INT. UNKNOWN ROOM — WIDE

I’m auteur of my own devouring. This flesh,
this room, those men, these hotel sheets peeled back
like skin. Boom mic snags my breath, the track
played back braids fear and want in one sharp hiss.

INT. UNKNOWN ROOM — SPLIT SCREEN

Some nights, I’m director-star, others just the eye behind
the viewfinder. I film this meat meeting its eaters.
Out of frame, a hand cups my face, unscripted, and a cry
snags in my throat, this body being wanted as-is.

TRACKING SHOT — STEAMWORKS, NO FILTER

No script, just haze, pulse, steam softening edges like a
lie. Chlorine stings the eyes, flesh drums steel in rhythm
older than time. Gender sheds its plot, weight, grind, thrust.
Groans bounce between white tiles, steam-muted.

INT. ATLANTA, 17TH FLOOR – OVERHEAD SHOT

My work retreat winds down below, oblivious. The lens
flares as they file in—ad-answered men, gestured into place.
Bodies queue at the buffet, eight men satiating their
insatiable hunger, still somehow I am left wanting more.

SPLIT SCREEN – INT. HOTEL, INT. HOSPITAL

To prize and pawn this same meat, to claw for it,
then loan it out. They’d call it ruin, missing that, no,
this is barter, the risk dialed precisely to claim a body
medicine would dissect and the state would cage.

CLOSE-UP — DROPLETS, UNFILMED

Tripod stowed, files locked, sheets scrubbed,
I stand under scalding streams, water tracing bruises
where hands gripped. No reel catches this rewind:
reclaiming the lent, I balance the ledger of give and gain.