They're all still sort of in shock that girls want them- they spent years unpopular, ignored, even bullied, for being greasy directionless musicians, bumming around New York. Ally, though, will always be the exotic figure among the band: raised in LA, used to the fame, and the owner of a pair of breasts.
She's always been a flirt- men's attention is background noise by now. She'd done her time working through the West Coast clubs, charming her way inside and then into the pants and hearts and dreams of the men she met. She never let being less than conventionally pretty stop her. She mascara'd her long eyelashes to made her wide, brown eyes look sad and innocent, let her hair fall in tight even curls down her back, brushing them out of her eyes.
And, like the rest of the club scene, she was so bored with sex. She just kept having it because there was nothing else to do.
And then the Strokes happened.
"You know," said Fab one afternoon, stroking the back of her hand, head on her stomach. Nick was spooned up behind him. "I must not be as gay as I thought, because I think I'm in love with you."
Fuck the clubs. Fuck the drinking and the flirting and the time she used to spend trying to squeeze her D-cups into a push-up and the way her feet hurt when her (gorgeous, expensive) shoes bit into her toes after two hours. This was so much easier.
It was nice, finally, to crawl into bed next to someone (any of them) and whisper "I love you," and mean it, to have her hair played with and be smiled at without some creepy desperate adoration or post-coital smirk.
and now i'm too bored to continue that. fuck, that's way better in my head than on