The day after Cooper fixes my sink, he swings by and tells me he’s going to be out of town for a while, visiting family before he needs to report to the team.

I don’t want to be all type-A ... like I always am, so I nonchalantly give him a nod and wish a safe flight.

And now I can’t help but wonder about when he is going to get home. What is he going to tell me what item we are checking off first? The first one is the most intimidating … because it will also mean I’m no longer a virgin.

I’m both terrified and ecstatic. And completely preoccupied.

On NYE I saw, in a way, I couldn’t ignore, that Bridget could do exactly what she wanted, without regrets. And that the Milan-bound lady friend of Cooper’s? She could get the guy with a self-confidence I don’t even sort of understand.

I’m ready for a sexual revolution of my own.

And the fact that this resolution revolution is happening with perhaps the sexiest man I’ve ever known ... ups the ante.

This is serious.

Right about the time I realize I need some sexy bras and underwear, I realize my bush is retro. And not in a sexy way.

I go to the place I get mani-pedis and ask for a Brazilian.

“Oh, honey,” the waxer evades as she looks at my goods. “That’s a big change.”

“Just do it,” I tell her, my grip tight against the white sheet draped over the table, my eyes burning as she rips me raw. I figure this year I’m going for broke ... and if I’m seriously going to do some of those things with Cooper ... then I need to be physically prepared for him to see all of me.

But then I don’t hear from Cooper for two weeks.

Two long weeks.

I go to class because that’s what I do Monday through Friday, but on the weekends, I pretty much stare at the list Cooper made. I have it pinned to my corkboard until I realize Bridget’s coming over for Thai take-out and Bravo TV. I stash it in my nightstand drawer and try to forget that this year will bring the big O.

Except Bridget calls and cancels our dinner plans last minute, telling me someone name Guadalupe invited her to a poetry reading and that I should totally come with.

I roll my eyes even though she couldn’t see me. “Not gonna happen. I have backup plans anyway,” I tell her.

“With whom?” she asks. She may be a selfish flake, but she is still territorial. She’s been my person for four years, calling dibs when no one else did.

If there was ever going to be an easy time to muster up the courage and tell Bridget, this is it.

But I chicken out.

“With no one. I’m going to keep working on my research paper. I’m finally making headway.” Which was a double lie because I hadn’t made any progress with my paper.

Which is a major issue.

I’ve never failed at anything in school.

“Gracie,” she whines. “You should come out. Maybe you could meet someone. You need to get laid. It’s a fact that if you go over a year without any action you are 78% more likely to never have sex again. Ever. And you’ve never even had it for the first time.”

I scowl. “That is the most BS statistic I’ve ever heard.”

“Maybe,” she laughs. “But I’m a women’s study grad student too, and I know that paper is not as complicated as you’re making it out to be. It’s a flimsy excuse.”

“Maybe for you,” I tell her, carrying my laptop to my bed, and plopping it down on my duvet covered in pink and red roses, ready for a solo trip to Orange County to hang with the Real Housewives. “But you’ve slept with your advisor. Twice. You are guaranteed a passing grade.”

“True.” Bridget laughs. “So maybe you should sleep with your advisor, at least then you’d have some fun.”

“Right. Because that will solve my problems.”

“Problems? Gracie. You are a pretty, twenty-three-year-old woman with a trust fund in New York City. No one cares about your problems.”

She’s right of course. My biggest problem is wondering when my neighbor is going to call me and do something filthy to my body. Not exactly third world.

“Gah. I know. I’m being obnoxious. And you know I love you even though you’re ditching me, right?”

“And I love you even if you’re boring as fuck.”

We both laugh before hanging up. I send her a kissy face emoji after the call is ended, not really annoyed with her. Honestly, I’m kind of relieved.

The topic randomly assigned to me What Happens When Women Take Charge of Their Sexuality, feels personal ... and I’m not getting all conspiratorial ... but I think my advisor has it in for me. I think she gave me this topic because she thought I was some repressed girl.

Which, I am.

But I don’t need my advisor giving me silent commentary.

Still, I need my advisor to love this paper. I need her to think it is the most bomb-diggity thing she’s ever read. Because at the end of the semester, I need to apply to a post-doctorate program and I need her stamp of approval in the form of a glowing recommendation.

I need to start this list of Kinky Resolutions if I want to have anything to add to this paper besides random anecdotes I find on message boards and dated articles that are irrelevant to the general public.

I’m not saying this paper is my motivation for this list of resolutions.

But it does contribute to my willingness to make it happen.

I also want it to happen because New Year’s Eve was a low point. It was an in-my-face-can’t-ignore-it-anymore moment.

Later in the week, Bridget stops by on Saturday afternoon asking if I want to go out with her and a friend–some guy named Juan DeMarco who does installation art–I look at her with so much confusion she asks what my problem is.

For the second time in as many weeks, I almost tell her about the list. But then she launches into a story about the guy she met last night and how he had “a massive ding-a-ling” (her words, not mine) and I remember why I haven’t told her.

She’d be all over this Kinky list ... but I also think she’d make it her thing instead of mine.

“Sometimes I just wonder why we’re friends,” I tell her as we walk into my kitchen. “I mean, I love you, Bridget ... it’s just ... don’t you think we are really different?”

She opens my fridge, grabbing a bottle of Chardonnay. Unscrewing it–because I’m classy like that –she pours half the bottle in a wine glass. “We’re friends because without me you wouldn’t have any anecdotes to share when you go home to Connecticut and sit around your daddy’s dinner table. I’m the comic relief you need in your life.”

“Then what am I to you?” I ask, watching her taking a massive chug of wine.

She licks her lips and laughs. “You are my constant. My compass. You’re the person who reminds me that we have to go to class or to get a flu shot.”

Bridget and I were roommate’s freshman year–which is the only way the two of us would have ever come together. And I’ve always been the parent in our relationship.

“I just wonder what would happen if I wasn’t playing the role of your mother anymore.”

“Whoa,” she says setting down my glass, without a coaster. “Where is all this coming from?”

I shrug, knowing exactly where it’s coming from. I am tense as hell. It’s been two weeks since I heard from Cooper and I’m ready to get this show on the road.

“Sorry. I’m PMS’ing.”

“Bullshit. You hate it when women use that line. You’ve told me about four thousand times that every time a woman blames her mood on her biology it’s giving men the upper hand in gender politics.”

I purse my lips together knowing she is totally right. Just when I’m about to confess my New Year’s Resolutions–because what kind of friendship is this if I can’t be honest ––there’s a knock on the door.

“Who’s that?” Bridget frowns. She knows my social calendar revolves around her, Netflix, my Kindle Unlimited subscription, the library on campus, and my weekly manicure appointment.

Don’t judge. We don’t all need to be social butterflies to be happy.

A small, uncomplicated life is also perfectly acceptable.

Just with, you know, hopefully, some sex at some point. Soon.

“I have no idea.”

Before I can make my way to the front door, Cooper is in my living room.

“Oh, hey,” I say.

He grins, his hair falling in his face. “You should lock the door, you know this is New York City, right?” He runs his hand over his jaw and eyes Bridget. “You on your way out?”

“Uh, hello, Cooper. Good to see you too.” Bridget drains her wine glass and sets it on the counter. She turns to me. “Since when did Cooper start letting himself into your place?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess since he fixed my leaky sink?”

Satisfied, Bridget sidles up to him in a way only a woman who exudes sexual confidence can. “So, what are your plans tonight, Cooper?”

He steps away from her, which doesn’t surprise me. He has never, in three years, taken Bridget up on her advances. Much to her chagrin.

Once she knocked on his door in nothing but a bra and panties and asked for a cup of sugar.

On Halloween one year she dressed up as a baseball player and asked if he wanted to run her bases. He looked past her, straight at me, and asked if she was serious. When I nodded, he only smiled politely and offered to introduce her to a buddy of his who wanted a home run.

She took him up on that offer of course because the idea of dating a pro baseball player is appealing for most women.

Of course, it didn’t last long. Bridget’s attention span is awfully short, though she claims that wasn’t the only short thing in the relationship.

“I was hanging out with Gracie tonight.”

My belly instantly flip-flops. This is really happening.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Bridget asks.

“It’s the first I’m hearing about it,” I say, wondering why Cooper didn’t text earlier. “I could have plans, Coop. Or a date.”

Bridget smirks, grabbing her purse from the dining room table and slinging it over her shoulder. “A date? You’re all talk, Gracie.” She shakes her head. “Cooper, if you can get this girl to go out and find a man who will sleep with her, I’ll pay you one hundred bucks.”

Cooper laughs. “Wow, selling out your best friend, isn’t that like against girl code?”

“She needs to get laid. The past two weeks she has been this freaked out ball of anxiety. She hasn’t even started her research paper. That’s a Gracie-sized-red flag right there.”

Cooper's eyes narrow, watching me react. I feel my cheeks redden under his gaze.

“What?” I say defensively crossing my arms. “I have writer’s block.”

Cooper hides a smile as if he has me all figured out.

“Thanks for the hundred-dollar offer, Bridget, but I think Gracie and I are just gonna order pizza and chill out. No big night on the town for us. Before I left for Missouri I told her that when I got back we were gonna hang.”

“Is hang code word for something? Because if so, I need details. Gracie’s my best friend, you know.” Bridget purses her lips at Cooper, suddenly protective of me.

“No funny business. Promise. We were just going to work on our New Year’s Resolutions,” he tells her as if it is the most mundane thing in the world.

Bridget buys it, “Lucky for you, Cooper, Gracie is the queen of resolutions and lists. If you want to stop eating sugar and starch–she’ll make you a meal plan. You want to run a marathon by spring, she’ll send you a spreadsheet with your training schedule.”

I walk her to the door and follow her into the hall, suddenly wanting her to know everything–but for real this time. I need a best friend pep talk. That list of seven resolutions is terrifying now that Cooper is in my apartment, ready to make good on one of them. I swallow. By the end of the night i may no longer be a virgin.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, pressing the elevator button. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Certainly. You can ask me anything.” The elevator doors open and she steps in. I press my palm against the door to stop them from closing.

“Do you think Cooper––”

She interrupts “Has the hots for you? Uh, yes, Gracie, I do.”

“That’s not what I was going to as–”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s the truth. Now go order some pizza and ask for extra sausage.” She laughs at her twelve-year-old boy sense of humor.

I let go of the elevator door and wave goodbye. “Love you,” I tell her, stepping back toward my apartment, wondering if she is right.

I hope she isn’t.

This Kinky List would be daunting if there are actual feelings involved.

In fact, it would ruin it for me. I’d get all insecure and jealous and weird.

I don’t want any of that.

This year, I just want sex.

Of course, Cooper is dreamy and all man –but he is also a player. A man-whore even; his apartment is a revolving door. And I have never felt intimidated because I have no reason to be.

If we’re keeping with the baseball analogies, I’m not even getting drafted for the minors. Cooper literally plays for the Yankees. We’re not in the same league, not now, not ever.

And that hard truth has kept this deal doable in my mind.

Bridget is wrong. She’s just trying to get under my skin and it’s working.

I force away the thoughts of Cooper seeing me as something beyond teacher and student. He’s the one who said he would be my guru. He didn’t say anything about a girlfriend.

Bridget’s being stupid. I have nothing to worry about.

I mean, except for the fact that tonight could entail role-playing or a porno.

It’s time to get double fudged, Gracie.

Resolved, I step into my apartment.

The lights are low and 90’s R&B is playing.

“Cooper?” I ask, not seeing him.

Before I can take another step, I feel his hot breath on my neck, in my ear, covering my skin.

He presses a blindfold to my eyes and the room goes dark.