Nipple

I had a notebook in my twenties where I’d write down what happened. Specific girls, specific acts—at thirteen under Maria’s shirt, at sixteen in Steffi’s underwear, at nineteen both Berg sisters at once. I couldn’t stand forgetting.

Now there’s an app called Nipple. You log everything: name, age, skin tone, what you did together and where, whether drugs or fruit or handcuffs were involved, how many times you came. It’s all searchable. Years later you can pull up the file and remember exactly who she was.

I get it. It’s not more honest than a notebook, but it’s more reliable. Everything’s backed up forever. You’ll never have to fake remembering someone. The NSA is probably harvesting this for their dossier, but if you don’t care, the app works. Nipple remembers for you.

Maybe there’s something hollow about it—reducing people to database entries. But maybe that’s the point. If you’re not going to remember anyway, at least you’ve got the record. At least you don’t have to pretend.