The gay club is loud enough with techno music that even from a few inches away she has to shout that her name is Ginger, and points at the necklace that says so before grabbing his phone right out of his pocket and programing her number in. Stiles takes a moment to appreciate the fact that there is no way that he could possibly use a touch screen with any sort of accuracy with nails that long before he realizes that a drag queen is programming her number into his phone.
“Um, I’m sixteen,” Stiles says awkwardly, of course awkwardly, he does everything awkwardly and adding the faint sheen of glitter to one of his cheeks doesn’t change that.
“And I’m not a goddamn cougar,” Ginger says, exchanging an amused look above his head with Call-Me-Mahogany-That’s-My-Stage-Name-And-Here’s-My-Card-I-Sing-On-Tuesdays. “But you’re looking a bit overwhelmed here, whereas your straight friend in the polo over there looks right at home. You need advice, let me know. I’m better than google.”