The Hill Intern's Dead Drop

Say your boss is a congressman and he needs something for Saturday that can't end up on a card statement. He obviously can't be the one to buy it. So he's quietly decided you, the intern, are discreet enough to handle it. There's no email about this. Just a look and a "hey, can you take care of something for me." Congrats I guess. You're the asset now.

And to be clear, this isn't the dry cleaning. It's supplies for a Saturday night that is very much not on his official calendar, at an address that isn't his. So "discreet" means a bit more here than usual. Here's roughly how I'd run it.

Placing the order

Don't use the office wifi or the official account. Just your own phone on the way to lunch, like you're ordering anything else. Deluvery's storefront doesn't ask who it's for, which is good, because "my boss, the congressman from the third district" is not a thing you want to be typing into a form. Pick the stuff, set a drop spot, keep walking.

The drop

Pick a bench. Not the popular one by the fountain, a quieter one where you can see who's coming. You want the bag to look like somebody's forgotten lunch and not the most interesting object in the park.

The handoff itself is boring, which is sort of the skill. No trench coat, none of the movie stuff. A courier leaves a plain package on the bench, you show up a few minutes later, and you grab it like you set a bag down to tie your shoe. Honestly the hard part is just not making it weird.

Deluvery is a same-night adult wellness delivery service in DC. We carry toys, lubes, condoms, and personal care, and everything shows up in plain packaging with nothing on the outside that gives it away. The card statement is forgettable too, which matters more than usual when the card isn't technically yours. In a town that reads the morning news for a living, boring is the feature.

Getting it to the boss

Now you bring it back in. Don't announce what's in the bag, and don't leave it on his desk with a sticky note that says "for Saturday." It goes in the tote with the lunch, set down with the receipts, and you say nothing. Knowing which errands you never bring up again is most of the job. (Or you save it for the memoir in fifteen years. Your call.)

The one part that isn't a bit: none of it follows him afterward. No ad trailing him around the internet later, no brand name that would be genuinely hard to explain in a deposition. That's the actual reason to do it this way, and we get into how we handle it in Privacy-First Adult Delivery, minus the congressman.

Do you actually need the whole park-bench routine for this? Almost certainly not. Most people just take delivery at their door and never think about it again. But if the assignment comes with a wink and a townhouse address, well, at least you've got a plan now.

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