Sometimes you just want a pasty.

Following my recent lack of enthusiasm for the American male race I have discovered a new untapped source of men of a more European nature... Brit lads on holiday! Yes I know, I know... It's sacrilege surely? I've moved all the way to a far (exotic?) land full of new flavours to try and all I'm hankering for is a good old pasty. Or in this case, a bit of Angus beef.

Sometimes a girl just wants a guy who will cut out all the bullshit, quit trying to sound intelligent, worldly, successful and all those other wonderful things NY dates are designed to showcase, and cut to the chase. What's wrong with a guy who'll feed you rum and shots until he looks like Johnny Depp and then tell you he is coming back to yours? "Get yer coat darlin', you've pulled", etcetera etcetera. On this occasion I was in no state to argue... Nor did I want to. I've always felt that one of my most favourable drunken qualities (besides being a total hoot) is the fact that I never seem to don a pair of beer goggles. No matter how absolutely off my tits I may be, there's just no way you'll ever catch me lowering my standards for a bit of nookie. How anyone can do this is beyond me, there's got to be some chemistry there, right? I guess there may be some semblance of a woman inside of me after all! Rest assured, if you make it into my bed it's because I think you are FIT, and this was no exception.

Angus was very tall and stubbly with long scruffy dirty blonde hair, actually, just a bit dirty looking all over really and kind of lop-sided looking, like Rhys Ifans. And he had a really naughty glint in his eye; My Mum has always said that I go for the kind of man who looks unpredictable, like a wild animal bred in captivity who could turn at any point. She thinks I want to tame them. I think I just want to fuck them. Plus, he had the most amazing hairy chest I think I have ever seen and I never turn down an opportunity to snuggle up to a rug that magnificent.

N.B. This is strictly the only circumstance in which I will EVER snuggle... maybe it's some sick Freudian link to my Dad who also has a rather impressive chest of hair? I think I actually just vomited in my mouth.

Oh, and he had a Glaswegian accent. 'Nuff said.

Gnarrrly...

On moving to NYC I quickly discovered that if I was to find a man who was a) hot and b) vaguely interesting then I would have to venture into 'hipster' territory. For those of you unfamiliar with Yankee terminology, a 'hipster' is a trust-fund kid of privileged up-bringing who in adult life chooses to adopt the housing of a squatter, and the fashion choices of an 80s middle-America reject who got their hair cut for 2 dollars by the meth addict down the street. What us Londoners might call a Hoxton pirate, trustafarian, or quite simply a wanker. Yes, these are the kinds of men who yank my chain. Sickening, I know.

Anyway, I digress...

On one of my earlier voyages into hipster-haven Williamsburg, I stumbled (literally) into a bar and bumped into the most beautiful man I. Have. Ever. Seen. Meet Travis. Travis is HUGE. He is also black and has beautiful long braids down his rippled back, which instantly excites me as I am yet to add a black string to my bow. Travis is the bar tender. Travis surfs. Travis is also the lead singer in a 90s grunge band. Basically, Travis is the holy grail of men. We keep exchanging smiles over the bar and when I sneak out front for a ciggy he follows and says in the most leg tremblingly double bass tones "Howdy". I do a little mental happy dance whilst simultaneously having an orgasm and attempting the most alluring "Hi" I can muster. This little exchange continues for about 10 minutes (surfers are a breed of limited vocabulary and my vagina is literally in my mouth so my conversational abilities are somewhat halted). Travis has to get back to work so he gives me his number and says "call me, we should hang". I give him about 2 seconds to walk away before quickly banging in his number and giving him a call, to which he stops dead, feels for his phone in his pocket and turns around to give me a slow smile. Vagina is yet again in my mouth. He makes me promise to come back to the bar the next week, which I do. Obviously.

Now... Here comes the travesty that is Travis, and what I am discovering is a rather American affliction. I guess it is sweet, but the guy would not leave me alone! Text messages daily, morning, afternoon and nightly to see how I am doing, sometimes a mere "Howdy" would be deemed an appropriate early morning wake-up call. Darling...what is your point? Ask me out on a date already and quit bugging me with non-entities before my morning coffee! It gets worse... So I haven't yet returned to the bar for a third time (I am fresh in the big city - why would I go anywhere 3 times in the space of a month?) and I start to get bored of replying to his continuous stream of flattering, but still repetitious messages. Poor Travis must have gotten worried at my lack of communication and starts firing out the big guns... Cue actual suggestions at a date away from the bar, followed by several "Are you alive?" texts when his date invitations remained unanswered. I think he might actually think I am dead.

Now I don't have to explain how gutted I am to any woman reading this. Travis was a God of men. Why did you have to ruin it Travis?! That could have been the most amazing 20 minutes of my life for fuck's sake Travis!

Hmm... Maybe it's time to pay a third visit to his bar...

A (not quite so) brief introduction

So I was going to write a proper introduction to this blog to 'set the scene' and whatnot but it's Friday afternoon, I'm in a bad mood and I can't really be arsed. So here are the basics:

1. I'm an English girl living, working and dating in New York.

2. I've never really been the biggest fan of the USA or the people in it. Why did I move here then you ask? I'm putting it down to a combination of post-university itchy feet and ADD.

3. I love beautiful men, having sex with beautiful men, and am not adverse to a beautiful woman here and there either. (This can probably also be attributed to my ADD).

4. I am unemotional. Having been coined 'Ice Queen' by not 1, not 2, but 3 separate men I have dated this has come to my attention as a bit of a 'thing'. My mother, instead of worrying about how men treat me in relationships worries for 'the poor men', telling me to "Be nice" and "Go easy on him...".

5. I now use the term 'dating' as a verb when referring to men I have fucked, which I did not previously do before living in NYC. Thank you America!

6. I am a receptionist. My boss is constantly unimpressed with my absolute failings at 'corporate' work attire (despite my best efforts) and I regularly get a ticking off. I will be posting regular outfit updates with comments as they arise.

7. I like book-ending certain words/sections with quotation marks, either to add emphasis or to hint at a difference in tone - notably sarcasm. Actually, 99% of the time it will be sarcasm. You may find this annoying or 'grammatically incorrect' but it's something I naturally do with my hands when talking so deal with it.