User 60baa958fda0... - AI Fiction in the Wild

IP #165

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1 fiction conversations over 10 months, 7 days (Jun 19, 2023 – Apr 22, 2024) 30% prompt uniqueness Minas Gerais, Brazil

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These IP addresses have similar average prompt embeddings (cosine similarity ≥ 0.85, same state). View as estimated user →

23cf23353058... (328 conv., Minas Gerais) 5e636519aa50... (6 conv., Minas Gerais) 92feaf368939... (647 conv., Minas Gerais) a7a6be5ab9c0... (177 conv., Minas Gerais) be8c41eb66a5... (228 conv., Minas Gerais) c1241eb451ee... (19 conv., Minas Gerais)

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Jun 19, 2023

Apr 22, 2024

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1 conversation in cluster Cluster 48× “write a chapter of 1000 words of a comedy about a naked man ...” over less than a minute (Dec 4, 2023 – Dec 4, 2023), oldest first. Show: 10 15 50 100

Dec 4, 2023 at 12:04 PM -03 — 1 turn Brazil, Minas Gerais fiction explicit toxic View full conversation

USER: write a chapter of 1000 words of a comedy about a naked man waking up in a place he doesn't know nor remember how he got here, he in the middle of a massive lesbian orgy.

CHATBOT: Chapter 5: The Unclad Awakening (About 1000 words) The first sensation that struck George as he groggily came to was the peculiar feeling of a cool breeze where there should not have been a cool breeze. It teased and tickled in places that were generally reserved for the privacy of one's own boxers or, at the very least, a hospital gown. His eyes blinked open, but the harsh fluorescent light caused them to snap shut again, as though they were subject to the whims of a tiny, irate director shouting, "Cut!" to an unwilling actor. George squinted and attempted a second take. This time his vision adjusted, revealing a scene he could not have anticipated even if Nostradamus himself had whispered it in his ear after five pints of questionable ale. He was lying on a daybed draped in an assortment of vibrant silks and velvets. Surrounding him was what could only be described as the 21st-century version of a Renaissance painting entitled "An Ode to Sappho" with live models. Everywhere he looked, women. Women in various stages of undress and indulgence, locked in embraces, chattering happily, caressing with intent only Freud could fully appreciate. George yelped--a sound that was immediately swallowed by the rhythmic hum of pleasure that filled the room. For a certain subset of mankind, this might have been a peculiar yet welcomed turn of events--an anecdotal adventure to be recounted for decades. For George, however, a modest man of routine, where a missed morning coffee constituted an existential crisis, this was decidedly not that. "Wh-where am I?" George managed to stutter, clutching a silk pillow to his intimate regions as a makeshift loincloth. He tried to stand but found his legs had all the stability of newborn fawns on a buttered slope. With a sudden lurch, he toppled off the bed, his dismount nothing short of ungraceful. It seemed to go unnoticed, the multitude of women too absorbed in their own Olympian feats of flesh to pay mind to an errant naked man. Crab-walking backward in search of refuge or at least a pair of pants, George's back hit something solid. He whipped his head around and came nose to base with a statue. But not just any statue, a towering marble-carved figure of Aphrodite herself, judging by the strategically placed clamshell and coquettish pose. A woman approached him--a siren in a sea of sensuality--draped in a sarong that left little to the imagination. "You're awake!" She exclaimed, her eyes twinkling with the same playful mischief th...

Cluster 48