Day 5: Kennedy (Arriving At the Hole)

Kennedy’s message arrives early, just as you’re finishing a lukewarm hotel breakfast you can’t remember ordering.

Kennedy Brooks: Booth’s booked. Ask for number five at the desk and say you need some protection—they’ll give you a strip of condoms. I’ll wait nearby and come in after you’re set up. Remember: no talking. No names. No noise. This only works if we both treat it like what it is.

She adds a pin for the address and nothing else.

You stare at the screen for a few seconds longer than necessary, feeling the tight, nervous burn behind your sternum again. This is real now. It's not just a game or a kink negotiation—it’s a timed, silent performance in a city where you barely speak the language.

You pack light. Tablet, charger, ID, enough cash to avoid using a card. You don’t want to be thinking about traceable records while your heart’s in your throat.

The walk to the address takes you through tight Lisbon backstreets. It’s not a seedy part of town, exactly—more like the quiet edge of where people stop looking. The adult shop is narrow and clean, wedged between a shuttered print shop and a seafood café that hasn’t opened yet.

Inside, everything smells of citrus disinfectant and worn leather. A man behind the counter looks up briefly, his expression unreadable.

You clear your throat. “Uh… Booth five, please. And, um. Do you have any protection... umm... a condom. You know?”

Even after all you've been through lately, your face is burning. You've never set foot in a sex shop before.

The man doesn’t blink. He turns, grabs a strip of foil-wrapped condoms from under the counter, and sets them down without a word. Then he slides over a small laminated card with the number 5 on it and buzzes the inner door open.

You pocket the strip and nod, trying not to look like a first-timer even though that's exactly what you are.

The hallway is quiet, lit with tired blue LEDs that hum faintly. Booth five is halfway down, its number stenciled on the frosted-glass door. You open it, step in, and let it click shut behind you.

You'd expected this place to be dirty, but it’s clean, sterile and cold. A padded bench is the only furniture. One wall has a narrow ledge. And in front of you, at waist height, is the cutout that makes the whole thing possible—oval, sanded smooth, exactly the wrong size to look real and exactly the right size to ruin your concentration.

You stand for a minute, holding the strip of condoms in one hand, tablet in the other, trying to decide what to do first. It feels like you’re setting up a crime scene.

Eventually, you place the tablet on the ledge, angling the camera down and back. You test the view with your hand. The shot isn’t perfect, but it’ll do. There’s no tripod, no setup—just you, gravity, and a faint sense of being very far from home.

You strip off your jeans and underwear, folding them and placing them neatly on the bench. You don’t know why. Maybe you’re trying to keep some dignity while exposing yourself to a wall.

You open a condom, roll it on carefully. The rubber feels snug as it snaps into place, and you try not to read into that sound.

Then you wait.

Nothing happens for a while. Maybe three minutes. Maybe thirty. Long enough for you to go from nervous to scared: What if she doesn’t come? What if she’s testing you? What if this was all some elaborate joke?

You’re about to reach for your tablet to check the time when you hear the soft click of the booth next door opening.

A footstep. Then another.

You freeze.

Then you take a breath, step forward, and press your hips toward the hole.