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"Do not touch me."

Updated: Mar 19

Smothered. My flame.

I was looking forward to this holiday party for weeks.


A night out with my co-workers, a group of hot, young female bartenders. “The Girl Gang”, we call ourselves. When we get together, we know how to have fun. Some might think it’s too much, but we would just remind them “You only live once!”.


A couple of hours of dancing, a couple of cocktails and other concoctions later, I am grabbed.


Two uninvited hands on my face. And then my shoulders.

“Do not touch me.” I immediately stated.

But this had not been my first warning.


For weeks, you have made me uncomfortable.

For weeks, YOU have made me uncomfortable at my job.

For years, I have made sure I didn’t dance too much, or wear THAT, or look or act or be THAT way.


But I suppose you can do whatever the fuck you want?


I played it all right. I didn’t dance as much as I wanted. I kept my jacket on most of the time. And I certainly did not invite your hands to touch me.


Do not touch me.


The thing is, I immediately started guilt-tripping myself. “Was it my fault?” I reel back through every kind gesture and nice conversation, the type of exchange I have with everyone, wishing I could take my Nice back and keep it to myself. Wishing I could hold it in my arms and tell it that it is safe with me.


You know, some girls despise being beautiful. Getting THAT attention. Having THOSE eyes on them. I feel for those girls. I understand. But I am not one of them.


It should be okay to enjoy your beauty and youth, instead of being scared of it. It shouldn’t put a fucking target on your back.


It is possible (expected) for one to control one’s self.


“Do not touch me.”


I am proud I had the strength to say that. I am strong. Authoritative male figures have never been something to fear for me. But many who have been conditioned with this fear have been taught not to say those words. We have been taught not to speak up for ourselves.


Do not touch me.


I am thankful I was in a public place. And my boyfriend was a few steps away from me. But man, he had been waiting for that window.


I am "lucky" that this was minor. Minor, yet I still left the party in tears. Safely, but in tears.

Too many stories do not end with the girl leaving the party safely.


So, here I sit. Hunched over my hands. Holding something important to me.


Smothered. My flame.

I was looking forward to this holiday party for weeks.


800.656.4673

National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline


Love Peace Positivity,

WhySheWhistles



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