Wow, We're Kinda Sluts, Huh!

They were still in their towels when the laundry made everything complicated. A whole snarled pile across Jane Wilde’s bed, fresh from the dryer and none of it theirs. Her purple lace thong showed up in Chanel’s hand, crusted with last week’s quickie on the stairwell. Chanel laughed, held the thong up by the string, and said the rideshare driver had fingered Jane so hard the lace tore. Jane stole the thong back and shoved a red crop top into Chanel’s palm, the back split from the night they rode a pair of strangers in the parking lot behind the club. A jockstrap followed, stiff with come; Jane said it belonged to the basketball player who bent her over the washing machine at three a.m. Chanel fished out her own fishnets next, the crotch cut open with a utility knife by someone whose name neither girl could spell. Story after story until every pair of underwear told the same dirty secret: they never finished the laundry because they kept starting something else. Finally they stopped, the bed still covered, nothing wearable left, and Chanel cocked an eyebrow. "Face it, we only excel at one thing." Jane’s grin slid wide and slow; her towel slipped an inch. Chanel’s voice dropped. "Stay in. Do what we do best." Jane answered by shoving the whole mess to the floor, towel already on the mattress. "Clothes were never required anyway."