Feminists and Their Daddy Issues by Heather Wilhelm
Back when I was an undergrad at Northwestern University, a crime spree struck the school. A mysterious assailant, appearing only at night, would approach female students on the way back from the gym or the library. After hovering for a few moments, he would dash forward, quickly grope them, and flee. His nickname soon spread like wildfire throughout campus: “The Crotch Grabber.”
The Crotch Grabber’s reign of terror—and I’m not being glib, as it was pretty darn spooky—lasted a month or two. Then, thanks to an act of student bravery, it ended as quickly as it had begun. A sorority sister of mine clobbered the Crotch Grabber as he dashed her way, pinned him down with a friend, and called the cops. According to rumor, the Crotch Grabber turned out to be some pervy, obviously disturbed local high school kid. She Who Vanquished the Crotch Grabber, on the other hand, had also recently been crowned Northwestern’s Homecoming Queen. Talk about a feminist heroine.