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"Please, stop pushing. I can't take this anymore. The concert venue is packed tight. A man behind me keeps pressing into my backside. I'm wearing a mini skirt today with, he lifts my skirt and presses himself against my hips. As the atmosphere heats up, someone in front of me slams into me, and I stumble back a step. My body stiffens as I feel like something just slid. My name was Mandy Cox, and I was a diehard fan girl. I wanted a celebrity to notice me, so I dressed for attention. I wore heavy makeup and made sure nothing about me went unnoticed. My low cut top revealed a wide stretch of skin, and my chest bounced with every step. I paired it with a mini skirt that barely covered my thighs and sexy white stockings which hugged my legs. But when I arrived, reality hit. The concert venue was packed so tightly I couldn't move, and the crowd swallowed me whole. The celebrity was never going to notice me. I cramed my neck and shouted, "Darling, take me." I never imagined that line would draw the wrong kind of attention. Instead of the celebrity, it caught a filthy creep. After I shouted it, I became aware of a man behind me, repeatedly bumping into me. At first I brushed it off. In a crowd that dense, accidental contact was easy to explain, but the feeling wouldn't go away. Something hard kept pressing against my butt from behind. I assumed I'd accidentally backed into his hand where it rested behind me, so I turned and offered a polite apology. Sorry, I didn't mean to bump into you. He paused, then flashed a leering smile and said, "It's okay, I don't mind." When I turned back toward the stage, I felt impressed against me again, more deliberate than before. I kept my attention on the celebrity on stage and shut him out. The man became increasingly brazen, pulling up my skirt and pressing close against my backside. I felt his touch directly against my skin and assumed it was his finger. Only then did I realize something was wrong. The pressure was warm and solid in a way a finger could never be. My mind lurched as the truth hit me dot. In the 20 years of my life, this was the first time a man had ever molested me. Fear surged through me, sharp and overwhelming, and my body reacted with an instinct to flee. But there was no way to move. The concert floor was packed wall to wall, leaving me stuck where I stood. I drew myself tight, bracing as if tension alone could keep the fear out. As I did, my hips closed around the man's so-called finger, trapping it between my cheeks, an unfamiliar sensation followed, and warmth rose to my face. What confused me was that I didn't recoil from it. There was a muted comfort to it, and against my will, it sparked a faint sense of expectation. The man behind me seemed to take it as a signal. He moved in closer, repeating the motion until the intrusion was unmistakable. I had lived a sheltered life as a college student, and now I was being toyed with by a stranger while surrounded by people. Shame surged within me without warning. I felt the urge to sob, but my throat closed, and my voice deserted me. Worse still, the pressure forced my thong inward and sent a restless prickling discomfort through my body that wouldn't fade. A quiet involuntary sound escaped me, and the embarrassment followed instantly. I gathered myself and strained to suppress it, holding it down until my throat tightened. The blaring music and the screams around me drowned everything out. With every eye fixed on the stage, no one was aware of what was happening to me. At the same time, the intensity continued to rise, touching something deep inside me. I bit down on my lip as cold sweat traced my spine. My awareness was tipping back and forth between humiliation and a pleasure I couldn't bring myself to name. I knew I couldn't take it anymore if it continued, so I turned sharply to face the man behind me. Please stop pushing. I can't take this anymore. When I finished speaking, the man leaned toward me and whispered in my ear. Is it exciting? The way I'm pushing against you? The shame was overwhelming, and I was on the verge of crying. I'm a virgin. I've never done that kind of thing. Please let me go. He didn't stop. Instead, his gaze burned deeper as he seized my waist. The pressure growing stronger. You're really a virgin? Then let me show you what it feels like to be a woman. For reasons I couldn't explain, his words didn't spark resistance right away. They stirred an expectancy instead. I wondered what was wrong with me. I'd explored my body in private, only to find the experience empty and unfulfilling. Sometimes I even wished for a man to ease that discomfort, but never under circumstances like these. He kept pushing forward.