Now that summer is here Manhattan is a hotbed of girls wearing seasonally appropriate clothing. For once, it’s a time when men are more uncomfortable than women in terms of wardrobe. While guys are sweating underneath their suits and jackets, girls are frolicking around in sundresses, short skirts, rompers, etc.

But it’s not all fun and games. A woman’s body is suddenly put on display for every Tom, Dick, and creeper to peer up her skirt, down her blouse, and into every nook and cranny of her English muffin.

My busty friend is constantly complaining about construction workers, pedestrians, street cleaners, businessmen, flower vendors, subway passengers, and homeless men proposing marriage to her based on how fulsome her breasts look in summer dresses.

- Haley Hogan

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My sister is having a hard time with the New York City dating scene. Last week alone she went out with a performance artist from Brooklyn who ended up being gay (not a huge surprise), a former child star turned PhD student who ended up being a creeper (another inevitability).

Her third date of the week was with a Roman boy who moved to Manhattan to pursue The American Dream. Whatever that means. His first job was renting shoes. Again. Not sure what that means. Now he does something much more legitimate: he illegally sublets New York City apartments as vacation rentals to tourists. Ugh. Immigrants. That’s what you get for joining OkCupid.

- Haley Hogan

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A very handsome straight boy I know was recently jean shopping in the men’s department at Barneys. Given his exceptional height, features, and personal style, all of the gay sales boys immediately flocked to his aid.

As soon as they saw the boy’s girlfriend approach him, they were disappointed and less enthusiastic about helping him find the perfect pair of denim. In the end, at the check-out counter as he was buying his jeans, the gay man working the register said to him, “I love your shirt.” The straight boy was confused and asked, “What? This one?” The gay cashier responded, “Yes. Where’d you get it?” The straight boy replied, “L.L.Bean.” The gay boy was mystified and aroused, faced with the authentically rugged nature of “L.L.Bean.”

- Haley Hogan

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A friend of mine attended the ‘Spring Is For Lovers’ party at her Ivy League graduate school. It was held at a nightclub and intended to bring together the engineering students with the French literature students, etc. etc., because apparently being in grad school requires a middle school dance in order to facilitate dating.

My friend had the unfortunate luck of meeting an aggressive med student who stalked her all night and even bought drinks for all her friends just to impress her.

At the end of the evening she was persuaded to get in a taxi with him because he had commandeered her coat. He said he would take her to a great restaurant Uptown. He told the cabbie his own address instead. How Patrick Bateman of him.

At his apartment, he made her a delicious drink with freshly squeezed lemons. He turned and said with conviction, “I can tell you’ve been eyeing my lemon squeezer. It’s yours for the taking.” She politely refused, “I couldn’t possibly take your lemon squeezer,” but he insisted. And such is the way of modern romance.

- Haley Hogan

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‘Please Rape Me,’ my performance art piece at the MoMA was one of the colder experiences of my life, mostly because it was 20 degrees and windy, but also because I was wearing cellophane. But more importantly, it was cold because the art world guests attending the Armory Show Opening Night Benefit Party were so anxious to down a glass of champagne and schmooze that they couldn’t be bothered to examine what was going on with my blasting pop music and seasonally inappropriate outfit. But at least I made the herds of Prada-clad gallery girls, Wall Street collectors, and pseudo-British art dealers dreadfully uncomfortable for a few seconds as they hurried to the glass doors of the museum.

The most disappointing thing about the experience was that the overall female reaction to my piece was dismissive and derogatory. Perhaps it’s because the site of a semi-naked dancing girl in front of a museum was just too indecorous for their refined art-themed evening. Since the message of my piece was subversive and not immediately apparent, they wrote it off and moved on with their evening. Or maybe it’s just too taboo to bring up the word “rape” (unless it’s framed in a serious way).

There were obviously some creepers who peered into the mirror underneath my skirt, along with one fellow who placed a Sugarfree Red Bull in my rape evidence box, and another man who gave me a five-dollar bill. One guy responded to the piece via Twitter with an expectedly immature comment: “hey I thought your performance last night was really hot, or did I miss the point?”

Even though many men took the time to read my artist’s statement and contemplate the performance, almost all the women simply turned their noses and walked away. It reaffirmed my earlier impression that the majority of women would rather suppress any degrading sexual experiences than talk openly about them.

Was the word “rape” just too offensive for them to stare in the face?

- Haley Hogan

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My friend has a thing about meeting men on public transportation. Unfortunately, her daily commute involves the crosstown bus at 79th Street, which does not present a host of eligible bachelors (mainly elderly women going from the Metropolitan Museum to Zabar’s).

One day my friend exited the bus and glanced in her purse to find an intriguing note from a stranger: “You are obviously a lovely, charming, beautiful, and educate woman — you gave up your seat to an old lady who wasn’t even infirm. I would love to meet you for coffee. Here is my email …” Naturally, my friend jumped at the opportunity.

Word of wisdom: never pick up men in buses or on subway platforms. In my friend’s case, it ended in a night of misery at a burger joint where her mystery creeper showed off his suaveness by ordering a side of “onion rings for the lady!”

- Haley Hogan

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I don’t know about you, but New Year’s Eve usually makes me really depressed. That is, unless you’re madly in love with the man/woman of your dreams and that person is the one kissing you at midnight.

In 2011 I hope to:

1. Get a prestigious job.

2. Get my novel published, or at least get a literary agent.

3. Get hired as a bartender, since neither 1 nor 2 will happen.

4. Avoid all creepers, wankers, and other degenerate characters — unless they have something to offer me that is relevant to any of the above three.

5. Get everyone to start reading and cooking from my sister’s brilliant new food blog.

6. Stalk the following celebrities (all pimps in their own ways): Hugh Hefner (he only has a short time left! the clock is ticking!), Kristen Stewart (she is so hot right now), Jack Nicholson (not sure why that hasn’t happened yet), Blake Lively (just cause…).

7. Finally discover a legitimately good reason for having a blog.

- Haley Hogan [Follow me on Twitter & read my other blog about WASP culture]

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I’ve encountered my fair share of male flashers, but thankfully have yet to be seated next to one on an airplane, like the poor 17-year-old girl who witnessed a man masturbating under his tray table on her flight home. She had engaged in innocent small talk with the man before take-off, and when she least expected, while she was searching for prom dresses in Seventeen magazine, she was distracted by the sight of an exposed penis wagging back and forth beneath the 50-year-old creeper’s tray table. Luckily, she had an aisle seat and managed to escape to the back of the plane without having to crawl over the pervert’s lap.

The disturbed young cheerleader reported the incident to authorities, who immediately arrested the man for public display of lewdness. He claimed to have spilled Tobasco sauce on his privates and blamed any seemingly inappropriate movement under the tray table on an unbearable, burning itch that needed immediate scratching.

The culprit has a PhD in Biomechanics, was a professor of physical therapy at Duke University, and has written and lectured on topics such as “Core Stability: Integration with Lower Extremity Rehabilitation” and “Manual Magic: The Method is not the Trick.” I’ll bet he’s always taken a hands-on approach to teaching. Needless to say, he’s certainly mastered the art of creeperdom.

- Lizzie Crocker

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The thought of marriage is a bit daunting to me, given that I’m slightly neurotic and can’t imagine finding someone who will put up with my shenanigans forever and a day. Then of course there’s the issue of meeting a man whom I can bear ‘til death do us part – in bed, at the kitchen table, on the toilet…

If opposites attract, then I should get hitched with someone who is grounded, stable, and rational. But those criteria sound downright dull to me, and I’m convinced life would be more exhilarating were I to spend it with someone who is as eccentric and passionate as I am. According to new research, I just may live happily ever after with a man who also has vague “issues,” so long as we spend plenty of time between the sheets. Angry sex, emo sex, dirty sex, even mindless sex – apparently the emotions lovers feel during the act don’t necessarily reflect (nor affect) the couple’s general happiness, or malaise. What matters is that they’re doing it frequently. I guess this all makes sense, given that neurotic types are probably more likely to be perverts, creepers, and nymphomaniacs than “normal” people.

There may be hope for me after all.

- Lizzie Crocker

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Most of Manhattan’s residents live in such close quarters that it’s not unusual to hear clomping feet, clamoring pots and pans, hammering, shouting, and other standard household noises through the walls of your apartment. But occasionally it can be an awful disturbance, if not simply a sound one can’t ignore — particularly when it’s the sound of your neighbor (who has a tendency to lurk in her doorway wrapped in a silk kimono) engaged in wild and rapturous sex.

The other night I was sitting at home having a conversation with a friend when I was suddenly interrupted by moans of pleasure, shrieks, and Grade A dirty talk from across the hall. My sensual neighbor screamed, “Fuck! Oh god! Oh yes! Stick your finger in my ass!” It’s no wonder Manhattan is a creeper’s paradise, and maybe not the ideal place in which to raise children.

- Lizzie Crocker

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