Enrique Punjabi

I have a very strong pair of beer goggles.

Should that be classed as a help? A hindrance? Well, when it's 2am and I'm prowling the dance floor and I see scottie-too-hottie coming towards me I'm in no state to pause to consider this question. It's the next day when I'm looking at photos of myself with my arms draped all over my fugly conquest I can only but hang my head in shame.

My sisters still tease me about Hot German Boy, the exchange engineer at my sister's work around the time of her Mystery Bus Tour Birthday Bash. So the Herr Schmidt was invited along. I was celebrating sis' birthday with wine, champagne and plenty of tequila. Halfway through the night I come bounding out to where sis + friends were standing to brag that "I tooooootally just picked up Hot German Boy!"

"Who?" asked her friends.

"Hot German Boy! Ohmygod - sooo hot!!" followed by a smug (yet still drunken) expression that announced 'haven't I just scored!'

Even the next day I refused to believe that he was an uggo until that evening when sis' boyfriend bought round his camera and used the digital cord to display pics of the night on our parent's big screen TV. So in front of mum, dad, big sis, little sis, big sis' bf and the two family dogs the legacy of my beer goggles were born...

A recent night out in New York saw the goggles in action again. It started out like any other. With my flatmate Fiona we'd had a few drinks at home, poured our left over vodka into travelling water bottles and made the drunken subway trip downtown.

The club was massive. Fiona had a connection that got us in for free, but of course the $12 house wines emptied out our wallets just the same. The music was a bit too techno for my usual liking but I was too drunk to really care (fellow Tassie-ites could compare this place to a massive version of Iso-Bar back in its early days before the wogs took over).

And there I met Enrique Inglesias. Or his twin at least. We danced. We pashed. We chatted...briefly...no memory of what was said. We pashed some more. It was time to go and I slurred my number to him when asked. The night ended like any other - back up to East Harlem for some 5am fried chicken, while Fiona flirted, then picked a fight with the Mexicans on our stoop. And my dreams were sweet with images of my latin lover.

I think we can all guess how this story ends...

So Enrique called me on Sunday night. But it was Tony Night and, along with my fellow musical theatre geeks, I was glued to the TV with the rule of "NO TALKING WHILE THE TONY'S ARE ONE!" God forbid we'd miss a moment of Elton and his Billy kids on their night of nights.

Enrique called back on Monday night and our date was set for Wednesday after my work function was over. The venue was to be my local Starbucks. Hmm, ok...not the most romantic of choices but it was next door to my work so I told myself he'd chosen it out of convinience and that he'd then be taking me out salsa dancing, or to some fabulous tapas bar, or at least to a tequila shack.

I was late, which I blame work for. Enrique was waiting. Except he wasn't so much of an Enrique in the dim light of my chain-coffeehouse. Turns out he was Pakistani. Oops.

The usual getting-to-know-you questions ensued and he seemed nice enough , until he revealed that he didn't drink alcohol. At all. Ever. WTF?

I have nothing against non-drinkers. They make excellent cab drivers. However, I do find it weird when someone's completely sober and they pick up someone so drunk they can barely string a sentence together. Even weirder - he was at the club on Saturday night alone! Hadn't gone with mates or anything.

Ten o'clock rolled around and Starbucks was closing. I'd given up on the idea that he'd take me salsa-ing, so was relieved when he asked which subway I catch and then offered to walk me there. "Ok" I thought to myself "this is nice. Gentlemanly. I can overlook that he goes to clubs sober and alone and picks up paraletically drunk girls. We all have our differences."

So we're standing on the subway platform when my 6 train rolls along. "Well...thanks for the coffee...it's been a nice night" I offer politely.

"Oh no, I'm getting on with you".

And before I knew it that's exactly what had happened. This boy clearly had ideas of coming back with me. Sorry Punjabi, but that's not going to happen! (BTW, his name may not have been Punjabi, but it was something Indian so that's what we'll go with for now.)

We finally reached 116th Street and get off and I thank him again for the evening. He's still standing there. I begrudginly go in for the polite peck on the cheek. He sneakily moves his head and before I realise it his tongue's down my throat! Sans the bottle of cheap wine that'd made him so easy on the eye on Saturday night, this time it was far less enjoyable.

So Enrique-Punjabi (as he is now affectionately known) never did get invited up to my apartment. Poor lad. But perhaps there's another girl out there who's downed too many shots and might want to meet a sexy "Latino" on the dancefloor who he'll have better luck with...

And as for my beer goggles - well fortunately or unfortunately, whichever way you want to look at it (bad pun completely intended) they continue to be brought out from time to time. Fingers crossed my next bar-hopping night doesn't involve an overgrown mullet on a pimply-faced 19-year old being mistaken for Zac Efron...