When I was eleven years old, I went out for a walk with a long-time friend. She had fallen in with a new crowd, and wanted to meet up with them. There were a couple of other girls from our class, and a guy. I didn’t know how old he was, but he had a car so he must have been at least seventeen to be driving it on his own. He kept looking me up and down despite my obvious discomfort, and tried to get me to hook up with him in the back of his car. I thought he must be mistaken, so I asked him if he knew how old I was. He did.
The other girls I was with tried to encourage me to get in the car with him, and said that they’d already hooked up with him. I refused, but they all kept trying to persuade me, and he kept finding reasons to touch my arm or my shoulders. It made my skin crawl. I made my excuses and walked home alone.