On a date in university I sat with three other people, a table for four, my date across from me to the right, her supposed girlfriend in front of me, and another of her girlfriends to my right.

Halfway through lunch, her supposed friend, across from me, started running her bare foot up my leg, as in way up my leg, casting mischievous glances with each far-wandering excursion of her wandering foot.

Was there a power imbalance? Sure, the supposed friend of my date knew exactly the bind I was in, and she exploited that awkward situation like a seasoned pro. She was totally getting off, in some warped way, over knowing that my date was unaware of what was going on under the table, that my date was ignorant of the unspoken calling card being foisted my way.

And in a list of differences one could write between that situation and the one described by today's columnist, two differences would be that no chorus of sympathy would erupt, and no newspaper would give my story column space.