Appalachian Ohio, Athens GA, Atlanta, Baltimore, Chicago, Cleveland, Columbia MO, Columbus, Denver, Des Moines, Durham & Chapel Hill, East Lansing, Fredericksburgh VA, Houston, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Lubbock TX, Manhattan KS, Muncie IN, New Orleans, New York City, NYU, Pittsburgh, Plattsburgh, Richmond VA, San Fernando Valley, San Francisco, SUNY Oneonta, Tucson, Twin Cities
I followed all the biking rules, including the lesser known one meant for women, the one about not wearing a head set so you can hear the ensuing attacker hiding in bushes.
I should have forgotten that last tid bit and worn headphones anyway because of the constant harassment of whistling, honking horns, and many a suggestive, “Hey baby, ride that thing!”
I rode through lots of stop signs, red lights, and even on the wrong side of the street to avoid creeps who wanted to follow me and continue their harassment unabated.
When it became too much I started forsaking myself the (cough cough) safety of town for country roads.
The decision worked well, at first, there was plenty of peace and quiet, the beautiful landscape of farm country, no hooting and hollering or comments made about my getting it on with the bike.
Then I was hit by a car.
Fortunately, I didn’t end up road kill or smeared across a windshield, just thrown into a ditch. No major injuries, but I was pretty shook up.
The real icing on the cake was that the asshole didn’t even bother to stop, not even a glance in his rearview mirror!
I wish to this day I’d gotten the plate number instead of the back of his head forever seared into my memory.
This happened a little more than ten years ago and I’ve not ridden my bike since; unless you count a few loops in my driveway, and to this day my family believes I won’t ride my bike because of getting hit by a car.
Well, that’s one reason out of two!
Written by Beth
Thanks for the awesome picture Beth!
I spent my college years in Boston and had an apartment in Kenmore Square. I was coming home from my summer job as a hostess and began to wearily climb the steep steps from the T station up to the street. After the third or fourth step I heard the familiar sound of a polaroid camera –click-whirrrr. I whipped around in time to catch a textbook creepy-looking pervert pulling his camera back toward him after having stuck it under my mini-skirt to get a crotch shot. (I was wearing underwear, thank god.) He fled and I hurried the rest of the way up the stairs to relative safety. It was so disturbing and so close to where I lived that I felt I had to report the incident. I called the campus safety office and was asked to come in to go through a book of mug shots. Apparently, this guy was a bigger problem than I had originally thought. I don’t know if they ever caught him, but almost ten years later it still turns my stomach to think about those few seconds.
A similar thing happened when I was in Bangkok a couple of months ago–only this time I was descending a staircase to the street from an overpass, and there they were, two shifty, watery eyes aimed up my skirt and between my legs. He concentrating so hard on getting a good look, he didn’t even know I watched him the whole time!
Written by Andrea
Then, a crazy old hobo man passes by, and as he does, grabs my crotch and says, “Fucking cunt!”
I was too shocked to say or do anything. Moments after, it felt so unreal. Could that really have just happened, out in public?
He wasn’t in his right mind anyway, but god men can be such assholes!
written by Christine.
I turned around, saw the dude looking at me, and gave him the big, unmistakable
Yet, he persisted, mumbled, almost incoherently–even sheepishly– “I wanna lick your pussy. . . “
I held The Finger until I entered the store. Feeling relief, I carried forth on my mission, and obtained the necessary baking implement.
Upon payment, I wondered if said jerk-off reamined outside. He had, apparently, taken his spring rolls and split, but not without an extra-awesome serving of my finger.
written by Angela.
I was on the F train going to Brooklyn. This man next to me was staring, like boring holes into the side of my face staring. So I got up and moved to another seat. He got up and moved to sit across the aisle from me, STARING.
At this point I’m just ignoring him, not talking, not looking, knowing he was going to follow me. We get to Jay St and I wait to get off the train until right before the doors close, so he wouldn’t follow me. But old dirty man figured it out and just as I was walking out of the train doors, he stands next to me and says so no one else can hear: “I was waiting for you to open your legs.”
Written by Amina
From Maggie (in Toronto):
My ex is a photographer. I was coaching the talent for him: getting them to relax in front of the camera, stand up strait, breathe etc. While my ex was taking a shot of an up and coming sports news anchor for a national Sportsnet billboard he turned to her and said, “Come on, show me the girls.” I almost kicked him in the groin for every woman who’s ever made it big on her big brains not bazoombas.
“I am not a lesbian! Why are gay people always trying to befriend me. Get away from me”, and then she attempted to physically assault him, at which point she was removed from the bar and began harassing people on the street. She will harass you so be careful.
Another man, whose family was in the car, handed me half a bar of chocolate and told me to eat it. (Seriously, what the hell? And not even a whole bar?) I told him I didn’t think so. He proceeded to tell me to “shut up and take it, girl.” I threw his chocolate out and went inside before I could say something that would get me fired.
Okay it is 4am. I am sitting on the subway steps waiting for the uptown C. The D comes and this guy is running to catch it, he says, “You aren’t coming on?” I said, “Not on the D.” He walks back towards me, “Oh Sweetheart…I love to eat pussy.” I look him in the face, in awe. Wishing that my cell phone was charged so that I could practice my whip and snap technique. But of course I was not able to give him a proper holla back.