Chapter One Informed Consent

DRAFT TWO

About one month ago I posted the “first draft” of a redrafted chapter one for Informed Consent, a novel I hope to debut in 2025. On Chuck Palahniuk’s Plot Spoiler, he critiqued my work, you can read it here (behind a paywall).

Here is the much improved second draft, this time I have made the decision to not only apply Chuck’s feedback, but to take several new creative turns, and switch the tense to past! I think this is a more suitable POV/Tense for a protagonist who is naturally emotionally distant. I am only disappointed that I wrote 27 chapters before realizing that I prefer it this way.

Let me know what you think!

Chapter One

They knocked before dropping off the food because he told them to. They waited for me to step out into my pajamas, nipples hard against the thinning fabric of my tank top, toes scraping against the doormat that still said ‘Tis The Season even though it was the end of Spring. Sometimes, they would hand it to me directly, but this time they backed up a few feet, the tightly sealed bag with all of its contents waiting for me to bow in gratitude as I retrieved it, pretending not to notice my picture being taken. They pressed their back into the neighbor’s door behind them to get the widest shot, evidence that he insisted I be in the frame completely, or they wouldn’t receive their tip. This made me feel important, alive even. I’ve only ever felt like a real person when someone was watching.

After the handoff, he followed up with a text message inquiring about the softness of my silk shorts, real polite. I bet you have good dreams in those, he said, to which I replied, always. There was never anything vulgar or explicit, not with Leonard. I followed up with a photo of the goods laid out on the counter, and even though every morning I ordered the same nonfat matcha latte with a scrambled egg and cheese bagel, he asked how does it taste? Seventy-five percent of Koreans are lactose intolerant, and we all desire what we can’t have.

I held the warm bagel beneath my nostrils, opening it to watch the melted cheese stretch from one end to the next. I didn’t have to lean in close to smell the combination of sourdough and cheddar, which somehow overpowered the egg.

The cheddar is sharp today, I told him.

Ohhhhhhh, he replied, Maybe this time you’ll put hot sauce on it?

No, I texted back, not today, before tossing the entire sandwich in the waste bin. The act of desiring is always more satisfying than giving yourself everything you thought you wanted. 

Of course, he replied, you should have it as you like.

I enjoyed Leonard’s submission. He was the only one I had given my address to. The only one who knew my legal name, what I did in the real world. He could destroy me in every way, but was too soft to even consider it.

I took a sip of the bitter matcha, burning my tongue in the same place that never healed, before letting BB out the sliding glass door. She charged out through my ankles, releasing a long snarl that jumped up and down through the air, just as her legs did. The ducks flew only a few feet away from her into the safety of the retention pond while she crouched in the shape of a fully cooked shrimp for her morning shit, sniffing the cold air all satisfied with herself. She made eye contact with me while straining to pinch the turd from her hairy ass. Down wind I was sure I could smell it just as clearly as I had the breakfast sandwich, and even though smell is one of the senses involved in the process of tasting, I didn’t dare to break contact. They say dogs watch you to know that you have their back, that you’ll protect them in their most vulnerable state. In that moment I realized she was the only being I’d ever truly loved. Sociopaths feel at ease with animals because they know they will never be judged. 

After getting dressed and put together, I typed out a loving good morning text message and pasted it into the chat of every man who paid for the girlfriend experience this week. I sent them all the same photo of a burgundy stain in the shape of my lips on the opening of my latte lid, just a faint apparition of a kiss. On the main feed, an auction was started for an exclusive one-hour private cam session with me at the end of the night in the bathtub. 

I drove to the office with one leg tucked beneath me, the other on the gas while half-watching the road and the cars around me, half-watching my post light up with offers, contenders for my affection.

Upon arrival, the girls at the front desk did not notice me. They were busying themselves deciding what to order for their collaborative takeout to be delivered to only themselves at lunch. They each had their freshly manicured claws wrapped around some large iced seven dollar latte. On the surface it would look as if they were somehow paid a more livable wage than me. Sure, they could have been camming or delivering food in their off hours to supplement their shitty hourly rates, but not these girls. Their lifestyles were paid for by their parents, this job just a stepping stone until their college graduations or their child-bride marriages, whichever came first. None of this was a secret because they didn’t want it to be, too consumed with shouting about their own lives for anyone to hear, not enough attention being paid on who was sliding past them. I walked toward my office, completely undetected.

Henry texted last night when I was busy camming, I need you to stop by in the morning for a brief chat before your sessions. I did not respond or make an attempt to come in early to oblige him. His office door was closed, probably in session by this time. A muffled voice droned on behind his door. I leaned in closer to discern if he was providing talk therapy or if this was one of his vibroacoustic sessions, which I gathered as basically a very expensive vibrating bed that people meditated on while he occasionally verbally guided them. I imagined the client laying silently on the bed, fitted with an eye mask. The lights were dimmed and, at best, Henry would be scrolling through his social media while he pushed buttons and gave a new prompt every ten minutes or so. At worst, he’d have his hand down his pants, tugging away at the dick he could only get hard when no one wanted him to. 

My phone vibrated, another offer, only $110 so far, but it was still early. Before anyone could accuse me of eavesdropping, I found my own office.

My first client was a twenty-four year old man whose parents paid the practice $165 per hour for my counseling, only for them to turn around and enable every behavior they wanted me to correct. A reminder that love is more dangerous than being alone, it makes you defenseless. 

After the session, the highest offer standing was $130 from Danimalia77. Not my preferred champion. He also tipped me privately to send a photo of my piss, even more to describe the smell. It was darker than usual, somehow the scent of instant ramen, chicken. A guilty pleasure from my childhood, I added.

I quickly inhaled a glass of water as a rogue stream poured down my chin and through my baby blue turtleneck, soaking my breasts. After wiping the remaining dribbles onto my sleeve, remnants of foundation smeared into the cloth, to my dismay. A secret photo was uploaded to the auction feed, captioned so wet.

My next client was a man in his sixties who spent the session venting about his ex wife for behaving in resentful ways because he cheated on her. Even though he chose his life with the new woman, his sessions were for talking only of his ex, as though she was the one who wronged him, his life one he didn’t choose. 

In the staff break room between sessions, Henry finally caught me. He was masticating what could only be a leftover tuna sandwich for his lunch, the sugary white bread stuck to his canines as he took a dry swallow.

“Iona,” his fishy breath carried across the room to me, “there you are. I missed you this morning.”

“Yeah,” I said, “sorry it was a little late notice, I was asleep.”

“Sure,” he took another sticky bite of the sandwich, finishing his sentence mid-chew, “your notes,” he swallowed dramatically, “I need you to turn those in by the end of each business day, you’ve been several days behind and I can’t properly supervise you with those kind of delays.”

“Right,” I started walking backwards, the soda in the fridge not even worth lingering for, “I’m sorry, I’ll do better,” I said before the door closed between us.

In my office I asked the boyfriends each how their day was coming along, offering the same enthusiastic affirmation I would my counseling clients. I said the right things that made them all believe they are loved, at least until the next moment where they find themselves yearning again. Men like this want you because you remind them of their mothers. I chewed rice cakes slathered in peanut butter between messages, the gritty crumbs collected between my thighs. I sent a photo of my hand amongst the mess, fingertips disappearing underneath my skirt. I told each of them I was thinking of them only, that I wanted them to come lick it up. My panties dampened because I turned myself on, because they all wanted me. There was no time to do anything about it.

The client after lunch was a man just barely a few years older than me. He was single and didn’t want to be. His problem was that he was the type of man who doesn’t actually like women, but is incapable of realizing it. He paid me to listen where the women on his dates refused to. He talked and talked and I did not listen, though, not really. He didn’t notice, enlightened by his own musings. I fantasized about taking him home where I would watch him masturbate desperately in the corner of the shower on his knees, as if an executioner would walk behind him at any moment, blowing his head off if he gave a shitty performance. I wouldn’t let him warm up under the water with me, instead I would watch his penis shrink in his hands. I would film his humiliation, posting it to my feed. The boyfriends would be jealous, wishing to be the one beneath my heel. This would only drive them to tip me more, all of them so small and weak. I arrived at the end of the session like one would a long drive, unsure how they got there, but somehow successful. 

I ended the day with an agoraphobe. This was the only time she left the house this week. I was more important to her than a trip to the grocery store, or maybe it was just that she couldn’t have me delivered. I could not understand how someone could feel that way, how easy it could be to close yourself off from the rest of the world. Alone with the silence of my own thoughts would be something worse than death. 

The auction timer closed in on its last two hours as I finished my notes for the day, careful not to draw any more disappointment from Henry through delaying my duties. The feed was silent, probably because they were waiting for the final minute to sneak in the highest bid. 

.“Attagirl,” Henry poked his hair-sparse head into the light from the crack of my office door, “keep those notes up.”

I locked my phone screen, maybe too suspiciously.

“Yep,” I shot him a smile so thick with honey it would kill a newborn baby, “have a great night.” He flashed a smile back, his gaze lingering on my screens before walking away. 

In traffic I watched the other cars in their respective standstills. The woman to my left played drums on her steering wheel performatively. She mocked the cars around her that were honking and shaking their fists in frustration just through her simple act of joy. She was not desperate to get home because she loved herself, maybe her life. The man to my right kept both hands on the wheel tightly while he talked to someone on a bluetooth, two rideshare passengers ignored him for their own conversation in the back seat. When we finally reached our exit, a man begged for cash through the closed windows, mine included.

At home my elderly neighbor waited for me by the mailboxes, it seemed, prepared to offer fresh cucumbers from the vegetable garden he had been growing in pots on his patio. I received the phallic vegetable with gratitude before we parted ways. We both turned our keys at the same time, a coordinated act that reminded me of the game children played at Recess- the one where swinging side by side meant you were married. I wondered what this key turning collaboration made us, especially given the gift. BB pressed into my legs immediately upon opening the door, but she knew better than to leave the apartment without being picked up. 

“Such a good girl,” I cooed, letting her wet nose sniff my fingers before closing the door behind us.

I called each of the boyfriends through the app for ten minutes, no more. They never got my personal number, and they answered when I wanted them to, not the other way around. I asked them how their days went while making up my own stress to complain about in just the right sexy baby voice. They thought I was a receptionist, and I channeled the girls from the front office to convince them, just one of the many parts I could play for fun. I texted Leonard my order and he sent me the updates as it went through each stage of delivery.

The driver knocked. I answered. Another candid photograph. A black bean cheeseburger with no pickles. I told Leonard the cheese fries were my favorite, a response that satisfied him. This time I ate it all, licking the cup of nacho cheese clean, throwing only one crinkled fry to the floor for BB. I wanted a slice of chocolate cake, but I said nothing, because Leonard would have sent that also. I was too close to appearing bloated, and that wouldn’t do.

The auction timer went off exactly at the moment of completion, something I had been too well-rehearsed at achieving. An unfamiliar username DoNTiGnoreMe was at the highest bid, $385 for the one-on-one which would begin in about fifteen minutes.

When the tub filled up completely, I took a photo of my toes against the faucet. A distorted reflection of my naked body appeared in the chrome, a treat for the losers if they chose to look closely enough. 

I balanced my laptop on the toilet seat, padded by a folded towel, and joined the private room. It did not take long for my champion to join, camera shy. 

You can turn your camera on if you’d like, I typed, leaving droplets of water from my fingertips on the keys.

No, he typed back.

“Okay,” I said, “can you hear me alright?”

Yes.

“Great,” I pulled myself up to the ledge of the tub, breasts pressed against the ceramic, “this is your hour, I can improvise, or if you’d like, you can tell me what you want to see.”

Do whatever you want. He was shy, simple, and a man of few words. 

I pulled the shower head between my legs, letting it pulsate against my clit while I inserted the cucumber from my neighbor. I moaned and giggled at the right times, allowing myself to actually come over and over again. The most a woman could orgasm was twenty times, but for me I could hit twenty orgasms before the pleasure turned to pain, and still I could continue. On the occasions where I allowed my eyes to do something other than roll back, I watched myself on the screen, imagining how he was witnessing me through his perspective. I was alluring, my mascara perfectly shadowed from the moisture beneath my eyelids, my smooth legs becoming entwined in the long corded shower head.

“I want you to tie me up,” I said, “make me come until I cry.” And I meant it. 

He remained silent, only watching, or maybe he wasn’t at all. I grew tired, almost bored without his feedback.

“Thank you,” I said through bated breath when our time was coming to a close, “I really enjoyed my time with you,” I lied.

When he finally responded, I saw two words I had never once associated with my account, where my patrons knew me as MISSGOGOSHIBARI. 

Thank you, Iona Miller

I couldn’t tell you what emotions I had felt in that very instant, which I know is the first thing anyone would ask me. Were you terrified? I didn’t know how I felt ever, and this was no different. All I could tell you was that I read my real name over and over again, locking eyes with the unmoving face across from me that had been in pleasure only moments ago. Yes, I know, you would probably wonder why didn't you check the locks on your doors? Delete your account? If this had been a movie you would have been screaming for me not to go into the unlit basement and the like.

 I didn’t, though. Check the locks, or delete the account. I only pressed on, determined to find out who was watching me.