Locked inside this clip there is something else, and one word opens it.

Only the people who paid ever see that word.

This is not just twelve minutes of us. Behind that word there are ten rooms, and you get all

of them.

You will read my diary of what she and I actually did on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday —

her on her knees in my hallway before her coat was off, sixty-nine on the sofa for half an hour,

the strap from the bottom drawer, the counter, the shower, the towel we now keep under her.

Written out properly. Nothing skipped.

You will stand outside a door and listen, minute by minute, to what you can hear through it,

and you will not be allowed to skip ahead.

You will read our private messages to each other — everything the two of us say when nobody

is watching, about each other, about what we do, and the two lines where you get mentioned.

You will put your own name into a transcript of a night you weren't in, and see how it reads.

You will add yourself to the list of everyone who has been in that bed, and see what position

you get. You will grade her *rgasms and then type in your own number and watch the two sit

next to each other. You will apply, in your own words, to be kept — and you will hear us read

your application out loud.

You will type in your real name, your real Tuesday, your real numbers, with your hand on

yourself the whole time, and every single thing you type gets used against you within seconds.

At the end you get a number. Yours. Made from what you told us. Say it out loud, remember it,

because I will ask you for it next time.

And all of it stays after the clip closes. That's the point.

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