I spent this week living in midtown New York City as a part of a J-Term advertising program. I love New York. I've been countless times, and I've learned a lot. It was the first time I ever had the chance to explore the city completely on my own, and it couldn't have been a better experience -- Except, wait, it could have.

Why? It's not because the subway is hard to navigate, not because everything is expensive and not because there are so many people. But because of the hat I was wearing.

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm a little eccentric. In the winter, my go-to accessory happens to be a lime green, knit hat with a giant pom-pom that I bought in New York over a year ago and have had fixed multiple times. I get compliments on it all the time, people consistently say it makes me "stand out."

And I guess that's true. Because, late at night, in Times Square, when thousands of tourists are taking pictures and buying souvenirs, you chose me. You walked up to me and started asking about my life and what I was in the city for. You asked me if I'd seen any live shows or been to any rooftop bars, and when I told you I was underage, you acted surprised, but leaned in and told me that they don't card. I told you I was going to a show, but maybe we could meet up later. I sent you a friend request on Facebook to make you go away, which I promptly deleted immediately after shaking your hand.

I thought that was the end of it. I didn't enjoy the creepy moves you made on me, but it wasn't anything I wasn't familiar with. Two days passed, two fantastic, exhausting days, and I finally had another free night so I headed to Times Square again to see another show.

Somehow, you found me again. Out of millions of people in New York City, you and I ended up in the same place. You must do this a lot because when I told you a completely different life story and a different name, you didn't seem to remember me from just two days before. We had almost the same conversation. I tried to tell you I was flying out at midnight (a lie), but you insisted that we meet up so I had you give me your number and we shook hands (again). I said I'd text you.

I forgot about it during the show. And when I decided to walk through Times Square alone at midnight, I didn't think you'd be there. I didn't think you'd find me again.

When you did, I hoped you wouldn't remember. I hoped I'd be just one girl in a sea of hundreds you'd tried this on.

But this time, you did, you grabbed my arm and asked me how my show was. You kept walking with me, all through Times Square. I tried to tell you I was headed to the airport. You knew I was lying. You saw straight through it. You put both your arms on my shoulders and whispered that if I was uncomfortable going to a bar, we could go to the Walgreens right next door and buy alcohol and go somewhere quiet to "have some fun" instead. You promised I'd remember this night in New York forever.

As I was crossing the street leading out of Times Square, you asked me what I was going to do. For the tenth time, I told you I was going back to the hotel. You said you knew that but that I could do that later. "We could have fun now," you said, "Your flight isn't in two hours. Your flight is tomorrow. Come on. You're in New York! What are you going to do?"

Finally, I firmed up a bit. I'm not assertive, but we were starting to get into a darker part of the city, and there weren't hundreds of cops around us anymore. "I'm going back to my hotel. Now. Alone."

Your entire tone changed. Instead of being a creepy, seductive 27-year old boy just looking to "have fun," you became a hateful man who I knew was prepared to hurt me. You mumbled something angrily and stalked away. I watched my back the entire way back to my hotel. The next time I was in Times Square alone late at night, I took a cab back.

When I posted on Twitter detailing these experiences both nights, I got a few concerned texts from friends. I assured them that I was okay, and they were glad. But one of them, a guy friend, to be specific, said "How did he find you among so many people?" He remembered my green hat. "You shouldn't wear that so late at night. You're just opening yourself up to him finding you."

I responded, "I shouldn't have to change what I wear to avoid getting harassed."

He responded, "I guess not. But you could make it easier on yourself."

Men don't experience this when they're walking alone in a place that they deem "safe." They don't see their girlfriends, sisters, or female friends experience it, either, because whenever they're around, creepy men back off. Men respect the boundaries of other men enough to not touch "another guy's girl," but they don't respect women's boundaries enough to not touch a vulnerable girl without her consent.

I'm lucky I was in a crowded place, a place where an officer or another pedestrian would've noticed if you tried to grab me. A place where all you could do is walk away. I don't want to think about what would have happened if we were a few blocks over, in the darker part of the city. But the sad reality is that it happens every day, and it so often goes undetected.

Because my hat is not the reason he found me. He found me because he wanted something that no one would give him, and he finally decided he was going to get it from someone alone, someone who didn't know how to say no. Someone who couldn't fight back.

Instead of teaching me not to wear my hat, someone needs teach him, and all men, that he's not entitled to whatever he wants because he was born a man. I should be able to walk wherever I want, unafraid of being hurt because of my gender or what I'm wearing. That's not a privilege, it's a human right.