"Oi, Lezzer!" Hearing that, I knew with a sick feeling that getting outof changing rooms wouldn't be easy.
"Why haven't you got a boyfriend? You prefer girls, don't you?" Thegoading continued and I would just take it, there was no point in tryingto respond.
Every week by the time I escaped, I would have a few more bruises and myjacket would be covered in spit. For years afterwards I struggled withmy sexuality as a result of this relentless abuse. I also felt ashamedabout not being braver, as I had witnessed it happening to others anddone nothing, glad for once that it wasn't happening to me.
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