Nothing would please a gentlelady more than to romance her male mirror image, the gentleman. And trust us, the feeling is mutual. However, given their fabulous, liver-taxing lifestyles and unwavering commitment to tomfoolery, these counterparts rarely make it into the sack ensemble. Over the course of a gin soaked eve, drunken texts are misread, misspelled or never sent at all, and sadly the gentleman and gentlelady go about their nocturnal business like two ships passing in the night. But believe us, should the two ever shack up, they’d do so with enough class, elegance and sophistication to rip a hole through the space-time continuum.
Saturday Night, 11:32 PM — 1:10 AM (Told through a series of texts)
Gentleman: I hear you’re going to be out tonight, throwing down
Gentlelady: Ha. Going to sweet and vicious Ha. Where I met you! Ha. You were so FUCKED up! Where are you all at?
Gentleman: Didn’t stop you from making out with me…
Gentlelady: What- No! Yes, oxide are you? So Sad. Can we please hang?
Gentleman: I understand very little of that, but yes. Where are you?
Gentleman: Heading to W. Village. Plastered. Again. Where are you?
Gentlelady: Place in SoHo. No Idea. Meet?
Gentleman: Yeah, streets?
Gentlelady: Bleeker & Sullivan
Sunday Morning, 10:17 AM
Gentleman: Holy God…hungover. Did we see each other last night?
Gentlelady: I’m in your kitchen