When I was a teenager, I had two jobs: one at a local store and one at a music label. I loved those jobs—I was making my own money doing work that I cared about, and I loved the feeling of independence and confidence that gave me. Then I was sexually harassed at both places.
The other employees at the store, the first place where I worked, were older than me, and most of them treated me like a kid sister. One guy, however, treated me like an annoyance, if he talked to me at all. I, like all the other clerks, tended to hang out there even when I wasn’t working. On one such day, I was hanging around behind the counter, probably biding my time before going to a concert nearby. The only other worker there was that one dude. He was standing next to me, watching customers shop, and then suddenly his hand was just resting on my ass. I told him to stop. He moved away, and I said something like “Don’t ever touch me again.” He replied, “C’mon, you liked it.” And I slapped him across the face. And then he slapped me back, twice as hard. I grabbed my things and left.