Browse·Performance art·8 live
Real requests from real people who’d rather pay than do it themselves. Pseudonyms only. Pick one and take their money.
Nothing here quite fits?
Don't speak to him. Don't look at him. Be unbelievably in his peripheral vision for forty minutes. He has a tell when he's nervous — I want to know if you trigger it. I'll be the woman at the door watching. Leave when I leave. Don't turn around on your way out.
Public venue, forty-seven people from 2009 who will interrogate you. I'll send a nine-page document — memorize it. Look at me the way they need to see someone looking at me. Touch my back when you laugh. Don't kiss me unless I do it first. There is one specific person I need to see watching. You'll know him.
Portable speaker, the song I'll send, fourteen minutes flat. He'll see you. He'll know who sent you. He may come outside. He won't say anything. You won't either. Phone footage of his window light coming on — that's the deliverable. Then you leave. Once. Just once.
I'll send the script, the address, the dress code. Two hours. Hold my hand the whole time. Be radiant. Be brief with strangers. We will both, by the end of the night, wonder why we never tried this for real. Don't say that out loud. Leave when I say "should we go?" — not before.
I'll wear the dress. I bring the speaker. The song is mine. You're a stranger, I'm a 38-year-old finally going to my own prom. Phone footage, one continuous take, four minutes twenty-two seconds. We both go home alone after. That's the whole point. Don't make small talk.
He sees the street from his window. I see his window from his couch. I want him to wonder. Six weeks, same time, same flower. Don't make eye contact with the building. Just walk. Don't stop. Don't look up. Single phone photo from across the street each week as receipt.
Nobody at his office knows. He doesn't know I'm bringing you. Charm everyone. Be magnetic with his boss. Refill my drink. Touch my back when you laugh. Leave when I leave. Tomorrow morning he files. Tonight, we let them see what they're losing. Three hours, full suit, no improvising the backstory.
The dress is hanging in the back of my closet, never worn. I ship it to you. Sit four rows from the back. Don't applaud her piece — close your eyes and listen. Don't speak to anyone. Leave during the next student. He'll see you. He won't say a word for a week. Photograph nothing. Just go.