So here’s the thing, I’d been in a sexelationship dry spell for months. Like, “my vibrator was getting more action than my entire dating history” kind of dry spell. Work had been insane, my ex had moved to Portland with some yoga instructor named River, and I was just over it. Over the dating apps, over straight girls who “just wanted to experiment,” over every f*****g thing.
That’s why I said yes when my friend Marisol texted me about this rooftop thing in Bushwick, it wasn’t some random bar night. It was one of those invite-only lesbian parties the girls in the know whisper about, the ones with the password at the door and the guest list that gets passed around in DMs. They call it “Siren” and it happens like twice a summer. Everyone’s hot, everyone’s queer, and nobody’s pretending they
