Sexual Assault.

I’ve been replaying certain scenes from my life in my head lately. Some of them I don’t know that I’ll ever write about, or at least not for anyone to see. But here’s a tale I will tell, at least in part.

By the end, you will know why I can’t stand to smell or look at a bottle of Jagermeister and that I can be triggered by seeing a man in a dirty white apron. And also, I don’t like Jello shots.

I worked at a restaurant shortly after graduating college, as one does when you decide not to pursue work in the degree you achieved. I shall not name this restaurant to protect everyone’s identity. This will be a story about sexual assault, or rather, almost-sexual assault, depending on how you look at it. So if any reference to sexual assault is triggering, that’s certainly understandable if you choose not to keep reading. But this is a low-level of sexual assault, I suppose. Whatever that means. It’s unfortunately likely something SO many of us have dealt with, but we’ve just written it off, over and over and over again, as I did. As I do.

This story is about myself and a manger from this restaurant. I will be calling him Manager Man.

Let me preface with this tale about Manager Man (before I knew him). Shortly after starting this job, my friend who helped me get this job told me a story about Manager Man. The story goes… Manager Man started watching porn on his computer or phone at work in his office at the restaurant. Manager Man remembered to close and lock the door to the office, but he did not disconnect his device from the speakers that typically blast music throughout the restaurant lobby. Yes, you guessed it folks. While he watched his special adult films, all the sounds could be heard emanating throughout the lobby full of patrons. I’m not really sure how all this turned out, but I just wanted to paint a little picture of Manager Man.

At this job, I was quickly promoted to a supervisor role and transferred to a Nashville location. I was actually being paid rather handsomely for this job, some of which was paid “under the table.” Yes, this should have been a sign that something was a little questionable. I’d get paid an exorbitant amount in cash, but not much on my paycheck. This is, of course, terrible for my taxes, but I digress.

I don’t know what all to include. Manager Man certainly quite liked me. I could tell. Some of it was probably genuine and innocent. I was an extremely hard worker and the customers loved me. And let’s face it, I’m just so lovable. I kid, I kid. Who knows why. Manager Man would also talk about wanting to start various businesses with me, which was a little odd in hindsight.

There was one particular night that the staff was having a get-together after work. I was assigned the important task of picking up alcohol (while on the clock at work). I was told specifically told to include Jagermeister. Why—I don’t know, because even if you are an alcohol drinker, that stuff is ROUGH. But I did it. Manager Man gave me cash, and I went to a nearby liquor store. Why did I agree to participate in this? Why did I contribute alcohol to this equation? I don’t know. My leader told me to do something, and I have always been good at following rules, and I don’t like to disappoint authority figures, so I did it. (Some of this does not track with how I am now, but this is how I was then.)

The restaurant closed, and we had our get together. Everyone was drinking. Manager Man was particularly imbibing. I had to drive back to Murfreesboro, so I couldn’t have much, but I did partake. I know. Eventually it was just Manager Man and I left. I don’t even remember how it happened. Somehow he ended up on my side of the booth, and he was moving closer and closer and his hands were everywhere, all at once. And for whatever reason I played it off like it was funny and oh haha, he’s just being classic Manager Man. He was trying to kiss me, trying to do things. I somehow I managed to get out of the booth. I remember him being against me, the pressure, the uncomfortable warmth, the sweat, the smell of Jagermeister and his dirty white apron. I remember the apron. It was all confusing and uncomfortable, but it was almost as if I wasn’t actually experiencing it—like I was just watching it unfold. And for whatever reason, I didn’t want to make HIM uncomfortable or embarrass him for what HE was doing to me. So I kept playing it off like it was no big deal.

Even though it is a big deal. Because he had a wife who had just given birth to twins, and I had a boyfriend. And I didn’t want any part of this. Even if he didn’t have a wife, kids and I didn’t have a boyfriend, none of this should have been happening.

I ended up outside. I don’t really know how, but he was out there too. And I was pushing him away and he must have finally gotten the point, because he started apologizing. I don’t remember if I was crying or getting upset or what. I just know I left. I don’t remember the long drive home. I don’t remember getting home.

The next day was Mother’s Day. I remember being at my grandparents’ house for the celebration, and Manager Man was texting me, apologizing. I don’t know if I responded, but I specifically remember peering under the table at the text while sitting at my grandparents’ long dinner table, then I looked outside the window and stared.

Monday arrived. I began my drive to work. I was about 30 minutes into my 40 minute drive when I burst into tears. I pulled over at a gas station. I can picture it exactly. I know which gas station. I can take you there. I start hyperventilating. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to see him. HIM. I couldn’t get myself to stop crying, and I don’t think I really understood why I was crying. This wasn’t the first time this has happened. I’ve had my personal space, my boundaries violated many times before. It’s normal. This is normal. This is what (some) men do. This is what women deal with. This is my fault, probably.

I’m sure I was having some version of a panic attack parked outside this gas station, but I didn’t realize that at the time. I could hardly breath. I called my boyfriend at the time. I think that’s who I called. I called someone, but I couldn’t seem to articulate what was really happening or what I was feeling.

Somehow I calmed down, and I went into work, because I didn’t want to call out and let the team down.

At some point at work, Manager Man pulled me outside and gave me a “gift.” He’s from another country, and he said in his country, this is how people apologize—a gift. He gave me perfume. Some sort of expensive one, at that. I know because there was a receipt inside. I don’t remember what I said to him after this. I know I brushed it all off. And now, I felt like some hooker he was paying in extravagant perfumes. I didn’t know what to think of it. I just knew it all felt wrong, like I was being paid off to stay quiet or something.

Eventually, I returned the perfume to the store since I had the receipt, and I took the cash. Yes, now I really felt like a hooker. I wish I had done something special with the money, like donate it to a women’s shelter, but I don’t think I did. I just needed to pay rent, and I knew I didn’t want to smell like Manager Man perfume for years to come.

I ended up quitting this job a few weeks later, without having another job lined up.

Have you noticed on certain job applications, they sometimes ask your reason for leaving a job? Answer: “Because I was sexually assaulted.” Maybe that would be a better than: “I just needed a change.”

BONUS STORY (not of sexual assault but of men saying things that men sometimes say):

As a student, I worked for the Middle Tennessee State University’s Blue Raider Athletic Association. BRAA for short. Yes, what a fun acronym. I was probably freshly twenty at the time of this story. At football games, I was assigned to check in on the folks in the luxury boxes. Typically, it was a horde of drunk middle-aged and older men. Sometimes they would try to get me to stay and have a drink with them. One particular time, I was in a luxury box where I knew a few of the men. Some of them knew my parents and grandparents. Some of them didn’t know who I was, but I knew who they were, and I knew they knew my family. One of them was the father of someone I had gone to middle school with, and he also attended my church at the time. He knew who I was.

Well, anyway, they had Jello shots, and they kept trying to get me to take some of the shots. I’m supposed to keep these people happy, make them feel special and keep them donating money to the BRAA, so I finally grabbed one, held it in my hand and stared at it. I must have been staring too long because one of the men suddenly yelled: “Suck it like your boyfriend wants you to!” And everyone laughed and cheered and started telling me to Suck it and Lick it, etc, etc. I looked up at the man from my church hoping for some support or help or something, but he wouldn’t make eye contact with me.

I understand this is not really a “big deal,” and it’s certainly not out of the ordinary. Just your run-of-the-mill sexual innuendo of sorts, right? But it felt demeaning and derogatory, and quite frankly just gross. Like they were getting some sort of satisfaction by taunting me and watching me. These men were well-over twice my age, some three times my age. I knew one of their daughters. I wanted to ask if that’s something he would yell and chant to his daughter.

For whatever reason, whenever something like happens, I feel a violent rage bubbling and want to punch someone’s face. “How about you suck on this, John!” PUNCH! But of course I didn’t. And I don’t. Usually.

This may be 'normal’ banter, especially to a female serving males in a drunken sports setting, but should it be?

Should it??

And why did I share these stories? I’m not really sure yet. I’ll probably write more about it later. But for now, there you go. These things shouldn’t be normal and acceptable. I’m sorry if they’ve happened to you, and undoubtedly, I’m sure they have.

Now at 33-years-old, I able liable to punch someone, so watch out.