Collected Agenda with Camille Sojit Pejcha
Guest Edit #7
Drawing on the diary as a medium of both confessional interiority, and visceral engagement with the physical world - guest edits ask creative people to share What They Did and What You Should Do.
Introducing Camille Sojit Pejcha (Instagram) (Pleasure-Seeking)
Camille Sojit Pejcha is a writer and editor in New York. She writes across a broad range of topics, with a focus on desire and sex in its subjective and objective forms, and with an eye towards the prevailing influence of desire at the root of all cultural, psychological, and interpersonal stories. She’s written for publications like The New York Times, CR Fashion Book, and W Magazine, and served as Features Director and columnist at the independent magazine Document Journal for five years. This fall, she relaunched her column “Pleasure-Seeking” independently on Substack, where she writes about the intersection of desire, sex, and modern culture. Last month, she was interviewed about Pleasure-Seeking for The New York Times, and launched a podcast featuring Q&A-style relationship advice and intimate interviews with cultural figures.
I’ve been excited about this column for a few months now, first reading “Do I want to be her or do I want to fuck her?, an ode to your ex-boyfriend’s ex girlfriend, which merges a personal story with an investigation into blurred lines between envy and desire, competition and attraction, and wider ideas of the loose ties that spawn and unravel in the wake of relationships, friendships, and past lives. On “Pleasure-Seeking”, one can also read on Luigi Mangione as a sex symbol, Anna Delvy’s collaboration with Pornhub, and an inside report on the Timothée Chalamet lookalike competition. A trip down the rabbit hole from which Pleasure-Seeking spawned is a worthy venture; In Camille’s archives, you can read about the queer subculture still thriving at New York’s Chelsea Hotel, inside reports on exclusive sex parties, and the she spent a night tied up by Shibari experts to investigate the allure of rope bondage.
Camille only watched Sex in the City after everyone started likening her to a contemporary Carrie Bradshaw, and while she does not necessarily resonate with the character’s prudish qualities, she holds a Bradshaw-esque unique interest in reporting on sex from a nuanced first person perspective. She welcomes subjectivity in her work, diving into rabbit holes accessed through her personal experiences, and then building out these stories with insight gained through interest in the oft “forbidden” stories. I like Camille’s work because for all its research and intellectual rigor, it remains grounded first and foremost in the world we see around us, in conversations had, and from the stories gained by her willingness to enter territory that many others avoid.
A week in her life is a week worth examining.
Sunday
It’s a party, but it’s also a shoot for a music video, but it’s mostly just a party. This is all I know before pulling up to my friend Rayne Fisher-Quann’s place. Upon entering, I am transported into another era (the ’90s) and another time (New Year’s Eve)—because, as I learn, they’re staging an ode to the final scene in When Harry Met Sally. “Four, three, two, one…” goes the countdown as I walk in. “Happy New Year!” Cue confetti.
My job is to be an extra, which mostly entails talking to people in the background of the shot and trying not to look at the camera. “You look so ’90s!” people keep telling me, but I just dress this way.
In the kitchen, I catch up with Eliza McLamb—musician, writer, and host of the podcast Binchtopia—and we debrief about my birthday party at the Chelsea Hotel, hosted by my photographer friend Tony Notarberardino. One of the few remaining permanent residents, he’s been documenting the artists, misfits and vagabonds who passed through its doors since the late ’90s. I thought she’d appreciate it as a musician, I say, because Dee Dee Ramone used to live in that room; she says I mentioned that, but not in a mean way. I wonder how much I’m repeating myself and what else I said to her that night; by the time we talked, I was taking drugs like candy. I meet a stranger with an interesting name, and we get to talking about sexuality; she did her thesis on the social dynamics of sex parties, so I tell her about the night I spent eavesdropping in the world’s most exclusive sex club. Spoiler: The entry is $12,500, and it wasn’t very fun.
I meet the writer Ashley Reese, who tells me the internet is mad at her again. This happens to her a lot, which I I know because when I was in college studying everything but journalism, I spent my days scrolling through articles on media Twitter, assuming everyone else was also fascinated with the lives of New York writers. It wasn’t until years later I realized I actually wanted to be part of that world. It’s sort of like realizing you’re queer; in retrospect, the attraction is obvious—but at the time, I just assumed everyone else felt that way, too.
MONDAY
I wake up to a text from Caroline Calloway. “TWO THINGS,” she says, chaotic in all-caps. “ONE: We must do something for your Substack in the new year.” I wait for the second thing. An hour passes. “You’ve got me on the edge of my seat…” I reply. “PLZ HOLD,” she writes, then proceeds to tell me about THING TWO, which is exciting but redacted for confidentiality. Watch this space!!
Feeling energized, I get to work, which in this case entails writing about the hot assassin for my Substack. An hour after hitting publish, his identity is revealed, causing what denizens of Twitter/X have termed “a poster’s holiday.” In no time, he’s gone (more) viral and Caroline Calloway is now claiming to have had sex with him, but when I text her, she neither confirms nor denies.
I throw a coat on and head to Frenchette, where I have a dinner with Pornhub’s Asa Akira—famous porn star turned brand ambassador—and Alex Kekesi, the brand’s head of community. Kelly Cutrone, who handles their PR, ushers me to the table and introduces me to a handful of other journalists. I ask their thoughts on Luigi, and we debate whether his status as an unconventional sex symbol will lead to a sudden rise in assassin roleplay porn. Then we talk about Cutrone’s illustrious history on The Hills, which I still haven’t seen, despite Heidi Montag having been my babysitter growing up—a piece of personal lore I choose not to reveal. The conversation turns, improbably, to the Amish, and we joke about how there should be a reality TV show that follows extremely online people who are forced to live off the land for a year. I just know I’d be terrible at churning butter, but I love an excuse to touch grass.
A few glasses of wine later, I can feel the main character energy entering my body; by the time dessert comes, I’m regaling them with the tale of how I once convinced ChatGPT to write kinky smut. An unnamed sorbet arrives, compliments of the chef, and no one can decide what it tastes like… hazelnut? Fig? Honeycomb? “I hate that,” one journalist tells me, nose wrinking with distaste; another mishears her and responds, “Oh, I know, isn’t it so good?”
At the end of the night, Asa Akira tells me I look like Kayden Cross, a famous porn star. I’m not familiar, but I’ll take it!
TUESDAY
I was asked to participate in Mars Review of Books’s “bedside table series,” so I spend the afternoon putting together my reading list. Upon reflection, the books I recommend are mostly bisexual or psychosexual or both.
Then I catch up with Anna Delvey for a story we're shopping around (editors, get at me.) She tells me everyone’s tagging her in posts about Luigi—“Move over, Anna Delvey"—and that she doesn’t want him to steal her spotlight. I think it’s a joke, but with her I can never tell.
I swipe on some eyeliner and get ready for drinks with Gordon Glasgow, a writer who’s interviewing me for his series 12 Questions. As I wait for him at Domino Wine Bar, I eavesdrop on the couple nearby who, from what I gather, are on a first date and discussing Rimbaud. “You should read The Artist’s Way,” I hear the man say in the background as I order a chilled red. When I sat down and asked for tap water earlier, the waiter acted like I was being needy; “Don’t worry, I got you,” he said, before proceeding to ignore me for 15 minutes. Ladies, he’s single!
Gordon arrives, and we get to talking. I thought this was a purely social meeting, but halfway through regaling him with all manner of drama, I become aware that we might kind of sort of be on the record. I’m more comfortable interviewing than being interviewed, but when I try to turn questions back at him, he doesn’t take the bait; nervous I’m oversharing, I steer the conversation toward something I’m more comfortable with: sex. We discuss Ozempic and alternate relationship models, and Gordon recommends two books to me: Monogamy and The Unbearable Lightness of Being. The next day, I see these same two books shouted out in Rayne’s holiday gift guide and send it to Gordon, who’s interviewed her before. “Collective consciousness!” he texts back.
Later, I search his name in my inbox to find his writing, only to discover something else: an old email thread from 2020, when we apparently conversed about the possibility of becoming roommates. “It’s me and my well-trained yellow Labrador, Alfie,” he wrote on May 27, 2020, describing himself as a writer, editor, and NYU graduate. New York really is a small town after all.
WEDNESDAY
I wake up to a man on the internet sending me money—very auspicious. Work is less lucrative, but passes quickly as I spend the day compiling a roundup on the latest sex-related news, from the girl who fucked 100 men to the fact that Charli XCX is making us kinkier. According to Feeld’s annual report, her latest album coincided with a 460 percent increase of Gen Z adding the word “brat” to their profiles. I think of my friend Monika, who had the word tattooed on her body long before the lime green, lowercase iconography of brat pushed it into the public vocabulary.
After work, my friends and I convene at Scratcher in the East Village, then trek through the drizzle to Perverted Book Club—an event series hosted by Dreambaby Press that brings together the city’s best and brightest to read horny, often humorous erotica. The three of us are sharing two umbrellas, and I try to be chivalrous, meaning that by the time I arrive, I’m sopping wet. Soon, everyone else is, too; before the erotica even starts, someone bills a beer in the front row and Alex Vadukul sacrifices his reporter’s notebook to mop it up, the pages curling brown at the edges like ancient parchment. I catch up with Allie Rowbottom, whose book Aesthetica I shouted out in my Mars Review roundup; then meme queen Joan of Arca, the writer Sam Falb, and Sophia June of Language Arts, who’s wearing a “Pornhub” branded Christmas sweater.
The reading is a bawdy mix, including Reddit erotica, historic Lewis and Clark fanfiction, and sexual autofiction by James Frey. Jemima Kirke delivers a rousing reading about situational lesbianism (“What the hell, sure!” she’s famously said.) No one one reads erotica about Luigi, which I think is a missed opportunity. “It’s not going to get any better than this,” I remember Kelly Cutrone telling me, in reference to the collective ferver—and thirst—surrounding the assassination. The phrase keeps echoing in my head all week: it’s not going to get any better than this.
Afterward we head to Fanelli’s to discuss the reading, but wind up gossiping about our celebrity neighbors. I learn that my friend, who will remain unnamed for anonymity, lives next door to a famous actress; they share a wall, so he can always hear whatever TV shows she’s watching. For my part, I recently discovered that I live down the street from a disgraced gay popstar. “[REDACTED] is going through what appears to be a terrible lesbian breakup on her stoop,” my sister texted while walking by my place one day, and it was true. Later that day, I saw her exit the house in drag for a night with the girls, the gays and the theys—only to reenter her apartment kissing the same girl the following week. I suspect that in 9-12 months, we will be getting an amazing album out of this.
The conversation turns to our own drunk embarrassments, The New York Times, our relationships. There’s some kind of party at Russian Samovar, people keep texting me, but we’re feeling content to bask in the warm glow of a hot meal. This kind of weather can sap a woman of ambition.
THURSDAY
I start the day bright and early with Pornhub—this time, as part of a seminar outlining the lengths they go to to curb illegal content. I keep my video off, like the other faceless journalists on the Zoom, and ask prying questions in the chat; one of the editors I met at the dinner the other night is there too. “Saw you across the Pornhub Trust and Safety seminar and loved your vibe,” I type, then delete it. “Nice meeting you the other day!”
Bleary-eyed and hungover, I spend two hours watching as the company’s new owner demonstrates the protocol step-by-step—from legal ID to consent verification forms to biometric data and banned words. “Now do you know why a video called ‘grapefruit by the pool with stepsister’ would be taken down?” he asks the group, and I feel like a perverted teacher’s pet for suspecting that it’s because the use of the word ‘grapefruit’ and ‘pool’ could be a sneaky way to indicate content about ‘rape’ and ‘poo.’ I’ve done enough reporting on online censorship, and real eyes realize real lies.
Afterward, I trawl through my inbox, which is full of year-end sexual trend reports. “Edging takes the crown as our most popular kink. Slow and steady wins the race—literally,” writes Sniffies. Pornhub announces that trad wives are on the rise, with top porn searches of the year including, I shit you not, “mindful and demure.” Feeld reports that pegging was the “fastest-growing desire” among straight women. I ignore my emails and work on freelance writing all day, with the intention of rallying for a meeting with a collaborator, then the Paris Review launch party—but when the first meeting’s cancelled, my willpower collapses and my plans fall like dominos. Instead I catch up with two friends over the phone and advise on their various conundrums. One snooped on her boyfriend; the other had a falling-out with his friend. I play therapist, and end the night feeling satisfied with my contribution.
FRIDAY
I go to a lot of parties—but it’s rare that I actually want to go to a party, have time to get ready for a party, and also know a lot of people at that party, so of course that’s the night I end up in the ER. My sister, who was on a date at an ice skating rink, broke her wrist and the guy didn’t seem to be falling over himself to accompany her, which the nurses immediately decide is a fatal character flaw. Between her quirky space buns and my holiday party outfit, we are mogging the Park Slope ER—at least until a gaggle of drunk girls in bodycon dresses manage to sneak in to use the bathroom, chasing each other around in heels. My sister’s hand is casted, and I fill out the forms on her behalf, submitting and resubmitting her insurance information in the system again and again only to have it rejected. On the television screen, footage of Luigi Mangione lights up the room.
WHAT CAMILLE SOJIT PEJCHA THINKS YOU SHOULD DO
Avoid ice skating rinks.
Wear silk pajamas, at home or anywhere else. I have a set that I love wearing to events because it’s 1. a power move and 2. a conversation starter. When I’m in pajamas, I never fail to make friends.
Discover an artist’s oeuvre backwards, consuming their least popular work first. I’ve done this by accident a few times—notably with Miranda July—and it’s so much more gratifying to watch someone self-actualize, versus being disappointed by a sophomore flop. I like that you can kind of see the creative process at work, and notice how later projects weave together hints of what came before.
Create a service that bundles all the streaming platforms together like ClassPass, so you can watch that holiday special that just came out without purchasing a lifetime subscription to Veep. The fact that this hasn’t been done yet is evidence of big pharma-style corruption and I’m sick of being billed by 12 different streaming providers—can someone fix this?
Have a spa day. I’m famously bad at relaxing but this takes the guesswork out of the equation. I personally like Bathhouse in Williamsburg, despite the recent realization that this entails bathing in crypto waters. If the proximity to Bitcoin gets your heart rate up, World Spa is a lovely alternative, but don’t forget to bring your own slippers!
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