This is Hot Little Mess, a new column from CULTURED’s resident party girl—filmmaker Roxy Sophie Sorkin. This one’s for all the dolls marching around east Hollywood in tabi boots and ordering filthy martinis at Tower Bar. Grab your Maru matcha and a big plate of zucchini chips at SVB—and follow along as this Hot Little Mess tries to shake her addiction to nicotine and older men. You’re in for a ride.
It’s Tuesday at 10 p.m. (because I’m a 10 p.m. kind of girl now), and I’m driving the winding roads to a bachelor pad in the Hollywood Hills. I’m wearing nothing but a trench coat and carrying a paper bag with only three things inside: a lotto scratcher, a $70 bottle of wine, and two cigars.
Forty minutes earlier, I’d walked into a Silverlake smoke shop and asked the clerk for two of his “chicest” cigars. Though I’m in my mid-20s, I have the doe-eyed face of an 11-year-old, so I probably looked less like Audrey Hepburn and more like two kids stacked in a trench coat, but there I was: pulling out all the stops to lure my non-committal, deeply age-inappropriate situationship out of an emotional episode. My plan? Show up basically naked with a bag of “adult” items. Quite honestly, I felt so mysterious and glamorous I expected he would propose to me on the spot.
How did I get here, naked and honestly a little chilly, with a receipt for $84 from Silverlake Liquor crunched in the cupholder of my Jeep? Well, for one thing, I’ve spent most of my life as a serial monogamist. A relationship from 14-17, another from 18-23. I was that slightly awkward high schooler who had somehow edged closer to marriage than most people twice my age. I had been sheltered for a long time. I was the last kid in my 6th grade class to learn what deodorant was and still sleep with a stuffed bunny rabbit. I had fallen quickly into the sweater-wearing, ‘wifey’ archetype. On top of that, I’d missed out on what were supposed to be my carefree New York college years thanks to Covid. When my nearly six-year-long relationship ended, I knew that I had to take this opportunity by the horns and let my freak flag fly.
So, it’s time to embrace the role of Little Miss Hot Mess. The only thing is, I’m not built for this. I’m a Jew with a finely tuned set of neuroses, constantly checking that everyone’s fed, comfortable, and having a good time. I make my cat wear sweaters when it’s colder than 70 degrees and I put a freshly purchased packet of Summer Fridays lip balm on my roommate's pillow when I notice her lips drying up in the colder months. I’m genetically unqualified to live this freely, although I have had my moments—three musicians and about 100 dirty martinis’ worth of them. But I digress.
After careful study of the requisite idols (the Lana Del Reys, the Charli XCXs), I decided to dive headfirst into a year of wild abandon. I used to look on with disinterest at this world of lash extensions and late nights from my routine of glossier and blueberry tea in my coquette mug at 8 p.m. But now I’m committed. I’m raising all of this to the level of high art: perfectly timing text responses and story views, and curating an impressive drink order.
I have to admit though, it’s hard and shameful work being a slut. Sometimes, I just feel like a girl with a headache making poor decisions. In those moments, I find solace in my decade-long relationship with Lana. It’s funny how, if you are a full-grown adult in a situationship, it’s just embarrassing, but if you think of it as a passionate love affair that knows no bounds while listening to “White Mustang” or “Off to the Races,” it’s a scene from a movie. Lana taught me that being a hot little mess is not just about living as one—it’s about building a fantasy around yourself. I feel special in my wildness—my fantasy is that I’m the only girl in the world who is dancing this hard, with hair this blonde, in a skirt this short.
Of course, there are moments that make me question all this. I once got trapped in a guy’s house for 24 hours. Like, actually trapped. His electric garage door jammed, the hours passed, and I started to lose my mind. I was stuck inhaling the bottom shelf incense burning on his bedside table and eyeing the blue backdrop in the corner where he did his self-tapes. I’d also like to add, and it contributes nothing to this story, but his roommate (one of three) had a framed photo of HIMSELF above his bed. I started thinking, Is this what I want? Wouldn’t it be nice to trade in late-night “u up” texts for whispered “I love yous” and matching pajama sets again? Is this me now?
Ultimately, I thought to myself as I attempted to order a 5 a.m. cheesy gordita crunch wrap on his credit card, I want to be the one to rewrite the rules, to champion the lifestyle, to claim this space in a way no one else ever has. When I see girls at 4100 Bar with long red nails wearing sunglasses at 11 p.m., it often feels to me like a case of stolen valor. The whole “fear of the slut” thing is rooted in fear of being judged for your own choices. Yet here I am, stuck in this stranger’s room, judging myself for even thinking about judging my fellow harlots. Deep down, I know there’s room for every woman to own her seat at the table (i.e., to fuck a random guy from Raya). But here’s the thing: sluts don’t exclude. We don’t gatekeep the messiness. We’re here for anyone who wants to join. Just come as you are—bring an open heart and maybe a towel. There’s enough “Cinnamon Girl” for all of us.
The thing is, it’s not about the sluttiness or the horniness (an intellectually unchic word that, from this point forward, I vow never to use again), it’s about the hunger to tell stories. To be... brat. To sit at a dinner table like I’m in Sex and the City and recount a sloppy 2 a.m. jaunt between sips of a cosmo. Charli, Lana, Carrie—they prove that it’s fun and freeing to build these memories. If I ever clean up my act, I’ll take comfort in knowing I was part of the club—earned my stripes, so to speak. But for now, I’ll stick to being a hot little mess.
