“Hendrix Archer’s tech launch.”
I pause, feeling a strange undercurrent of excitement. “Sure. What time?”
“Pick me up at seven. The festivities start at seven-thirty.”
“Got it.”
“And, darling?”
“Yes?”
“Wear a suit. This is a fancy event.” She hangs up before I can reply.
Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I raise a hand to flag down a cab, muttering under my breath, “Scene three, the hero chases after the heroine.”
FIVE
MOLLY
“Oh… my… God.” The horrified whisper behind me makes it almost impossible to contain my giggles. My mother’s fingernails dig into my arm as she stares at the stage, her face frozen in stunned dismay.
“…it will give men and women an insight into what their sexual relationship could look like,” my brother Hendrix announces, completely unfazed.
The room is packed—friends, family, business colleagues, and media—and it’s dead silent as Hendrix walks us through his new app. He’s partnered with a sex therapist to create what is essentially a sexualized version of Tinder—which is really saying something. Instead of swiping based on a profile, users answer a series of relationship questions to determine compatibility. The final hurdle? An interactive tool that lets you set a stimulation scenario.
Basically, you select how you like to be pleasured in bed, and if a potential partner meets all your compatibility criteria, they unlock the scenario. Users who score seventy percent or higher are automatically matched.
To top it off, Hendrix has incorporated his patented machine learning tech to improve matches the more you use the app and provide feedback.
I bite my lip, trying not to burst out laughing. This app is going to give meyearsof dinner conversation material.
“Now Kellie is going to demonstrate how to program the simulation,” Hendrix says.
The sex therapist steps forward, her dreadlocks pulled back in an elegant updo. A dark green scarf—the same shade as the app’s branding—covers part of her hair. She flicks a graceful hand toward the giant screen onstage. “We have eighteen vulva and twelve penis options to choose from, though you can upload a picture of your own if you prefer.”
My mother lets out a distressed whimper, her fingers tightening on my arm. I try to shake her off, but she’s latched on like a vise.
Kellie swipes through the options on the screen, casually narrating. “The fundamental principles of OH are inclusivity and diversity. As you can see, we’ve included as many skin tones, shapes, ages, and physical differences as possible. We’re working with professionals in the sex industry to expand our options. We do this by exclusively using individuals who participate in ethical pornography practices. We expect to have forty additional options by the end of the year.”
I glance around the room. No one is moving. The entire venue is silent—even the waiters are frozen, eyes glued to the screen as Kellie scrolls through the vulvas.
I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting desperately to swallow the laughter bubbling up inside me.
“Now, I’m going to choose this vulva because it most closely resembles my own,” Kellie says, clicking on one. A new screen opens, and she gestures toward a button.
“This little button down here starts recording. All you need to do is stimulate the area as if you were masturbating. Watch.”
And that’s how fifteen hundred people watch a woman jack off a phone.
“Maleficent,” my mother whispers, raising a trembling hand to her throat. “I think I need to…” She trails off as her knees buckle.
“Mum!” I grab her, staggering under her weight. A man steps in, catching her before she collapses completely.
“Josh?” I gasp, recognizing him instantly.
“Hey.” He adjusts my mother in his arms like it’s no big deal. “Let’s get her outside.”
We hurry through the crowd, weaving around slack-jawed guests, all of whom are glued to the giant screen where Kellie continues her demonstration.
