The Super Sluts Club

The three of them are sprawled across Carrie's living room floor. Empty wine bottles and takeaway containers scattered across the coffee table. It's two in the morning, and they're in that perfect drunk state where every idea feels like the best idea they've ever had.

"We need a name," Carrie says, propping herself up on her elbows. "We can't just be 'the three of us' forever. We're a unit."

Laura laughs, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling. "A unit of what? Sluts?"

"Yes." Carrie throws a cushion at her. "Exactly that. A club of sluts. The best sluts. A sisterhood."

Sarah is quiet, tracing patterns on the carpet with her finger. She's been thinking about this for weeks. The three of them, the things they do together, the bond that's formed from all those shared secrets. It deserves a name.

"The Super Sluts Club," she says.

Carrie and Laura both look at her.

"SSC," Sarah continues, sitting up. "Three letters. Simple. Direct. We know what we are. We own it."

Laura's eyes light up. "That's perfect. That's us."

"It's honest," Carrie agrees. "No pretence. We're sluts and we're super at it."

They spend the next hour sketching designs on napkins and takeaway menus. A lotus flower with three large petals, each one curving outward, overlapping at the centre. And inside the petals, the letters: S. S. C.

"The lotus grows in mud," Sarah explains. "Dirty water. But it blooms clean. That's us. We wade through all this filth, all these men and their come and their **** hands, and we come out the other side together. Untouchable."

Laura traces the design with her finger. "Super Sluts Club. Blooming from the mud."

"Exactly."

They get the tattoos the next afternoon at a shop in the Northern Quarter, just off Tib Street. The artist is a heavy-set Mancunian woman with sleeves of koi fish and cherry blossoms. She doesn't ask questions when they explain the design. She just nods, preps her needles, and gets to work. Sarah goes first. The needle bites into her skin, on her wrist, tracing the outline of the lotus. She watches the ink bloom under her flesh, three large petals taking shape, the letters S and S and C appearing like a brand. It stings. It aches. It feels like a promise. Carrie goes next, same placement, same design. She hisses through her teeth as the needle works, but she doesn't flinch. When it's done, she looks at herself in the mirror and smiles.

Laura goes last. She's the most nervous, but she hides it well. The artist works quickly, the lotus taking shape on her skin, the letters settling into place. When it's finished, Laura presses her palm over it, feeling the heat of the fresh wound.

"Three petals," the artist says, wiping down her station. "Means something?"

"Everything," Sarah says.

They pay, tip generously, and step out into the Manchester afternoon. The tattoos are covered with cling film. They find a pub on Edge Street, order three pints of local ale, and sit in a booth by the window.

"So," Laura says, raising her glass. "The Super Sluts Club. Official."

"Official," Carrie echoes.

Sarah clinks her glass against theirs. "Official."

They drink. The afternoon sun filters through the grimy pub windows. The tattoos pulse under their skin.

The Super Sluts Club is born.