I don't know that you could call it a one-night stand. If you don't remember it, then what the fuck can it constitute for?

Of course it starts in a club. The music pounding unintelligible beats in your ear, sweat making your clothes cling to every part of your body, one drink followed by another followed by three or four more until you lose count. The air is thick, pungent with the smell of cigarette smoke and people. These people who come here, so eager to forget their everyday lives, so eager to feel wanted and beautiful and desirable, so eager to appear that way to someone who "matters". A celebrity. Any celebrity, nobody really gives a fuck who.

And he makes his way over to you, his clothes clearly showing his expensive tastes, his hair done to perfection, his strides confident because he knows that you're no different from any other idiot in the place. And he smiles, his blue eyes shining underneath the tacky reflections of a disco ball. "Lemme buy you a drink." You close your eyes as his lips graze over your earlobe, his voice husky with suggestion.

You only nod, a half-assed attempt to look coherent. Minutes later he shoves something in your hand, a pinkish liquid that you don't recognize but swallow without thinking because hell, you were drunk long before he came along. And of course, you tell him "I don't usually do this kind of thing, you know." because it's a standard routine and it makes you seem like you put good intentions behind the thoughts of telling your friends you fucked Mr. Hollywood senseless.

Time passes in a hazy blur and you don't know what the fuck he's saying to you. And you don't care and you're pretty sure neither does he. People's voices start to fade. Your stomach feels unsettled for some reason but you easily blame the liquor and focus on the task at hand. "You wanna get out of here?" His fingers brush against your exposed stomach and you shudder. Something is not right with the situation, but you can't make out what for the fucking life of you.

His arm is around you and it feels good and terribly wrong all the same. And then he's leading you out and then you're in a car you don't recognize. The room is spinning and you know that this is something that has nothing to do with being drunk but you can't focus on anything for more than a few seconds. The last image you see is his smile, and it's not beautiful anymore. It's just crooked.

You wake up the next morning in some motel, without your clothes and without any recollection of how you got here. You're bruised and bleeding and naked. But you're alone. You find your clothes strewn around the shitty room, some torn, some just discarded.

You put them on and leave, thinking it would be best to get to a hospital. The last thing you remember right now is someone offering to buy you a drink.

Some doctor tells you that there's a drug in your system. That kind you've seen on television or read about it happening but never took seriously. That kind that puts all kinds of women in the exact position you're in right now. He tells you you're lucky you're not dead. You don't see what the fuck is so goddamn lucky about it.

It's a one-time thing, but I don't know that you could call it a one-night stand.

Because you don't remember, do you?