I’m already the oldest—and nowonly—virgin in my apartment, and I refuse to be the only one who doesn’t make it across the finish line this year. Surely, if I put my mind to it, I can at least solve that issue this summer. Finding a decent penis has to be easier than finding a wonderful new job. And decent would be fine with me. I’m not looking for true love or even oodles of orgasms; I just want to get the damned thing over with before it becomes even more of A Thing.
In the past few years, my virginity has become a Superpowered Boss determined to stomp my self-confidence to smithereens.
Getting laid isn’t supposed to be hard. According to books and movies and every love-themed reality show ever filmed, having sex is something people often do by accident, let alone when they’re actively trying to make it happen. As a reasonably attractive person with no long-term expectations, I should be able to wander into a bar and acquire a serviceable dick as easily as ordering takeout.
But even in my fancy, cleavage-enhancing new clothes that Harlow helped me acquire last year, the only men who seem interested are old enough to be my father—or grandfather, gag—or are one of the chronically wasted skater boys who hang out by the pizza place. And I would really like my first dick to be age appropriate and not to smell like bargain-basement weed and unwashed skater-boy shorts.
I don’t think that’s too much to ask, right?
Ugh. You’re no help. Starting a diary was a dumb idea.
I don’t like seeing my thoughts on paper. It makes my life seem even more pathetic.
So, good night, Diary. I’m probably going to burn you in the morning, but don’t get in your feels about it. It’s not you; it’s me.
It’s always me and…I’m not sure what to do about that.
Unemployed,unpenetrated, and unwanted in the West Village,
Jess
CHAPTER ONE
Jessica Allison Cho
A woman with no idea a blast from the past
is about to blow her mind. (And maybe a few
other parts while he’s at it…)
Some women might be annoyed that their best friend decided to propose to his girlfriend at her birthday party and steal focus, but not me.
I’m…breathlessly grateful.
Seriously, I’m so happy to have the spotlight off me and my freaked-out-about-being-unemployed-but-trying-not-show-it ass, that I’m currently sacked out in a lounge chair at the far side of the roof from the packed dance floor, trying to work up the oxygen to get my twerk on. Evie and Harlow have both requested a repeat performance of my New Year’s Eve twerk-a-palooza, a sight that’s apparently so hilarious to behold that the last time she bore witness to it, Evie peed her pants a little, and had to go take a shower before the clock struck midnight.
Which is fine.
I have no issues with making a fool of myself in the name of spreading joy and mirth. I’m under no delusions that my off-tempo wiggling is anything but laughable and there’s no one here to impress. I’m surrounded by old friends from high school and college who like me just the way I am.
Friends don’t care if friends dance like they’ve been possessed by an awkward demon with a twitching problem. It’s one of the best things about friends.
I’m glad the two single guys from Harlow’s new study group—the ones she tried to lure to our rooftop with promises of free beer and gourmet cake baked by Cam’s new fiancée—had to work tonight. Who needs that kind of pressure? I’d much rather let my freak flag fly on the dance floor than pretend to be normal for two future forensic accountants.
So why aren’t I dancing?
Why am I lying here with a warm beer in hand, wishing I was back in bed with the covers pulled over my head?
Is it just dread about meeting up with Mom and Dad on Sunday and confessing that I’m a jobless disappointment? Or is it the fact that all my best friends are now blissfully coupled up and banging happily ever after, while I’m alone with no love or fuckery in sight?
Or maybe I’m just annoyed that DJ Keith is playing Shania Twain after I specifically told himnotto play country because I am from New Jersey, not Alabama, and country always makes me irritable or sad.
I’m a dry-eyed badass from way back but force me to listen to a song about a broken young woman with a baby in the backseat begging Jesus to take the wheel, and Iwillhave to fight off a big sloppy cry. Conversely, blast a cheesy song about a guy in love with his truck, and I become so actively murderous I have to grab a cutting board and aggressively chop celery until the need to throw the speaker through the window passes.
People shouldn’t write songs about loving machinery. I mean, I love my computer, but I’m not going to write a fucking song about it. And I sure as hell wouldn’t write an anthem about wearing men’s shirts and short skirts and “feeling like a woman.”
Gag.