One August evening, I was heading home from a friend’s barbecue in New York City, a few drinks deep, enjoying the warm hug of humidity on my bare arms. The sun had just dipped below the horizon but the sky was bright. Cars whipped by me. My apartment was a few blocks away. Suddenly, a man’s rough hand was pinching my throat shut. He turned me around and forced his lips on mine, restraining my arm with his free hand. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t kick or hit because of the angle at which he held my body. I wrenched my head, bit his lips and tongue, wheezed and gasped for air. After what felt like an eternity, a car with a young couple in it stopped, the man threw me down and ran north, and I ran south, blindly, not hearing my own panicked screams.

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