Apt.101
concept and direction by 101 I know what you’re thinking: she’s not that type of girl. The type of girl that meets a strange man in a seedy bar. The type that gets wasted and shows up on his doorstep. The type that is used and abused for his pleasure and wakes up the next day in his filthy tub covered in muck, reeking, wretched. I am not that type of girl! In my head it’s all jumbled, like the colored fragments in a kelaidescope that are rearranged a thousand times but never make any sense. How did this happen? I wish I could remember. It starts with a hard day at school, a couple of beers, a bit of small talk with a stranger. He wants to buy me a drink and I let him. Then he wants to buy me another and I let him. And then his hand is on my leg, rubbing up and down my thigh. Up and down and up and down and up…I feel him reaching under my skirt, his probing fingers inside my panties, caressing my throbbing, wet pussy. Throbbing? Wet? I am NOT that type of girl. But I go to his place anyway, chug another beer and chain smoke seated on his stained, bare mattress, buxom blonde porn stars glaring down at me from the walls. He keeps getting closer and I keep shrinking back till I am in a corner; there is nowhere left to go. His hand is in my shirt, kneading my breast; his whiskey-drenched whispers singe my ears. He rips off my clothes, dumps cigarette ashes all over me, jams a bottle up my ass. Next thing I know the room is spinning and I’m hobbling to the bathroom, tripping over my tied leg. He stands over me, smiling gleefully, taking pleasure in the bloating pain that twists my stomach inside out. The agony, the humiliation! This isn’t me! I am pink lace and champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. I am scented lotion and pretty panties. I am flowers and frills, breezy days at the beach, hot bubble baths. I am a freaking princess, dammit!!! I just don’t get it. I don’t understand. Why would he do this to a pretty girl like me?