I rolled through the streets of Redwood City like I was seeing them for the first time. The same cracked sidewalks, the same flickering taquería signs, the same homeless dude who always says "God bless" whether you give him a dollar or not, but tonight everything felt dialed up to eleven. My head was on a swivel, scanning every face that passed under the streetlights, heartbeat thumping so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
I swear I was sweating through my good jacket. Every time a woman walked by, my brain ran the calculations in half a second: too corporate, too pissed-off, too coupled-up, too sober, too likely to pepper-spray me. I felt like a predator and a prey animal at the same time. Technically, yeah, filming sex stuff in public is probably fifty kinds of illegal, but people bone in cars and club bathrooms every weekend, right? So what I was doing was basically community service.
Thirty minutes in and my courage was leaking out faster than a busted faucet. I can talk to women just fine but the second I tried to imagine steering the conversation toward "Hey, random question, wanna stroke me off on camera for science?" my throat closed up like I'd swallowed a fistful of sand.
I needed air that didn't taste like panic.
I spotted an empty bench under a buzzing streetlamp, rolled up, locked the chair, and just… sagged. Forehead in my hands, breathing through my mouth like I'd sprinted a mile.
"What the hell am I even doing?" I muttered into my palms.
The whole night felt like a fever dream now. Mysterious sex-tech dropping out of the sky, paying me stupid money to come on camera, and now I'm out here hunting for a stranger to help me level up like this is some depraved RPG. But then I pulled the wad of twenties out of my inside pocket, fanned them just enough to smell that fresh-paper scent again, and my pulse slowed. Five hundred bucks in one sad little nut. If I pulled off the quests, ten grand plus. New wheels. Real food. Maybe even a deposit on a place that doesn't smell like mold and broken dreams.
Shame's a luxury for people who aren't drowning. I stuffed the cash away, sat up straight, and told myself to grow a pair.
That's when I heard heels clicking, a soft curse, and the rustle of a purse hitting the bench beside me.
A woman, mid-twenties maybe, dropped her little black handbag on the far end of the bench and started digging through it like it had personally offended her. Phone flashlight on, muttering under her breath. Knee-length skirt, sleeveless silk top clinging in all the right places, hair a little messy in that post-party way. She smelled like vodka cranberries and that sweet, smoky perfume girls wear when they want to be noticed.
Prime candidate.
She was angled away from me, shoulders tense, one hand gripping the strap like she expected me to snatch and roll.
I smirked despite myself. "Looking for something?"
She flicked a glance my way, quick, assessing, then went back to excavating her bag. "Yeah. Something," she said, voice low and a little slurred at the edges. Her knuckles were white on the leather strap now. Definitely thought I was about to rob her.
Relax, lady. I'm a pervert, not a thief.
I leaned back, hands visible on my lap, trying to broadcast harmless. "Keys? Phone? Dignity? Because I think I saw dignity stumble into that bar across the street about an hour ago."
That earned me half a laugh, short and surprised, but real. She relaxed a fraction, blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Lipstick. The expensive one. If I lost it, my roommate's gonna murder me."
"Tragic," I said, grinning. "Murder over MAC Ruby Woo seems fair."
Another soft laugh. She finally looked at me properly, eyes a little glassy but sharp underneath. "You know your lipstick shades. Gay best friend teach you?"
"Ouch. Straight, just terminally online." I tilted my head. "Also, I've dated women who would've sold my kidney for that shade, so… survival instinct."
She snorted, shoulders loosening more. Sat down, though still keeping the bag between us like a shield, but at least she sat. "You're funny."
"Occasionally. When I'm not sweating bullets."
She arched a brow. "Why are you sweating bullets?"
Because in nine hours I either become a semi-professional porn star or stay broke forever. But I just shrugged, easy smile. "Long story. Involves bad decisions and worse luck."
She hummed, still digging, then let out a triumphant "Ha!" and pulled out a slim gold tube. "Found you, you little bastard."
"Congrats. World peace achieved."
She twisted the cap, swiped the deep red across her lips right there under the streetlight, totally unselfconscious. The color made her mouth look dangerous. When she pressed her lips together to blot, my brain short-circuited for a second.
Timer on the watch pulsed softly against my wrist: 09:12:44 remaining.
I swallowed. Here we go.
"So," I said, voice steadier than I felt, "you headed home, or is the night still young and full of bad ideas?"
She capped the lipstick, dropped it back in her bag, and finally really looked at me, head tilted, eyes narrowed like she was trying to solve a puzzle. "Depends. You offering one?"
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was surprised she didn't hear it.
I smiled, slow, the kind that usually only comes out when I'm three drinks in and feeling invincible.
"Actually," I said, "I've got a pretty spectacular one. Wanna hear it?"
She raised an eyebrow, the streetlight catching on the gloss of that fresh lipstick.
"Spectacular bad idea? Now I'm listening."
I let out a soft laugh, rubbed the back of my neck like I was embarrassed instead of calculating every word.
"Okay, full honesty: I'm doing this… thing tonight. Stupid, lucrative thing. Basically a dare from some rich crypto bros who lost a bet. They're paying me a grand cash, tonight if I can get a cute girl to give me a handjob on camera. Ten minutes, tops. Her face stays blurred, nobody ever knows it's her. Just my lap and her hand, boom, I'm a grand richer and she walks away with five hundred for literally five minutes of work."
I watched her face the whole time. No flinch, no immediate disgust. The alcohol had softened the edges; her pupils were wide, curious more than cautious.
"Five hundred?" She repeated, voice slow, like she was tasting the number.
"Five hundred," I confirmed, pulling the wad of twenties out just far enough for her to see the band still around them. "Half up front, half after. You keep the whole thing even if you change your mind halfway. Worst case, you're out nothing and you just made a weird story for your group chat."
She bit her lower lip, eyes flicking from the cash to my face and back.
"That's… insane. People actually pay that?"
"Insane people with too much money and not enough hobbies, yeah." I shrugged, keeping my tone light, almost bored, like this happened to me every weekend. "I thought it was a scam too, until the first five hundred hit my account an hour ago. Now I'm just trying to finish the stupid checklist before the timer runs out."
I tilted my wrist showing the countdown on my watch.
Her gaze lingered on the countdown. I could practically see the math running behind her eyes: be it rent, credit-card bill, that pair of boots she wanted, the drinks she'd already had tonight.
"Blurred face?" She asked quietly.
"Completely. I can do it right after, show you the file before anything gets uploaded. You'll look like one of those artsy shadow silhouettes. And we can do it anywhere you're comfortable: alley, backseat of a rideshare, even a bathroom stall if you're paranoid. I just need decent light and ten quiet minutes."
She laughed under her breath, shaky but real. "You're either the smoothest creep alive or this is the weirdest night of my life."
"Probably both," I admitted, grinning. "But the money's real. And I'm not."
I pulled five crisp hundreds from the roll, folded them once, and held them out between two fingers. "Half now. No strings. Walk away whenever."
She stared at the bills like they might bite her. Then, slowly, her hand came up and closed around them. The second her fingers brushed mine, I knew I had her.
"Where?" She asked, tucking the cash into her bra without even looking.
I nodded toward the mouth of the alley twenty feet behind the bench which was dark enough for privacy, still open enough she wouldn't feel trapped. There was a waist-high electrical box back there that would work perfect as a seat.
"Two minutes this way. I'll roll slow, you set the pace. Say stop and we stop, money stays yours."
She exhaled, a little laugh that sounded half nerves, half adrenaline. "Fuck it. My Uber's probably surge-priced to hell anyway."
She slung her purse over her shoulder and started walking. I unlocked the chair and followed, pulse roaring in my ears, camcorder already warm against my ribs like it was purring.
Nine hours left on the clock, and the night had just decided to play along.