This is so typical. So freaking typical.

How many times will I let Bridget drag me out of my apartment before I learn my lesson?

She may be my best friend but she doesn’t care if I’m having fun. I’m in a bathroom while she’s making out with strangers at a swinger’s club.

Except this isn’t even a swinger’s club. It’s a ... I don’t know what. And the lame truth is ... I wish I did. I wish I wasn’t so freaking uncomfortable with all this sex stuff.

I may not be a virgin, but I am certainly sexually repressed for a twenty-three-year-old.

Tomorrow marks a new year. That means a NEW GRACIE. That means it’s time I start living the life I’ve always been too scared to try. That means––

There’s a knock on the door.

“Hello? Are you talking to yourself in there? Open the door. I gotta drop a load.”

I pull open the door, not even a little embarrassed that I may have been talking to myself. Mostly because I’ve drunk half a bottle of Prosecco -- in like twelve minutes. And secondly, because I am not the person who should be embarrassed in this scenario.

I squeeze past the guy in head-to-toe pleather. Orange pleather. I’d ask where he bought it because I am legitimately curious but I’m scared he’s gonna eat my face off. Because he’s clearly tripping on something more hardcore than an eleven-dollar bottle of bubbly.

“Excuse me,” I say, wincing as I move, scared of getting jabbed by what is a serious boner. Like a ridiculously raging hard-on. He must see my wide eyes because he laughs loudly.

“You like that, sugar? Don’t worry, I’ll be looking for you later.”

He closes the door and I run for Bridget. This party is too much. And I’m not being judgmental. Instead of furniture, there is a pile of mattresses on the living room floor. And a whole lotta naked.

Bridget is wearing nothing but a bodysuit. The kind I wore as a kid in the eighties but that have oddly made a comeback this year. And her long flowing hair swishes past her shoulders giving her the air of a fun-loving-flower-child.

I’m jealous. Straight up. Because she is so comfortable just putting it all out there.

But I am also a little horrified with this place she has dragged me to.

“Where’s your skirt?” I ask, pulling her away from a girl who has her arms snaked around my bestie. “And what are you doing? Were you just making out with that girl?”

“Stop it, Gracie. Just free yourself.” Bridget sways to the music. Which would be fine except that there is no music playing.

Which is kind of creepy. Why is there no music at this party? Can it even be called a party?

I look around, the room is dark and hazy, a disco ball spins but all it offers in terms of lighting is a twinkling glow to an otherwise dizzy space.

There may not be music, but there are all sorts of noises.

Sex noises.

“Just have fun,” Bridget begs, grinding her ass against the random man who has come up and wrapped his arms around her. And this guy is not the pleather guy. This guy is full on naked. But his boner? Let’s just say it’s equally at attention. “Listen,” she says, “You’re always so wound up, Gracie ... tonight let it all go.”

I want to tell her that is exactly what I want ... but just with a few more boundaries. Like knowing the name of the person who is groping you.

“Whose party is this?” I ask, putting my hands on both her shoulders, trying to steady her as a stranger basically tries to ass-fuck her in front of me.

It’s all very confusing.

When I’d shown up at Bridget’s an hour ago, in a little black dress, she’d been oddly evasive about the locale of this shindig, but now I need details.

Also, I need a bar. A loud bar with pop music, full of semi-drunk guys who might be okay with kissing the most average of average girls when the ball drops. A nice, maybe even open-mouthed kiss. A kiss that just says HAPPY FREAKING NEW YEAR. That’s it. That’s all I want right now.

Not this sex party.

“Is this an orgy?” I whisper in horror.

“That word is so 2012, Gracie,” Bridget says, lowering the straps of her leotard until her perky little boobs are right up in my face.

She may be my BFF, but this is getting way too personal.

“I gotta go.”

“But we’re just about to start the New Year’s Daisy Chain,” the naked-ass-man says as if that is something I should know about. “You don’t want to miss that, love.”

My jaw drops, I don’t even know what a daisy chain is, exactly, I just know the I don’t want my flower petals plucked by any of these people.

“This is a whole new low, Bridget,” I hiss in her ear. “Add this to the list of reasons I don’t go out with you.”

“What’s new? All you do is make lists and notes, Gracie. Stop recording everything that happens around you and start living. Starting with sleeping with someone.”

I roll my eyes, stepping away from her. “That isn’t nice. First of all, no way would I lose my virginity at a place like this… and secondly,” I hiss. “I like my notes. It makes my life--”

“Oh, Gracie,” Bridget tsk-tsks me in pity, her eyes half closed as the man cups her breasts right in front of me. Like I’m not even there. Or maybe that’s the point. I am here. “Your life is vanilla but maybe it’s time you got some double fudge.”

Not knowing if that’s another sex thing, I just grunt in disgust and walk away.

Bridget may be my best friend, but she is not the person I want to take sex advice from. I’m not opposed to losing my virginity—heck I want to.

But not like this. Not with a stranger.

* * *

It’s barely 11 pm, I’ve got my shoes in my hand—my little black dress may have a good idea, but those four inch heels were not. I needed out of the orgy, and couldn’t muster the courage to go to a bar solo, so instead I’m unlocking my apartment door to greet the new year all by my lonesome.

I’m not looking for a pity-party.

I’m mostly pissed at myself. I should have known going out with Bridget on New Year’s Eve would be asking for trouble.

Why couldn’t I just have done a few shots and loosened up and not been so freaking uptight?

The girls who play it safe may finish first, but their lives are also boring.

I’m speaking from experience. Obviously.

Maybe this is the wake-up call I need. Maybe in this new year I won’t be the same girl I am today.

As I struggle to get the key in the door, someone’s hot breath is on my neck. And in my ear. Causing all my lady parts to basically seize because I know this move. There is only one human being on the planet that can pull that off without coming across as a creeper.

My across-the-hall neighbor Cooper. Cooper with his golden eyes and dark auburn hair, all wavy and long. Cooper with his perpetual stubble and his slow, mid-west accent.

Cooper with his mouth so close to my skin.

He blows another perfect puff into my outer ear.

I moan inwardly because how can something so cliché feel so freaking good?

Cooper loves to sneak up on me – well, anyone, I’m not flattering myself here – and blow warm air in their ear.

It is pretty much the best pick-up line I’ve ever not heard.

It gets me wet in like twelve seconds which is saying something considering I’m not your typical vibrator-stashing, dildo-collecting, virginal heroine you read about in romance novels.

Well, okay, I am that girl. I’m just tired of being her. And when I lose my virginity I want it to be more than vanilla sex with a man I met on Match dot com.

My pussy works, sure, but it doesn’t get “dripping wet” every time a bad boy walks into my bedroom. I may devour those books in lieu of writing my research paper for my women’s studies graduate degree... but the truth is, no mafia-motorcycle-gang ex-con is knocking on my door.

Though Cooper being here is better than those alpha-holes. Because Cooper is real.

But let’s not get confused – Cooper is one of those alpha-holes. He’s the prototype and carbon copy all rolled into one.

“Hey Coop,” I say, turning to face him, holding my keys at eye level. Well, my eye level. Cooper is 6’4”, with a chip on his shoulder and hands that know what they are doing.

Literally. I mean, he’s a catcher for the Yankees.

“Gracie, Gracie, Gracie, what are you doing home at this hour?” He’s in a black suit, the tie undone, his hair falling in his eyes. A bottle of champagne in his hand.

And a woman standing behind him. A woman that may very well be sugary sweet but is also basically wearing lingerie, stiletto heels, and can be summed up as platinum blonde perfection.

But of course.

Because Cooper always has a model-worthy-woman on his arm.

“Just calling it a night early,” I tell him, smiling so hard my shoulders practically touch my ears in my weird reaction to this encounter. My lady bits are all jumbled and confused between Bridget’s sex dungeon and Cooper’s hot breath and the reality of my night alone and knowing that Cooper is about to have wild sex next door.

It’s all a little crazy making.

So, I just laugh in a high-pitched hysterical way, turn around, and jam my key in the door with such force there’s no choice but for it to open.

“You okay there?” he asks. “You can come over, you know, if you’re just going to be alone. You could have some fun with us. When’s the last time you did what you really wanted?”

He raises an eyebrow, and the Amazon princess in underwear laughs –– you know that laugh that is both non-committedly annoying and yet still manages to turn every single man on since forever?

Pretty much the opposite of my maniacal sound from about six seconds ago.

“Right. Sounds super fun, but I’m good, thanks.” I smile tightly, and close the door behind me. I know Cooper doesn’t really want me to come over for some ménage-a-trois. He was just being nice.

There’s a knock on the door. I sigh, not wanting their love-fest to be thrown in my face, yet I manage to open it and see Cooper standing there, his date inside his now open apartment. I see her strutting down his hall, dropping her sort-of-dress on the floor. Ass cheeks bare.

Wowzers.

“Yes?” I ask, trying to reconcile the onslaught of naked people I’ve seen tonight. I have never stripped for anyone the way this model-like female is doing for Cooper or like Bridget was doing for her swinger friends. Not even when I was in a relationship.

Cooper rests his broad shoulder against my doorframe. “I just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year, Gracie.”

“Well, thanks, Cooper. Likewise.” I swallow, not wanting to say something insane. Like, forget the supermodel, come in here, with me, your strait-laced neighbor who maybe wants to do something reckless.

Of course, I don’t. Cooper is Cooper and I’m Gracie. The girl who is so out of touch with her vajayjay it’s embarrassing.

“I’ll be around tomorrow, so I can help with the sink.”

I scrunch my nose in confusion.

“Your leaky sink?” he adds as if trying to clarify.

Is that another sex thing? My pulse quickens. He wants to help with my leaky sink?!

Before I can figure out what it means exactly ... Cooper adds, “I saw your note on the Sup’s door. Knowing him, he hasn’t gotten anyone to come fix it. But I can handle a dripping faucet.”

“Right,” I breathe, realizing this isn’t some Urban Dictionary slang I’m out of date on.

My “dripping faucet” is in my kitchen. Literally.

Even though something else is dripping right now –– which, never mind. OMG. This is a new low.

“See you then,” Cooper says, smirking at me, before walking away.

I lock my door, drop my purse, kick off my heels, and stick my head in the freezer.

I’m alone.

Sexually frustrated.

And desperate for a change.

It’s time I sat down and made some resolutions.