National Pornographic

It starts as a joke.

Bored, drunk, the kind of night where bad ideas feel like genius and genius feels like a hangover waiting to happen. Jake, he’s the one who says it first. “You know what’d be funny? Like, if we made National Geographic, but for porn.”

Laughter. Half-hearted. We’re on our third round of cheap beer and nihilism. Mark chimes in next. “Yeah, like, we could do those wildlife voiceovers. Talk about the mating habits of, like... people. Just film them going at it. Call it National Pornographic.”

The table goes silent for a beat. Then we’re all laughing. Too loud. Too long. The kind of laugh that sounds like freedom and recklessness. But the thing is, when it dies down, no one says, “That’s a bad idea.”

No one says, “Don’t.”

Two weeks later, Jake’s at my apartment, laptop open, domain registered. NationalPornographic.com. The homepage is basic. A black screen, white text. “Exploring the mating rituals of the modern homo sapiens.” The tagline alone makes us feel like gods. Untouchable. Like we’re doing something revolutionary.

Mark’s got the camera. Jake’s got the editing software. I’m the one who figures out the logistics. The ethics—or lack of them.

The plan is simple. We don’t ask. We just film.

Neighbors. People in the building across the street. Friends who leave their blinds open. The thing is, no one ever thinks they’re being watched. Everyone’s living in their own bubble, fucking or crying or doing whatever people do when they think no one’s looking. But we’re looking. We’re documenting.

The first episode’s a hit.

Some middle-aged couple from two doors down. Married, but you wouldn’t know it from the way they don’t touch each other unless the lights are off. Jake does the voiceover, all Attenborough-like. “Here, we observe the elusive male in his natural habitat, performing the ritual known as ‘settling.’” It’s darkly funny. Twisted. People eat it up. The views climb. Comments roll in. “Fucking hilarious.” “Real life is porn.” “Can’t wait for the next one.”

We start uploading more. More people, more lives. And every time we post, the rush is bigger. It’s not just the views—it’s the power. It’s the control. We’re watching their secrets. Capturing them. And they have no idea.

Episode 2: The Girl in 3B

The girl in 3B is a grad student. She leaves her blinds open, her life scattered across her tiny apartment like an unfinished sentence. There’s something tragic about it, the way she studies late into the night with half-eaten takeout containers littering her desk. But it’s not the studying we’re here for.

Jake sets up the camera, zooms in on the window, where she’s just taken off her shirt. She’s alone, but there’s no awkwardness to it. No hesitation. The kind of ease that comes from being so used to your own body you forget anyone might see it. And that’s the hook. She doesn’t know we’re here. Her life isn’t a performance; it’s real, raw, unfiltered. And we catch all of it.

Mark’s voiceover this time, trying to sound sophisticated, like some nature documentary you’d watch on a rainy afternoon. “Here we observe the solitary female, a creature of habit, performing her nightly grooming rituals. Notice the absence of a mate, a sign that her species has adapted to thrive in isolation.” He laughs when he says it. I laugh too, but it’s a nervous laugh. It’s not funny. Not really.

She goes about her night, unaware that her routine is being turned into content. But the views—the views explode. Comments roll in. “Dude, the grad student is HOT.” “She’s so real, like, not fake like the Instagram models.” “More of her, please.”

It’s like we’ve cracked the code. People don’t want porn. They want real life, packaged and served without the gloss, without the pretense. They want to feel like they’re getting a glimpse into something private, something they were never meant to see.

Episode 3: The Couple Upstairs

This one hits different. It’s late, past midnight, and we hear them through the ceiling before we see them. The couple in 4D has a... complicated relationship. We set up the camera in Jake’s room, the ceiling mic picking up every argument, every fight. It’s messy, chaotic. They’re screaming at each other about something stupid—laundry, bills, whatever—and then, like clockwork, it turns into something else.

Jake whispers, “They’re at it again.” And I know what he means. The fights always end in sex. Like it’s the only way they know how to communicate. They’re loud, and it’s brutal. Not romantic, not soft. Just animalistic. We film the shadows on the ceiling, flickering like something from a horror movie.

Mark does the voiceover, deadpan: “The alpha male asserts dominance after a territorial dispute, while the female responds in kind. A ritualistic act of aggression masked as intimacy.”

It’s not even a joke anymore. It’s uncomfortable. There’s something wrong with the way they go at it, the way they scream and claw at each other. We’re watching something violent. But we upload it anyway.

The comments are different this time. People are hooked. “Damn, this is better than reality TV.” “Is this real? Feels too raw to be fake.” “They’ve got issues, but they’re hot AF.”

And we know. People want the mess. They want the parts no one else sees. The breakdowns, the fights, the desperation. The parts of themselves they keep hidden. We’ve become purveyors of the ugly side of life. The side no one admits they’re addicted to.

Episode 4: The Guy Next Door

This one wasn’t planned.

We’re filming something else, testing out the equipment when we catch him—our neighbor, the quiet guy who never says more than “hello” in the hallway. He’s standing in front of his window, staring out, not at anything in particular. Just... standing there. At first, we think nothing of it. But he doesn’t move. Not for minutes. Not for what feels like hours. He’s still. Frozen. Like some weird mannequin in a department store.

Jake zooms in, just out of curiosity. There’s something unsettling about the way he’s positioned. Like he’s waiting for something. Or someone. Us, maybe?

Then, slowly, his head turns. Just enough to make it clear. He knows. He’s looking straight at us. Through the lens. Like he’s been watching us watch him the whole time.

I tell Jake to turn the camera off, but he doesn’t. He keeps filming as the guy smiles. A slow, creeping smile that spreads across his face like he’s enjoying the show just as much as we are.

Mark’s voiceover: “The predator becomes prey.”

We upload it anyway. Because we’re in too deep now. The thrill of it, the danger of being seen—it’s intoxicating.

The comments go wild. People can’t get enough of this guy. They’re calling him a genius, some performance artist who’s playing us, turning our own game against us. Others think he’s just a weirdo. But no one really knows the truth.

Except us.

Episode 5: Your Mom

This is where it all starts to go to hell. It’s another late night. We’re all buzzed, a little too drunk, a little too high on our own hubris. And someone—I don’t even remember who—says, “What if we did someone we know? Like, really know.”

And that’s when Jake pulls out the footage.

It’s his mom. Filmed through her bedroom window while she thinks she’s alone. He caught it one night when he was over at her place for dinner, her blinds half-open, her life laid bare in a way no son should ever see. She’s sitting at her vanity, brushing her hair, lost in thought. It’s mundane. Innocent, even.

But it’s not the act that’s the problem. It’s the fact that he filmed it at all.

We all know it’s wrong. I feel it in my gut, this cold, sinking feeling like we’ve crossed a line we can’t uncross. But no one says anything. No one stops him.

We upload it.

The reaction is immediate. People lose their minds. “Dude, your own mom?” “This is some next-level shit.” “You guys are sick. I love it.”

But something’s changed. The thrill is gone, replaced by something darker. A sense of violation, not just of privacy, but of something deeper. Something human.

Jake’s quiet after that. Withdrawn. He doesn’t say much, just stares at the screen as the views rack up, as the comments pile in.

And that’s when we get the first message. Anonymous. “I see you.”

We ignore it at first. Just another troll. But then the messages keep coming. They get more specific. They know where we live. They know what we’ve been filming. And they’re not happy.