It was the semen that made me do it.

“I quit,” I announce to my boss, Mr. Castellano. This has to be a record. I’m just forty-seven minutes into my first day at my new job, and I’m already throwing in the towel.

Sure, when I arrived at the tiny, decrepit brick building in Greenwich Village, eager to start my first day as a receptionist at the Green Sun Spa, I had an inkling that maybe this wasn’t the kind of spa I’d been anticipating. The glowing neon red sign blinking the word massage kind of gave it away. The faded newsprint covering all the windows didn’t help, either, and the hefty guy who looked furtively over his shoulder before ducking inside was a dead giveaway. That neon red sign might as well have said rub-and-tug, that’s how much subtlety this place had.

But I grit my teeth and went inside anyway. I had to give it a chance. I’d already quit — or been fired from — four jobs since I moved to New York. This was not going to be number five.

Then I saw the semen.

Look, I’m not one of those prissy girls who thinks all semen is gross. Under the right circumstances, and with the right guy, a hot shot of man juice can be ... well, hot.

These were not those circumstances.

I was just supposed to be the receptionist. Which meant all I had to do was sit at the front and direct clients back to the shower area, answer the phone, and take down bookings. Easy. I could ignore what went on beyond the closed doors of the massage rooms themselves, right? The girls that worked at Green Sun, at least the ones I met in those first forty-five minutes, all seemed very sweet. As long as I could pretend this was just any other receptionist job, it would be fine.

Then Jasmine, one of the masseurs, got an emergency call from her kid’s sitter, and asked if I could tidy up her room before her next client came in. Wanting to be a good sport, I said sure. No problem.

And it wouldn’t have been a problem, really. Except when I walked into Jasmine’s room, I saw her massage table sitting in the middle of the room. It was covered by a blue latex-like sheet, and in the middle of that sheet ...

The semen.

The puddle was only the size of a quarter — maybe a teaspoon — but that was still too much stranger semen for me at ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning. Too much stranger semen for any time of day, really.

Which is why, right now, I’m standing in front of Mr. Castellano’s messy desk in his back office, telling him that I quit. A grand total of forty-seven minutes into my fifth job in six weeks.

“I quit,” I say again. I wish I had a uniform or at least a name tag or something — maybe a semen-soaked rag, for instance — to slam down dramatically on his desk. Instead, I stand in front of him with my arms folded and the toughest, most sour look on my face I can manage. Except with my baby face, it probably looks more petulant than powerful.

“You just started.” Mr. Castellano’s accent is a mix of snappy New York Italian and the lazy drawl of a man who prefers dollars over sense.

“Yeah, and I’ve already seen things I’m never going to be able to unsee.” Like stranger semen. That was definitely not part of the job description.

He spreads his hands wide. “You accepted the job.”

“Under false pretenses.” Okay, false pretenses might be a bit of a stretch. But the Craigslist ad clearly said Receptionist needed for upscale Greenwich Village spa. Though, maybe I should have been clued in by the fact that the spa had no website listed. And that the contact email was BigPrick69. And that I found the job on Craigslist in the first place, come to think of it.

Mr. Castellano — aka the BigPrick himself — leans back in his chair. His eyelids are heavy, but the black eyes underneath are beady and sharp. “You’re cute, Blake,” he says, drawing out the words in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Blonde hair, blue eyes. That rack. You’d make a lot more money behind the doors than in front of them. Good tippers, most of these guys. Long as you don’t mind a little grabby-hands, that is.” He grins, and it’s so lecherous that I throw up in my mouth a bit.

“No thanks.” Except there’s a teeny, tiny part of me that wants to ask, just how grabby are we talking about?

Because ... well, let’s be honest here — I could really use the money.

Then I remember the semen. Nope. Non. Nein. Niet. I like my happy endings in romance novels, not with a retired banker at ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning.

Still, that money ...

No. No, no, no.

Mr. Castellano is still raking his eyes over my body, and that’s my cue to leave.

“You might want to grab a rag and head to massage room three,” I tell him. Because someone has to clean up that room, and lord knows he’s probably the one making the bulk of the money off this semi-shady endeavor. I say goodbye to Jasmine and Tiffany — their real names, I’m sure — and head out of the dingy massage parlor and out into the bright New York sunshine. I breathe in the fresh air. Fresh being a relative term, of course. For a second, I feel a vibrant sense of freedom.

Then reality comes crashing back down on me.

I’m back to square one. No job. No money to pay rent this month. A roommate who’s probably going to start selling my belongings on Craigslist if I don’t start making a financial contribution soon.

I whip my phone out of my purse and hit Lucy’s contact info. She answers on the second ring.

“Hi!” She sounds very chipper. Probably because she hasn’t seen any semen yet today. “How’s the new job going?”

“Do you have a Craigslist account?”

“What? No. Why, do you need to sell something?”

No, and I’m hoping you don’t, either. Lucy is laughing, and I can hear the KitchenAid mixer whirring in the background. I picture her in our tiny kitchen, measuring out ingredients for some sinful concoction.

“No, just wondering. The job is ...” I briefly consider lying, but I figure that would mean having to leave the apartment every morning in order to maintain the illusion of having a job, which seems like way too much work. “I quit.”

“What? Blake, you were so excited about this job! What happened?”

“It wasn’t quite what I was expecting.” Actually, I guess in some ways you could say it was more than I was expecting. About a teaspoon more, to be precise.

“Well, all new jobs take some adjusting ... oh, hang on, the oven is dinging.”

“What are you making?”

Lucy sighs. “I’m trying to come up with a French toast casserole, but so far, they’ve either been too eggy or too sweet.”

“Too sweet doesn’t sound bad.”

“No, this was bad, trust me. On the bright side, I whipped up an awesome blueberry compote that’s going to go perfectly on top. Once I get the egg-to-sugar ratio sorted, anyway.”

“You’ll figure it out,” I assure her. Lucy is a baking blogger and goes out of her way to come up with amazing recipes and mouth-watering dishes. Being her roommate has some definite perks.

“I hope so. Now tell me what happened with the job — why’d you quit?”

So I tell her about Green Sun Spa and about Mr. Castellano and about what shall heretofore only be known as The Splooge Incident.

Lucy is stifling laughter on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. But, oh God, that’s horrifying.”

“You’re telling me.” I shudder at the memory. “Anyway, I’m on my way home now. I want to shower and change and possibly burn these clothes in a fire.”

“Sounds like an appropriate response. I’ll try to have this casserole done by the time you get here.”

“That would be awesome. And Lucy…” I pause, squinting up at the crosswalk sign and waiting for it to turn. “About this month’s rent—”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says immediately. “We’ll figure something out.”

“But I know you can’t afford that place by yourself.”

“I know, but we’ll figure it out, Blake. Maybe you can ask your parents for another loan.”

“Maybe.” I’ve only been in New York for two months now, and I’ve had to ask them for a loan once already. This city is so much more expensive than I’d anticipated. I thought I had enough savings tucked away when I moved here, but I burned through it way faster than I expected. Now I have almost nothing left. It’s gotten to the point where I’m actually counting my pennies, even debating trips on the subway, because that’s three bucks I might need for something else.

And it’s not like I haven’t been trying. I’ve applied for over two hundred jobs since I got to the city. I almost never get callbacks, and when I do, they’re for shady gigs like the one at Green Sun Spa. The first job I found — and quit — was at a gold-buying shop that I’m pretty sure was a front for a money-laundering business. After that, there was an unlicensed plastic surgeon who worked out of his own basement. I didn’t even make it in that morning. I took one look at that sketchy reception area and noped the hell out of there. The third job was fine enough — a very famous fast food chain — but I actually got canned from that one. Just not enough happy in my meal, I guess. At least that’s what the pimpled eighteen-year-old who fired me said.

The most recent job was the best of a bad bunch — a call center out in Long Island. I lasted four days before I couldn’t do it anymore. Besides the hellish commute — two hours each way — the call center specialized in debt collection. Every day, I called people who owed money and told them how much trouble they were in and how repo men were going to come and take away their things. Four days of listening to desperate people sob into the phone was more than my soul could bear. So I quit that one, too. My soul was happy, but my bank account was bereft.

I know I’m not at rock-bottom yet. The fact that I’m not having my own possessions repossessed, the fact that I was able to walk away from the Green Sun Spa, when other women aren’t so lucky, means I still have options. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still worried about flaming out and letting everyone — and myself — down.

“You still there?” Lucy asks.

I blink against the bright sunlight again. Pedestrians are streaming past me on either side. I realize I almost missed the light and have been standing here like a doofus while the walk sign blinks.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say to Lucy as I hurry to cross the street before the light changes. “I really appreciate your patience. I’m going to get my shit together, I promise. I just need to—”

I don’t get to finish my sentence. A yellow cab careens around the corner and nearly slams right into me. I manage to jump back at the exact moment it would have hit me. I stumble and spill onto the pavement. My knees and hands hit the ground at the same time, and a throbbing, reverberating pain shoots through my entire body. The cabbie doesn’t even stop — in fact, he gives me the finger.

“Jesus!” I yell from my hands-and-knees position. “Watch where you’re going, asshole.”

“What happened?” Lucy squeaks. The phone’s skittered a foot away, but I can still hear her. “Are you okay?”

I reach for the phone. I’m still trying to catch my breath. “I’m fine. I gotta go.” I stand up on shaky legs and take inventory. I don’t feel hurt, not really. I think it’s the surprise more than anything else. My palms are a bit scraped up, and there’s a hole in the knee of my black work pants. My only work pants, I might add. Stupid New York drivers. Everyone wants to be somewhere else, and they’re in a damn hurry to get there.

I turn to give the driver another glare, but he’s already halfway down the block. I raise one arm and give him the finger anyway, waving it high and proud. Not that he can see it. Or would even care if he could. There are so many assholes in this city, it’s unbelievable. This never would have happened in Connecticut. People are actually nice to each other there. No one here has even stopped to see if I’m okay. What a world.

Oh, God — scratch that. Maybe not no one.

Mr. Castellano comes running from across the street.

“Are you okay?” he huffs when he reaches me. He’s waving his phone in my face. “You know you can sue that guy, right? I got it all right here. I video-taped the whole thing. I’m going to put this on the YouTubes.”

“Oh God. Please don’t put it on YouTube.” My eyes sting. I don’t know if it’s the shock of nearly getting hit by that car, or if it’s just the full extent of my disastrous morning finally hitting me, but tears start to spill down my cheeks.

Mr. Castellano recoils in horror. “Oh, hey, don’t cry, okay? I won’t put it on the YouTubes if you don’t want me to,” he assures me, in a tone of voice that I know means he’s definitely still going to put it on ‘the YouTubes.’

“I don’t care what you do with it,” I spit. “I wish I’d never moved to this stupid city.”

He starts to say something else, but I’m already walking away, trudging towards the subway station. I wish I could take a cab home, but that would eat too far into the last of my savings, and who knows when they’re going to be replenished again? Maybe I should just take Mr. Castellano’s advice and sue that guy. Hey, that’s the American way, isn’t it?

My phone rings again, and I fumble for it in my bag. Lucy again, no doubt. I kinda hung up on her back there.

I shove the phone up against my ear. “If I wanted to have three shots of tequila and find a guy who would fuck me in the bar bathroom at ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning, where would I go?”

“Um … New Jersey?” The voice on the other end of the line says, after some hesitation. Crap. That is not Lucy.

“Oh God. I’m sorry. I thought this was someone else.”

“Obviously. I’m looking for Blake Holloway, please.”

“Speaking.” I try to sound professional, if that’s still possible.

“Miss Holloway, my name is Georgia Turner. I’m calling from Cartwright Diamonds?”

“Yes?” I breathe. Cartwright Diamonds … I wrack my brain, trying to remember if that was one of the million and seven places I applied for a job recently.

“We received your resume, and Mr. Cartwright was very impressed.”

I swallow. “That’s great. Thank you.”

“The job is yours, if you still want it.”

Well, damn! I resist the urge to let out a happy squeal. I mean … I didn’t even interview for this job, and they’re offering it to me, anyway. What are the odds of that?

“I still want it,” I assure her. Then I twist my lips. “Wait … what’s the job, again?”

Georgia is silent for a minute, and I kick myself for saying something so stupid.

But she doesn’t comment on my gaff. “It’s the position at Cartwright Diamonds. Personal assistant to Logan Cartwright.”

It still doesn’t ring a bell, but maybe I just forgot. After sending out so many resumes, some of the places have started to blur together. After a while, it’s hard to tell one soul-crushing admin job from the next. But at this point, I’m ready to say bring on the soul-crushing.

“Are you still interested?” Georgia says, drawing me back to the call.

“Of course I am!” I try not to scream it into the phone, but even I can tell how crazed my voice sounds. “I mean, yes, of course, thank you.”

“Excellent news. Mr. Cartwright will be very pleased.”

“Great. That’s great.”

“Well … great,” Georgia echoes. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure thing.” Then my forehead wrinkles. “Wait — tomorrow?”

“Of course. Mr. Cartwright requires someone who can start right away. That isn’t a problem, is it?”

“Of course not,” I hastily assure her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She gives me the address and instructions to head to the HR office when I arrive, and then I thank her another couple dozen times and end the call. As soon as I shove my phone back into my purse, I look around for someone to high five, but everyone swims past me, blinders on, oblivious to my moment of joy.

I don’t care. I finally have a job. A real one. Who cares if it’s one I can’t even remember applying for?

Maybe things are finally turning around for me.