[Editor’s Note: New York Magazine does these Sex Diaries that are sometimes cool, sometimes lame. Sometimes they’re interesting portrayals of every day life, and sometimes they make it seem like EVERYONE in New York City is having copious amounts of crazy sex — which isn’t always the case, btw. What would happen, I wondered, if some of CC’s writers blogged about their sex life for a week? Would it be cooler? Funnier? More believable?

Let’s see…]

DAY ONE

9:15 a.m.: Walking to the gym in sweatpants, a dirty wifebeater, no makeup. Get catcalled by at least fifteen people. Oh, ethnic neighborhood, you’re so charming.

12:03 p.m.: Walking home from the gym in the same gear as before, only now drenched in sweat, get catcalled by about fifteen more people. I finally tell one of them to f*ck off. It feels good. His response? “Someone needs to get laid!” I hate dudes.

11:23 p.m.: At my place of business which is, in fact, a strip club, where I am, in fact, a stripper. A scruffy but jovial old man solicits me for a trip to the VIP room, which I gladly agree to (Guaranteed $160 for a half hour? Hell yes!), but first warn him that I’m not one of those girls that do “special favors” in said room. He says that’s fine and wanders off to get more cash from the ATM.

11:43 p.m.: After about ten minutes, the old man pulls out his dick and asks me to give him a blowjob. I tell him no way in hell; I already said that’s not how I do. He tells me it’s fine, because he has a condom. I tell him he can get the f*ck out.

11:50 p.m.: After five minutes of arguing and an extra fifty bucks for being an asshole, we finish the dance and the guy behaves himself. Before we exit the room he kisses me on the cheek and tells me I’m a lovely girl. Read More »