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"  It was the first weekend of our sophomore year; my roommate and I were ready to party. We had spent the week stocking up on alcohol and excitedly trying on our new going-out clothes, and we were ready to put them to good use. With our traditional Lady Gaga Pandora station blaring, we started getting dressed and pre-gaming and excitedly discussing our options for the night. I played the gracious hostess, cordially greeting our friends and making them drinks as they joined our pre-party. I was eager to have a good time and joined in on every round of shots \u2014 Jos\u00E9 Cuervo is always fun, right? Around midnight, we decided to head to a nearby club. In the festive atmosphere of our busy room, neither my friends nor I noticed that I had managed to take twelve shots of tequila (we tallied afterward). I don&amp;#039;t even remember leaving my room. My roommate, who was only slightly less drunk than I was, and I somehow got separated from the rest of our friends on the walk to the club. It was a nice night, and the streets were relatively crowded. Apparently that didn&amp;#039;t stop me from peeing on the sidewalk. My roommate decided that we were both too inebriated to get into the club, so we sat down on a curb to sober up a little. As she tried to convince me to vomit, two men pulled up in a car and asked if they could help us. She explained the situation; they told us to get in the car so they could take us home. Meanwhile, my friends were growing anxious that we hadn&amp;#039;t arrived at the club. My friend Chris called and was naturally distressed when we explained that we were in a car with strange men. He spoke to them on my phone several times trying to figure out where we were so he could come get us, but all they said was that they were &amp;quot;helping&amp;quot; us. Chris and a few of our other friends went out looking for us on foot, going only on my roommate&amp;#039;s slurred observations of what she could see out the window. The men didn&amp;#039;t take us home \u2014 or at least, not to our home. This is where my roommate also &amp;quot;blacked out,&amp;quot; so we&amp;#039;ll probably never know what happened that night. We woke up just before 6 a.m. on a naked mattress, covered in vomit and still in our clothes from the night before. My underwear was on, but the tampon I had had in and my NuvaRing were both missing. The men \u2014 whom I never got a good look at \u2014 were telling us that we needed to leave because they had to get to work. They hustled us out to the car, where they drove us to a main road and hailed a taxi. They paid the driver to take us home; we learned that we were in a suburb about 30 minutes away from our dorm in the city. We made it back to our room in one piece and promptly changed and went back to bed. When we woke up later in the afternoon, my roommate filled me in on what she remembered and I tried to recall anything. As I told her about my missing materials, a snippet of memory came to me: no picture, just blackness, pressure on my nether regions, trying to shake my head, trying to say &amp;quot;No.&amp;quot; It was just a flash, though, and I said dubiously that I had probably been dreaming. My plan was to write the night off as a learning experience and put it in the past ASAP. Our friends came over later in the afternoon to compare notes and make sure we were okay; when they heard our story, they convinced me to call our school&amp;#039;s sexual assault hotline. We spent the rest of the night in the emergency room, being examined and talking with some really wonderful nurses and rape crisis volunteers. I told them it was my fault for being so wildly irresponsible; they told me that I should be able to get drunk without having to worry that predatory creeps would take advantage of me. I refused to press charges. This story was submitted through Cosmo&amp;#039;s Contributor Network. The author, a college student, requested to remain anonymous. Find out how you can write for Cosmo or dance for Cosmo.  Photo Credit: Getty "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/a18636/i-dont-remember-getting-raped/?click=cos_new>