“Alexa, play: Poster of a Girl by Metric.” 

I dash from the living room mirror to my bedroom mirror, trying to decide which of them is a better “skinny mirror.” The wide rims of my lace bell bottoms drag on the kitchen floor and vodka spills out of the pink martini glass I’m holding. Droplets of Belvedere run through my spray tan, parting a river of white skin across my olive cleavage. I fish for a kabuki brush and bronzer pan out of my Canal Street Chanel bag, then buff the running spot, knocking over my martini with my prosthetic hand.

It is the night before I will meet my future ex wife. Neither of the mirrors are skinny.

“Alexa, honey, play Gods and Monsters by Lana Del Rey.”

I contemplate using black electrical tape for my tits instead of the cross-shaped pasties that came with my slutty nun costume for tonight’s Halloween party. I open a window and stare out like a forlorn adolescent on a family car trip. Lana sings, sirens blare, curtains billow, and I pretend I’m in a music video instead of a semi-gentrified part of Bushwick.  I mop up the vodka with a satin nightgown.

“Alexa, do you think these pasties will fit my big ass titties?”

My roommate is often out on modeling gigs, and I’ve gotten pretty codependent with Alexa. Alexa’s sorry, but she can’t answer that.
Inside the club that night, the vibe is dark. It’s the beginning of the end, illuminated by the glow of the exit sign.

“BRO, deadass, FACTS,” I hear a familiar Long Island voice boom at the bar.

“Hi, daddy,” I bat my false lashes and pray there isn’t red lipstick on my teeth. Ash is one of my all time favorite dykes. A nice Jewish girl from Jericho, who can really take care of a woman, because her daddy still takes care of her.

“YO. You want a shot? Yeah? We’ll take two shots of Jameson,” she orders without waiting for my answer.

On the dance floor, I unite with my best friends. Zara is dressed as a slutty Little Bo Peep (Lil’ Ho Peep on DollsKill.com) looking sexy and deranged in a pink gingham dress, white corset, and thigh high white patent leather boots, complete with a bedazzled herding cane. Arielle is dressed as Zara’s sheep in a white fuzzy onesie and a collar.

Here comes my model roommate who is too cool to dress up for Halloween.  She looks like an overinflated balloon attached to a string, a big bobble head on a skinny wire. What would happen if I took my martini toothpick and pricked her pretty little face? Pop. 

On the uber ride home, I carelessly swipe right without even looking at each photo I’m matched with. I write about sex and dating for a living and I always need content. Sue me.

“It’s a match!” flashes across my screen and dopamine cha-chas through my brain. 40-years-old. Long dark curly hair. Are those Lanvin sunglasses? On a yacht in Mykonos?

“Hi, you seem so interesting and I’d love to meet up for a drink,” I drunkenly send a message to the stranger called Melissa. I’m sick of dating girls with roommates that have beef with capitalism. 

“Raines Law Room. Tomorrow at 8,” she messages back.

“You simply MUST cancel. I will jump off the roof of The Wing if you don’t come to Lesbians Who Tech with me,” Zara drags out her words like gooey raclette getting scraped onto potatoes. The Wing is a women-only co-working space that came of age during the girl boss era and curled up and died during the non-binary boss era.

She pushes her Prada tote off of her lap to make room for my head as I swing my platform boots onto the pink velvet couch.

“I can’t cancel. I need to go. Like, need. I can’t describe it, Z. I think this woman could be my real deal.”

“Chug one glass of wine with her and then meet me and Ash at Faggots Who Fuck.” (Translation: Lesbians Who Tech.) It’s our dialect—replace any noun and verb with the filthiest thing you can think of. Olive Garden? The Dick Garden. The Anus Fart-en.

In the locker room, Zara begs me to cancel again as she mindlessly reapplies mascara while wrapped in a towel.

“ZB, you know I would love to eat your ass tonight, but I really can’t,” I fumble with a Dyson hairdryer, courtesy of The Wing.

“Plleeeazzeee,” Zara vocal fries without breaking eye contact with the mirror.

The roar of the hairdryer and an Adderall-fueled conversation about “deliverables” happening next to us drowns out Z’s frustration with me and she accepts defeat.

“Whatever, slut,” she flicks my nipple.

I shove myself into a black dress, black stockings, black boots, and a black leather jacket, while Zara slips into a floor-length maroon satin gown with overly-articulated shoulders. We look like extras on the set of Maleficent.

Before we separate, we get a round of drinks and some truffle popcorn at The Wing’s bar. I funnel a dry martini into my trap while Zara glug-glug-glugs a Penis Grigio. I vow to tell her everything about my date, and she vows to give me all the real-time tea from Lesbians Who Tech before we kiss on the cheek, turn on our platforms, and stomp off in different directions.

As I fumble with the GPS on my phone, my guts feel like they are spinning around on the Gravitron at a carnival and sweat accumulates across my forehead. My antenna is up for some reason, but I stuff it back down.

“A sauvignon blanc, please.” I hand the wine list back to the waiter and bat my eyelashes as an attempt to scratch the glue out of the iris.

“What mocktail would you recommend?” Melissa asks and my NEVER DATE A SOBER PERSON alarm begins violently sounding in my head and my liver.

“So, how was your day?” I ask while peeling my cuticle under the table.

“Busy, busy,” she says like she’s making small talk at a water cooler. She cracks her knuckles and examines her drink.

“Why busy? Tell me about it!” I gush a little too desperately. My cuticle starts to bleed.

Do NOT get blood on me, my Canal Street Chanel warns.

“Capital gain assets bonds stocks equity CPI iterate KPI,” Melissa responds. I mean, she says something but that’s what it sounds like to me and my Chanel, who I am now wiping my bleeding finger on.

Remember where you came from, hoe, I growl under my breath and place the bag on a bar hook. I feign stupidity to avoid having to comprehend what Melissa just said.

“Oh, so, like, do you invent new ways to deal with, like, money?”

“Sort of. Liquidation mutual fund operating leverage PPI rate of return.”

“So cool! If I could invent something, I would open up my own rock and heavy metal strip club and call it Down With The Thickness. Or a dog hotel—The Woofdorf Astoria. Don’t steal it or I’ll kill you,” I take a delicate sip of wine and giggle.

“I could definitely help you with that.”

“With the dog hotel? Are you a startup expert?” I curl my black stiletto nails near my mouth like puppy paws.

“No, I mean, I could help with the strip club. I love strip clubs. But my wife doesn’t love that I love them.”

“I’m sorry?” I dab my mouth with a napkin and dissociate.

“Yeah, I’m married. We’re planning for a kid soon. I have a hall pass and I’d like to use it before she’s pregnant. But You’re actually really beautiful, polite, and sweet. You’re classier than I thought you’d be. I’d like to get to know you.”

I decide that this is not my scene and if I was going to be the other woman, it would need to start in a more glamorous Lana Del Rey/Chateau Marmont situation, and not at a “speakeasy” in Chelsea. Get us the fuck out of here, all my accessories bark in unison.

Instead, I hang on Melissa’s every word. If I am hot enough to be a mistress to a misogynist finance bro of a lesbian like her, then I’ll know I’m, like, really hot.

We talk more. She has a mini schnauzer. She loves street art. She ogles my cleavage and asks how I am getting home.

“The subway?” she furrows her brow. “Really?”

The only reason I am even considering the subway is because I want to grab a midnight spray tan at the 24 hour Beach Bum on 14th street. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“Let me get you a car,” she reaches over the table and grips my hand, tight.

“I’ll be seeing you again,” she informs me as she unlocks her iPhone. She was right. She would see me again. Many, many, many times. In two years, I’ll walk toward her drunk on sauvignon blanc fifty pounds heavier in a big white dress.

“I’m sorry if this felt decepti– “$100? That’s ludicrous. Is an Uber pool okay?”

“Um.” That’s like asking me if fish tank water is okay instead of Belvedere.

“Of course, thank you.” 

She kisses my cheek and opens the door. Time to lose yourself. Say goodbye.

“Thanks for a lovely evening,” I say as she sends me off into the night. A lovely evening? WTF? my bedazzled beat-up prosthetic hisses at me. Who are you?

Beautiful, polite, and sweet. Classier than she thought I’d be, I hiss back.