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I ransacked my boyfriend's apartment and recorded it.

By Riley Huff


​I ransacked my boyfriend's apartment and recorded it.

I tore up the antique movie posters.  Smashed the memorabilia.  Exposed all of his film.  Punched through his projection screen with my brass knuckles. Dropped his camcorder from the window, six stories high. He’ll never make another movie again.

His last production took place in a bedroom, inside this very apartment. It featured only two players: him as the star, me as the prop. No one was acting. At the time, I was fine with being used. I didn’t realize I’d have an audience.

When the film was released, it did a little too well. Over 2 million views in one week. #1 video on five major porn sites. Some production company called Pigs for Trade, spearheaded by a “Mr. Butch” offered me a yearlong residency in The Valley.

People started talking.

My cries of ecstasy became a joke. My face became a meme and blew up on social media. Then, all my accounts got deleted. 

Someone played the clip at work, and my boss called me into the office. Said she couldn’t have someone so irresponsible acting on behalf of the company.

I was a risk to potential investors.

I drove back home to burn my old work clothes. When I tried to open the front door, the key didn’t fit. I called my landlord. He said he’d changed the locks. He was disgusted by the unholy acts I’d committed on film and didn’t want to share his space with a deviant. I could pick up my stuff in two weeks, when he got back from his vacation to Vegas.

Jobless and homeless, I dialed my boyfriend to ask him why he would do this to me.

I listened for his voice, but the line went dead.  His number was unreachable. He blocked my calls. Was I nothing more than a claim to fame? It would appear so.

Driving to his office in East Hollywood was the hard part.  Now, I’m just ready to have some fun. I’m going to destroy the last recording device he owns.

His smartphone. And then, I’m going to destroy his vision.  He keeps his sick little instrument with him at all times.

How fitting that he calls the lens his “third eye.”  Soon enough, they’ll all be blind.

I don’t know when he’ll be back. But that’s okay. I’ll wait as long as it takes. Relationships change. Dreams evolve. I’m moving on the only way I know how.

He’ll just have to do the same.

His car pulls up to a reserved spot in the office lot. He fumbles with his keys as he makes his way to the front door of the building.  I get out of my car. I pull out my phone and start recording. This is the moment I take my life back. I slip back into my brass knuckles.

This is going to look great onscreen.


Riley Huff is a freelance writer and journalist based out of Northampton, Mass. When he's not making words look good, he's face-deep in a chicken burrito or wiling out at a concert.

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