Harassment on the bus

This city is incredibly crowded. Every day, countless people
crammed into these bus cans like sardines during rush hour or off-peak times. Acquaintances and mostly strangers alike are shoulder to shoulder,
their thoughts swirling in the air.

I can't even remember the first time I was harassed on a bus.
It's so common for people to bump into you on the bus; it's almost impossible to tell if it's intentional unless it's particularly blatant.

Back in high school, I always made sure to protect my chest when taking advantage of crowded buses, because I'd experienced
being groped .

I'd put my hand across my chest to block potential harassment. But the worst harassment wasn't groping;
it was when I was boarding the bus and someone took advantage of the crowd to grope my chest relentlessly. I rarely encountered
such blatant harassment. I struggled as I boarded, only to find it was just a ruse.
The person's target was my bag.

If there are no seats on the bus, I like to stand next to them so I can hold onto the
armrest and look out the window. I remember once, when I was very young, around fifth or sixth grade, I was wearing a bright red
dress and riding the bus with adults. Back then, I was shorter than the adults, and in the crowded bus, I felt extremely suffocated.
I remember a hand reaching out and touching me. I can't remember the specifics, but I felt bewildered, and there was that bright red
dress.

In middle school, I often had to take the bus, but by then I was more adept at avoiding
strange . I was very shy then, too afraid to cry out, and unsure of what to do. So I always
tried to move to the side as much as possible. This continued until my third year of middle school, when I was on the bus with a classmate and
a hand touched me in a very pleasant way. I knew that harassment was wrong, and I should feel ashamed, but I couldn't
deny my instincts.

I have a relatively full bottom. When I was little, I was a little ashamed of it, and many of my clothes deliberately
covered my bottom, so I didn't think much of it; later, denim became popular, and tops only reached the waist, so it became very noticeable.
Once, I was walking down the street in a denim outfit when I overheard two boys talking about me behind my back. One complimented my looks;
the other said no, my butt was too big; the one in front said, "That's sexy." Then came malicious laughter.
Later, they tried to approach me, but I quickened my pace and ran away.

Last time, I mentioned that when I was in my third year of junior high, I was on a bus to my teacher's house with two male classmates.
The bus was incredibly crowded, and they each stood on either side of me, talking incessantly. Some boys are just talkative, and at that
age, they're trying to show off how much they know, so I joined in the conversation. Because of this, my attention was somewhat
distracted until I felt someone making some movements behind me. I suspected it was harassment and wanted to get away, but the bus was too crowded
. If I were alone, I might have struggled to squeeze to another spot to avoid the harassment; but that time I was
with classmates, and changing places on such a crowded bus required a reason, which
was something I couldn't bring myself to say at the time.

Just as I continued talking to my two classmates, the person behind me started groping my butt.
My attention was initially focused on my conversation with the male classmate, and I only tried to move away slightly,
but to no avail. After some time, I began to feel incredibly comfortable. I was wearing ordinary
trousers that day, and his hand gently caressed my buttocks through them. That caress
felt like a bright blue fire had ignited in my lower abdomen; my desire, dormant for sixteen years,
was awakened in this unexpected and inexplicable way. Looking back now, his caresses were so gentle and meticulous, without any force.
He didn't use his penis against me, didn't forcefully touch between my legs, and didn't roughly rub. Rather than
harassing me, he was teasing and seducing me. His hand
moved , and the fire burning in my lower abdomen and a pleasure I had never experienced before became increasingly apparent under his touch.
I lost all interest in talking to my classmates. They were all chatting away, one of them secretly in love
with me but too shy to confess. My mind was filled with pleasure because of the hand behind me, making it impossible to have a normal conversation with them.
I could only manage a few simple words in response. It was the first time in my life I had experienced the pleasure of being touched by a man, and it left my mind
blank. The bus ride was quite long, and during that time, my lower body swelled with pleasure, like cotton wool.

I don't know how I got off the bus, and I don't even remember what the man looked like. I only remember walking a long way before
I could recover. A fleeting thought crossed my mind was to go back and let him touch me again, but of course, that was impossible.
I hadn't learned how to masturbate yet, so I could only let the fire slowly subside.

Because of the pleasure, I remember this experience.

Another experience I had was similar. When I was sixteen or seventeen, I was on a bus with my parents
to visit a relative. The relative's house was near the train station, so the bus was extremely crowded.

When I boarded, I was squeezed near the front door and couldn't move. Everyone knows there's a raised step behind
the driver 's seat, and I was standing at the bottom of that step. My parents were also separated from me,
standing a couple of people away. Then I felt someone touching my buttocks. I was very
embarrassed because my parents were so close. I was afraid they would see. I didn't ask my parents for help; such
a thing was too much for me, still in my adolescence, to talk about.

Yesterday, someone said, "Why didn't you move? Sometimes the bus is so crowded you can't move an inch." I was wearing
blue overalls, the fabric wasn't thick. Underneath, I was wearing briefs. I describe it this way because I
clearly remember that person touching my buttocks several times, then sliding their fingers along the edge of my briefs,
as if feeling my underwear. Then their hand started touching the parts not covered by the briefs, I think
because that area only had one layer of fabric. The pleasurable feeling still came, but I was very nervous, afraid
my parents would find out. I tried to look around, trying to recognize who was touching me. Actually, even if they recognized me, there was nothing I could do. But
the five or six people around me all looked completely indifferent, and not a single one of them was even looking at me.
Yet, the hand on my butt kept moving. After looking around several times without any result,
I had to give up.

A few stops later, some people got off. The steps behind the driver became a little less crowded. My dad told me to stand on them
because they were more open. I felt that hand lingeringly touch my butt a few more times, and then…
As I stepped onto the stairs, someone lightly patted my bottom twice, and then all the movement disappeared.
I never knew who it was.

At seventeen, I experienced my first heartbreak. Now, when I think of him, I think of rain,
because the sound of raindrops hitting the window was my melancholy back then. He was in another class, and a bit handsome. I forget
how we met; it seems to have been through a female classmate. Then, because we lived close by, we first bumped into each other by chance,
and then deliberately planned our encounters to coincide with each other's school schedules.

I feel that Chinese education only teaches students arithmetic, not social skills. So when I meet
a boy I like, I don't know how to start a conversation. Many times we don't speak, but it's as if silence speaks louder than
words. The first time he asked me to go to the movies, I was so nervous that I hid the movie ticket he secretly handed me. I hid it
so well that I couldn't find it again before going to the cinema. But I still went to the cinema, bought
a ticket myself, and went in—an embarrassing experience. I wanted to tell him as a joke, but I also didn't have the courage to say it. He was also very
nervous ; he didn't even hold my hand once during the entire movie.

But we still became familiar with each other. Sometimes we did homework together, and we watched movies a few more times. One
weekend , I heard someone calling my phone downstairs. I rushed down, and he stood in front of me, saying, "It's me calling you."
So I ran home, made up a lie, and went to the park with him. Because I was usually so well-behaved, the
adults didn't suspect anything. I received a New Year's card from him, saying, "May our friendship last forever." I smiled as I looked at it,
as if I could see something in those two words, "friendship." Living at that age forever brings a kind of
simple happiness; at least I still believe in forever.

I've forgotten how we drifted apart. So fast that we didn't even have the courage to kiss. Perhaps most of those youthful
feelings are destined to wither young. I didn't even have the courage to ask him out and make things clear one last time. Thinking of him
breaks my heart, and I can't speak coherently. I remember it rained heavily that day, and I walked home without an umbrella.
The next day I got sick with a high fever. The world suddenly turned black and white; eternity had arrived in an instant. I
stood on the balcony of my seventh-floor apartment, wanting to jump.

But I didn't. When I saw my parents' aging faces, my courage evaporated like
ice .

But if the heart is a rose, it has withered. I'm terrified of those memories, like the darkness swallowing me
; I once thought I'd never see the dawn.

I still have many opportunities to take the bus; I'm still that girl with the ponytail and a smile. I'm
so introverted, so introverted that I haven't confided my troubles to anyone. No one knows my abnormality; only I
know I live like a walking corpse. When someone harassed me on the bus again, I no longer
consciously tried to avoid it. Since the person I love most doesn't love me back, I have no reason to cherish myself anymore. If the first
two times I tasted desire on the bus, I could say it was because the bus was too crowded and I couldn't escape,
now I've given up on myself.

I remember a man pressing against me from behind. Although I didn't know anything about male anatomy, the hardness
was obvious. And it was burning hot. That friction aroused my body. I didn't know who was
behind me , and I didn't want to turn around at all. Everyone was the same to me. The man behind me
saw that I didn't resist and started trying to spread my legs apart. I didn't know what intercourse was, so
I kept them together. After he failed, he started to spread his legs, clamped my legs between them, and rubbed his penis against my
buttocks . I could feel that he was extremely excited, and although I had no sexual experience, I could feel his
trembling as he ejaculated on me. His movements were too exaggerated, so much so that some people around started to stare. I started to get
scared, got off the bus before my stop, and then changed buses. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a middle-aged man following me, and finally
, seeing my expressionless face, he walked away dejectedly.

This was the most outrageous thing I'd ever done. It was as if my heart was dead, and I couldn't feel any joy. Even if I had some physical reaction,
it was quickly overwhelmed by emptiness. If I were to live, it would only be to keep my parents from being sad.

Once a person falls into depravity, it's unstoppable. Looking back now, I feel fortunate that I didn't encounter
a bad person who seduced me; otherwise, I would have definitely succumbed and taken a completely different path in life,
hardening to the point of devoid of emotion.

I've become numb to such harassment on buses. Once, a boy behind me—he was indeed a
tall boy—was holding onto the handrail on the roof. He held onto me on both sides, practically pulling me into
his arms . He didn't do anything disgusting to me; he just held me the whole way.

Another time, a migrant worker stood next to me. I think he was a migrant worker. I felt his legs start to
press against mine, but I didn't move away. I was already numb. After he felt I didn't resist, he started to
move behind me and intensify his actions. My legs might not have been fully closed, and he squeezed his
legs between mine. Before this, when I encountered harassment, I always kept my legs closed, and people would only touch my buttocks. I
don't know where he rubbed, but I suddenly felt a
pleasure completely different from the warm feeling on my buttocks that I had felt before. That thrill made me impulsively want to die with him—a first in my life. But I
also started to feel afraid. The bus wasn't actually that crowded that day, and I saw two people in the seats who had
noticed me. In fact, he was quite handsome, looking at me with disdain and whispering to his girlfriend
. I definitely saw disdain. I was filled with shame and anger, and I broke free from the migrant worker.

Back home, I reflected on that unprecedented pleasure. Lacking any knowledge of sex, I
spent my entire menstrual cycle in fear before I could finally relax. Looking back now, how could anything have happened with just my pants between me?

Those were the darkest days of my life; I lived like a lifeless shadow. I don't deny that
sometimes I enjoy that kind of pleasure, but most of the time I feel like I'm riddled with holes.

In my senior year of high school, my life began to turn around. Cupid's olive branch beckoned to me again. A very excellent and
proud boy, a very pure friendship. Most importantly, he cherished me. When I met him, I was still
full of hostility towards men and distrust of love. I misunderstood him time and time again, unfairly criticizing him,
and he forgave me time and time again, so patiently and meticulously. I began to believe again that there was still
sunshine in this world, and that this ray of sunshine had not forgotten me. Although in the end, for various reasons, our relationship did not develop into a romantic one.

Because of his love, I also began to love myself. I remember once, after meeting him, on a bus,
a man lewdly tried to lift my coat little by little, because it covered my buttocks. I scoffed inwardly ,
thinking, "Why me again?" Remembering how much he cherished me, I decisively avoided him. I felt that if I
didn't cherish myself, I didn't deserve his treatment. That man actually followed me again; I
avoided him , and he calmed down.

Another time, on a crowded bus, as usual, it was terribly packed. A man wearing glasses looked particularly nice. Even
on the swarming bus, he didn't forget to consider others, kindly telling me, a complete stranger, to stand
here . I thanked him gratefully. As the bus moved, I felt my genitals being touched. I quickly looked away,
my eyes filled with disapproval and disgust. He saw it too. Two stops later, I got off the bus. He actually
followed me and asked, "Did I bump into you just now?" At first, I refused to answer because I didn't
know what kind of person he was. When he asked repeatedly, I nodded. He explained that it wasn't intentional; he said
he shouldn't have gotten off at that stop, but he sensed my displeasure and got off to explain. After explaining, he took
the next bus and left. It turns out there are still many good people on buses.

After entering university, I rarely took the bus and learned how to protect myself. And those people mostly
targeted female high school students. However, looking back on the darker aspects of my childhood, I often find it unbearable to look back. If
I have a daughter in the future, I must teach her that loving yourself is far more important than loving others, and
that no deserves to be taken for granted. But by the time I finally understood this after going through so much hardship, too many things were already
irreversible.

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