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He slowly shook his head no. Sweat poured from my armpits. The irony of my very first assignment as a Georgia Press Association intern in summer was not lost on me. Elder, my former health teacher at Oglethorpe County High School, appeared in our local courthouse for three counts of statutory rape and child molestation. Elder had ruined the life of my classmate: My second bookend is quite fresh. I shoved this bookend forcefully, angrily, in place, at The first to blaze a trail gets the deepest scratches.

That morning, Monica Byrne bravely named Bora Zivkovic in her post about sexual harassment. With untold courage, Hannah Waters shared her story about the insidious power of not-quite-harassment she experienced with Bora. Bora commended their audacity. But online, men, women and myself felt shocked. How could someone who had given so generously, commanded his rare talents so well, done so much for women and science writing online—how could he? He could, he did. And the point that seems to be missing so far in coverage surrounding this controversy at Scientific American is: He could do it again.

At age 18, after hearing from a psychologist at my university that what happened to me at age 16 was wrong, I screwed up my courage and said: If you have read the pieces by Monica and Hannah, then you have read what Bora did to me. But I have more to add. Raven naked ass that Saturday evening, with conversations ricocheting off the walls of the Peabody Museum of Natural History, I felt overwhelmed. I drank two glasses of wine. A group of us stood outside later, waiting for cabs to take us to the restaurants. I ended up in a cab with Bora. I asked question after question, as journalists do.

We arrived at the restaurant. The restaurant check arrived. Bora pointed to me and another girl. If I recall, there were about six other women—and perhaps one other guy—sitting at our table. After dinner, I made my way to the hotel lobby, anxious to get away from Bora because I knew I was putting myself in a risky situation. But somehow we ended up standing together in front of the elevators. Once there, I ordered a plain Coke. He talked and talked. I do remember, as we later both stood waiting for the bell to signal my floor, that he leaned over and kissed me on top of my head. I mumbled a farewell as the doors opened and walked away.

Fast-forward to May During his near-monthly visits to the same building for Scientific American, he visited me at my desk. After he finished talking to me once, my co-worker leaned over to me. I agreed to meet Bora for dinner in New York at some point in July While we sat in the restaurant, Bora looked around anxiously, as if NSA itself might be watching. I ordered one glass of wine. During conversation, I said: I did not ask you to kiss me. It was a balmy evening in the city. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe Bora does want to be my friend and I can learn, with him, to stand up to men in positions of power. After a few moments of walking, Bora said to me, apropos of nothing: He described his frustration about this situation.

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