LANA MASON
Dating in New York City is like trying to find a flattering article of clothing in a five-dollar bin at Goodwill...if the bin was on fire...and if the bin was in hell. If it's not impossible, it's just a goddamn miserable process.
I've had exactly two boyfriends my whole life, only one of which was an out-of-college relationship and it lasted for about ten months before I caught sight of his flooded Instagram DMs. He was having so many conversations with different women that I couldn't even count them all before he found me going through his phone.
The hilarious part of that breakup was when he tried to say our relationship was over because he couldn't trust me anymore. Never once did the man utter an apology for going behind my back and having 3 a.m. conversations with Molly from Austin with a rack the size of my whole body. Needless to say, the romance department in my life has been lacking as of late.
"Is it bad if I really, really just wanna get laid tonight?" Jackie suddenly breaks the silence, tilting her head back to coat her lashes in mascara while sitting on my floor.
I can't laugh because I'm using a compact mirror to draw liquid liner above my eyelids, but I want to. Jackie isn't a one-night stand kind of girl the way Maya and I can be. Well, Maya more than me, but I've had a few.
"Go for it, babe," Maya spritzes her coveted Le Labo perfume on her neck and wrists.
"Hey, can I have some?" I hold my hand out for the bottle.
"No," she says.
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because I don't want any guys getting confused if they smell the same perfume on us," she answers.
Jackie and I share a look before we both start laughing. "You're a fucking freak, Maya."
"Whatever," she cracks a half smile, standing behind Jackie to see her outfit in the full-length mirror.
She has on a little red dress and knee-high black leather stiletto boots with crocodile skin detailing. Her olive skin is glowing from the body oil she brushed across her décolletage and her slick ponytail gives her that perfect clean girl look that she wears so well. She looks like a supermodel, per usual.
"Okay, I just need to change," Jackie sings, standing from the floor in her T-shirt and leggings combination.
I'm finishing my makeup while she slips into a vintage light wash Levi's mini skirt with a long-sleeve white bodysuit underneath and her favorite black platform leather ankle boots. They're Prada, which she normally wouldn't care about, but she found them at a ridiculously low price of $50 two summers ago and she's been wearing them ever since.
"What am I supposed to wear?" I start dropping all my cosmetics back into my bag.
"Are you wearing your hair up or down?" Maya asks.
"Down," I run my fingers through the loose waves. Allison inspired me to start blowing my hair out more and I think I'm getting the hang of it.
"Do, like...your slightly oversized black blazer with no bra and those low-rise black trousers you have. And a pointed-toe heel."
"I don't have any fashion tape," I wrinkle my nose, and she digs through the bag she brought with her clothes to sleep over, tossing the roll to me.
Once I'm changed, we stand in front of my mirror to take selfies for our Instagram stories. I have Allison hidden from mine simply because I felt as though I couldn't say no when she asked me if she could follow me on the platform, but that doesn't mean I want her to see me with my boobs out, about to go bar crawling with my friends in hopes to have sex tonight. There are some things your employer just doesn't need to know.
