Remember that Blank Issue contest we ran a while back? Well, the winner chose the internship “prize” rather than the $1,000. We’re not sure of what’s involved in his decision-making process, but he’s in our New York office now and that means we’re going to make good use of him. He asked for an assignment, and ten minutes later we told him it was very important to be in top physical shape because spending eight hours a day as indentured servant for a magazine has the tendency to atrophy the ol’ muscles. So we called up our buddies at Crunch and scheduled a pole-dancing class for our new intern Robert J. Zeigler (he calls himself Jesse). Before you click the link to read more, we’d like to make it very clear that Robert’s workout ensemble was picked out of his closet of his own volition. No one here is that cruel.

As I sit here in the dark, writing these words, I can feel every muscle fiber of my body setting in place like plaster slopped all over a doughy, out-of-shape Greek statue someone made as a joke. Tomorrow is going to be hell. Since the pole dancing class this afternoon, I’ve taken two Excedrin and two Percocets (neither of which has done shit), and stretched my limbs to the point of crying, something my roommate told me to do in order to make everything hurt less (he’s full of shit). I’m writing this in the middle of the night because the pain is so unbearable that I can’t sleep.

I walked into the class and was blown away by the talent in the room. Fifteen beautiful, fit women were spread around and bending in ways I cannot even begin to describe. But any reservations I had about an accidental boner during class were quickly diminished about two minutes into the initial floor workout. Despite the view, which was more than ample, I found myself pouring sweat and aching in all the wrong places right away. It got so bad, in fact, that the girl next to me threw a towel over my head while I was on the floor performing pelvic thrusts.

When it was my turn, the enthusiasm for my assignment got the best of me. I stepped up to the pole and thrust my hips so hard against it a low ding was heard by my little group of pros, including the towel girl who I was secretly forming a crush on. No, that was not my dick—it was my athletic supporter. I might’ve looked like a complete ass but I was not going to be arrested for indecent exposure.

For a guy who doesn’t do shit, I must say I’m fortunate to be blessed with a very feminine athletic grace. I wrecked that pole. Next time you’re at the strip club, double whatever amount you already tip. IT IS HARD WORK. I heard things popping and grinding inside me for a full hour. But I knew I had this shit on lock because I caught towel girl staring more than once. The room only got hotter and the class just kept on going.

The class finally ended and I took my shirt off, thanking God I made my best friend give me an Italian edge-up the night before. (That’s when you grab a set of electric hair clippers and start working your way up from the middle of the back.) When I sat down for a drink of water I noticed that the object of my creepy new obsession was getting ready to leave. If I didn’t move fast I’d miss my chance. I leaned over to the person next to me and said, “Alright, I’m going after towel girl. Wish me luck.”

Knees shaking (from the workout, not nerves), I made my way across the room.

“So can I get that math?”

“What?”

“Can I get your phone number?”

“If you weren’t such a creep just now you would’ve.”

“Awesome.”