About a year ago, I found pictures of myself naked on the Internet.
I hadn’t put them there, I hadn’t consented to having them posted, and I definitely hadn’t been prepared for what I read in the comments: violent and cinematic descriptions of rape and abuse juxtaposed against my open mouth and thigh-highs and undone bra. My face was clearly and fully visible. I wouldn’t have seen them at all if it weren’t for a friend tipping me off, the link embedded in a carefully neutral email that I appreciated later for its lack of assumption about what I was supposed to feel. “You look sexy! Do you know about this?”
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