Storytime with Rachel F Hundred

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A brash laugh from a table of men

as I swing past delivering food to another. 

On the return a hand snakes out to pat my bum.

I flinch but give a nervous smile as I dart away.

The manager places a solicitous arm around my shoulder,

his concern is overly friendly and

the head waitress has already warned me

“Don’t go into his office alone.”

Maybe my skirt is too short.

Maybe I need to find another holiday job.

Me too.

The first briefing is uncomfortable, his eyes

staring at me down the table and oily smiles.

Then he’s right behind my chair, breath hot in my ear,

leaning over my shoulder,

looking down my cleavage as he asks a question.

My boss, a decent man this time, chases him away

and asks if I’m OK

“Just don’t leave me alone with him,” I joke.

We both know I’m not joking

Maybe my top is cut a little low.

Maybe I just need to suck it up.

Me too.

I wake up with a cock in my mouth,

and I feel half-asleep still as he fucks me.

Then I’m in the bath, shivering and wondering how

I went from drinks after work to bruises on thighs.

I’m sure I wasn’t drunk, wine swapped to lemonade,

But I don’t remember.  

Only flashes; staggering into my room,

a body in mine, condom in the trash.

“Did something happen?” a friend asks and

I lie and say nothing, too ashamed.

Maybe I asked for it.

Maybe it was my fault.

Me too.

It’s not OK to drug me into submission

It’s not OK to touch me without permission

It’s not OK to take advantage under the guise of care

Or crowd me while you stare

My body isn’t for you to use

My skirt isn’t too short

My top isn’t too low

I didn’t ask for it

It’s not my fault.

It’s not my fault.

Me too.