Marcus Lieberman met Rachel Feldstein on a Thursday, which meant God was either testing him or had finally given up entirely. His therapist was closed Thursdays. His pharmacy was closed Thursdays. And now he’d met a woman he actually wanted to sleep with on a Thursday, which violated everything he understood about the universe.
Three dates. Real dates. By date three, they were back at his apartment, which smelled of old Thai food and broken dreams, but Rachel didn’t seem to notice because they were kissing. Good kissing. The kind that made Marcus forget he was balding and his credit score was 580.
Rachel pulled back. “We should use the app.”
“What app?”
“Consent.io.”
Marcus felt something die inside him. Something small but important. “Do we have to?”
She gave him the look. The look that said his next move determined whether he’d be sleeping with Rachel or his hand.
He downloaded the app.
A voice emerged from his phone. Professional. Efficient. The voice of someone who’d never had an orgasm but had filed the paperwork correctly.
“Welcome to Consent.io. Please verbally confirm intent to initiate intimacy.”
“I confirm,” Marcus said.
“Partner must also confirm.”
“I confirm,” Rachel said.
“Excellent. Proceeding to Level One: Non-Sexual Physical Contact. You may now hold hands.”
They held hands. Marcus felt like he was in seventh grade, except in seventh grade the chaperone was Mrs. Johnson, not an algorithm in Palo Alto.
“Level One complete. Advancing to Level Two: Kissing, Closed Mouth.”
They kissed. Thirty seconds in—
BING!
“Verbal confirmation required.”
“Yes,” they said together.
BING!
“Reconfirm.”
“STILL YES.”
Marcus pulled back. “How many levels are there?”
“Seventeen levels,” the app said. “Current progress: 11%. Estimated completion time: 52 minutes. Would you like to see a progress bar?”
“NO!”
A progress bar appeared anyway. It was red. Mocking him.
Rachel started unbuttoning his shirt.
DING—COMPLIANCE CHECK!
“Warning: Non-consensual clothing removal detected.”
“It’s consensual!” Marcus shouted at his phone, which was something he’d never imagined doing during sex but here he was, arguing with an iPhone.
“Please verbally confirm: Do you consent to upper-body garment removal?”
“YES!”
“Specify garment.”
“THE SHIRT! THE BLUE SHIRT! THE ONE I’M WEARING RIGHT NOW!”
“Confirmed. Proceeding to Level Four: Upper Body Exposure, Male. Rachel Feldstein, do you also wish to remove your upper-body garment?”
Rachel sighed the sigh of a woman reconsidering her life choices. “Yes.”
“Please specify: partial or full exposure?”
“FULL!”
“Full exposure requires Level Six clearance. Would you like to skip ahead?”
“YES!”
“Premium subscription required: $29.99.”
Marcus had his credit card out before the sentence finished. He typed the numbers with shaking hands. This was the most expensive foreplay of his life and he hadn’t even seen a breast yet.
“Payment accepted. Premium features unlocked. Benefits include: reduced interruptions, faster approvals, and our new AI Intimacy Coach.”
“I don’t want a coach!”
“Coaching enabled. Tip: Maintain eye contact. Research shows 73% increased satisfaction.”
They stumbled to the bedroom. Marcus reached for Rachel’s waistband.
BING!
“Level Nine: Below-Waist Contact requires two-factor authentication.”
“YOU’RE KIDDING ME.”
“A verification code has been sent to your email.”
Marcus grabbed his phone. Forty-seven unread emails. Spam. Newsletters. A reminder that his car warranty had expired. Finally: “Your Consent.io code: 847392.”
He typed it in.
“Code verified.”
Rachel was staring at the ceiling. “This is the first threesome I’ve had where the third participant is a server farm.”
“We’re at Level Nine!” Marcus said. “We’re making progress!”
“Marcus, nothing kills the mood like a CAPTCHA.”
But they pressed on because they were both stubborn and, let’s be honest, horny. Level Ten: Manual Stimulation (Select Zone from Drop-Down Menu). Level Eleven: Oral Activity (See Sub-Menu for Specifics). Level Twelve: Genital Contact, Non-Penetrative.
“Foreplay at 86%,” the app announced. “Keep it up—literally.”
“I’m trying!” Marcus shouted.
At Level Thirteen, a pop-up appeared: “ENHANCE YOUR EXPERIENCE WITH CONSENT.IO PARTNERPLUS! MORE STAMINA! FEWER INTERRUPTIONS! JUST $49.99!”
“NOT NOW!”
“Safe word required. Select from approved list: Banana. Rutabaga. Helicopter. Mittens.”
“Those are terrible safe words,” Rachel said.
“Approved safe words prevent trademark conflicts. Please select.”
“Fine. Rutabaga.”
“Rutabaga currently in use by 51,000 couples. Please select alternative.”
“HELICOPTER!”
“Helicopter accepted. To halt proceedings, say ‘Helicopter’ three times while facing north.”
They finally reached Level Fourteen: Penetrative Activity. Marcus positioned himself. This was it. Actual sex. The thing humans had been doing without apps for roughly 200,000 years.
“Please confirm position: missionary.”
“Yes. Missionary. The one where I’m on top and we’re both facing each other and nothing weird is happening.”
“Missionary position now classified as Front-End Interface. Confirmed.”
They started. Marcus felt a surge of something. Hope? Relief? No—gas. He’d had falafel for lunch.
He pushed the thought away and tried to focus. He leaned close to Rachel’s ear. “You feel incredible.”
BING! RED ALERT!
“WARNING: Vocalization flagged as non-compliant with Section 7, Subsection B: Excessive Praise Without Prior Approval.”
Marcus froze. “WHAT?”
“Statement ‘You feel incredible’ may constitute emotional manipulation. Please rephrase.”
“How do I rephrase that?”
“Suggested alternatives: You feel adequate. You feel satisfactory. You feel within acceptable parameters.”
Rachel pushed him off. “That’s it. We’re done.”
“Wait! We’re at Level Fourteen! I paid $29.99!”
“This isn’t sex, Marcus. This is a compliance audit. Do you know how many times I’ve said ‘I consent’ tonight? SEVENTEEN TIMES. I didn’t consent to anything this much at my mortgage closing!”
“But the progress bar—”
“I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE PROGRESS BAR!”
BING!
“Relationship dissolution detected. Initiating breakup protocol.”
“NO!” Marcus shouted.
“YES!” Rachel shouted louder.
“Conflict detected. Mediating... Mediation complete. Relationship status: Archived. Thank you for using Consent.io. Your performance rating: 4.2 stars. User feedback: ‘Enthusiastic but procedurally inefficient.’”
Rachel grabbed her clothes. Marcus sat on the bed in his underwear, one sock still on, holding his phone.
“Rachel, we can do this without the app.”
She turned at the door. “Marcus, you always finish too early anyway.”
“That’s because I skip the Terms of Service!”
She left. The door slammed.
Marcus sat alone. His phone glowed.
BING!
“Satisfaction survey: How would you rate your experience?”
He threw the phone. It bounced off the wall and landed on the bed, still glowing.
“Based on tonight’s data, we recommend: Consent.io Solo Mode. Now available.”
Marcus looked at his hand. His hand looked back.
“I used to worry about performance anxiety,” he said to no one. “Now I worry about compliance latency.”
The next morning, an email: “Congratulations! Based on your activity, you’ve been automatically enrolled in Solo Mode. First month free!”
Below that: “Your mother Deborah Lieberman has joined Consent.io.”
Marcus opened it.
“Marcus, your father and I are at Level Two! It’s very nice. Much better than what we had before. You should call more. Love, Mom.”
Marcus deleted the app. Then his dating profile. Then his email. Then he seriously considered deleting himself.
But he couldn’t figure out which form to fill out.
Somewhere in Nevada, in a server farm cooled to 64 degrees, Marcus and Rachel’s seventeen failed levels of intimacy sat archived next to millions of other encounters, waiting for the inevitable class-action lawsuit.
The app had already moved on. Version 2.0 launched Tuesday.
Now with blockchain verification and NFT receipts.
Progress.
I'm falling out of f()king chair!