I don't like getting up early, but when I have something important to do like, say, starting an internship at Maxim magazine, my will power will morph my body into a sweaty leotard that just wants to get up and Boxercise--and she won't take no for an answer. "You will do it," commands my Spandex consciousness, overriding the "you will do absolutely nothing" demands of my lethargic limbs. I force myself out of bed and walk toward the bathroom where my mussed up pillow-head stares back at me in the mirror.

"Hey there handsome--if I saw you in a bar I believe I'd go gay," I say, flattering myself. But my self-absorbed ego massage fails to pump me up this morning. I feel frightened and excited at the same time, just like a nun who daringly neglects to wear her panties and then marvels with both horror and childlike glee at the sensation of the cool spring breeze penetrating the thick cloth of her habit.

I fiddle with the faucets to arrive at a desirable warm temperature. As I scrub my furry beer belly and my faithful companion below I begin to psyche myself up into a Maxim frame of mind. I start to flex my muscles and strike bodybuilding poses, mimicking Goldberg and the Rock. The glistening glow my chest and arms take on as a continuous stream of water pelts my physique impresses me and I revel in my manliness. Rarely karaoke'd jock jams like Henry Rollins "Liar" and Social Distortion's "I was wrong" find their way into my shower set and I can feel pure testosterone pumping through my bloodstream.

As I walk down Sixth Avenue toward the Maxim offices my former courageous spirit dwindles and subsequently fades away. My empowered state of mind is replaced by feelings of nervousness and fear. I am scared I won't be able to meet up to expectations. I am afraid I will fail to perform some simple task and be horribly humiliated. Hypothetical scenarios run rampant through my mind: What if they have a strict dress code and my chinos and button down T-shirt just don't cut it? What if there are all these hot half-dressed models walking around and everybody notices my erection? Anxiety attacks are normal, I keep telling myself as I exit the elevator and make my way toward the receptionist.

"Hi, my name's Michael Dojc I'm the new intern and this is my first day," I announce to an incredibly sexy blonde receptionist who almost causes one of my dreaded "what ifs" to come true. She smiles coyly as if sensing my unease, presses a button on the phone and tells me to be seated. The "bo bo, chichichica" synth sounds of eighties Michael J. Fox movies resonate in my head--I really need to calm down. Then the moment of truth arrives, as James Heidenry, a senior editor who interviewed me just a month previous, walks through the hallway and I quickly rise to greet him.

"Good morning Michael, sorry for the wait" he says.

Sorry for the wait? I was thankful for every single one of those precious moments that elapsed. They allowed the air conditioning to dry the sweat off my palms and cool my nervous system back to normal operating levels.

"It's quite alright," I reply, and with that we enter the editorial room. It is time for introductions. We stroll through a labyrinth of cubicles and offices, and I am extended a friendly greeting by each member of the staff before being shown to my workspace, commonly known as the "intern pit"--although the name is a misnomer since it's not the least bit scary, and looks more like a waiting room than a hole in the ground. Yet the term recalls the brutal slaying pit of Rome's Coliseum and I feel like Maximus, the hardened second-century warrior Russell Crowe portrays in Gladiator , ready to whoop some serious Barbarian ass.

"Bring it on!" I think to myself as I test out my new swivel chair. I soon meet up with my fellow interns Alec and Louis who tell me that it's a pretty laid back atmosphere at Maxim, and assure me that I'll have a great time. After showing me how to use a research engine and explaining some basic office procedures, I'm fully Maxim-ized. We sort through the mail, separating pictures of girls in tubs of Jello from those of regular half-naked girls, and pore through piles of correspondence from horny men and even hornier incarcerated men. A couple minutes later James tells us to go down the street in search of cool car magazines and this is when I realize that I can definitely swing this gig, and all my worries evaporate.

The rest of the day goes by without any snags and most of time I'm left alone to pick at the noggins of the more experienced interns. Alec and Louis are vague and elusive in describing what exactly Maxim interns do. I get the picture that the internship is a foot in the door only in the literal sense. You have access to the building and that's about it.

As day two turned into three, and three became four, the novelty of belonging in the office of a hip Men's magazine began to fade. I found myself questioning my great fortune. Was this really cool? All I was doing was carrying out menial tasks that took up only a fraction of my day, and the rest of the time I was free to do as I pleased. Alec and Louis went on to bigger things, and suddenly I was alone in the intern room and there were no other voices but the one in my head to break the din of silence. I could actually hear the hum of the a/c it was so damned quiet. Why didn't they blast music in the halls? This was Maxim after all, not a damn seminary!

Most of my time was spent reclining in my chair, writing emails, playing with the expensive digital coffee machine down the hall, and smiling at the people who tip-toed by. On the outside I was the perfect picture of content, but boredom was overwhelming my conscience and driving me nuts. I had been anticipating the summer too much to just vegetate in an adjustable swivel chair. I decided to show the editors that I was made of tougher stock than that of a desk-potato, but how?

"Read the whole thing. Every article!" James had told me my first day, and he wasn't joking. In fact he was being brutally honest and if I hadn't ignored him then, I would already be out of this funk. Knowing the magazine in its entirety was the only way for me to find my niche.

"Read and you will gain power, young Jedi," I told myself. A mere hour later, after combing through two issues, no epiphany came. So I checked my Hotmail account for new messages. There were two from friends abroad, and then a porno junk mail that changed my life, as porn junk mail so often can.

"Do you want to see me naked??" it baited.

"Hell yeah," I thought. But . . . then it hit me like a Nolan Ryan fastball. If I was going to troll around the 'Net all day I might as well make the most of my explorations by writing net-reviews, one of the weakest parts of the magazine. A sense of purpose lifted my spirits and my fingers tightened around the circular mouse of the fruity iMac that was at my disposal. Time passed quickly and in between photocopying and taking lunch orders I started to write about weird wonders of the Web.

As of today I have yet to get one published, but the entertainment editor seems to be warming up to my style. For now, I'm stuck publishing in two-bit rags like LeisureSuit.net, but it's only a matter of time before the elusive Maxim byline is mine!