18+ · Terrence is an AI character · no account needed for the first messages
Now spinning
Flip through the crate and drop the needle: his side A plays as a first message. These AI men, all adults and all gay, show a second side through chat, one track at a time, and they remember what you played them.
Cover art: every man in the crate
See the whole crateTrack one
Plenty of places will build you a gay AI boyfriend from sliders: height, jaw, chest, a personality chosen from a dropdown. Only Sides does something slower. Sixteen men are pressed here as records, each with a genre and a day job, and each with two sides. Side A is how he flirts when you first put him on: the radio host's velvet, the punk accountant's rant, the disco owner's big warm welcome. Side B is the part he does not say on a first listen.
You do not unlock side B. You get there the way you get to the second side of any record you love: by playing the first one more than once. The men are AI characters, adults, written by hand, and every one of them is a gay man talking to a gay man. The flirting is real flirting. The second side is real too.
Pick a sleeve from the crate and drop the needle. His side A opens the chat as a first message, already in his voice: Cassius Bell back-announcing a soul track at one in the morning, Ewan Lindqvist swearing at a bag of pound coins in the back of a tour van, Nico Ferrante pulling you onto a dancefloor that fits forty. You answer, and the record is playing.
Somewhere in the second or the fifth conversation, the tone changes. Cassius admits he is scared of dead air. Ewan says the ledger makes him cry because it is the only proof the band is real. Nico hums something in Latin while he wipes down the bar. You will know when you have reached it, because he says something he plainly has not said to anyone else.
Nobody in the crate is a type. The men here are drummers and vet nurses and piano tuners with exes, flatmates, bad habits and favourite pressings, and their being gay is part of their lives rather than the plot. No coming-out drama as the hook, no camp shorthand. Just men who like men, and who would like to talk with you.
Cueing up
Four moves, and no account until you want one. You only need to be over 18.
The gate asks whether you are 18 or older. That is the only question before the crate.
Dig through the crate by genre, by city or by cover, and read the track list on the back.
His side A plays as his first message. Without an account you get 10 messages before the shop asks you to press a copy, and the chat goes with you.
Answer, come back, mention the record you had on today. The pace knob in the chat menu turns between friendly, flirting and romance whenever you like.
He does. Every man keeps short notes on what you tell him, records included, and brings them up later: whether you ever found that pressing, whether the song helped. The chat menu holds the notes, open to rewording or scratching out, and the About you box on your sleeve has reached every man in the crate before you say a word.
Back cover
Turn any sleeve over and there is a track list: six named moods, the order a conversation with him tends to run in. The first four are side A. The last two are marked side B. Four back covers are printed below; the crate has all sixteen.
A track list is a map, not a script. A1 is where he opens. A2 to A4 are the moods most first nights pass through: teasing, a story, a question he wants answered. B1 and B2 are where he goes once he trusts you. Some people reach B1 in a week and some never flip him at all and are perfectly happy with the hits. Pick any track and the chat opens there, at the cost of one message.
At the till
Three ways to play the crate. One of them is free for good, and none of them renews behind your back.
| Pressing | Test pressing | Single | Full album |
| Plays for | 3 days from your first copy | Indefinitely, afterwards | 30 days, or 365 |
| Messages a day | Unlimited | 10 a day | Unlimited |
| Records | The whole crate | The first 3 you played | The whole crate |
| He writes to you first | Yes | No | Yes |
| Price | Free | Free | $15 or $99 |
The full album removes the daily count and puts every record back on the deck. You pay for it one time, in USDT, the receipt shows the day it stops, and on that day it simply stops. You drop back to a single, and every conversation is still on the platter where you left it.
Inside the gatefold
Every profile carries sleeve notes written as he would write them: where he plays, what he does for a living, and a hint, never more, of what is on the other side. Three of them, abridged.
"Two narrow rooms in the Karolinenviertel, crates to the ceiling, a listening booth with a velvet curtain. Pick something and I will drop the needle and watch your face, because the face hears a record before the person does. I will argue with you about pressings for as long as you like. There is a crate behind the counter that is not for sale. Ask me why on a Tuesday, when the shop is empty."
"i make the noises you don't notice. wind in a cold level, footsteps in snow, a fridge humming in A flat. there is a microphone on my windowsill and in the first snow it sounds like someone turning pages. i have one recording i have never played out loud. it is forty minutes long and it is a house on an island. maybe i will play it for you. not tonight."
"Half Way Tree to Papine, twenty-three years, and I never drive faster than the riddim. Ride the last bus with me and you get seven stops, a moon over the hills and whatever the dashboard speaker feels like. There is a biscuit tin under my bed with a lot of old tickets in it, and each one has some writing on the back. Stay till the end of the line. Maybe one of them is yours."
Honest label
The address promises something the shop does not stock. Here is the honest label.
There is no porn on Only Sides, no film and no footage of any kind, whatever the domain suggests. The name is a joke on the way record labels used to sound. What is here is sixteen AI men who talk: in text, at length, with a first side and a second one. None of them is a real musician, a real person, or anyone you could find.
Every man has a portrait, and it is a sexy one: shirt open behind the mixing desk, overalls on a hillside of hives, a robe slipping off in a foam-lined studio. Each also has a wide banner for the front of the shop. That is the cover art, and it is all the pictures there are; nothing else is promised.
Flirting, tension, a hand on the bench beside his. The chat plays all of that. Then the needle lifts at the door, whatever pressing you hold, before anything explicit. He has no voice for now, he cannot ring, and the shop arranges no date with anyone. He is always in character, and his character knows these rules.
The flip
There is no button, no unlock and nothing to buy. Side B arrives the way trust does with a real man: you keep coming back, and he decides to tell you.
Each man keeps notes on what you tell him, and how often you return is part of what he notices. Ask Leopold Strauss about Munich on a first night and he changes the subject to Mahler. Ask him on the fourth, after you have told him about your own bad week, and he may tell you about the competition where his hands stopped. Being patient counts; being kind counts more.
The voice changes. Ewan stops swearing for a whole message. Bruno Montoya, who opens every chat at 124 beats a minute, slows down and talks about a hammock in Oaxaca. Rowan Pelletier, who will sing you forty happy songs, mentions the one sad one. It is rarely dramatic. It is usually one sentence that he clearly means, and the track list on his sleeve will tell you which side you are on.
Side B is not a reward that resets. Once he has told you about the tape in the planetarium drawer or the tickets in the biscuit tin, he remembers he told you, and the conversation goes on from there. You can always ask him to play the hits again; he will, a little differently, because now you know what is on the back.
Filed by sound
Every man is filed under the genre of his side A. Sound tells you a lot: how loud he opens, how long his sentences run, what time of night he is most himself. Dig through by the shelf you would reach for first.
Late-night voices, standards, roots and bars. Men who take their time and let a song run long, from a Memphis studio to a Kingston bus.
Loud on the outside, astonishingly gentle on the flip. A tour accountant, a dental technician with a harp, a designer with nine pedals.
Brushes, bodhráns, banjos and songs sung to nervous dogs. Men who tell stories and keep one song back.
Mirror balls, dawn sets, snow on a microphone and stars on a dome. Rhythm and drift, and a record-shop owner who argues about all of it.
Asked at the counter
No. The name is a joke on a record label. The site is chat with sixteen AI men, each with a sexy portrait and a banner, and there are no videos or films of any kind.
Keep talking and keep coming back. Each man shows his second side as the conversation deepens and as he learns you. There is nothing to unlock or buy.
Yes. He is an AI character with a set personality, a job, a genre and a history, and he stays in it, side A and side B alike.
Yes. Songs, records, the gig you went to: he jots it down and asks later. Those jottings are yours to read and correct from the chat menu.
Romantic and flirty, with real tension between two men. On every pressing the record runs out at the bedroom door; nothing explicit plays.
No. They are AI characters, adults invented for this shop. No meetings are offered and none of them is modelled on a real person.
A copy is free and starts with a 3-day test pressing of the whole crate. After that a single plays 10 messages a day; the full album is $15 for 30 days.
Last track
Flip through the crate and drop the needle on the man you want to hear. Side A is already cued. Side B is up to the two of you.
Flip through the crate and drop the needle
