Once, at a show, I ran into a famous DJ I’d met before. I was working as a music writer at the time and had recently interviewed him for a story, an encounter I found pleasant enough. This time, though, things were different.
He spent the evening groping me the moment other people left the room or trying to kiss me when we were alone, advances I tried to laugh off by jovially removing his hand from my breast or putting my fingers between our mouths as he leaned in. I was not interested in him but I accepted his offer to go out to dinner with a group of bigger, even more famous musicians, because his endorsement granted me access to a room I wanted to be in.