“That cannot be worth it,” I say, as I refill my wine glass for the third–or was this the fourth–time? I’ve lost count by this point, but I’m enjoying girls’ night too much to worry about it.

“Are you kidding?” my best friend Violet counters, rolling her eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t pop out of her skull. She snatches the wine bottle from me and tops up her own glass, even though it’s still half full. “The stories alone are so worth it.”

“Dating all these crazy weirdos, though?”

“Well, I didn’t know he was a crazy weirdo before I went home with him, did I?” She sighs. “He looked so promising on paper.”

“Okay, sorry, back to your story.” I wave a hand at her, trying to remember where we left off. “He was super hot, and things were going great, you wound up back at his, but then…?”

“Right, we’re both naked, on his bed, and he…” She grimaces. “He grabs my shoes–you know, the Jimmy Cho’s, the really nice ones I splurged on a few months ago?”

I grimace too, in anticipation. “Oh god…”

“And he puts them on himself, then rolls back on the bed, trying to pull me on top of him, and asking me to call him ‘Mommy’ while we screw.”

I can’t help it. I burst into laughter. So does Violet, shaking her head and holding back tears as she describes her flight from the bedroom and how she grabbed every item of clothing she could before fleeing for the street to hail a cab.

“But what about the shoes?” I protest, still laughing.

“Alas.” She sobers a little, resting a hand over her heart. “May my poor Jimmy Cho’s rest in peace.” She shakes her head. “I literally hopped in a cab barefoot, I was that desperate.”

I snort and roll onto my back on the floor where we’ve been stationed. In the background, old Sex and the City reruns are playing, but we’re enjoying swapping our bad dating stories too much to pay attention.

Or rather, I’m enjoying listening to Violet’s, since it’s not like I can contribute many of my own.

“What about you, Joyce?” Violet asks, refilling her wine glass again. “Got any good stories for me at last?”

“Not likely,” I respond, shooting her a you know why sideways glare.

She sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes. “When are you going to just give up the V-card, huh?”

A never-ending question, one she’s been asking me pretty much since the day she lost hers back in the freshman year of college. Granted, I know it’s pretty weird that I made it all the way through undergrad without finding a guy I wanted to bang, but I was pretty focused on my classes, and besides, none of the guys I liked returned the feeling. Not that I ever crushed too hard. I guess I’m just one of those people who doesn’t fall hard, or often.

It’s fine by me. I don’t mind being a virgin at 22–it’s not that weird. Not as weird as people try to make it sound. They make some pretty great vibrators nowadays, not to mention a huge selection of websites where I can ogle hot naked men whenever it suits me.

I’ve gone on some dates, made out with more than a few bad kissers, but never anything more. I figure the right guy will come along eventually. The one I won’t be able to resist, who will tempt me into his bed with a single come-hither look. Until then, well, I’m doing just fine, whatever Violet may believe.

But right now, she’s studying me with a sparkle in her eye. A sparkle that makes me nervous as hell because I’ve seen that look before. That is my best friend’s plotting face. And whatever she’s up to, it’s never something that ends well for me.

“Look,” I say, hoping to interrupt the wheels already churning in her brain. “If you’re thinking about setting me up with Mr. Mommy Issues, I’ve just got to shut that idea down right now.”

She laughs and punches my shoulder lightly. “I wouldn’t wish him on my worst enemy, let alone my bestie. No, I was just thinking about this website someone sent me as a joke the other day. It reminded me of you.”

“Okay, I also do not need you to send me anymore links about crazy cat ladies, Vi,” I interrupt.

She snickers. “Nothing like that,” she protests, even though I can guarantee from her smirk that it will 100% be like that. She leans across me to grab my laptop from the couch and flips it open. She opens my browser, then types something in, her smile too wide and devilish for me to relax.

“Don’t get any weird porn viruses on my computer either,” I scold her, leaning over her shoulder to read. The moment I do, I dissolve into another bout of laughter.

“What?” she protests, her face the picture of failed innocence.

“‘What?’” I wave a hand at the screen. “What the hell is that?”

But the website pretty much speaks for itself. It’s hot pink, framed in pictures of girls in sexy poses, though not quite revealing. It’s borderline porn but not crossing over into straight up nudity. And right there, emblazoned across the header, the site’s intent.

“First Times for Sale.”

“That’s not real,” I say.

“Oh, but it is,” Violet laughs, an almost maniacal sound. She’s really in her element. “My coworker’s friend did it. Check this out.” She taps on a button that says Sell, and my eyes widen at the page that pops up. It looks like a dating profile, except for the fact that, well…

“Is this for people to sell their…?”

“Their virginity, yep.” Violet beams at me, cackling even louder at the expression that must be plastered across my face.

“How is that legal?” I ask, reaching across to try to grab the computer. She jerks it out of my reach and starts to type in an entry. A name. Candy.

I snort. “Really, stripper name?”

“Let’s do it properly, then,” she counters, deleting that name. “What’s your stripper name? First pet and street you grew up on?”

I purse my lips, shaking my head. But the wine has gone to my head, and Violet won’t stop laughing at the profile questions, and hell if this isn’t pretty entertaining. What’s the harm in making a fake profile and playing along?

“Kitty Queensville,” I tell her, rolling my eyes.

“You named your first cat Kitty?” She sticks her tongue out at me, even as she types in the name, slightly edited. “Kitty Queen, that’ll work.”

“I sound like a crazy cat lady,” I smirk.

“Then it’s even more perfect,” she counters, nudging me.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, finally giving up on snatching the laptop back and settling onto the carpet beside her, scanning the screen. “Tell us why you’re still a virgin?” I read from the computer. “Intrusive much?” I shake my head.

“‘Because I have not found my one true Prince Charming yet–or at least, not anyone charming enough to charm my panties off,’” Violet reads as she types.

With every question, our laughter grows. For some questions, like “Tell us your deepest fantasy,” I wrestle the keyboard from Violet to put in my own ridiculous answers. For that one, I answer “A tall, dark, handsome older man seduces me in the backseat of a limo, then serves me champagne after.”

We’re both nearly hysterical by this point, even more so when Violet answers some of the more personal history-type questions–questions about everything from my favorite movies/TV shows/books, to my favorite sex position I imagine when I masturbate (“if you masturbate,” adds a caveat at the bottom of this ridiculous website). For that one, we put doggy style, and we’re joking, but I don’t mention to Violet that it’s true. I’ve never really imagined a specific guy when I masturbate–just nameless faceless hotties a few years older than me, more experienced, and willing to teach me the ropes.

I almost balk when Violet hits the button to add photos to the account. After all, I don’t want this coming back to haunt me. What if my boss stumbled across this website?

But she tells me to relax and trust her, and she selects only photos where my face is mostly obscured. One of me in a dimly lit restaurant, where I’m wearing a sexy little black dress, my legs crossed and unusually exposed for me. But my hair falls across my eyes and you can really only see my lips curved in a smile. There’s another with me wearing a mask at a Halloween party, and another where I’d covered my whole face in paint. You couldn’t tell who I was if you already knew me, so I relax and let Violet add those pictures to the account.

By the time she hits post, we’ve both refilled our glasses another time or two, and then our favorite episode queues up on the TV, the one where Mr. Big comes back yet again, and we both squeal and toss the laptop back onto the couch, settling in for our favorite dramatic reunion scene.

After Sex and the City, we switch to movies with a side of popcorn and ice cream, and by the time we start playing It’s a Wonderful Life, we’ve gone through an entire tub of Ben and Jerry’s, which is the only proper way to eat B&Js anyway, so it’s fine. I drift off on the couch, enjoying the sound in the background, feeling full and happy. Nothing like a girls’ night to relieve tension from a long day at work, I think, as I fall asleep to the tune of My Wild Irish Rose.

My first thought the next morning is Oh god, why did we have to open that second bottle?

My second thought is to wonder what time it is.

My third is to glance at my phone, thanking god that it’s Saturday. Then I squint across the room at Violet, out cold on the other couch, and remember that unlike me, my friend does not work a 9-5 office job.

“Vi!” I whisper-shout. Even that hurts my throat, and I groan, clearing it hard, blinking through my hangover. “Violet.”

“Hmm?” she asks, her voice groggy as she stretches lazily.

“It’s 11am.”

“That’s good,” she replies, draping her arm across her eyes.

“On Saturday,” I add.

“Fuck.” She sits bolt upright, eyes wide. Violet works brunch at a restaurant a few subway stops away on the weekends, a shift that pulls in really great tips. Unfortunately, it’s also a shift that starts at 11:30 in the morning.

“Can I borrow a black shirt?” she asks as she races around my apartment, finger-brushing her teeth and splashing water on her face, then sprinting into the kitchen to chug a glass of water.

“Of course.” I lever myself off the couch and hobble into my bedroom to find her a suitable shirt. I have just enough time to toss it at the back of her head, and for her to catch it over her shoulder, before she waves and vanishes out the door, racing down the street.

Not for the first time, I feel immensely grateful for my boring office job that lets me have my weekends to myself. I sink back onto the couch, then slowly wilt sideways, sitting upright feeling far too difficult at the moment.

Half an hour later, I’m debating standing up long enough to fry some eggs for breakfast when my laptop catches my eye. On the other hand, I could delay making food and just poke around the internet mindlessly for a while…

I reach across the carpet to where we’d tossed the laptop and flip it open, yawning as I navigate to the browser. But it’s already open, and I pause, blinking, at the screen.

“First Times for Sale” is blinking across the screen, still as hot pink and crazy looking as ever. I forgot about that site, between all of Violet’s Mr. Mommy stories and the movies we watched after.

I scroll toward the corner of the screen, about to close it, when I notice that the little inbox attached to the site has a notification. Just one notification. I click on it, figuring it’ll be a welcome message

Then my eyes widen at the subject line.

$50,000.

No way. This has to be a joke.