I don’t think I know any woman who doesn’t have at least one story of a guy trying to force himself on her.

It’s sad, isn’t it?

I thought about posting my own personal experiences many times over the past year or so, as I watched the #metoo movement gain steam. I didn’t.  I simply couldn’t bring myself to write it all down. I’ve moved on with my life and these events are a part of my past, and I’m pretty happy with my present, and looking forward to a happy future. I simply didn’t want to rehash, what to me, is ancient history.

But something about Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s account of what happened to her at the hands of Brett Kavanaugh back when they were in High School really struck a chord in me. And so, I’ve decided to talk about some of my experiences.

My first story takes place at McDonalds, at the Staten Island Mall, where I briefly worked while trying to save up some money for a trip I was taking to New Orleans to visit, my, at the time, boyfriend.

I was a senior in HS.

A friend of mine from school was some kind of supervisor, or Jr. Manager. While I often hung out with him in group settings, I never gave him any indication that I might be interested in him. And because I know the most important question is usually “what were you wearing?” – I was wearing a McDonald’s uniform. Very alluring outfit, I know.

In any case, one night, as I was taking out the garbage after closing, he followed me out to the bin area behind the store. We chatted for a minute. The next thing I knew, he was pinning me up against a wall and his tongue was down my throat, his hands felt like they were everywhere.

I tried to shove him off. I said “no.”

Finally, I bit his tongue.

Needless to say, he was pretty angry. He told me he was going to make sure I never got any shifts again.

I ran out of there shaking. I clocked out, went home, and tried to figure out how I was going to explain losing my job to my mom.
Luckily, a few days later, I ended up with the chicken pox.

No one to this day, other than, my best friend, who picked me up from work at night, and to whom I told the entire story, in spurts, my heart in my throat, more afraid of losing my job than of what that guy did, knows the real reason I quit.

The next incident happened later the same year.

It was late spring, about a month before graduation. I had nothing to do for two hours while I waited for my sister to get out of school, so agreed to go and hang out with some friends at another friend’s house.

I knew the guy. We’d hung out many times before.

When we got to his house, no one else was there. I asked him where everyone else was and he told me they were on their way. He gave me some soda and grabbed some Mac and Cheese, offering some to me. I declined.

We were sitting on the floor with our backs up against the couch when he leaned in to kiss me. I won’t lie – I was surprised, and briefly, kissed him back.

He took this as an invitation and pinned me down on the floor and started to kiss and grope me, begging me to just let him ‘stick it in, just a little’.

That’s when I realized he’d unzipped his pants.

I remember kneeing him in his groin area and pushing him off of me.

I remember him calling me a ‘bitch.’

I remember frantically trying to find my school bag, which he put somewhere to the side.

I remember running to the door, apologizing to HIM and saying something about having to pick up my sister.

And I remember him, his anger subsiding his I ran out the door actually pleading, “but it’s only like 2, come on, I’m sorry. I thought you were cool with it. We don’t have to have sex, maybe you can just give me a hand job…”

Again, the only person I immediately told, was my best friend. She was shocked because she didn’t think he was that type of guy. We over-analyzed the entire thing. In the end, I totally blamed myself. I was ashamed. I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything I’d done to lead him on. But, I figured I went there alone with him – So it was on me, right?

The next incident happened between my sophomore and junior years of college.

I was drunk.

He was drunk.

He was the boyfriend of an old HS friend, with whom I’d lost touch.

I was out with some friends at a Staten Island bar we frequented one night when I bumped into him.

We chatted a bit and drank a lot.

Then, we went outside to smoke a cigarette.

I won’t go into detail about what happened next, because the details aren’t really necessary for anyone reading this to get the gist of what happened. Suffice it to say it wasn’t pretty, or fun, or ‘rough horseplay.’

I blamed myself for years.

Even though, I said ‘no’ a million times.

Even though at some point I considered just letting him do what he wanted to do just to get him to leave me alone.

The only thing that prevented me from being truly violated was the fact that I threw up.

He got grossed out. And I didn’t get raped.

It could have been worse.

Most women, particularly those in my generation and the generations before me, were taught that if a man violated you, you were somehow to blame.

If a guy tries to kiss you, well, you should be flattered.

If he tries to have sex with you and you deny him, then you are a prude or a tease.

And, if he penetrates you, well, you’re a slut who was asking for it and are only saying something now because you regret having spread your legs.

That’s what we were told. That’s why we never spoke up. Any discussion with a trusted friend would be in hushed tones, questioning what we ourselves did wrong to have this happen to us.

Did I encourage any of these guys?

Why was I there?
What was I wearing?
Was I flirting?
Am I remembering this the right way?

It took me a long time to realize, I didn’t do anything wrong. The only thing anyone can accuse me of is trying to live my life while female.

I imagine what would have happened if I’d gone to the manager at the McDonald’s back in 1989 and told him what had happened. The culture back then wasn’t one where women could speak up. Anita Hill hadn’t yet had her hearing. No one that I knew had even heard the term “sexual harassment.”

I imagine what would have happened if I’d told anyone other than my best friend about that second guy (I don’t believe I told anyone). Who would believe me? What would they say about me? I was a bubbly, flirty, happy classmate who had more guy friends than girlfriends. They’d never believe that I wasn’t just a tease. They’d blame me and tell me I was wrong for giving the poor guy blue balls and then kicking him in the nuts.

I imagine what would have happened if I had told anyone about the third guy. He was an attractive young guy with a bright future and a hot girlfriend. I was a chubby college girl with frizzy hair and braces who wore ripped denim Bermuda shorts, and a crocheted vest over a loose tee-shirt. They’d tell me I should have been flattered that his beer goggles made me look good. And then told me if I felt attacked, then maybe I shouldn’t have gotten drunk.

What I’m saying is, I felt I couldn’t tell anyone. That’s what most women felt back then. It’s how most girls and women still feel today. More women are coming out with their stories now and the pushback from the old school “boys will be boys” crowd, both men and women, is, as expected, revolting.

With women speaking up more, we, as adults, need to teach boys and girls, starting at a very young age that ‘no means no.’ Girls, in particular, need to know that they have a place to go to tell people who will hear them out, and believe them, without asking them ‘what were you wearing,’ or, ‘what did you do to make him think you were interested in him.’

My motivation in telling this story is simple. Most people see me and they still see the bubbly, happy, although maybe a bit more jaded, person, I was back in HS. I’m not crippled by fear. I have a wonderful man in my life and we are happy. The fact is, most women who’ve had these kind of encounters in their lives are just like me. We went through it, compartmentalized it, and moved on.

But, by not speaking up or speaking out, we are doing a disservice to the girls and women growing up now, waking up to watch a woman who is speaking out about a sexual assault at the hands of a man who will be in a position to affect their lives for many years to come, being eviscerated by the same people who made us think that what happened to us was our fault.

It’s time to end this cycle of victim blaming and shaming. I don’t care if it happened 30 years ago, or 30 days ago. We need to leave the world a better, safer, place for the girls and young women we love who are watching this disgusting spectacle and wondering if they too will have to live their lives hiding in shame and fear, or will they have allies as they grow into womanhood in a world still dominated by men.

We need to tell our stories. We need to listen to their stories.

It’s way past time.