Drip For Me, Part III: Beauty and the Hypebeast
Our ingenue finally gets her date with the influencer of her dreams.
Photo illustration by Taylor Lewis.
While Maritza ran through closing procedures, Fay crept into the staff closet, where the bank’s top tier clients used to sign their wills or something, and moved towards the employee rack like it was a green, glowing spinning wheel. She pulled the Post-it labeled “♡FAY♡” off a plastic garment bag and exhaled. She had bought the highly sought-after, totally sold out SS18 Suadade dress by the avant-sexy designer Jacquemus at a sickening discount during an employee bonus sample sale last week. The ecstasy from seeing that much of her own sculpted body in such an artfully draped, cut and tied composition of lightweight navy wool was a turn-on in and of itself.
Breathlessly, she slunk out of her jeans ‘n’ T-shirt and unsheathed the dress from its plastic preserver. Obeying her high, she slid her hand beneath the lacy waistband of her high-cut panties, her long fingers reaching towards the source of the wetness. She thought about Simon Porte Jacquemus: his Herculean, sexy hands perpetually tanned by the sun of the Côte d’Azur gliding over her ruched waist, telling her in French that she was his beautiful muse Américaine. She imagined him locking his French-ass gaze on her and running those hands—hairy, big, and strong from all that painstaking, innovative tailoring—around the contours of the nubile sideboob revealed by the dress’s apron-like front. He was promising her that this dress would sell out around the world and be worn by A-List celebrities, but alas, no one would look as good in the Sentimenti as she did, because he literally made it for her. He was kissing her collar bones and reaching for the stringy straps that tied down the center of her exposed, narrow ribcage as she moved her rotating finger down from her clit and slid it inside, which was a (clean) Russian bath at this point. Fuck.
Fay ran out of Pistopinto at 8:11 p.m., blessing Saint Maritza for handling the bulk of the busywork. Out on the streets as the summer sun was setting, she sauntered west through the stupidity that was NoLita and scowled at the litter of pink cardboard cup sleeves from Cha Cha Matcha that paved the sidewalks. At Lafayette Street, the overwhelming scent of malt liquor and sweat hit Fay with commitment phobia like a brick. Sure enough, the line for the next Supreme drop was already snaking around the corner to Spring Street. She walked up the length of it, trying to make sense of these wearers of camo hoodies and skinny jeans and flat brims and backpacks, each with their handheld spritz bottle fans and trays of halal food, seedy entrepreneurs and cult members alike. Wait, was that Jacob?!
Near the front of the line stood Jacob Ringgold, a dorm friend from Bard, and a proudly queer theater major. This was, to say the least, out of left field for Jacob’s personal style of Woolrich peacoats and Mephisto Chukka boots.
“JACOB??!!” she exclaimed.
“FAY!!” he replied like nothing at all was weird. “Fay, oh my god. What is up, babe?”
“Jacob, honey,” she ventured, glancing left and right, “you like… SUPREME?! How long have you been––”
“Let me explain,” he acceded, looking her up and down, “I was on Grindr—wait, first off, can I just say you look extremely hot?”
“Thank you,” Fay blushed.
“Okay, so, I was on Grindr like an hour ago when I found this super hot skater and I was like, ‘HI! Hang out with me.’ And he was like, ‘I can’t; I’m waiting for this new drop. It’s this new set of kitchen knives and dish towels, which I really need because my New Year’s resolution is gonna be to learn to cook.’ But then he told me he’d split his spot in line with me if I give dome as well as my bio claims I do. So, yeah, we went into the alley on Jersey Street and I literally fucked a fuccboi and now I’m gonna be rich!! Do you have ANY idea what the resale value of this kitchenware will be?!?! Just gotta keep splitting shifts with him ’til tomorrow afternoon.”
At Lafayette Street, the overwhelming scent of malt liquor and sweat hit Fay with commitment phobia like a brick.
Fay congratulated Jacob and wished him luck on his business venture before continuing on to the Mercer.
Fay arrived at the sceney hotel cocktail bar on Prince and Mercer, where she had once spotted Sienna Miller during Fashion’s Night Out in 2009. To her surprise, she found Camrin not surrounded by a crew but alone in a sleek velvet chair, quietly reading a paperback copy of Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation next to a glass of amber liquid and a single cylinder of ice. He’d changed into a blue and white striped Balenciaga button-down, tucked into black vinyl Wales Bonner trousers with contrasting stitching, a western belt, and black Vetements x Doc Marten’s boots. His thoroughly iced finger extended like a yad over the novel’s chic social satire. Objectively hot.
Fay sat down across from him and ordered a dry vodka martini from an attentive server clearly familiar with Camrin. He put the book back in his chest-holster bag and looked up at her, impressed.
“Damn, Fay. You look…so hot,” he muttered, trailing off at the end in a blush as he realized his breezy confidence was not exactly where he thought he left it. She relished his disarmament.
One drink in and they were already talking ideologies. Camrin defended his Influencer status by explaining that fashion is just a thruway to connecting with culture at large, and that he tries to engage his followers in bigger questions embedded in art and philosophy and even politics. “I mean, if you look at how Raf and Demna have both used protest culture and reactionary politics in their collections, you’d just—you’d get what I’m saying—”
“Hope I’m not interrupting…” a voice purred, laying a perfect hand on Camrin’s shoulder. The hand came from a long, glowing arm, which led to the surreally sculpted perfection of Tessa Zanin’s face. Tessa was legitimately the number one supermodel in the world right now, and, of course, good friends with Camrin. Once again, pushed to the sidelines! This was more than Fay could handle. The charm of the Saudade dress seemed to fade by the second as Fay sunk into her velvet armchair with intimidation.
“Tessa, babe!” Camrin his drink down and double-kissed her glowing cheeks.
She wore the plunging silk jade closing dress from Phoebe Philo’s seminal Spring 2005 Chloé collection, the one with the rhinestone-covered rope straps that hang in a limp bow at the base of the angular, mid-ribcage neckline. Fay tried not to stare at the way her prominent nipples completed the perfectly round contours of her chest.
“Hey, I’m Tessa,” she offered.
Fay nodded. “So nice to meet you,” she stammered. “I’m Fay.”
“So,” Tessa turned back to Camrin, alighting, “I was just about to head across the street to the Prada party. You guys coming?”
Camrin tilted his chin forward from his upward gaze at Tessa to raise an eyebrow towards Fay, requesting her approval with the limited motor skills people tended to employ in the presence of Tessa’s upending beauty.
Fay nodded and downed the rest of her martini.
Come back later this week for the final installment of Drip For Me.