When I was in my early 20s, I was travelling abroad with my then-boyfriend of 6 years, and during a one week stay in one city, we had started to make friends at this little dive bar that played really good music. One night, my boyfriend got particularly drunk, and he went back to our hotel room with another girl, taking the hotel keys with him, leaving me stranded for the night. I was devastated. The group of new friends we had made were mostly expats who lived there and new the city far better than me. They had seen it all unfold, convinced me to stay out drinking… one girl offered me her sofa for the night, so I decided to stay until she was ready to head home rather than fork out for a hotel room on my own. We all continued knocking back the shots, many of which were put in front of me by one particular guy in the group. Next thing I know, I woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom with him raping me. I had been completely unconscious for some time, but he had gone ahead with it anyway. Prior to that, the boyfriend who had left me stranded that night had been the only guy I’d been with. I managed to push off this new guy, the room was spinning and I was sick on his bedroom floor. I could barely walk, but he gave me an ultimatum – stay the night there and let him have sex with me again, or get out. I left; managed to get in a cab to my hotel, and sat in the lobby until I pulled myself together and went back to my room to pack my things and leave my boyfriend. When I got to the hotel room, my boyfriend was alone, and I broke down and told him what had happened. I thought he would feel horror and remorse, but he said that the thought of me with someone else turned me on, and that he admired me for “getting even” with him. He held me down on the bed, called me a “dirty girl” and raped me. I was still spinning from all the alcohol, weak from no sleep, and couldn’t fight him off. He ignored my crying and begging him to stop, it seemed to spur him on more. Once I had slept it all off and showered, I packed my things and left. I was too ashamed to tell anyone at home what had happened, so I carried on travelling on my own for months afterwards, even settling down in a nearby foreign city for a few years because I didn’t know what to do or say to our families and friends back home. It took me years to understand that it wasn’t my fault, and all things considered, it was strong to get out of that guy’s flat, and strong to leave my boyfriend.