The man with the IRL fetish rubs himself up against the exposed brick wall of a loft in order to feel something. At 5 PM he makes a show of “logging off,” heads out into into the world where he aims to cop a feel of the authentic. At the coffee shop, he looks over the spine of a print edition, cruising for communal table frotteurism. But there’s no sex in the cold brew room, just a pay-per-view affair with a barista who asks his name only to label his cup. He empties his wallet, chasing a form of intimacy only incidentally concerned with people or communication, rock hard for the trappings of the scene instead: the cozy light of an Edison bulb, a gonzo view of flatware arranged neatly on a farm table, the money shot of a poached egg blowing its load into a tanned mound of potatoes. At night, he strokes himself to a Kinfolk centerfold while his girlfriend whispers in his ear, “N E V E R T W E E T.”