To be fucked by Dan Schneider... It must really take a toll. You're telling yourself you're doing it for your career - actually convincing yourself that you want this - but every part of you is resisting. Every muscle, every neuron in your brain, is revolted. His trail of cold, slimy saliva all over your quivering feet. His sausage fingers, probing and greasy. He takes them out of you and slurps at them as he did after devouring the fried chicken that some intern brought to him, just before your 'contract negotiation' began.
Afterwards, you know that he owns your body, but not your soul. You lost a part of it; threw it away rather than let him have it. You're just a bit more hollow now. It wasn't worth it. If you could go back and tell yourself not to do it, the younger one would tell you to buck up. This is everything you've worked for. How bad could it be?
So you're forced to replay every sordid encounter, willing the memory to change, just once. You lie awake in bed, wondering if it was rape. If in forcing yourself to stay still, maybe you raped yourself? You wonder if you could give all of this up. If it came to light that you let him do... that... to you in exchange for your fame you'd be ripped to pieces in the media. No amount of apologies to fans, or rehab or charity work would undo it. Even suicide wouldn't cleanse you. You'll never be able to forget. Never be free.
At least you've made it in Hollywood.
