The grand irony of the day I was sexually assaulted in Washington, D.C., is that my skirt really was rather short, not that you could actually see it.

It was November 2019, and exactly one incriminating inch of skin was visible from my chin to my toes. I was wearing a turtleneck dress, my then-boyfriend’s old peacoat, and a pair of thigh-high boots that covered my entire leg up to the bottom of the coat — unless you were searing for a sliver of skin in between my legs for a fraction of a second in between my steps.

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I was not drunk. It was not l

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