Welcome to Blood Trails. A podcast that features World’s Worst Crimes.
My name is Chase Austin - Bestselling author of Sam Wick and Axel Monk Thriller series.
And this is behind the scenes story of a Controversial OnlyFans Model who plans to have sex with 1,000 men in 24 hours after already sleeping with 101 men in 24 hours. Just to be clear, Her parents support her in this.
This is a behind the scene story that includes fact and fiction to show how it must have gone when she slept with 101 men in 24 hours.
Listen to the Part 2 of this 2-Part story
Website. https://www.thechaseaustin.com/
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Transcript
Welcome to Blood Trails. A podcast that features World’s Worst Crimes. My name is Chase Austin - Bestselling author of Sam Wick and Axel Monk Thriller series.
And this is the story of a Controversial OnlyFans Model who plans to have sex with 1,000 men in 24 hours after already sleeping with 101 men in 24 hours. Just to be clear, Her parents support her in this.
This is a behind the scene story that includes fact and fiction to show how it must have gone when she slept with 101 men in 24 hours.
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Listen to the Part 2 of this 2-Part story
Chapter 7: The Main Event
Rain drummed against the windows of the suburban London townhouse at 8:35 AM.
Sarah crushed her fifth cigarette of the morning, checking her watch again.
They were already an hour behind schedule.
"Status check," she barked into her headset, pacing the pristine living room. The metal detectors by the front door beeped as the security team ran final tests.
"ID verification station ready," Emma called from the side room, where laptops glowed with background check software. "Medical screening in the kitchen."
The townhouse looked nothing like the luxury Airbnb photos anymore. Professional lighting rigs cast harsh shadows across rooms stripped of decoration. Security cameras covered every angle. The coffee table held stacks of release forms and NDAs.
Sarah's phone buzzed: Stuck in traffic. 15 mins. - Emily
"Christ." She reached for another cigarette, hands shaking slightly. "Mike! What's our perimeter status?"
The security head materialized beside her, ex-military bearing evident in his stance. "Three-block radius secured. But we've got a problem. Someone leaked the address on Reddit. Might get crowds."
"Double the door team," Sarah ordered. "No phones past the entrance. If anyone even thinks about taking a picture—"
"Already handled. Metal detectors for devices, pat-downs for everything else."
The first participant arrived early, standing awkwardly in the rain. Swiss accent, Rolex watch, designer briefcase. His eyes widened at the security setup.
"ID and medical documents," Mike demanded, professional but stern. "Sign the release forms. All six pages. Initial each paragraph."
By 9:30, the living room hosted six men on expensive leather sofas, carefully avoiding eye contact. The medical team had commandeered the kitchen, verifying test results with sharp efficiency. A baby monitor crackled on the side table – their makeshift communication system between floors.
"Timeline check," Sarah announced, reviewing her clipboard. The schedule was already disintegrating:
8:00 AM - Original start time 9:45 AM - Emily finally arrives 10:00 AM - Only 7 participants processed 11:30 AM - Falling behind, 12 completed 1:00 PM - Lunch break canceled 3:00 PM - Medical supplies running low 5:00 PM - 47 done, severely behind schedule 7:00 PM - Missed original end time, only 70 completed
The day blurred into controlled chaos. Sarah's phone never stopped:
Guy 82 forgot paperwork Medical team needs more supplies Noise complaint from neighbors Two scalpers outside selling spots Reporter from The Sun asking questions Emily requesting emergency energy drinks
At 7:30 PM, Sarah huddled with her team in the kitchen. Empty Red Bull cans littered every surface. The medical team looked exhausted, their scrubs wrinkled from twelve hours of participant screening.
"Numbers?" Sarah demanded, lighting what she swore was her last cigarette.
Emma consulted her tablet. "Seventy-eight done. Twenty-two to go. But we've got problems."
"When don't we?" Sarah muttered. "Hit me."
"Guy number 82 showed up without paperwork. Claims his printer broke. Guy 86 is trying to negotiate special requests. The neighbors have called noise complaints twice. And—" she hesitated, "—there's a crowd gathering outside."
Mike appeared, fresh from rotating his security team. "It's worse than that. Found three guys trying to film through upstairs windows. Caught someone attempting to deliver a hidden camera disguised as a water bottle. And that Sun reporter is back, this time claiming to be a delivery driver."
The baby monitor crackled. Emily's voice, somehow still energetic: "Need more electrolytes up here!"
Sarah grabbed their last case of sports drinks. "How's she doing?"
"Like a machine," Emma said, shaking her head. "But the medical team is worried about exhaustion."
"We all signed up for this," Sarah reminded them, though her own hands shook as she poured her eighth coffee. "Where's that backup paperwork?"
A commotion erupted from the front room. Mike rushed out, hand to his earpiece. Sarah followed, clipboard ready for whatever fresh disaster awaited.
Two participants were arguing about queue positions. A third had pulled out his phone, violating their strict no-device policy. The medical team's printer had jammed, backing up the verification process. And through it all, the baby monitor kept crackling with requests from upstairs.
"Enough!" Sarah shouted. The room fell silent. "You," she pointed to the phone guy, "out. No refunds. You two, back in line or leave. Everyone else, paperwork out, phones away, or find the door."
Order restored, she retreated to her command center – a folding table covered in scheduling spreadsheets and emergency contact numbers. Her phone buzzed with a message from Emily's mother: Is she okay? Should I be worried?
Sarah stared at it, unsure how to respond. Another buzz: Guy 91 threatening to post online unless he got priority access. Then Guy 44 demanding a refund because of the wait times. The medical team needed more supplies. Security reported two more scalpers outside.
"When this is over," she announced to no one in particular, "I'm becoming an accountant."
By 10 PM, they were in the final stretch. The cleanup crew waited discreetly in their van outside. The medical team had started packing their less essential equipment. Even the crowd of onlookers had thinned in the cold London rain.
Mike appeared with fresh coffee – real coffee this time, not the instant stuff they'd been surviving on. "Almost there. Last group in processing now."
Sarah nodded, too exhausted for words. Her clipboard showed the impossible: they'd actually done it. Somehow, through sheer determination and enough Red Bull to fill the Thames, they'd pulled it off.
At 10:45 PM, it was over. The townhouse looked surprisingly normal, considering. The security team did a final sweep while cleaners erased all evidence of their presence.
"Car for Emily?" Mike asked.
"Ten minutes out," Emma confirmed, already coordinating tomorrow's damage control.
Sarah's phone buzzed one last time. A message from Emily: Already thinking bigger. How about 200 next time?
She deleted it without responding. Some records were better left unbroken.
As they packed up the last equipment, Sarah found her crumpled pack of cigarettes. One left. She lit it, hands finally steady, and looked around the empty townhouse.
"Never again," she said firmly.
Emma laughed, sorting through release forms. "That's what you said after the thirty-seven guy event."
"Meant it then too."
But they both knew. In this industry, there was always someone ready to break the next record, push the next boundary, set the next impossible goal. And somehow, they'd be there, making it happen.
Sarah's phone buzzed again. Another message from Emily: Think we can get the O2 Arena next time?
She turned off her phone. Tomorrow's problems could wait. Right now, she needed sleep, a shower, and possibly a career change.
Though they all knew she'd be back. They always came back.
Because in the end, it wasn't just about the records or the content or even the money. It was about pushing limits, breaking boundaries, and doing what everyone said couldn't be done.
Even if it meant going through hell to do it.
"You know what's funny?" Emma said as they walked out. "After all that chaos, all that planning..."
"What?"
"We made it look easy."
Sarah laughed, genuine this time. Because that was their real talent – making the impossible look routine.
As their cars pulled away from the quiet suburban street, leaving no trace of the history made there, Sarah's phone lit up one final time.
Emily: Same time next month?
Some records, Sarah decided, were definitely better left unbroken.
At least until next time.
———
Chapter 8: Participant Perspectives
The rain had finally stopped by evening, leaving London's streets with a glossy sheen under the streetlights. Outside the townhouse, participants dispersed like actors leaving a particularly intense theater production.
Thomas, the Swiss banker, stood under a streetlight adjusting his Burberry coat. His Rolex showed 8:45 PM – still hours until his flight home. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion.
"Mind if we talk?" I asked.
He nodded, and we found a quiet corner in an upscale wine bar. The kind of place where nobody asked questions.
"The costs add up," he said, swirling his Bordeaux. "Two hundred for testing. Business class flight from Zürich, eight hundred. Hotel at the Dorchester..." He shrugged. "Call it two thousand total."
"That's significant."
"I've spent more on watches that gave me less satisfaction." His phone buzzed – another market alert. "Funny thing is, tomorrow I'll be trading millions in derivatives. Nobody will know."
The wine loosened his tongue. He described the waiting room atmosphere – CEOs next to college students, all equally nervous. "Like the world's strangest job interview."
"The security was intense," he added. "That Mike guy? Definitely ex-special forces. Caught someone trying to sneak in a camera. Handled him like a professional."
At a pub around the corner, three participants had formed an unlikely support group. Mark (IT consultant, Leeds), Chris (solicitor, Manchester), and Peter (startup founder, London) occupied a corner booth.
"Can't believe the paperwork," Mark said, on his fourth pint. "Six pages of NDAs. Medical questionnaire longer than my mortgage application."
"That Sarah running everything," Chris added. "Scarier than any judge I've faced."
Peter, usually quiet, leaned in. "You know what got me? The other guys. CEO next to me was worth billions. Here he was, filling out forms like a schoolboy."
"Did you see the guy who made a PowerPoint presentation?" Mark laughed. "Thirty slides about why he should be chosen."
"That was me," Peter admitted. Everyone stared. "What? I'm a consultant. We PowerPoint everything."
At the Savoy's American Bar, Raj nursed a martini while checking his crypto portfolio. The Dubai-based developer had spent more than anyone – first-class Emirates flights, premium slot, presidential suite.
"The waiting room was surreal," he said. "There's the guy who runs my favorite tech company, looking as nervous as an intern. Next to him, some university kid who spent his student loan to be there. All of us equal in that moment."
He showed me his phone – already up 30K in Ethereum while we talked. "Money means nothing. Being part of history? That's different."
James, 23, had a different perspective. I found him at a McDonald's, stress-eating nuggets.
"Spent everything I had," he said, dunking a nugget aggressively. "Testing, train ticket, hotel. Even borrowed from my brother." He lowered his voice. "Don't think it was worth it."
"Why not?"
"Too... clinical. Like a doctor's appointment with a weird waiting room. That magician though – he was good. Made my watch disappear. Still haven't found it actually."
David, the reality TV semi-celebrity, held court at Chiltern Firehouse. His manager hovered nearby, worried about optics.
"Had to be part of it," he said, perfectly aware of phones recording him. "Though that security guy confiscating my phone? Not cool for my brand."
He'd paid extra to skip the queue. "Worth every penny. Some guys waited hours. I've got a podcast to record tomorrow."
His manager winced. "Which we're not discussing this on."
Back at the townhouse, the cleanup crew worked with surgical precision. Two participants lingered outside – an Oxford professor and a TikTok influencer, sharing a cigarette.
"Fascinating from an anthropological perspective," the professor mused. "Modern tribal rituals in an urban context."
"Bro," the influencer replied, "I just wanted content. But they took my phone."
At midnight, a private members' club in Mayfair. Michael, hedge fund manager, ordered another bottle of Dom Pérignon.
"The release forms were intense," he said. "My lawyers are still analyzing them. But that medical team? Better screening than my annual executive physical."
He'd arrived by helicopter, skipped most queues. "Time is money. Though today..." he smiled. "Today was about something else."
Near Liverpool Street Station, Kyle struggled with his conscience. The junior accountant had told his girlfriend he was at a work conference.
"She'll see the credit card statement," he moaned into his beer. "Who knew STI tests cost so much?"
The next morning, a WhatsApp group formed: "Survivors of Sarah's Clipboard Terror"
Participants shared stories, compared experiences, planned reunions. Some became genuine friends. Others immediately left the group, already trying to forget.
Thomas, back in Zürich, sent one message before leaving: "See you at the next one. First class this time."
Three people immediately responded: "We're in."
Because that was the thing about records – they were made to be broken. And somehow, despite the cost, the chaos, and the clipboard-wielding Sarah, they all knew.
They'd be back.
For the next impossible number.
For the next piece of history.
For the next time Emily Phillips decided to push the boundaries of what was possible.
A week later, the ripples were still spreading.
At a Goldman Sachs trading desk in Frankfurt, Thomas noticed three colleagues giving him odd looks. One finally approached during lunch.
"Saw you in London last week," the trader whispered. "In the queue."
Thomas maintained his poker face, perfected through years of trading. "Interesting."
"I was number 47."
They shared a knowing look, then returned to discussing market derivatives.
The WhatsApp group had exploded to include sub-groups: "First Fifty Club" "Sarah's Trauma Support" "We Survived The Queue"
Some participants had become minor celebrities in their circles. Others changed their numbers and moved cities.
James, the university student, started a podcast about the experience. "Not the explicit parts," he clarified. "Just the psychology of it. Already got ten thousand subscribers."
In Dubai, Raj organized a private dinner for local participants. Five men attended, all technically competitors in the tech world. Now bonded by something stranger than business.
"My board would have a heart attack," a CEO admitted. "But honestly? Best networking event ever."
"Better than Davos," another agreed. "Though with less clothes."
"And better security," Raj added. "Mike could teach Mossad a few things."
The reality TV star, David, had parlayed his participation into three podcast appearances and a book deal. His manager now carried two phones to handle the interest.
"Everyone wants to know about the waiting room," David said during a Zoom interview. "The nervous energy. The small talk. What do you say to the guy next to you in that situation?"
His book title: "The Queue: A Modern Odyssey"
Peter's PowerPoint presentation leaked online, anonymized but viral. Tech Twitter analyzed his charts and graphs. Three companies offered him consulting jobs.
"The ROI slides were impressive," a Google recruiter admitted. "Though the heat maps were... concerning."
The Oxford professor wrote a paper: "Modern Tribal Rituals in Digital Content Creation: A Case Study"
It was rejected by four journals before finding a home in an avant-garde sociology publication.
Kyle's girlfriend found out. She wasn't impressed by the historical significance.
"At least I got tested," he offered weakly.
She moved out the next day.
Sarah received job offers from three Fortune 500 companies and two military contractors. All cited her "exceptional crowd control and logistics management."
She declined them all. "Some skills," she wrote, "are too specialized to transfer."
A month later, an exclusive London club hosted an unofficial reunion. Twenty participants attended, drawn back together by something they couldn't quite explain to outsiders.
Thomas flew in from Zürich. Raj from Dubai. Even Kyle came, newly single and philosophical about it.
They swapped stories, compared memories, debated details. The night ended with them all receiving the same notification:
New Event Announcement from Emily Phillips Target: 200 Details to follow
Thomas immediately booked a first-class ticket.
Raj reserved his usual suite.
The professor started a new paper.
David called his manager.
Kyle checked his credit limit.
Because some experiences, they'd learned, were worth any price. Some moments of history couldn't be measured in pounds or dollars. Some records existed to be broken.
And Sarah, somewhere in London, probably already had her clipboard ready.
The WhatsApp group exploded with one message:
"Who's in?"
The responses came faster than Emily's first event sold out:
"First class booked." "Dubai crew representing." "PowerPoint 2.0 in progress." "Need to consult my lawyers first." "Already got tested." "Hope Sarah's stocked up on clipboards."
Because that's the thing about history – once you've been part of it, you can't help coming back for more.
Even if it means facing Sarah's clipboard again.
———
Chapter 9: The Aftermath
Emily sat in her penthouse bathtub at midnight, muscles aching, surrounded by enough bath salts to stock a spa. The London skyline twinkled beyond her floor-to-ceiling windows. Her phone, finally silent, lay just out of reach.
"Never thought the eye strain would be the worst part," she said, gingerly touching her face. "All those flashes."
I perched on a marble vanity, notepad ready. She'd promised one final interview – the raw truth after the record-breaking day.
"Honestly?" She shifted, wincing. "The paperwork was worse than the... activity. My hand cramped from signing releases." A laugh, then a slight grimace. "Though everything's cramped now."
Steam rose between us as she processed the day. "Some moments blur together. But I remember specific guys. Number 12 was so nervous he nearly fainted. Number 43 brought roses – who brings roses to this kind of thing?"
Her phone buzzed. Sarah, checking in: *Medical team wants to schedule follow-up. Also, you're trending in eight countries.*
"The weirdest part?" Emily continued, ignoring the message. "The small talk. What do you say to someone in that situation? One guy tried discussing cryptocurrency. Another told me about his stamp collection."
She reached for her water bottle – electrolytes, doctor's orders. "Everyone says it must have been so wild, so crazy. But honestly? Parts were boring. Clinical. Like an assembly line but with more NDAs."
"The medical team was incredible," Emily said, adding more hot water. "But some guys weren't ready for how... medical it would be. Vitals checks, hydration monitoring. One guy complained it felt like a hospital with mood lighting."
Sarah appeared in the doorway, still in her event-coordinator clothes, clipboard permanently attached to her hand.
"Numbers are in," she announced. "Social media engagement up 300%. Subscriber growth off the charts. But—" she hesitated.
"But what?"
"Your mom's called eight times."
Emily sank deeper into the bubbles. "Did anyone actually enjoy it?" she asked quietly. "Like, really enjoy it? Or was it just about being part of some record?"
Sarah consulted her clipboard. "Guy 72 left a five-star review. Though he also proposed marriage. Guy 89 wants to invest in your next project. The one with the PowerPoint presentation is already working on a sequel presentation."
"Not what I asked."
A moment of silence, broken only by distant London traffic.
"Some guys looked disappointed," Emily admitted. "Like they expected... I don't know, porn-style drama? Instead, they got medical screenings and Mike's security pat-downs. One guy said it was like going through airport security but with more awkward small talk."
Her phone buzzed again. Another message from the medical team: *Blood pressure stable. Inflammation normal. Recommend 48-hour rest minimum.*
"The waiting room dynamics were fascinating," Sarah added. "CEOs making small talk with college students. That tech billionaire discussing Nintendo games with the Deliveroo driver. The reality TV guy trying to network while filling out medical forms."
Emily attempted to stretch, then thought better of it. "Remember the guy who brought his own lighting setup?"
"Mike confiscated it. Along with three hidden cameras, six unauthorized phones, and someone's autobiography manuscript they wanted signed."
"The cleanup crew found interesting things," Sarah continued, checking her list. "Fourteen single socks. Three wedding rings – still trying to figure out whose. A PowerPoint printout titled 'Why I Should Be First.' And enough energy drink cans to fill a recycling center."
Emily's phone lit up with another notification: *Documentary crews bidding for rights. Netflix interested.*
"Would I recommend it?" Emily mused, answering my original question. "Depends. As a business move? Absolutely. The numbers are insane. As a personal experience?" She paused. "It's like running a marathon. While doing taxes. In a fishbowl."
Sarah's clipboard rattled with new papers. "Speaking of business – we've got offers. Reality show pitches. Book deals. Three adult toy companies want signature products."
"Already?" Emily looked impressed despite her exhaustion.
"The internet moves fast. #EmilyPhillips100 is trending. You've got marriage proposals from four countries. Two companies want to sponsor your next event. Someone started a religion based on you."
"A religion?"
"Small but enthusiastic membership."
Emily laughed, then winced again. "What's their doctrine?"
"Better not to ask." Sarah checked her phone. "Also, the Airbnb host left a review. Just a lot of exclamation points and question marks."
"Fair enough."
The medical team had left detailed recovery instructions: rest, hydration, anti-inflammatory medication. No strenuous activity for a week. No high heels for three days. Something about pH balance.
"The weird thing is," Emily said, staring at the London lights, "parts of it were almost... boring? Like, by guy fifty, you're thinking about your grocery list. Guy seventy, planning dinner. By ninety, wondering if you left the oven on."
Sarah snorted. "You didn't. We checked. Twice."
"The guys probably imagined wild chaos. Instead, they got numbered tickets and hand sanitizer stations."
Her phone buzzed one final time: *Guy 100 requesting second appointment. Says first was rushed.*
"Delete that," she told Sarah. "Some records stand better unchanged."
But they all knew. Somewhere out there, someone was already planning to break her record. That's how the industry worked. Push boundaries, set records, break them again.
"Would I do it again?" Emily looked at her pruning fingers. "Ask me in a week. Right now, I just want sleep. And maybe a neck massage."
Sarah checked her clipboard one last time. "Speaking of which – three masseuses are on standby. Also, your chiropractor called. And somehow, the Pope heard about this."
"The Pope?"
"Just general disappointment. Nothing specific."
Emily finally smiled – her first genuine one since the event ended. "Worth it though. Not for the record. Not for the money. But because everyone said it couldn't be done."
She sat up straighter, immediately regretted it. "That's the real high. Doing the impossible. Making history. Even if history needs this many bath salts to recover."
Sarah's phone chimed. "Twitter's calling you a feminist icon. Also a sign of the apocalypse. Depending on which thread you read."
"Split the difference," Emily said. "Call me an apocalyptic icon."
The night grew later. London's lights twinkled like distant cameras. Somewhere, a hundred men were processing their part in history. Some proud, some ashamed, all changed in ways they couldn't quite explain to their therapists.
And in her bath, Emily Phillips, record-holder, entrepreneur, apocalyptic icon, finally allowed herself to feel it all.
"Next time," she murmured, half-asleep, "we charge double."
Sarah just made a note on her clipboard.
Because there would be a next time.
There was always a next time.
That's how history worked.
One record-breaking bath at a time.
Three days later, in her Chelsea office, Emily reviewed the event data with her team. Spreadsheets covered every screen, tracking everything from participant demographics to hydration metrics.
"The numbers are fascinating," Emma said, pulling up charts. "Average participant age: 34. Median income: £120,000. Three CEOs, two minor celebrities, one actual prince – though his embassy denies he was there."
"The psychology profiles are interesting," Sarah added. "Lot of high-achievers. Type A personalities. Guys used to being in control, choosing to... not be."
Emily shifted in her ergonomic chair, still tender. "Any complaints?"
"Few expected it to be so... organized. One guy said it felt like a very strange DMV visit." Sarah checked her notes. "Quote: 'I've had dental appointments with more drama.'"
Dr. Rachel joined via Zoom, clinical as ever. "Physical recovery progressing normally. Though the eye strain was unexpected. Note for next time: protective eyewear needed."
"Already ordered," Sarah said. "Industrial grade."
"The participant feedback is mixed," Emma continued. "Some wanted more interaction, more connection. Others appreciated the efficiency. One called it 'speed dating taken to its logical extreme.'"
Emily's phone hadn't stopped buzzing since the event. Offers poured in: documentaries, book deals, speaking engagements. Even a university wanted her to lecture on "modern media entrepreneurship."
"The weird part?" Emily mused, scanning a psychological impact report. "Most guys say the waiting room was more memorable than their actual slot. Something about shared nervous energy."
"That magician helped," Sarah noted. "Though he did steal three watches and someone's car keys."
Dr. Rachel cleared her throat. "From a medical perspective, the assembly-line approach worked. Minimized physical strain, maintained safe intervals. Though next time—"
"Next time?" Sarah's clipboard nearly slipped.
"There's always a next time," Emily grinned, then winced. Her facial muscles still protested sudden movements.
"Here are the unexpected side effects," Dr. Rachel said through the Zoom screen. "Jaw tension from small talk. Wrist strain from autographs. And the most surprising – decision fatigue."
"Decision fatigue?" Emily raised an eyebrow.
"Having to choose how to interact with each person. A hundred times. Each requiring different energy, different approach. It's cognitively exhausting."
Sarah pulled up more data. "Speaking of exhausting – let's talk about the resources used:
- 300 liters of water
- 84 energy drinks
- 742 paper towels
- 3 printers broken from consent forms
- 1 very confused Deliveroo driver"
"The Deliveroo guy?" Emma looked up. "He didn't..."
"No," Sarah said. "Just got stuck in security. Mike still has his thermal bag."
Emily scrolled through participant feedback on her tablet:
*"Weirdest networking event ever."*
*"Like a very awkward doctor's office."*
*"The magician stole my Rolex."*
*"Does this count as a business expense?"*
*"Can I get CPD points for this?"*
"The cleanup crew found more stuff," Emma added. "Thirteen business cards. Four marriage proposals written on napkins. One Harvard MBA application essay – apparently this was his 'demonstration of leadership.'"
"Did he get in?" Emily asked.
"Still pending. But his GMAT scores were impressive."
The medical report continued detailing recovery metrics. Heart rate normalized after 48 hours. Muscle fatigue within expected parameters. Vocal strain from "excessive small talk about cryptocurrency."
"Next time," Sarah said, already planning, "we ban crypto discussion."
"Next time," Dr. Rachel interrupted, "we need better eye protection. And maybe a linguistics coach to handle the small talk."
———
A month after the event, Emily shares her experience and memory of the event.
She looked different. Younger somehow, but also more tired.
"Know what I remember most?" She stirred her tea absently. "Not the guys. Not the record. Just Sarah's voice through that baby monitor, counting numbers. Like a weird meditation track."
The media storm had barely subsided. Every adult site claimed their own version of the story. Twitter threads analyzed the sociological implications. Three universities had requested research access.
"People ask if I dissociated during it," she continued, watching dog walkers pass by. "Truth is, I started dissociating during the paperwork. By guy twenty, I was thinking about redecorating my kitchen. By fifty, planning Christmas presents. By eighty..." She shrugged. "Wondering if I'd left my straighteners on."
The café's normality seemed to help her open up. Here, she wasn't Emily Phillips, record breaker, content creator, industry pioneer. Just a tired 23-year-old trying to process something unprecedented.
"The pressure though..." She paused, choosing words carefully. "Everyone wanted their moment to be special. Their five minutes to be memorable. Try being memorable a hundred times in one day."
"The weirdest part was the performance pressure," Emily said, ordering a second tea. "Not just physically. Everyone wanted their slot to be special. Like each guy thought he'd be different. Better. More memorable."
She laughed softly. "One guy brought a business plan. Said afterward was the perfect time to discuss his startup. Another tried teaching me Python coding. In those five minutes."
The autumn wind rustled fallen leaves across the café patio. A month after the event, the physical marks had faded. The mental processing was taking longer.
"You start categorizing them," she continued. "The nervous ones. The overconfident ones. The ones who talked too much. Guy 57 spent his entire time explaining Bitcoin. Guy 84 wanted to discuss his divorce."
Sarah had compiled the data:
23 marriage proposals
46 business pitches
12 guys cried afterward
3 offered to fund her next venture
1 tried to recruit her to his MLM scheme
"Some guys brought gifts," Emily remembered. "Like it was a first date. One brought a PowerPoint presentation about his performance goals. Another had a spreadsheet of his... training regime."
The industry impact was undeniable. Every creator now wanted their own record-breaking event. Supply companies had started marketing "marathon packages." Security firms offered "high-volume event management."
"But nobody talks about the boring parts," Emily said. "The endless paperwork. Health screenings. Insurance forms. One guy's lawyer called mid-event to discuss intellectual property rights."
"The industry changed overnight," Emily said, watching raindrops race down the café window. "Now everyone wants their own record. But they don't understand the infrastructure needed. The legal team alone..."
Sarah's final report sat unopened on her phone:
24 potential lawsuits avoided
3 marriage contracts nullified
1 attempt to claim squatter's rights at the Airbnb
£47,000 in legal fees
16 cease-and-desist letters to copycat events
"Other creators call daily for advice," she continued. "They think it's just about endurance. Nobody asks about the psychological prep. The security protocols. The medical contingencies."
A notification lit up her phone – another documentary offer. Netflix, this time. They wanted to recreate the event with actors. "Missing the point," she muttered, declining.
"Everyone focuses on the number – one hundred. Nobody talks about the human moments. Guy 34 showing pictures of his dog. Guy 71 practicing his stand-up routine. Guy 89 asking for career advice."
The medical report had surprised everyone. The physical recovery was quick. The emotional processing took longer. Dr. Rachel's notes mentioned "unprecedented psychological dynamics" and "unique stress patterns."
"You know what haunts me?" Emily stirred her cold tea. "The small talk. A hundred different conversations. A hundred different connections, or attempts at connection. Some guys wanted to bare their souls. Others couldn't make eye contact."
Sarah had categorized the participants:
The Life Story Sharers
The Silent Types
The Nervous Jokers
The Business Networkers
The Record Chasers
The Emotional Processors
The Social Media Documenters
"One guy – number 63 – spent his entire time talking about his mother's recipe for lasagna. In detail. Including the secret ingredient." She smiled faintly. "It's nutmeg, apparently."
The industry fallout continued. Adult sites changed their policies. Content creators revised their boundaries. Insurance companies added new clauses specifically addressing "marathon events."
"The pressure to perform wasn't just physical," Emily reflected. "Each guy wanted to feel special. How do you make a hundred people feel unique in five minutes each? That's the real marathon."
"Most don't understand the emotional labor," Emily said, finally opening Sarah's final report on her phone. "A hundred different emotional connections. A hundred different expectations. It's like being a therapist, entertainer, and performer all at once."
The psychological assessment was revealing:
42% of participants tried to establish emotional connection
28% treated it purely as a transaction
15% spent most time talking about themselves
12% tried to pitch business ideas
3% proposed marriage or long-term relationships
"The dissociation started early," she continued, pushing away her cold tea. "By guy thirty, I was planning my grocery list. By fifty, mentally redecorating my flat. By seventy, composing emails in my head."
Sarah joined us, clipboard permanently attached even off-duty. "Tell them about the guy who brought his resume."
Emily laughed. "Number 88. Said his career advisor told him to 'network everywhere.' Literally handed me his CV after... you know. Asked about our company's dental plan."
The industry analysis was staggering:
Content subscription rates up 300%
Dozen copycat events announced
New insurance category created
Three university studies launched
Two parliamentary inquiries pending
"The weirdest part?" Emily leaned forward. "The waiting room dynamics. CEOs making small talk with students. Celebrities trying to act normal. That one guy teaching magic tricks to pass time."
Sarah's clipboard rattled with fresh papers. "The aftermath data is fascinating. Twenty participants started therapy. Thirty joined gyms. One became a monk."
"A monk?"
"Said the experience was spiritually enlightening. Though that might've been the dehydration."
"The conversations haunt me more than anything physical," Emily said, watching pedestrians hurry past in the rain. "Guy 22 confessed he was in love with his best friend's wife. Guy 75 cried about his dead hamster. Guy 93 wanted feedback on his novel outline."
Sarah checked her endless notes:
17 life stories shared
8 childhood traumas revealed
23 business ideas pitched
4 conspiracy theories explained
1 detailed breakdown of Star Wars lore
"It's like I became everyone's confession booth," Emily continued. "Five minutes to unburden their souls. And I had to respond, to engage, to make each one feel heard. A hundred times."
The industry impact had rippled beyond adult content:
Event planning companies studying the logistics
Security firms analyzing crowd management
Medical schools requesting case studies
Psychology journals pursuing research
Silicon Valley interested in the queuing algorithms
"People think it's just about physical stamina," Emily mused. "But try having a hundred first dates in one day. A hundred first impressions. A hundred attempts at meaningful connection in five-minute slots."
Sarah's data revealed unexpected patterns:
Morning participants: More nervous, more talkative
Afternoon group: Most efficient, business-like
Evening crowd: More emotional, seeking connection
Late night arrivals: Mix of philosophers and urgent oversharers
"One guy - number 97 - spent his entire time explaining why Breaking Bad is better than The Wire. With charts." Emily shook her head. "Said he'd been practicing the presentation for weeks."
"Looking back," Emily said, watching the last sunlight fade over Hampstead Heath, "it wasn't about the record. Or the money. Or even the content. It was about proving something."
She paused, considering her words carefully. "Not to the guys. Not to the industry. To myself."
Sarah's final report lay closed on the table. Inside, the numbers told one story - subscribers, revenue, social media impact. But sitting here, watching Emily stare into the distance, I saw another.
"Everyone keeps asking if I'll do two hundred next," she said softly. "They miss the point. One hundred wasn't about the number. It was about the limit. My limit. And now I know where it is."
The café was closing. Staff stacked chairs around us, but no one rushed the woman who'd made headlines around the world.
"The funny thing?" She gathered her coat. "After all that planning, all that chaos, what I remember most is Sarah's voice through that baby monitor, counting down. Like a weird meditation tape."
She stood, wincing slightly - some aches lingered. "Know what I'm most proud of? Not the record. Not the money. But that we did it professionally. Safely. With respect for everyone involved."
Outside, London's evening traffic hummed. Emily Phillips - content creator, record breaker, industry pioneer - looked suddenly young in the streetlight.
"Would I recommend it?" She smiled, tired but genuine. "Ask me in a year. Right now, I just want to sleep. And maybe write a management book. 'How to Handle a Hundred: Lessons in Extreme Project Management.'"
Sarah snorted. "Chapter One: Always Have a Clipboard."
As they walked away, Emily turned back one last time. "You know what's really crazy? After all that... I kind of miss the baby monitor."
It gets even wilder.
Emily still believes she'll find a guy to marry. However, she is a realist, saying, 'One poor bastard has got to marry me.'
Because in the end, that's what remained: not the record, not the headlines, but the small, strange moments that made history human.
Even if that history needed better eye protection next time.
And that's the story that has the whole world shocked beyond belief.
Thanks for tuning in.
