Wow, We're Kinda Sluts, Huh!

Jane and Chanel, both eighteen, huddle over the mess of laundry tangled on the bed. They grab shirts first. Jane holds up one spotted with dried come and laughs about the guy who bent her over the stairwell. Chanel lifts her roommate’s torn panties, tracing the crusty patch—remembers fucking two friends on the couch while Jane watched from the doorway. They keep digging. Leggings cling with sweat and sex. One tank top smells like the backseat of a taxi after Chanel blew the driver. A hoodie carries the faint stain of Jane’s knees pressed against concrete when she let a stranger fuck her mouth behind the club. Each scrap of cloth tells the same filthy truth. Soon they both sit back, the pile untouched, useless. Chanel shrugs. “We’re only good at one thing, and it isn’t laundry.” Jane bites her lip, heat flushing her cheeks. Chanel’s smirk turns sly. She nudges the clothes to the floor. They tumble forward together—no outfits needed tonight.