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Readers of her column will recognize that voice in her book excerpt, too, which also includes accounts of assaults by former CBS CEO Les Moonves and several other men.(Moonves has likewise denied Carroll’s allegation.) Her columns are full of cheeky euphemisms—women getting off are “lathering their lemon squeezers”—and her essay about sexual assault is, too. his pants bursting with demands,” she writes in the book excerpt. But, like many women who are attacked, when I had the most to say, I said the least. When they are seated, my boss raises his glass to her. And it’s Cam who, when he dies at the age of 72 and the story starts going around that he was “suddenly dismissed” from coaching, causes me the most pain. Receiving death threats, being driven from my home, being dismissed, being dragged through the mud, and joining the 15 women who’ve come forward with credible stories about how the man grabbed, badgered, belittled, mauled, molested, and assaulted them, only to see the man turn it around, deny, threaten, and attack them, never sounded like much fun. So now I will tell you what happened: The moment the dressing-room door is closed, he lunges at me, pushes me against the wall, hitting my head quite badly, and puts his mouth against my lips. He is holding my wrists with both his hands, and, before I can react, he changes his hold to one hand and, with his free hand, pulls a knife out of his back pocket. Perhaps hauling around just the gearshift would have sufficed. ” Congo-green paisley taffeta dinner suit, whisk-broom eyelashes, Rorschach-inkblot eye shadow, stacked heels, Marquis de Sade hair bow, and skirt up to I arrive in the Pump Room. A smashingly put-together woman with a flamboyant mane of rich red hair is being escorted with an older chap (he is probably all of 35) to a table across the room. He and his maroon swim trunks may have been dead these last 40 years, but old Cam and the boat are the events — of all the events in my life — that somehow swim constantly back into my head. This has to be in the fall of 1995 or the spring of 1996 because he’s garbed in a faultless topcoat and I’m wearing my black wool Donna Karan coatdress and high heels but not a coat. In Bergdorf’s dressing rooms, doors are usually locked until a client wants to try something on. He wadded up a piece of fabric — it was a light blue-violet shade and looked fluffy, like a bunched-up hairnet. He pulled up my dress and crammed the balled-up material down my pants. Weber, my high-school biology teacher, I can, with 100 percent confidence, say those yellow leaves are poplar leaves. Straddling me, the boy looks zonked out of his mind with the possibilities. I remember the thought flashes through my mind that could I have foreseen the circumstance of a boy throwing me down and pushing my sweatshirt up to my chin, I would not have worn a padded bra. I have to [sic] many things to do — rather than waste my time with CREEPY BOYS.(signed) Jeanie Carroll After college and bumming around Africa, I arrive in Chicago, ready to start my so-called career. He seizes both my arms and pushes me up against the wall a second time, and, as I become aware of how large he is, he holds me against the wall with his shoulder and jams his hand under my coat dress and pulls down my tights. BE IT KNOWN—That from this day forth I will not except [sic] or go on any dates that are not of my choice — they must be boys who are to my liking [I can’t read what I crossed out here]. I am so shocked I shove him back and start laughing again. My situation in life — my father being a Beta Theta Pi from Wabash College, my mother being a Kappa Delta from UCLA, my wild wish to pledge either Pi Beta Phi or Kappa Kappa Gamma, my rah-rah disposition, my total ignorance of what is going on in the world, the fact that I never crack a book — all are equally against my becoming a columnist, the first requirement of which is acknowledging that there are other beings on the planet besides boys. My first rich boy — I had fixed my eyes on his face long enough to know — was beautiful, with dark gray eyes and long golden-brown hair across his forehead. I considered Matt Lauer, Bill O’Reilly, and the giant dingleberry Charlie Rose, all guys whose TV shows I was on many times and who made headlines during the rise of #Me Too. If you’d met me my freshman year, you would never have imagined I was born to be an advice columnist. Thirteen miles from the Bloomington campus, there I am: young Jeanie Carroll, driving with a boy down a hilly back road in Brown County State Park, where IU students go on October Sundays to supposedly look at the famous leaves. I’ve been looking through my 1961 datebook, and each day is so chock-full of the names of boys who called me, the names of boys whom I expected to call me and didn’t, the names of boys who did call me but I didn’t care if they called me, the names of boys who if they didn’t call me I was never going to speak to again, the names of boys who if they called me I would not pick up the phone, and the names of boys I would have my roommate, Connie, call and ask if they called me while she was on the line with a boy who was begging me to call him back, I can’t figure out who this boy is. And whether it’s my age, the fact that I haven’t met anyone fascinating enough over the past couple of decades to feel “the sap rising,” as Tom Wolfe put it, or if it’s the blot of the real-estate tycoon, I can’t say.
(This woman, who wondered whether to leave her wealthy cheating husband for a less-wealthy man She implores inquirers with slut-shaming and fat-shaming husbands to demand for themselves the respect and reverence they’d demand for their friends and daughters.
” “You’re soooo booooooozzzzshwaaaaahh,” says my boss. But at the time, it is only a dozen or so blocks away, and my boss insists on driving me home. I am surprised at how uncomfortable the stiff leather seats are. When I turn to say good-bye, he says: “You’re smart.” I say: “Thank you! He is breathing and moving his hand slowly and hotly, and I fight no battles in my head. This is Cam, who teaches me to swim and dive and awards me the coveted White Cap! Or perhaps he says, “Not this time.” I can’t recall. ” I don’t remember what he says, but he comes striding along — greeting a Bergdorf sales attendant like he owns the joint and permitting a shopper to gape in awe at him — and goes right for a fur number. New York law at the time did not explicitly prohibit security cameras in dressing rooms to “prevent theft.” But even if it had been captured on tape, depending on the position of the camera, it would be very difficult to see the man unzipping his pants, because he was wearing a topcoat.
My boss and I can’t really see her doing it, as the table linen hangs nearly to the floor, but it is clear from the feverish action of her upper body that she is rubbing and rubbing and rubbing, and when her chap’s eyes close, she goes on rubbing until, with his face still smeared with lipstick and looking like a sophomore standing on the free-throw line in a tied game, the chap stands up, heaves a wad of cash on the table, grabs the wife, and they scamper toward the exit. room in the old Hotel Eastgate on Ontario Street no longer exists. The next day, I get a new job — and never has my lack of all talent been put to better advantage — as a greeter-and-seater at Gino’s East, the Chicago pizza joint beloved by mob guys, journos, and TV glamorosi, and do not so much as call No. After the interview is finished (and for a man like Moonves, talking about himself for an hour and a half is as good as downing two gallons of Spanish fly), he follows me to the elevator. We contestants walk up and down the dock; the judges, who’ve roared across the lake in a magnificent Chris-Craft and who are now seated in deck chairs, call my name. 6 on the Most Hideous Men of My Life List, the waterfront director, takes me out in a boat and runs his hands under my shirt and up my shorts. This is the man who has watched me grow from an 8-year-old Brownie Scout, and his notice is an honor. ” What he replies I don’t recall, but I remember he coddles the fur hat like it’s a baby otter. “You’re in good shape,” he says, holding the filmy thing up against me. “He raped you,” she kept repeating when I called her. Cameras also must have captured us going up the escalator and into the lingerie department.
On Carroll’s website, she claims to be the longest-running advice columnist in history.
Though Carroll has been writing columns and books about relationships for years, before last week she didn’t quite have the name recognition of some of the other prominent advice columnists of the past few decades. I don’t remember now what it was, probably a stick, or maybe a rock. Now, about this Most Hideous Men of My Life List: It is a list of the 21 most revolting scoundrels I have ever met. Does Hunter, the greatest degenerate of his generation, who kept yelling, “Off with your pants! And so, Reader, from this cavalcade of 21 assholes, I am selecting a few choice specimens. Nobody knows how to “drive a stick,” he says, except him and A. Foyt, the Indianapolis 500 winner, and so I am amazed when he releases the clutch like he’s stepping on a yellow-jacket nest and grinds the gears when he pulls over in the dirt and stops. The whole episode lasts no more than three minutes. I don’t remember if any person or attendant is now in the lingerie department.