“Tiff, OMFG, I can’t wait to get to Joshua Tree tonight. There are going to be SO many of them there,” Jessie eagerly told her friend.

“I know Jessie, it’s going to be awesome. I put on an extra splash of Heaven just so I can get one who has a belt with whales on it.”

“Your hair looks great tonight and so does your tan, just like you came back from ‘Hollywood,’ joked Jessie, winking and nudging her friend, pleased with her wit. “So…who was that boy you went home with last night?” she prodded.

“He was from Goldman SACHS,” Tiff immediately responded. “Goldman SACHS.” she emphasized giddily, not realizing the effect it would have on her friend.

Jessie swooned. She was standing, holding on to a pole for support and nearly lost both her grip and balance as if hit by a spell of vertigo. Her head rose slowly in the air and her hand lightly caressed the nape of her neck. She shuddered as her knees buckled together slightly. She paused in this position as the fantastic notion settled in. Recovering after a moment, she responded,

“TIFF, that is freaking AWESOME! What was his name?”

“I have no clue, and I don’t care.”

“Yeah, neither do I. I am so jealous. The best I’ve done all month is Lehman Brothers,” complained Jessie.

“Oh don’t worry hon,” consoled Tiffany. “It’ll happen for you too one day. I’m sure it will,” said Tiffany with an air of condescension.

“No it won’t. I’m fat,” explained Jessie, frowning and pinching the slight girl-gut extruding from between her bright pink tank top and her 7 for all Mankind jeans. “I’m gonna end up with a retail banker, she sobbed. “How do you stay so slim?”

“Oh come on Jessie…”One bump before lunch and two before dinner. One in the morning and you’ve never been thinner!” instructed Tiffany as if reciting an age-old adage. “Anyway, I’m setting my goals even higher tonight.”

“Higher than the G-Man?!”

“Yep. I’m gonna find a guy from Black—“

“Oh shit please Tiff don’ even say it. I can’t handle it,” interrupted Jessie. Clutching her crotch as if to prevent a sudden, uncontrollable explosion.

But Tiffany was in her own world. Her hands were in her tight back pockets, cupping her elliptical-machine toned buttocks. Her back was arched and neck craned upwards, her rock-hard nipples piercing through her tank-top like sharpened tic-tacs.

“Blackstone…” she finished grandly.
Overcome, both girls let out a dreamy sigh full of hope and collapsed in a heap on the floor, drenched in sweat and passion.

Scenes like this have been occurring across all bridges and tunnels for the path two months. The PATH, LIRR, B, D, 7, and even Amtrak trains have been overflowing with H&M adorned girls ages 18-28, feverishly making their way into the City in search of one thing: Investment Bankers.

Why are the girls flocking? It’s Bonus Season, and the numbers are looking good. The average on The Street is around ~50-55K. Blackstone Group leads the group at 60k with Bank of America IBD rounding up the pack at ~$200.00 CAD (up 30% from last year).

McFadden’s, Bowery Bar, and Joshua Tree are literally inundated with more girls than they can handle.

“We usually anticipate this season, but the last few years since the Tech Bubble have been so rough for the economy that we had forgotten just how crazy it gets,” commented a bartender at Tribeca Grand. “If you don’t have the Bankers, you’ve got no business. We’ve literally had to have NYU students dress up in Brooks Brothers just to get girls to come into our bar. They look pretty convincing but just don’t have the polish, and the girls sniff that out immediately.”

Similarly, Mexx and Forever 21 are experiencing serious demand planning issues. “We are out of pink tank tops, fuck-me skirts, AND size 0 jeans. What will the poor girls wear?”

Not everyone’s business is benefiting from Bonus Season, however. Middle-Eastern food street vendors have noticed a 23% drop in sales during peak hours (1-4 AM) and blame the poor sales directly on the girls. “When de girl make happy time with boy, he no come to eat. Now me and family no eat. Damn you Jersey and Long Island, damn you to hell!” ranted Habib of 25^th and 6^th, across from Duvet.

Most recently, several male models, artists and fashion designers have resorted to posing as I-Bankers in a last-ditch effort to help their odds. Sven, a designer from the East Village, tried to mash together an outfit from clothes at Marshalls and went out to Marquee. “The really really drunk girls were fooled by my ‘slightly imperfect’ Polo, but even they quizzed me before letting me take them home! How am I supposed to know how to calculate this so-called ‘WACC’? What the hell!” moaned Sven. “I thought they just traded stocks all day.”

It’s a pastel New York this summer; the smiles on the downtown 6 train have never beamed so brightly. But fortunately for the rest of us, the phenomenon should only last a few more weeks. Historically, the last of the droves of money-sluts have realized their inability to woo the elitist preppies and have returned to their wastelands by early September. Until then gentlemen, either read the Vault Guide to Investment Banking and hit up Thomas Pink or prepare for a lonely summer.