“Be careful with that neck, it’s dangerous. Men can’t resist a neck like that.” I was 18 and his name was Jesús. I was an exchange student in Spain and had never met him before. He was ten years my senior. Already I was so conditioned to believe that attention from men was a success—I am good enough —that I struggled to find balance between the programmed response and the way my hair stood on end on the back of my neck. I felt danger. It had only been about a year since a man had raped me in the front seat of his car. The whole time he spoke to me like I’d asked for it, like I was enjoying it. Powerful…