Day 5: Kennedy (Oh...)

You stay still longer than you should. Hands on the partition, breathing heavy, cock softening in the chill air. You’re not sure what you’re waiting for—confirmation? Applause? A goodbye? But of course, there’s none of that.

She’s silent. She told you to just leave and she'd stay for more fun. She doesn't WANT to talk to you.

You clean up with a couple of tissues from a box on the ledge, working slowly, deliberately. The condom comes off with a tacky stretch, warm and heavier than you expected. You wrap it tight and toss it in the tiny bin beside the bench. The rest of your cleanup is basic. Your hands are still sticky. Your thighs still tremble a little as you pull your clothes back on. When you zip your jeans, it’s not just skin that feels raw. It’s everything. Your face. Your breath. Your sense of self.

The tablet’s still glowing, camera app open, red dot blinking. You stop the recording and back out of the app without even glancing at the footage. It feels like watching it would be some kind of betrayal. Of what, you’re not entirely sure. Your dignity, maybe. Or hers. Or the myth you both just constructed together. Your fingers hesitate on the power button before you shut it off.

You open the door. No sound from the hallway. No footsteps. No echo. Just the faint hum of fluorescent lighting and the uneven padding of your own soles on the vinyl floor.

The man at the counter doesn’t acknowledge you as you leave. Why would he? He got paid for the booth rental. As far as he's concerned it's over. He probably sees people like you every day—boys with flushed cheeks and awkward hands, returning from their own brief disappearances.

You nod anyway, reflexively, and step out into the street. Lisbon’s light slaps your face harder than it should.

It’s not hot, but it’s bright—brighter than anything inside that building. The colors feel over-saturated: the yellow stone of the buildings, the red of a passing tram, the glaring white of a café awning flapping in the breeze. People talk and laugh and drink espresso. A couple argues over directions. Life, loud and oblivious. You drift through it like a ghost.

It takes you three blocks before you realize you’re walking in the wrong direction. When you correct course, your legs ache more than they should, and your shirt clings damply to your back. Not just from heat—nerves. Humidity. Regret.

You’ve been tied to a set of stocks on a live cam. Let a lesbian ride you to settle a curiosity. Flown halfway across the world to be a body in a hole. And the strangest part isn't that it happened. It’s that you said yes. And that somewhere in all of it… you liked it.

You shake the thought off like water and keep walking. You can think about this later. Or never.

Back in the hotel, you toss the tablet on the bed and fall into the chair beside it, boneless and spent. You sit there for a while—five minutes, maybe ten—before finally powering it on again. The interface is waiting, quiet and expectant, like a priest ready to take your confession.

You upload the footage. No edits. No labels. Just raw proof. You don’t watch it. You can’t.

You sit on the edge of the bed, arms resting on your knees, trying to breathe deep, trying to feel clean. The room smells like hotel soap and foreign air. The kind of space that has no memory of you.

The ping when it comes is quiet. But it's the first sign of human communication you've had since you left for the sex shop.

Kennedy Brooks: Hey — sorry, something came up this morning and I couldn’t make it. Hope you’re still enjoying the city a bit. Sorry if I totally wasted your trip.

You stare at the screen. The words don't register at first. Your brain refuses to process them. Then they do.

Your pulse spikes.

You: Wait—what? You were there. We had sex. I… I did the anal card.

A full minute passes before she replies.

Kennedy Brooks: There was a last-minute workshop on sexual morality. I dunno who was there with you, but it wasn’t me. Sorry.

Your chest feels like it collapses in on itself.

That moan you'd heard… so deep. You'd ignored just how un-Kennedy-like it sounded at the time.

You: Then who the hell was it?

The answer comes a few seconds later. Too fast to be casual.

Kennedy Brooks: No idea. But if you didn’t see them—and it was anal— You sure it was even a woman? Men tend to use glory holes more. Just saying.

Your hand lowers the tablet gently onto the bed, but your body is stiff as steel. You stare straight ahead at the curtains, at the sheer fabric glowing with soft Lisbon light.

You didn't see anything. You didn't hear a voice. You assumed. And now the doubt plants itself in your stomach like a stone.

Was it her?

Was it a stranger?

Was it even someone you were attracted to?

You lay back on the bed without undressing. You don't cry. You don’t scream. You don’t move. Your body is too tired and too confused to choose a direction.

You flew to another continent for a challenge you thought you understood. You got what you came for. On a very physical level you even enjoyed it...

And you have no idea who gave it to you.