WIP #1
This post is going to introduce my very first “work in progress.” I’ve been writing a bit during this Pandemic. Thinking about writing a play, then thinking I have no clue how to write a play, then thinking: what am I talking about? And the cycle continues. I also hesitate to write and share my writing because many of the themes in this writing is abnormally dark, in your face, and certainly not from everyone. If you are not a fan of depictions of sexual assault, violence, or harassment, this one might not be for you.
Here it goes:
PROLOGUE:
Darkness. Minimal floodlights/clip lights from SL and SR. A girl center stage. Incredibly close to the audience. Grounded. Eyes closed. She’s dreaming. Fog. Multiple Male Bodies moving at a one entering from SL and SR. They slowly encroach upon her body. They touch her breasts, her thighs, the area around her vulva. They lick her face and her legs. The girl falls back. There is a bed behind her. She lands. Men disappear as lights cut to full. It’s almost blinding. Girl pops up. Collects herself. This happens every night, but it never fails to consume her entire day.
She gets out of bed. Immediately, she is put on a treadmill track. Running. The men from before dress her in a “getting ready” montage. Soda Blonde’s “Swimming Through the Night” plays. She hustles. She struggles to put on her tight-fitting clothes- crop top, jean mini-skirt, vejas sneakers, members-only vintage jacket- all while managing the treadmill moving underneath her. Then she is running. She doesn’t know what she’s running towards, but she knows she must run. Lights slowly come up to their blinding level as the treadmill speeds up more and more. Then everything stops. Cut to black.
THE BEGINNING:
A sex and love addicts’ anonymous meeting (SLAA). The girl is in a cheap plastic chair. There’s a harsh spotlight that pops on her suddenly, then fades as she speaks. I should note that her lips are moving with the words, but the sound comes from a voiceover.
WOMAN (V.O. WITH MIMING)
The first time I knew I was crazy… different… an addict… a sex and love addict… was probably not until middle school. I was sitting in the courtyard with some friends. 80% of my friends were and are male. You know that game where a guy comes up to you in a hallway and slaps your ass and goes “It’s slap ass Friday!”? [one of the men from before comes up to slap the girl’s butt quickly, then run away]....No?....Maybe it’s just me. That was my Friday every Friday. I would slap the boys back [one of the men, running across. She slaps his ass quickly], but it didn’t have the same comedic effect. Anyway, this time, for whatever reason, we were pushing the game even further. It was no longer a simple slap. We were experimenting with groping. Sorry, not we. They. On me. On my butt. My thighs. My legs. Up my khaki skirt. I tried to run, but there were so many of them. And when running away failed, I started to like the attention. I liked that I was their model. Their dummy. Their first opportunity to take a test drive.
Beat.
Then we were caught. I was caught. A female teacher pulled me aside and she warned me of what was to come.
The teacher’s voice comes out muffled. It’s difficult to understand what she is saying. It almost sounds like:
TEACHER (DISTORTED V.O.)
Keep going…see… boys…?.....?... and then it’ll keep happening… one… no one… love you.
End of SLAA meeting. Chairs are stripped, the treadmill is back. “Lover I Don’t Have to Love” by Bright Eyes blares. A slow, intentional walk this time. An IPod touch (ca. 2011) with headphones is handed to our main character. A sandwich. She eats it with angst. Continues trudging on.
