The other day, I got an ad for an app that looked so weird. I clicked on it. I don’t normally click on ads, but this one seemed like it wasn’t real. The ad was a gray square with right-justified Helvetica reading “Torture? Click here.” I hovered for a second. The ad was playing Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. I felt like I wasn’t supposed to see it. It made me uncomfortable. My app store opened something called FLGL8. The description read “Finally, a reasonable price for the torture you crave. Choose from a wide variety of rigorously vetted service providers who will come to you and cater to your unique needs. FLGL8 servicers are proud to offer a wide and robust menu of options, guaranteed to satisfy. FLGL8 has been voted number one in Tallahassee Weekly’s app essentials 2024 and top ten in the Best Of Stress therapeutic apps by DeutscheRadio 3 years in a row.”
It was free to download. It prompted me to enter in some sort of proof that I was over 21 and my driver’s license number. I had to read through very long terms and conditions, e-sign a waiver, and sign up for the newsletter. What could that newsletter possibly have? Are there new innovations being made in the field? I never really wanted to be tortured, but I also don’t like to be bored. The app presented me with a box that said “CLICK HERE TO ACKNOWLEDGE THAT FLGL8 DOES NOT PROVIDE SEXUAL SERVICES.” I clicked and the interface of the app was gray and strange. Everything looked bubbly and organic, floating in muddy colors. A nebulous blob hovered on screen beckoning me to set up a profile. I used a picture of the dog, my middle name, and was completely honest in the about section. I punched in my credit card.
The app worked kind of like Tinder. Gray bubbles on a greige background, each with a headshot. Swipe right if you think they’d be a good torturer. Swipe up to see their bio: Age, sex, location, specialties, a blurb. “I am on a mission to make you hurt.” “Are you seeking retribution? Look no further!” “25 years experience and 1000’s of happy customers!” I ruled out all of the older Eastern European ladies with rooty blonde hair. I knew they smelled like cigarettes and reminded me of my mother. Anybody younger than me was also ruled out, couldn’t take them seriously. The app had a shocking number of kind, churchy-looking older black men, who I also ruled out. The people I said yes to displayed their menu of services and the prices.
I liked browsing the headshots and wondering about the people who “worked” for FLGL8. I spent a few hours looking at the people, thinking about what these horrible services entailed. I went to the bar to swipe away while listening to other people talk around me. Maybe some of them were torturers, or torturees? I had a Laphroaig and thought about what I wanted to be done to me. Nothing really. Why was I even doing this? Waterboarding seemed the most classic, but I didn’t want my eyes to be covered. Nothing that involved humiliation or anything with my mouth would work. Caning, pins under my fingernails, and, obviously, stress positions sounded the best.
I picked a man about my dad’s age with a bio that read “i live 2 serve u live 2 suffer.” This guy, Paul, was pictured from the shoulders up against a white backdrop. His menu had all of the torture I had decided on, plus humiliation, cigarettes, sensory deprivation. He highlighted his specialty as “phobia exploitation,” which I had not yet considered. He was balding, a little overweight, of indeterminate ethnic origin, and smiling broadly. He looked like the kind of person who fed the pigeons in the park, and he charged $44.99 per hour to come to my home and hurt me. I scheduled him for the following Thursday.
I didn’t tell anybody that I was paying to be tortured by a paternal-looking man I met on the internet. My friends would be somewhat understanding. Some would be concerned, some would want to participate. I wanted to have a little secret, a little nasty secret just for myself. I never kept anything hidden. I was and remain an open book. But this was just for me. I relished the thrill, and I cleaned my house and got a manicure. I did a shit job at work all week because I was so nervous. I felt like I was going on a blind date. It felt hypocritical. I wanted Paul to be nice. I wanted him to like me.
On Thursday I woke up, walked the dog, showered, blow-dried my hair while I watched music videos. I made coffee and had a soft boiled egg, toast, and a pear. I went to my office, I did my meaningless job, I answered my emails, and I answered the phone. I replied to texts about weekend plans and television. Made requisite water cooler chat about the weather, the movies, the big game. I pictured the bubbly greige app while I entered data into cells in Excel and plotted my quarterly projections. I thought about the tools Paul was going to bring with repulsed curiosity while I sat at my desk staring at Microsoft Outlook, waiting until seven p.m.
I could not eat dinner. I could not read. I paced around my house for the hour between getting home and Paul’s arrival. I had two glasses of malbec. I looked at my phone and thought about and decided against calling people. I smoked the emergency cigarette I keep in the freezer. I walked the dog. I turned on some music. I sat on the couch and waited, kinetic and stupid, for Paul to arrive.
At seven sharp came a knock at my door, and I was tempted to let it go unanswered. With sweaty palms, I unlocked the door and to my shock and horror saw Paul. He was standing there with his duffel bag, smiling and clean just like in his picture. He was small. Very small. Not little-person small, much smaller. He was, at the absolute maximum, 18 inches tall. Knee-high. The height of an infant. Proportioned like any adult man you have ever seen but the size of a doll. I instantly hated him. I hated him for being at my house. I hated him for not including an object as scale reference in his picture. I hated him for having this job and not being in the circus. I hated him because I wanted to pick him up.
He greeted me with a shockingly deep voice and I hated him. I opened the door for him, smiling, and he heaved that duffel bag with an effort I found embarrassing. He had crows’ feet and a gold Orthodox cross around his neck. I had let go of any reservations about being tortured, but I could not let myself be tortured by a doll-sized man who loves Jesus Christ. Good Lord, how could he possibly put another grown adult into a stress position? He could not weigh more than a house cat. I offered Paul a drink. He declined and asked where I wanted him to set up.
I could not watch this happen. I could not watch him climb the stairs on all fours like a toddler. I could not have a conversation with him. I hated him. I did not want to see him. I felt sick. It is wrong to be tortured by a doll-sized man. Still, I didn’t want to pay FLGL8’s astronomical cancellation fee. I didn’t want to be rude to him either. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He couldn’t help it. Everything he did seemed so clumsy and ridiculous. He was completely earnest. I was not. I was flushed and embarrassed, and I poured another glass of wine.
Paul said that I have a lovely home. He looked me right in the eye, craning his little neck up to see me. My stomach hurt, and I was so repulsed I picked him up, and he was not happy. He told me to put him down. I said, “I can’t.” I thought I might hate him less once I held him, but I did not. He thrashed his little arms around and I couldn’t take it. I told him I was sorry over and over again, but that he was just not what I was expecting. I hated him. He was so small and so helpless and so detestable. How did this man torture anybody? How did he do anything? He repelled me.
Paul screamed and hollered and clutched for my eyes with his chubby little fingers, but I simply held him at arm's length. He was so unbelievably small. I wanted to know if he had ever actually succeeded in torturing anybody at all. He begged to be put down, but I kept holding him. He weighed about 11 lbs, less than my schnauzer. He felt like a baby. He thrashed and hooted. He told me he would sue me. He told me I was violating the terms of service I agreed to. I rocked him in my arms. He is colicky, I thought. He must be hungry, I thought. His necklace is a choking hazard, I thought. He was repulsive and needy, and I couldn't put him down. He did not stop thrashing.
He bit me twice. Hard. I was powerless against his teeth. I had to calm him down. It hurt when he bit me, but I did not want to let him go. His grotesque little body felt like an appendage, a phantom limb. I held him like a tantrumming toddler on my hip as I filled a travel mug with whiskey and coke, and I gave it to him and barked at him: “Drink!” He threw it on my kilim rug. He told me he “doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.” He tried to bite me again, but I saw it coming, and I held him in front of me, aiming him away from me like a weapon.
I walked around the house like this for the remaining time I had paid for. Pressing his repulsive tiny body against mine, rocking him back and forth. He argued, protested, thrashed around, and I did not relent. I paid for a service. After two hours, an alarm on his phone went off. Holding him, I walked to the door, stopping to collect his duffel bag. I opened the front door and dropped his bag on the ground. I held Paul out and looked him in the eye before I set him down. I was still so horrified, equally repulsive. I let him go, said not one word, slammed the door, and deleted the app from my phone.
