I possibly was almost raped at Leslie McNeill's party when I was 16, memorable for being the first and only time in my life I ever got drunk. I know for a fact that some of the boys present spiked my screwdriver with all sorts of hard liquors and I spent most of the evening in an upstairs bedroom, head reeling and nauseous.
But wait -- did somebody come in during that time and try to rape me? I can't be sure, it's all a haze. At least one of the attendees grew up to be successful in the world of international banking and was on the cover of a major news magazine years later. Might he have been one of them, and if so, could I ruin his career and get lots of money for my story? (That would certainly help pay for our new driveway.)
Then in college I almost remember possibly blacking out after someone slipped me a weird drug without my consent. More than a few of my NYU classmates went on to fame and fortune -- Fortune magazine for sure. And when I worked in newspapers in Washington DC, I was often hit on by giants of the publishing industry. But by far the worst was the year I worked for the Democratic National Committee. (Of course many of the top people there were cokeheads, so I guess they deserve a pass.)
It's small wonder I suffer from high blood pressure now. I should write an anonymous letter to Nancy Pelosi, or maybe to the head of the FBI directly. (Heads will roll.)
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