By the recessionary Spring of 1993, I'd been out of college for almost a year--totally unemployed for most of that time, living at my grandmother's house in the suburbs of Queens.

Life was simple and pleasant. At my low-paying, part-time internship (for a big, cheesy, weekly entertainment magazine in Manhattan) I wrote letters to friends on the computer and racked up hundreds of dollars worth of long-distance personal phone calls. In my time off, I collected unemployment checks, went to museums, walked through the park, or just sat around at my grandma's house, smoking pot and drawing funny pictures with Cray-Pas.

But as time passed, this seemingly paradisical existence began to lose its luster. All my friends and interests were in the city. I also wanted girls to hang out with me, but none seemed very impressed when I told them I was living with my Grandma. I needed to move, but I had no money. Maybe a full-time job, I thought, would be the way to get my hands on the cash I needed.

So I searched, in frustration, for months. The harder I looked, the more desperate I became.

Then one day, a friend recommended me for an editorial assistant position at a magazine called TeenGirl Spirit [*all names have been changed]--one of the biggest and most popular monthlies for females between the ages of 12-24.

Never in a million years would I have thought to seek employment at a magazine written expressly for 14-year-old girls. And besides, at almost any large magazine, "editorial assistants" are basically semi-glorified secretaries, responsible for high volumes of detailed administrative busywork. Up until that point, my biggest organizational challenge on the job had been deciding when to take lunch for maximum duration. But like I said, the situation was grim. Even the paltry, sub-20K salary TeenGirl Spirit offered seemed appealing. At least, I thought, this job might be a funny experience.

I interviewed. They liked me. Two weeks later, I started work. 











Most of the TeenGirl women were pretty nice, but because I was the
only man on the editorial staff (except for a "creative consultant" who was
never around), a strange dynamic immediately developed between us. The
novelty of my maleness made me a sort of office mascot. I received a
different type of attention than I would have if I'd been female.  The only
men these women were used to seeing in the office were dopey B-rate models
who'd come in for "go-sees."  I sometimes got the feeling my co-workers
perceived me as little more than a living Ken doll.  "It's so nice to
have a cute guy around here for a change." I got comments like that all
the time. One workmate liked to sneak up and kiss me on the cheek when I
wasn't looking.  I even got slapped on the ass a couple of times.


But to be fair, I must admit that occasionally the compliments were mildly
flattering.  Most of them were meant in a nice way.  And as for the
kissing and ass-slapping, I actually thought that was sort of amusing--I'd
been cast into the classic "bimbo secretary" role women have been subjected
to for years.