The Elevator. The Penis. The Harlem.

It started as a night like any other.

I knocked off work and decided to walk home via Times Square. All up this would take me about one hour and forty-five minutes, but then you add in all the shopping/browsing/staring at items waaay outta my budget and I end up getting home around 10ish.

I live on the sixth floor, so taking the stairs is not unreasonabe. Our elevator gives a new dimension to the word skanky. It is the most revolting 2 metres x 2 metres that you'll ever have to stand it. But I was feeling lazy. I had just walked a long way so decided I could deal with the two or three minutes in the cage of rank-ness.

So I pressed the button and checked my mail box while waiting for the elevator to arrive and was vaguely aware of a black guy behind me, hanging about the lobby. Nothing unusual in that. This apartment building is 45% blacks, 45% latinos. As a whitey I'm a minority for the first time.

We get into the elevator and I press the big 6 button. He doesn't make a move towards pressing any buttons. Hmm, still not so strange. There are plenty of other apartments on the sixth floor. He seems to have his hand close to his pants. Is that some fiddling with the dick I see? Surely not. I focus my gaze straight ahead. And plan to make a quick exit from this elevator.

We get out of the elevator. He's walking behind me. There are other apartments this side of the elevator, he's probably just heading there I tell myself. But I quicken my pace.

I'm walking towards my apartment door. Getting my keys out as I go. He's behind me. Coming closer. His body is now pushed up against mine. He's on top of me, shoving me into the wall. He was a short man, probably at least two inches shorter than me, but he's a stocky fellow. As disgusting as riding in our festy-fied elevator is, it is nothing compared to feeling his breath on the back of my neck. His body has basically enveloped mine against the wall.

So I scream like a little girl.

And thankfully I'm still able to get the keys into the door and open it. Yeah, because opening your door to a potential rapist is such a good idea. Good one Fran.

This time however (and I hope there's not a next time) it worked in my favour. My flatmates Fiona and Sally are right there in our apartment to greet us both as I'm screaming "Get down! Get down! Aaaaahhhhhhh!!!!" Somehow I thought he might have had a gun, though there's entirely no logic to that thought.

Fiona is a fiesty pit-bull terrior when she's been drinking, and the couple of wines under her belt bought out the best in her this night. She scared him off then declared she was going to go downstairs, bare-handed and slight-framed as she is, to look for him.

No sexy NYPD or SVU Detective Stabler came rushing to our aid. We called the cops who never showed. Still no idea why?

I hadn't been the only one with dramas that night. Seemed poor old Sal had met the same bloke in the elevator only minutes earlier and he'd flopped out a big black cock and asked her to "kiss this". She ran out as the doors were closing so was physically unharmed, but soon the tears started flowing and it seemed the elevator, the penis and the Harlem had been too much for her that night.

She moved out days later. Couldn't handle the neighborhood it seemed. But Fiona and I continue to love East Harlem for its hidden charms. The cheap groceries for example - did I ever tell you I got six bananas once for $1.06? And a dozen eggs for $0.89! True stories :-)

Pervy black elevator man hasn't been seen since. Neither has Sally round these parts. But if some dude with a dick thinks he can scare me into giving up my neighbourhood of piraguas, huevos on toast, mashed plaintains, fried pollo, fajitas and tacos then he just underestimated how much I'm enjoying this el barrio!

Salud!

Deep Fry It Thanks!

I'm a massive dag.

My American friends don't use this term and hence I've had to get used to explaining it over the years. There's no good equivalent that I've found. I try with words like "geeky", "dorky", "frumpy" and "a loveable loser" but none really summarise it completely.

According to aussieslang.com it's "bits of manure that stick to the long wool around a sheep's bottom forming small dangling balls. Also a term for a funny person, nerd, goof, loser. In this respect it can have either an endearing or disparaging meaning, although is usually used for a likable fellow". So I guess that can pretty much sum me up (minus the bits of manure hanging round my bum).

Therefore my weekends aren't all doing the Gossip Girl thing in swanky bars and funky shops.

I also like to spend great deal of time eating.

Luckily I've found some daggy friends who like the same. They're from Hawaii, my former homeland for a brief fourteen months before I moved to NYC. So together we like exploring Manhattan, the outer boroughs and other exciting places on the East Coast.

Earlier this year, pretty much as soon as the sun came out and we could shed our outer layers, we hit up Coney Island. We caught the D train out to the end of Brooklyn so we could dip our toes in the Atlantic, scream our lungs out on the weary old coasters and pay $2 in a side alley to see the world's largest rat. It repulsed me. I was also suitable entertained by it.

But perhaps the highlight of our day trip to Coney Island was the side van we came across selling deep fried everything! Not just the usual American carnival goodies of corndogs and funnel cake. No, this was deep fried twinkies, deep fried oreos, deep fried snickers bars, deep fried reece's cups, deep fried ringdings, deep fried cupcakes, deep fried poptarts, deep fried pickles, deep fried coke...ok you're getting the picture.

I've no doubt the average person would have been curious. And probably given in and tried one of the above. Or split a fried oreo with a friend. Not me. And I'm pleased to say, not my pals either.

With the sounds of rollercoasters creaking and kids screaming in the background we tried one of pretty much everything. A deep fried buffet. As the Hawaiians say "hey brah, das my kine o buffet". Well, at least the Hawaiians would say that if they were into all things greasy. And heart-attack inducing.

The fun was not without casualties. My bowel suffered badly in the following 24 hours. But memories of the warm sugary-salty-chocolatey-caramely-peanuty-crispy-battered DF snickers made the ordeal worth it.

After the buffet we went out to dinner. (Hey don't judge - that'd just been a snack!) I did, however, have a salad. You know, a good American salad with bacon, chicken, cheese, avocado and ranch. Plenty of ranch. Mmmm... :)

Did I mention I loves me food?

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...

A blog's gotta start with something...

Well, I'm pretty new to this blogging business, so to grab your attention my first blog will be all about my arse. It's a rather sizeable arse, and therefore I don't feel bad about dedicating a whole blog to it.

So like most white chicks, I've got the usual body hangups and self-esteem issues. Generally I don't let it get in the way of having a good time but of course I've tried several ridiculous diets over the years, and spent far too long in front of mirrors examining my imperfect thighs, boobs, tummy and of course my big butt.

By way of introduction to this blog and my life, I should add that I moved to New York about six months ago. Or more specifically I moved to East Harlem about six months ago. The predominantly African-Americana and Latino hood, conviniently located just off the 6-train and only blocks from the top of Central Park is where I now proudly call home. And one thing the Latinos and African-Americans love (can I call them blacks from now on? Otherwise it's just too much to type, and besides I've always thought political correctness was overrated), well one thing that they love is a curvy woman. And luckily that's something I can provide.

So upon moving into my new 'hood, I started receiving appreciative glances. And whistles. And 'yo mamma - yo ass lookin fi-ine today!' kinda comments. And secretly I started liking them. Now don't get me wrong - I didn't thrive on them. But it's a little bit flattering when I'm walking home from the gym, in my daggiest trackpants and tank top, hair mushed against my red, sweaty face to hear "ooh baby...look o that ass...I'd like to put my face in THAT!"

Seriously. It's a bit of a confidence booster.

(I should add here that I never feel threatened by the guys in my hood - they're not those kind of comments. I'm confident all the calls are entirely empty and should I ever turn to one of them and say "Ok. You and me. Lets go a few rounds!" then they'd completely back up, shy away and probably reveal a ring on the finger.)

So this story about my arse and the attention it receives leads me to my first NY pick-up. So it was a night out with the girls when I met "Dylan". He was Puerto Rican. And a FDNY Fireman. And very sexy. We talked and chatted and danced and did a few tequila body shots off each other, before the end of the night drew near.

I actually hadn't been paying him much attention (ok, apart from the tequila body shots...but they were just for fun...and everyone else at the bar that night was doing them!) so was about to hail a cab and head home when he comes up behind me and loudly announces "You have a MASSIVE ASS!"

He'd said it with a grin on his face so I turned to him and mock-scolded "You can't say that to a white chick!" To which he responded "I'm Puerto-Rican...I love your ass!" before proceeding to make out with me.

So to cut a long story short, I did end up taking the sexy fireman home with me that night...although my NY virginity remained intact and we just had a nice cuddle (umm, do I expect people to believe that? Sorry but it's true!) but the moral of the story is that I can thank my big arse for helping me pick-up a hottie!

Sir Mix-a-Lot used to insist that he "Likes Big Butts", and I'd always laugh and dance along but I never really believed there were guys out there that did. So thank you East Harlem. I'm not going to get all mushy and Oprah-style insist that "I've learnt to love my curves" because the afore-mentioned body hangups still exist. But I guess I've just got a degree of more confidence than before.

So tomorrow, when I strut down the street and the guys on my stoop call out what they'd like to do to me...well as I ignore them I'll secretly be smiling. And later on allowing myself that slice of pizza - can't afford lose my greatest asset!