I seem to have the opposite of resting bitch face. I don’t look angry all the time; I just look constantly terrified. Like, I may take off running or drop into the fetal position and cry if faced with any confrontation whatsoever. This has caused a range of problems; but the biggest of all is that it makes it fun (and easy) for people to sexually harass me. And in spite the revulsion and terror, I have some interesting stories.

Over fall break, I made the terrible decision of eating pizza while standing on the sidewalk at 1 a.m., which apparently marked me as a prostitute to the average creepy man. A man approached me and let me know he was representing his group of friends behind him. He asked me to accompany the whole lot of them to their hotel room so “the real party can start.” I informed him that I was rather committed to my pizza and was not willing to progress the night past that wonderful slice. So, he offered to buy me a whole pizza and to give me “whatever else I wanted.” As tempting as his offer was (I do love pizza), I am, unfortunately, not a prostitute. Also, I did not think that my boyfriend (who was sitting about five feet away at the time and yet was somehow oblivious to the fact I was being bought), would appreciate me selling myself. At least not for such a low price as a single pizza…maybe two pizzas, but one? Come on, I’m classier than that. The next renter was a man was around the age of my own father. He asked me to get into his car, but I informed him of my pizza commitment. He in turn took the crust of my pizza and proceeded to eat it as seductively as he could manage, watching me and moaning a bit into the pizza. It really, really did not work, but I’ll give him a C-plus for effort.

On my flight back to St. Louis after winter break, I noticed a man watching me in the airport security line. I assumed it was because I was actively sobbing in public after saying goodbye to my boyfriend, but this was not the case. The man and I were assigned seats next to each other on the flight. He asked why I was crying, and I explained the situation to him. I assumed he was like a concerned dad (he was 40-ish years old, after all). Once he learned I was a psychology major, he told me I could be a millionaire if I worked with damaged women. He said he does not date anyone over 25 because they have all “been damaged too thoroughly.” He proceeded to show me pictures of women who are his “friends,” telling me how each one is pretty, but they are all too “messed up” from domestic abuse (how he thought this made him likable is really beyond me). He then repeatedly asked me to sleep at his place and to party with him. He told me I was too young to be in a committed relationship. He put his headphones in my ear to make me listen to his electronic music (I assume he’s chasing after his long-past youth with it). He spent the trip leaning against me and openly staring at me as I tried to look away. He asked if it was true that “All women from Missouri are beautiful.” I informed him that this was not a stereotype, but last I heard, St. Louis was number two in the nation for STIs. He asked how I kept myself clean, and I told him I used the tactic of being in a two-year committed relationship. I have never gotten such strong “Lovely Bones” vibes from a man in my life.

Speaking of middle aged men who tried to wear my skin as a suit, I was mildly stalked by two men when I was in high school. One would come to the Toys R Us where I worked at least once a week (he had no children) just to see me. He told me I was “a beautiful flower that bloomed.” Which was nice and all, but maybe if you’re in your 40s you shouldn’t spend so much time stalking a 17-year-old. Another man, who cut the grass at my dad’s house and happened to live near my mom (30 minutes from my dad), had been inappropriate with me a few times at my dad’s. But I didn’t realize he was the same person until he waited outside my car late one night, grabbed me in the parking lot and told me he had been watching me and knew where I live. He then proceeded to describe both of my homes to me (I nearly peed my pants).

Finally, I would like to give some advice to the men of Washington University: Dear frat guys, a girl who agrees to play a game of beer pong with you is not also agreeing to have sexual intercourse. Maybe she just likes to play beer pong. This does not mean you get to grab her butt or hold her hand. She really just wants two feet of space—and some beer. Please. Stop. It. Also, to the guys at Welcome Week events (or in any other club scene), please ask permission before grinding on a girl. You are approaching her from behind; she cannot see you or even prevent you touching her unless you ask first. Especially if you know her from somewhere else, please ask first, for the love of God. Eye contact earlier in the night is not consent; it is not even expressing interest. The girl may just be looking around the room or having some (completely nonsexual) thought about you. There is nothing charming about a guy from your floor sneaking up behind you and rubbing his penis against you in a crowded room (let’s be real, that’s what grinding is). If it goes poorly and she rejects you (as she should, you creepy, penis man) you will now have to spend the rest of the year avoiding eye contact as you walk past each other in the halls or try to do laundry. So, please, just keep your penis to yourself, unless told otherwise.