Natasha Stoynoff

Opinion contributor

I was a naive college student when I landed one of my first big celebrity interviews.

I set it up after meeting the Oscar-nominated actor at a film festival and asked him whether he’d chat for my college newspaper. Lou Grant would have called that "spunk."

When I arrived at the actor’s hotel the next day with my camera and tape recorder, he had already called my home twice to make sure I was keeping our appointment. First, he talked to my twin brother. The second time, my schoolteacher father got on the phone.

“Natasha’s on her way, Mr. so-and-so. Thank you for doing this, it means a lot to her. She aspires to be a journalist.” My dad had no idea his innocent daughter was subwaying her way into the arms of a predator nearly twice her age.

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The actor answered the door of his suite wearing only ... a bathrobe. There would be no interview that day. Before I even sat down he dropped his robe, grabbed parts of me he shouldn’t, and said: “I’m going to ---- you so hard, you’ll scream like a whore.”

Classy. I fled the room as quickly as I could. The next day, I forced myself to call him and get my promised quotes over the phone. I had told everyone, including my editor, about my "big get" and was too upset to admit I had failed — and worse, to explain why.

More than 30 years and a thousand celebrity interviews later, that actor’s searing words are still branded in my memory. Reading the horror stories accusing Harvey Weinstein of summoning young, aspiring starlets to his suite and greeting them in his robe revived that memory. (What do these guys do ... get together in their Old Boys Clubhouse, perform a secret handshake, and exchange tips on how to catch their prey? The bathrobe move is a good one, they probably say.)

That early incident was the first time a man who possessed fame, authority or power attacked me. It wouldn’t be the last. Some know my name from the first-person story I wrote one year ago in People magazine, describing my harrowing experience interviewing Donald Trump in 2005. I described how he pushed me against a wall and forced a kiss on me while his wife was out of the room at Mar-a-Lago.

I’ve never told the story about this actor in public and don’t name him here because this particular creep isn’t running for president and no longer has power in Hollywood.

But I realize he was a factor in why I didn’t report the Trump incident when it happened. This actor was an early, painful lesson about the way some powerful men abuse their power. Like many women, my life has been riddled with experiences of sexual misconduct by teachers, doctors, bosses and more. Sadly, many women begin to feel this behavior from men is a given, and so we go on, dying a little inside each time it happens.

Not just because of what these men do to us, but also because of what we don’t do for ourselves — which is, speak out about it. Loudly. I never told my father what happened with that actor because it would have broken his heart (and he would have broken the guy’s neck). I didn’t speak out about Trump at the time because I was afraid he’d ruin my career. With the others, I was simply afraid and ashamed and blamed myself, which is how millions of other women in the same position have felt. This is what has kept us silent for years, decades and centuries.

But times are changing; you can feel it in the air and read it in the news headlines. We are not afraid anymore, and there is no room in this world for men of this ilk.

In the past year, women have banded together against powerful, famous men such as the late Fox News founder Roger Ailes, comedian Bill Cosby, TV host Bill O’Reilly and, yes, even presidential candidate Trump. And now, Weinstein. I want to hug each woman who has shared her degrading casting couch story about the movie mogul this past week. They stand up for all of us.

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In the non-celebrity world, female employees at Uber, Sterling Jewelers, Florida’s Coleman prison, Silicon Valley and Baylor University are standing up to bosses they allege organized “sex fest” meetings; football coaches and prison administrators they say turned a blind eye to sexual abuse; or executives they accuse of destroying the careers of women who dared complain about harassment.

It takes guts for these women to confront their abusers and share their stories, risking reprisal and ridicule. But these stories must be told and heard if we are to usher in real and lasting change.

There’s a new sisterhood forming, a revolution is afoot — a new "movement” — says Gretchen Carlson, whom I interviewed for the current issue of People for our special “Women Speak Out” series.

Gretchen’s sexual harassment lawsuit against Ailes prompted other women to come forward. When one woman raises her voice, “it has a domino effect,” she told me. “One person may start that chain of events, but all the dominoes fall as a result.”

The dominoes are now falling.

Gretchen and I are creating our own special handshake for women who’ve been through this war and choose to fight back.

In the battle between the new sisterhood and the Old Boys Club we’re taking names, we’re speaking out, and we’re going to kick ass.

Natasha Stoynoff, a journalist, author and screenwriter, writes a series about sexual harassment and assault for People magazine. She is co-author of The King of Con: How a Smooth-Talking Jersey Boy Made and Lost Billions, Baffled the FBI, Eluded the Mob, and Lived to Tell the Crooked Tale, coming in August 2018.