That one time when I got sexually assaulted.

I have alluded to this in other places, and I have sort of told my two best friends from high school and laughed it off ha ha ha. But the only person I have ever really told about this, with all the details and emotions and feelings is Jack.

And I know this blog has been a little low on sexy BDSM-y content lately (as if anyone I don't know personally is reading this anyway) and I promise to remedy that soon, but between the comment that Tails posted on my last entry and this article I happened upon today (and its companion piece), I decided I should really write about this.

It was October, and I was 23, a year out of college and working two jobs. I was living with my parents, and had only just passed my road test. I took the bus pretty much everywhere, including to and from my primary job at the mall every day. On this particular day, I had gotten out of work early and was headed home to get ready to go to my much more interesting second job.

I was sitting in my usual seat, three rows back on the "passenger" side, window seat. I was listening to my mp3 player and reading Son of a Witch by Gregory Maguire. I forget which stop it was, but an older man (in his 60s or so) got on and sat down next to me, in the aisle seat. His hand, which I remember had unusually long and well-manicured nails, hovered just on the edge of my field of vision.

I concentrated on my book, barely even noticing as the hand brushed against my thigh. It actually took me a few minutes to figure out what was going on...and by then his hand was creeping higher and higher up my leg. In my head, I was panicking. I was convinced that if I caused a scene no one would believe me. I pushed my book down against my thighs, trying to block him from moving his hand higher and to my right, towards my inner thigh.

I think I was shaking. I was trapped in my seat, a few stops away from my usual stop. I had to do something, so I decided that I would act just like a normal passenger. "Excuse me," I said, "this is my stop." He didn't move, so I stood up as the bus stopped, figuring I'd just push past him. As I stood up, he grabbed my ass, his hand moving, trying to get between my legs. "I SAID THIS IS MY STOP!" I half-shouted, and shoved him into the aisle with my shoulder and ran off the bus. People looked up. He just laughed at me.

I know I was shaking once I got off the bus. I half-ran through the park, terrified. I could already imagine what people would say if I told them. My mom would call the police, my friends would say what they would have done--"I would've screamed," "I would've punched him"--and I couldn't stand the thought of those things.

I think I took a shower when I got home, thinking that I should want to get clean. I changed my clothes and forced down some food, got my Halloween costume together to change into for the party I was going to later. I waited for my ride to my second job, and she picked me up and we went to work. I acted like nothing had happened, though I knew that if anyone touched me at work that night I would lose it. I chugged a five-hour energy shot, so I would be "on" for work and the party. Nothing unusual happened.

Weirdly, coincidentally, the party that night was where Jack and I first got together. I told him what had happened, and then I promptly forgot all about it for about six months. I actually can barely remember it now, despite other events that same day being crystal clear. Jack and I hooked up, started dating, and started exploring our kinky proclivities and I didn't really give it a second thought.

About six months later, I was jumped walking home from the bus by a teenage girl I'd never seen before. She hit me until my nose started bleeding, while a group of girls watched, then she ran off. She didn't try to take anything--not my purse or my mp3 player or my cell phone. Some guys pulled up and offered me a ride, but I refused, terrified. I walked home, crying and covered in blood. My mother wouldn't let me wash my face until the police came. I remember everything about that with complete clarity, including what I was wearing and what song was playing when it happened.

After that, Jack and I had to dial some things back for a while. No hitting my face, of course, but it didn't occur to me until later why I would get so freaked out when he laughed while we were playing. It was because he, that other man, laughed at me when I shoved him and ran off the bus. Once I figured that out I started getting more and more uncomfortable on crowded buses. I had to sit in an aisle seat, in the first row where I'd be visible. Now I have a hard time even getting on a city bus.

I didn't really talk about it. I actually found myself one day posting a comment on a friend's blog that said "I've never been sexually assaulted..." and then I suddenly remembered that I had. I would like to forget this. My brain is apparently trying to forget this. But I don't really want to be quiet about it. I got groped on a bus by a horrible man and, while it wasn't the worst thing to ever happen to me, it was really awful. I don't think I can explain how or why just being touched can leave you feeling sick and violated and awful, but it can and it does.

It wasn't trivial or stupid or nothing. It wasn't just something to brush off or forget. It's something I'm going to talk about and call by name: sexual assault. He assaulted me. And saying that isn't causing drama or making a big deal out of nothing or blowing it out of proportion, it's simply saying what happened and telling the truth.