She paused by the body-length mirror by her bedroom door, critically examining what she saw reflected –– apart from minty fresh breath, she had her best oud scent on, her shirt game was on, and so was her hair game. She already knew her face game was, well, all humility aside, always on. “Damn …”

She stepped back to take one last look at the thing that really got her over the top tonight: the black-striped white denims that she’d spent her bi-weekly self-imposed clothing allowance on last week. Tiler knew what made her a stud, and what added to her legend amongst the lesbian crowd in certain parts of New York. The fade. The face. And, as the old saying went, “Clothes maketh the man.” Or the stud in this case.   She’d spotted the pants being shuttled down a street in the garment district early one morning, along with other new clothes protected in wrapping that bore the insignia of an up-and-coming designer who had showcased a few pieces during the last New York Fashion Week, and who was planning a break-out collection for the next Fashion Week.

The moment she’d seen the pants, Tiler had known she’d look good in them. She’d made a beeline to the young woman’s side (an assistant to the designer?) before the woman could’ve delivered the clothes to wherever she’d been headed.  Tiler had done what she could to fluster the girl, and had winked, smiled, and emptied her bag of charm techniques on the hapless young assistant, flirting with her even as she’d casually lifted the pants from the rack. Before the assistant had been able to regain her senses, Tiler had squeezed several C notes into the dazed woman’s palm, and had folded the precious pants over an arm. With a gentle push, she’d prodded the flustered assistant along, to resume shuttling the movable rack down the street, one pair of designer-jeans lighter. She’d slipped her calling card on the woman’s palm, along with the money, in case she, or the designer, decided to track Tiler down to retrieve these pants.

They may not have called but you were a devil to do that to that poor woman, but, man, these pants have been totally worth it. I feel be-yond hot right now. Or at least a worthy enough escort for my angel tonight. That silvery, backless outfit Jia had worn for dinner in Per Se had gotten Tiler’s inner gear redlining all night, and had sent a clear signal, which Jia reinforced all throughout the dinner with winks and touches.   So, yeah, Jia was a classy, sexy dresser who liked to flirt with her considerable looks and all-around vibe, and would be a challenge to match even for a scrupulous stud well-schooled in model-level fashion.    

Meanwhile, Jia had clearly planned to raise the fashion-game stakes tonight with that white, almost see-through, jaw-dropping outfit she floated out from Aerin’s SUV with!

Well, game on, sexy, because you’re with Tiler now, and Tiler has a rep to protect. So, yeah, there’s no way my game is going to slide in comparison to you, my sizzling amour.

Feeling on top of the world, Tiler was skipping down the stairs, thinking about which pair of shoes or boots would go with her slayer outfit, when she heard a voice she did not expect to hear.   Hmmm…. the Prada loafers or the Paul Smith boots with the rainbows painted on? I always get looks and comments when I wear those boots. Or maybe glam it up with the leather Calvins; or just make it totally downtown with the Nikes dad gave me last month?   Wait … wait … that voice…is that … oh, shit!

Mom?

Here?

Tonight?