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FlowFi is in your pocket. 📱 Live projects, free Early Radar alerts and FLUX. 
🍏 IOS : 🤖 Android is next. Join the waitlist and become a tester:
 🏁 The Weekend Race is LIVE: 3,000,000 $FLOWFI to the 3 biggest point gainers. How to win:
+40 Invite a friend (up to 5)
+30 Sign in on the FlowFi app
+20 Open the app 3 different days
+15 Share a catch on X, every day
+15 Connect Telegram alerts All your race tasks, live: Ends Sunday 11:59 PM ET. Only points gained during the race count. 5pQPh2EBz3tSUcqig9jGY73u4hNrhiiiLtYQSHaqFLow

Exciting Claude Duet update: every Pro, Max and Ultra subscriber in the US who was on the waitlist as of yesterday has now been invited. Thank you for your patience! If you haven’t joined yet, the waitlist is here: We also wanted to share a note on usage. To give you room to play with Claude Duet, the research preview comes with limit resets: 3 for Pro, 1 for Max and Ultra. Please check your inbox, give Claude Duet a try, and keep the feedback coming. We’re aiming to open up to more countries outside the US very soon.

My mom fed a homeless man behind our house for 20 years. Three meals a day, even when we couldn’t afford electricity. I hated her for it. The day after her funeral, that same man took my hands, looked me straight in the eyes, and said: “Before she died, she begged me to stay silent.” I honestly had no idea what he was talking about. For 20 years, this man had lived in a makeshift shelter behind our rental house. My mom brought him breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Every single day. And the crazy thing was, we were poor too. My sneakers had tape covering the holes. Sometimes we struggled to pay our bills, and there were days when we couldn’t even afford electricity. But somehow, my mother always found enough food to feed him. I never understood it. I remember coming home two days before Christmas and finding a yellow eviction notice taped to our front door. We were struggling to keep a roof over our heads, yet my mother was still preparing three meals a day for a stranger. That night, I finally lost my temper. Me: “Maybe if you stopped feeding strangers, we wouldn’t live like this!” My mom turned around so quickly that I knew I had crossed a line. Mom: “Don’t you ever DARE say that again.” I had never seen her that furious before. I didn’t understand why she was defending him so strongly when her own child was going without things. I moved out when I turned 18. We fought less after that, mostly because I stopped asking questions. But the man stayed. Year after year, his little shelter remained behind our house, and my mother continued feeding him. Then my mom got sick. Cancer made her small. She became quiet, and it was the kind of quiet that scares you because you know something terrible is happening. Two weeks before she died, she reached out and grabbed my wrist. Her grip was so weak that it broke my heart. Mom: “Promise me you’ll keep feeding him.” I looked at her. Honestly, I wanted to say no. I wanted to ask why she was still worrying about that man when she was the one who needed help. But you don’t lie to a dying mother. So I promised. My mom eventually passed away. The day after her funeral, I prepared the best meal I could, put it on a plate, covered it with foil, and drove to her house. I had promised her I would keep feeding him. But when I got there, the man was gone. His shelter had been completely cleared out. Everything was gone. The ground had even been swept clean, as if those 20 years had never happened. I stood there holding the warm plate, wondering where he could have gone. Then I noticed something. A black SUV was parked at the curb. Standing beside it was a man wearing an expensive wool coat. He was clean-shaven, well-dressed, and looked nothing like the homeless man I had known for 20 years. But the thing that caught my attention was what he was holding. My mother’s old silver locket. The same locket she had told me she lost when I was eight years old. He looked at me and said: Man: “I thought you wouldn’t come.” I stared at him. Me: “Wait… is that you? What’s going on?” He smiled, but his expression was unsteady. His eyes were already filling with tears. Man: “Your mom hid something from you.” I felt my stomach tighten. Me: “What did she hide?” He looked at the plate in my hands before responding. Man: “Before she died, she begged me to stay silent.” My blood went cold. Me: “Silent about what?” He gently shook his head. Man: “Sit down. You shouldn’t hear this standing in the cold.” We sat on the front steps. The plate was still warm between us. He turned my mother’s silver locket over in his palm as though it might break. Then he began telling me something I never could have imagined. Man: “My real name is Vernon Hale. Before all this, I owned a company. I had a big house in Connecticut, a wife, and a little girl. My daughter was six years old.” I just stared at him.

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An American porn actress says a single shoot in Madrid involved 80 men and nearly a liter of semen. She counted 122 ejaculations, followed by another 10 onto her face. The night before, she had sat across from the director asking about pay and medical testing. He answered by opening a spreadsheet. In the interview below, she describes how the production was organized, from recruiting performers to deciding when she could take a break. According to her, the studio maintained a roster of around 300 men in Madrid. Getting onto it required a referral. Test results fed into the spreadsheet so the crew could track who was cleared to participate. The men could earn more depending on the shot they delivered. She says she was given three medications before filming, including one she describes as a muscle relaxant. Nine women worked as fluffers. Their waiting room had pink furniture and candy on the table. Outside, the men lined up while her videos played on a television. The shoot followed a repeating schedule: ten ejaculations into her mouth, swallow, then another ten. After fifty, she took a break and recorded an interview before returning. One assistant held a bowl beneath her chin to catch whatever spilled. She says the role even had a name: “scooper.” Amid all that coordination, she remembers one man missing and quietly apologizing. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” For the final sequence, she requested ten men instead of the usual five. Then the director addressed the group in Spanish. One word caught her attention: “ojos.” Eyes. Afterward, she asked whether he had instructed them to aim at her eyes. He denied it. According to her, he had repeated something she mentioned over dinner - that she didn’t mind and the men interpreted it differently. She has since referred other American performers to the production. “I’ve sent them so many Americans.”

⚡️ CDR on now disarms larger files in milliseconds. Macros, OLE objects and scripts come out. Text, tables, images and layout stay where they were. Users get a clean copy that is safe to open, without the wait.