11 Jan 2013

Sexual assault and me. And so many others.

I'd just turned 17 when I had my first. It was my first day of work experience in London and I'd spent an age deciding on an outfit. The heavily fallen snow the night before didn't help. I was made to wear gloves, hat, and scarf by my parents so obviously they now had to match the rest of the outfit. And boots. I had to wear my boots. But that meant I couldn't wear my jeans because they went all crinkly at the bottom when I tucked them in. I went for shorts and tights in the end. AND TIGHTS. I WORE TIGHTS WITH THE SHORTS, STOP SHOUTING AT ME.

"No, I'm not cold." I mumbled as mum dropped me at the station, my knees shaking so fast they went blurry. I'd be on a train soon anyway, then speed-walking to Shaftesbury Avenue to make sure I wasn't late. The trains were cancelled or delayed because of the snow and rammed. Rush hour on a Monday morning together with cancelled trains meant some serious invasion of personal space on the 8:21am to Liverpool Street, but with my earphones in and an effort to not make eye contact with the lady shouting down her phone centimetres in front of me, I was alone on that train. I was fine.

My first time started about ten minutes into the journey. I didn't even realise at first, I thought I was just standing funny. So I moved and it still felt weird, so I moved my bag thinking it was that. But it wasn't either of those things. And that's when I realised I was having my first time. Someone was touching me up behind me.