I was in my mid-twenties and lecturing at QUT when I was sexually assaulted by a student. It was the last Friday of semester. After class, he – a private school boy and writing major – accompanied me to the car park. He had offered to carry my books. When I turned to thank him, he pinned me against the car door and jammed his tongue in my mouth.
After I fended him off, he slithered away to meet his mates and I never told anyone what happened. Smart girls – university lecturers – didn’t get themselves into these situations. And, besides, it was just a kiss. It wasn’t that bad. He hadn’t held a knife to my throat or threatened me.
