly was I supposed to say? It was unfathomable. Eventually I did what I thought was the logical thing and headed down to the front desk.

Imagine this: a crazed looking girl in pajamas races into your lobby incoherently babbling some story about how her friend went off with three guys, no she doesn't know their names, no she doesn't know where they went, and could you please find her? Yeah, it wasn't going to happen. The front desk clerk seemed concerned, but pretty much helpless. Heading back to the elevators, I almost directly collided with a group of three guys and a girl. The look on my face must have been seriously freaked out, because they immediately asked me what was wrong. Like the emotional sieve that I am, I let out with the whole story (minus the rape) and it was decided that I should go with them to their hotel room and they would help me find her. It sounded like as good of a plan as any.

It turned out the guys were part of a ska band from Ontario that was touring Canada and the girl was their local friend (or groupie I guess, now that I think about it). I don't remember the name of the band now, but I remember looking them up on myspace when I got home and deciding they were pretty shitty. They passed me a beer, asked for Val's number, and tried to call her from their phone. No luck. I was pretty freaked out by now. Eventually though, they managed to calm me down or at the very least distract me from the drama with more beer and stories from the road.

A couple of hours later and it was 3am. Someone had the idea that we should head up to my room just in case Val showed up there looking for me and we all decided that this of course, was brilliant. Two guys from the band and the girl came up with me. It took all of about three minutes for one of the guys, the better looking one, to lead me into the bathroom. No discussion, let's just do it. I knocked over a beer bottle and it shattered on the bathroom tile. I was picking glass out of my knees for hours. Why do we do the things we do? It's not like it was out of character for me at that point in my life, but the fact is I think I've only told one person this final part of the story. I think I'm afraid of the reaction I'll get. How screwed up of a girl do you have to be to be fucking some band dude against a sink only a few hours after you were raped, by two guys? To be honest, at that point I just didn't care. I thought maybe it would all go away. I liked how I didn't give a fuck, and I didn't have to deal with any of the aftermath, at least not by that point. But, just like every other time I embark on a weeklong, or monthlong, or yearlong alcohol fueled slutfest I eventually did have to step back and take a look at my scars.

Val showed up at around 8:30 in the morning, exactly 15 minutes before my parents were scheduled to pick us up and head back to Oakville. It turned out that her phone had died, she was perfectly okay, and she'd just gone to one of the guys apartments to drink more and then crash. Had she, you know, hooked up with anyone? No, she hadn't, even though one guy kept trying. Eventually the other guy (the one I'd left behind in the club, I wish he'd been there for me) told his friend to fuck off and that was that. I said I was glad she was okay. We hugged or something. I didn't speak about what happened for a couple months but she was the first one I told. And now I'm telling you. Because I'm sick of all my fucking baggage.

End of story.