Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.
*****
I was in an oak-walled hotel bar in Washington, D.C., the kind with spit-polished brass rails, discreet dark-wood booths where small lamps cast warm pools of light on the table, and where political deals are struck over steak and bourbon. Chet Baker's "If You Could See Me Now" was playing and the quiet murmur of conversations made for a relaxing backdrop to the work I was doing alone at the bar. I was in town to consult on a political speech. I hated politicians but believed in the power of words, so I had accepted my local U.S. senator's offer of a speechwriting position—I'll call her Senator X. It wasn't salaried—I was just a consultant. I wrote novels, not speeches. But after reading an op-ed I'd written in the local paper, the Senator had gotten in touch and convinced me to come on board as she prepared to run for president the following spring.
I had nothing to lose—I was between books, my husband had just been promoted and was working long hours, and my kids were past the age when I had to constantly watch them so they wouldn't fall down the stairs or stick their fingers into the electrical sockets. This new opportunity made me feel like I was finally giving back—promoting ideas and issues that I felt were important, and getting a chance to travel, even if was only to Washington, D.C..
That night, I was sitting alone at the bar with my laptop and a glass of Jameson, puzzling over a paragraph about food deserts in urban areas, when someone sat down next to me. Without taking my eyes off my laptop, I knew it was a man. His cologne gave him away—it wasn't overly powerful, but it wasn't subtle, either. I didn't even look up—I'd learned by this time in my life that if a woman makes eye contact with a man, however innocently, they see it as an invitation to talk, something women rarely assume of a man glancing their way. In addition, Washington wasn't exactly known for a surfeit of handsome men—the old saying that a Washington "10" is a "5" anywhere else had proven true in the six weeks I'd been working with the Senator—so even if I had been in the mood to flirt, the chances that the man was worth flirting with were so slim as to not even be worth the effort of looking up from my work. I heard him order a Heineken. Imported beer, I thought to myself. Typical. I got back to work.
"Lobbyist or aide?"
I'd forgotten that some men don't even need the eye contact to strike up the conversation. Without taking my eyes off my laptop, I said, "Neither."
"Well, you're too attractive to be a representative and too young to be a Senator," the man said. "Plus, you're working too hard and too earnestly to be in Congress." I was getting annoyed. The lines were just too dumb to be rewarded, but I had no choice but to engage; otherwise I might never get back to work. I turned on my stool and said, "I'm just a speechwriter."
"For who?"
I had no easy reply. I was too shocked to even remember who I worked for. The man sitting next to me was, without question, the most loathed politician in the city—which is really saying something. He was young, as far as members of Congress go, and whether he was attractive or not, it was hard to tell now, because his looks were inextricably linked to his infamous behavior. He was a member of the "other party," but he occupied a particularly infamous wing of that party, and in his relentless hunger for personal power, he'd done some particularly heinous things, all draped, of course, in the mantle of "advocating for my constituents." Most political wonks thought he was a trust-fund wannabe—some had said that never before had a politician had a higher ambition-to-ability ratio, despite his thousand-dollar words and his stentorian way of speaking. He'd been educated at the best schools, but had decided to place his political future in the kind of people he held in contempt—the kind of people who would have been allowed nowhere near those hallowed academic halls. He wore a slim-cut suit and his hair was dark blond and just slightly wet, no doubt from the rain falling outside. I had no use for blond men—dark-haired men were my weakness, as my raven-haired husband could attest. I also had no use for men whose political convictions depended on how likely those convictions would get them to the White House, so I turned back to my laptop.
He laughed. "You know who I am." When I didn't reply, he added, "So you won't even talk to me."
"You should apologize, you know."
He took a drink of his beer. "For what?"
I turned on my stool and looked at him. "For being a power-hungry tool."
He laughed again. "Then everyone in this town would have to apologize. And anyway, I'm not sorry. Memories in D.C. are short. No one will remember any of this in a few months." Some of Senator X's staffers had openly wondered if this man were a psychopath. He certainly had the glib affect of a psychopath. I wondered he'd ever taken the Hare Psychopathy Checklist, and what his score was. He ordered me another Jameson, but I waved the barman off. "Come on, this is me apologizing." As he looked at me, his eyes took on a raptorial look—almost predatory—and I was taken aback. The barman set the Jameson in front of me and walked back down to the other end of the bar. I took a long sip to steady my nerves.
