Just over a week ago I was at a conference in Austin, Texas. A group of about ten of us from my company were all there, so, as you do at conferences, we went out every night. On the first night, we were all enjoying some late cocktails at the hotel’s open air bar when one member of our group noticed a man standing on the sidewalk near our table. He thought the man was staring at one of the ladies in our group, and went out to speak to the guy. It turns out he was watching the football game on the TV over the bar.

Next thing we knew, the fella was joining us. His name was Phil, and he was one among the huge number of homeless Austinites. My large-hearted co-worker (whom I will refer to as Cousin Eddie from now on, as perhaps his heart is bigger than his brain) invited him into our group, buying him drinks and getting to know him. Having had quite a few cocktails, none of us worried about the situation too much, and we enjoyed the short rest of the evening.

Well, it became evident the following evening that Eddie, and by extension, our group, had adopted Phil, and whenever we went out for the night, there he was. He wasn’t weird or outlandish or embarrassing, so we let him hang around. Eddie bought him as much to drink as he wanted, plus food. I wouldn’t have left us either.

On the last night of the conference the traditional networking event was held on the hotel’s rooftop pool deck. I joked to the group, all of us (except Eddie) having wearied of Phil’s presence, where was he? We all groaned and chuckled. And then lo and behold, an hour before the end of the event, I look over to see Phil wearing Eddie’s conference badge, chatting up a female co-worker. Unbelievable!

A majority of our group were in no mood to take Phil along with us again as we headed down to Rainey Street, so we gave Eddie, Phil, and a couple others the slip, and headed out in search of local entertainment.

It would seem though, that we had a mole among us, because not long after arriving at the Container Bar (an interesting place comprised of stacked and interconnected shipping containers), Eddie and Phil magically appeared.

Phil was very intoxicated by this time, and I found myself standing next to him in a small circle of a few from our group. To my horror, Phil got closer, threw his arm around me, and pulled me close, kissing me on the cheek while lamenting that he would miss us when we were gone, and that he would probably cry. His breath smelled terrible, revolting me. I stood there, watched by several male co-workers, with this drunken homeless stranger hugging all over me, and I did something I never would have believed I could do.

I did nothing.

As Phil continued to squeeze me, his face again much too close, stinking breath filling my nose as he told me now how much he liked my smile, I stood there like a statue, trying to communicate with my eyes to someone in my group that I needed help. Badass Steff, tough, take-no-shit me just stood there enduring uncomfortable, unwanted, and unsolicited physical contact when I should have been pushing him away, or at the very least, deftly ducking out from under his arm. Why? Why did I just stand there?

Because I didn’t want to make a scene. I didn’t want to embarrass him. HIM. I let myself be manhandled (literally) by someone I didn’t even know and owed nothing to, because I was worried about his feelings. This was a week ago. This wasn’t a decade or two ago, back before my feminist self really awoke and strengthened. What. The. Hell. 

After a minute or two, one of our group, the young man who turned out to be the mole, came and rescued me with a, “Hey, Steff, come here, I wanna show you something.” Ever polite to the out-of-bounds stranger, we all were. As for Eddie, either he wasn’t noticing, or he didn’t think anything of it, because he said nothing.

After getting away, two of the other ladies and I escaped up to the second level and went around to a back balcony, out of sight. We were eventually joined by a couple more of our group, and sneaked out of the bar to the freedom of the street. We moved on to another place, joined by one more of our group, who I only acquiesced to give our location to on the condition that he would come alone. I was done with Phil and Eddie. The ladies agreed that I had basically been assaulted, and that I should have decked the guy. Why didn’t I?

The rest of the night passed without incident, but after getting back to the sanctity of my hotel room, I got angry. Angry that my co-worker brought this guy into our group and then didn’t even notice when his behavior became unacceptable. Angry that I stood there and let it happen, that I didn’t push him away. And this was just because he hugged me and kissed my cheek. I felt disgusting. Besides having that man’s spit on my face, it was hideously humid in Austin, and I took a long hot shower, trying to wash it all away.

But of course, experience can’t be washed off like sweat and dirt. Watching the national discourse on sexual assault this week involving Kavanaugh and Dr. Ford, I’ve been so saddened, so disgusted, so angry. Why must we victimize victims all over again, subject them to abuse over and over and over, while the men rally around each other, defending other men and situations that they know nothing about? Why aren’t victims believed?

I am angry at myself for enduring a situation that made me very uncomfortable when I should have revolted. I cannot imagine the guilt and shame that a woman (or man) who has been violently, terribly assaulted must feel. How they must beat themselves up for days, weeks, years, lifetimes after the assault, wondering why they couldn’t manage to defend themselves, even when there may have been no way that they could have.

And I’m going to put it out there that respecting each other’s personal space isn’t just a man’s responsibility. Women are just as capable of making men feel the same way that Phil made me feel. I have a male friend who once endured the unwanted touching of a drunken woman, and he didn’t like it. He also didn’t say anything at the time, because he didn’t want to cause a scene. But it made him uncomfortable.

So everyone, remember not to touch people without their permission. Don’t judge a victim of something you’ve never experienced. And when someone touches you in a way that makes you uncomfortable, it’s totally OK to remove yourself from that situation however you need to.

Deck ‘em if you have to.