my #metoo story
I jumped as I felt the bony old hand dig into the soft crease of my upper left thigh.
The president of the international cinema chain, seated to my right at the annual ShoWest dinner, paused in our conversation, dropped his eyes to the table top and then looked back up smirking slightly.
What do I do? What do I do? I wondered frantically. Jump up in outrage? Rip Jack’s hand off my leg and fling it away in front of my conversational partner?
He knows, he already knows what Jack is doing, I thought as shame blackened my soul.
I dropped my hand to block further assault and then excused myself abruptly. In the ladies room, I stood in a locked stall, face in hands, breathing loudly through my fingers until I could bottle up the distress. Memories rose of earlier that evening in the suite, when Jack had grabbed and held my head while he planted one on my mouth with his wrinkled and wet lips. I gagged up some of the gourmet dinner. More than just distress to suppress.
Returning through the opulent restaurant, housed on the top floor of the pseudo Eiffel Tower that overlooked the Vegas strip, I passed many of the industry elite as I returned to my own select table of CEOs and lobbyists. I moved my chair far out so no additional attempts could be secretly made. After dinner, I politely declined repeated invitations to join the fun loving group at the high stakes craps table. No, I really must go prepare for the morning’s international press conference and speech.
And I thought the grilling on my year’s work by the 50 largest entertainment media would be the most stressful part of the business trip.
(excerpt from Do You Think You Will Break?)