The Miami hot girl economy

Flirting is an international currency

My craziest party days are mostly behind me—relegated to hazy memories, silly stories and 2017-era Snapchat archives. But every now and again, when I get together with my high school friends, I slip back into that world. We go for martini-soaked dinners and reminisce about our often dangerous, always thrilling experiences as teens. These friends are quintessentially Hot, in an always-has-a-boyfriend kind of way. They are well-connected in our hometown, they frequent tanning beds, their hair is long and inexplicably shiny, they always have their nails done. They’re also weird as hell, which is why we get along. Together, our humour is crude and childish, cackles bursting out of us uncontrollably for hours. I often leave our get-togethers with my face hurting from how much I smiled, armed with enough material to keep me laughing to myself for days. Each time I see them, they conjure up a younger, sillier, lighter version of me. Like letting out a sigh at the end of a long day.

And when I go out with them, about twice a year, I resurrect my party girl self.

Recently, we went to Miami on a girls' trip. Six of us; three nights; a constant flow of complimentary drinks, bottle service and skip-the-line guestlists. I spent the whole weekend thinking about @stephstiner’s fantastic essay “inside the hot girl economy”—in which she details the nightlife scene in cities like New York and Miami, where girls eat, drink and party for free in exchange for being attractive and amiable. Their hotness is their ticket; it guarantees door-opening access. Yes, the nightlife promoters hook up all the stuff, but as Steph writes, the girls have a job, too: “show up on time, wear something flattering, and drink loads of free champagne.”

Before arriving in Miami, we’re told that girls party for free. So, waiting at baggage claim after landing, we type “Miami promoter” into the Instagram search bar and message the top accounts asking to be put on guest lists. Minutes later, a promoter responds with a docket of day-parties and club events. He asks me to send a picture of the group, presumably to see if we’re Hot enough. The only photo I have of us all is from our last night out six months ago, so I send that. “Ya I got you girls” he responds, before adding: “Wear dresses and heels. 👠” I show it to my friends and we all laugh. Are skirts ok? “Dresses.” he replies.

I quickly learn you have to flaunt a very specific type of femininity here. One of skinny or voluptuous bodies, tight dresses, and foot endurance. The concept of looking Hot, pulsing through Miami club culture, is shrouded in archaic gender norms. True to Steph’s point, there are expectations for the girls, deliverables. Every entry comes with a dress code requirement and strict arrival instructions.

That first night, inside the club, there are arbitrary velvet ropes everywhere to enforce a social hierarchy. My one friend and I are let into the “special section”, which is the same as all the other sections, but is located at the front of the club under the stage, where French Montana will soon materialize (lol). As much as I roll my eyes at it, I admit there’s a rush in feeling chosen.

The next day, a different promoter messages me, and it’s the same story. Here are the clubs I can get you into. Send a picture of your group. Then, “Dress to impress. Heels are a must.” When we arrive, he mixes us sickly sweet drinks and offers us pink shots from a tray lit with LEDS. The booth he brings us to is filling up with women—lined along the bench, standing on the raised platforms, or, like us, dancing around the table full of bottles. No men. That’s for later, once the area reaches peak value (=bursting with Hot girls).

Between a blasting base and flickering lights, I ask the promoter if this is fun for him, doing this every day. His Instagram is full of variations of the same picture: him smiling, surrounded by groups of women. In the club, he’s running around pouring drinks and constantly checking to ensure we’re having a good time. He tells me he’s run restaurants, owned a barbershop, and been an electrician. “That’s work,” he says. “This is fun.”

As a girl on the other end, you’re routinely being scanned up and down and advertising your hotness in the most palatable way. Being thin, white, straight-passing and conventionally pretty, I’m privileged to easily tap into this agreeable femininity when I feel like it—for the plot. It’s weird to have to consider, as I get ready, whether some man in a headset will deem me Hot enough to skip the line. But when I dress the part, and I’m admitted into the charmed world of party-girl-dom, it does feel powerful. We’re the ones in charge here, my friends and I. We wear each other’s clothes and float around, dancing amongst ourselves and with men when we want. Just like they're using us, we’re using them; amused by their predictability or drawn to something about them. But always operating knowing we’re in full control.

To bolster my autonomy, I spend each night in a red lip (this Laura Mercier one). The crimson is deep and true—there are no hints of fuchsia or brown—and it lasts for hours. I love how it transfers onto cups and straws, leaving my mark as I roam about the strobelit wilderness.

Eventually, we leave the club to meet with some guys my friends sort of know. We end up at a mansion in Miami Beach—dancing stupidly, laughing at everything, looking out at the water as the breezy night turns into a balmy morning. We keep saying, Why do these guys want us here? We’re not offering them anything, except our presence at their empty mansion at 5 am. I guess that’s enough. Even when no one’s around to witness, hotness is a potent currency. To us, this is all one big inside joke; we’re fluent in eye contact and unspoken cues. We take pictures at sunrise, spin around on the lawn, run down the palm-tree-lined driveway. And though we are exhausted, we don’t want the night to end. So at around seven, we leave and go to another club.

Delirious and giddier than usual, we walk up to the door and get quoted an $80 entrance fee. We hadn’t spent a cent all night, and we weren’t going to start now. We take that as a sign to head home. On the ride, we blast Florida Kilos and I look at the cotton candy sky, laughing silently as the just-lived memories begin to crystallize.

Throughout the trip, mornings are spent in bed, hungover and drained. Afternoons are languid, mellow. Our girl talk during this downtime is what I live for most. At dusk, we gather in one room, giggling and cheering. We swap conspiratorial plans and reveal shocking details. We swipe through our camera rolls from the night before, titillated by what we find. Our debriefs are like orated diary entries, only made better with snarky side comments and real-time audience reactions.

Still, pain is the unavoidable downside of the job. My friends possess great stamina, impressive super-human endurance. On a days-long mission like this one, there is an understanding that you’re testing your body, and you’ll feel it later. (Writing this in the days following the trip, my immune system is weakened—nose is runny, brain is foggy.) Despite it, staying in is not something you can do just because you’re tired. It’s only permissible if you’re barely conscious or on your deathbed.

By the time our last night rolls around, our Airbnb is a lawless state. Clothes are everywhere, hair tools are strewn about, empty bottles are piled in the corner. As the sun sets, we’re all bemoaning the idea of going out, moping around as we try on outfits. After a hot shower, I suggest I may stay back. I’m met with a guilt trip and an all-in-this-together pep talk. I look down at the faded stamp on my arm from the night before, which reads “24/7 NO SLEEP”. It inspires me to suck it up. And when we meet around the kitchen counter to pre-game an hour later, everyone looks dewy, fresh and ready for the evening ahead. Heels are on, shots are poured, and guest lists are secured. We’re working girls.

More Footnotes

We listened to this song the whole trip. To borrow a word Rebecca Black used when I interviewed her recently, it’s cuntress.

I devoured Milk Fed and cannot recommend it enough.

I finally watched Conclave on the plane. As I said in my five-star Letterboxd review: Gossip in the church!

Inspired by Addison Rae’s Headphones On, I recently wrote this article about the rise of vintage tech as a fashion statement. Death to the AirPod!