My Outback Life.

I’m really not as ‘Sex and the City’ as I thought I’d be by age 32. Right now, I’m more ‘Sex and The Small Regional Town.’ Without the sex part.

If you follow this blog you’ll might know I have recently moved to a small town in Outback Queensland. It’s hot as all shit, there isn’t a whole lot to do and all I keep hearing is how many snakes there are around.

A snake killed one of my colleague’s dogs recently and her neighbor cut off it’s head with a shovel. The guy in the room next to mine saw a 5ft brown snake in the bushes just outside where we all live. I’m not sure how far up the ‘shit-that will-fuck-you-up’ scale brown snakes are, but they are definitely in the Top 10 somewhere.

There are also ads on television about how to avoid being eaten by a crocodile.

Can I go back to the city now?

Walking into the local pub,  the male to female ratio is about 3:1. Not that those odds have been much help to me so far. I’m not expecting to meet the love of my life here, but a fling would be fun.  I joined Tinder for about 5 minutes. There were seven guys on it and my housemate knew five of them. I had a look on OKCupid and there wasn’t a single person within a 250km radius.

I’m starting to think by the time I get laid again I will have forgotten who puts what where.

Sometimes I lay awake at night worrying about the fact my early 30s sexual peak is going to pass me by and all I’ll have to show for it is a drunk shag at my friend’s wedding last June. I watched something on TV the other night about the health benfits of sex and wanted to throw something at the TV.

Maybe it is a good thing I haven’t hooked up with anyone here because there is no getting away with anything. I got so  horribly drunk on Friday night that my housemate had to let me in because I forgot how doors work. The next day I ran into my boss in the street and she asked me how I was feeling.

“How are you Evie?”, she asked with concern, “I tried calling your house this morning after hearing you were a bit worse for wear last night.”

I don’t know how she knew, but how mortifying.  I can only hope that she didn’t hear about the part where I thought I could dance and one of my work friends was like, “errr Evie, everyone just saw your undies.”

My cup of face-palm runeth over.

I am making it all sound much worse than it is. I actually really am having a good time out here. I love my job and I have met some really good people. My contract is up in December though, and I think three months will have been enough. It will be good to get home to friends and family and a place where there are more than 7 men in my Tinder radius.


How to squeeze gf boobs supposed traveling in taxi at night.

Nothing makes me whisper”What in the actual fuck?” quietly to myself , like looking at my search engine terms.

Not only did that thought come into your head, but you saw fit to type it into Google.

Not only did that thought come into your head, but you saw fit to type it into Google.

The things people search for on the internets that then lead to my blog  are bizzare and often down right disturbing. Who are you, person that was looking for diary photo breast and tits and why are you lurking around my blog?

By far and away the search engine term that brings the boys to my yard more than any other is a variation of:

threesome stories, 

hot threesome stories,

my first threesome stories

Peeps love to read about threesomes it seems. For some folk though, a regular threeseome just isn’t going to cut it, so they look for:

 similar stories to man stabs man in 3sums,

old couple’s first attempt at threesome,

I had a threesome with an old man

When I wrote this post about my lame attempt at the threesome, I also wrote another story about taking my parents dog on a date. Mentioning ‘threesome’ and ‘dog’ in the same post means I get loads of  people searching for things like this stumbling on my blog:

storiese sex stories including dog

i had a threesome with a dog and a old lady (I don’t think anyone, including Google, needs to know that.)

threesome with dog, threesome

three some with dog in bed

how to have a threesome with a dog

The ‘threesome with a dog’ theme is horribly popular as it is massively fucked up and leads people to blog several times a week without fail.

Having a threesome, it seems, can raise some deep questions about life such as,

is it possible for a guy to date you after a threesome? 

Speaking of deep life questions, one person searched for an answer to a question I am sure we have all asked ourselves at one time or another,

is doggy style in the kitchen plausible? 

Moving along, I can sympathise with this lady,

bed bug bites on my vagina (and you can read about that here)

I’m a little bit offended that these search engine terms led right to my blog. What are you trying to say, Google?

 dirty talking australian sluts

fuck me harder your slut im whore pussy aah oh yeah blog

fuck me im a.filthy slut.cum ohhhh

i’m at newcastle station and looking for sex (I’m not sure sitting on the platform typing that into your iPhone is going to help you get laid.)

Then there is just the mixed bag of random that makes me question humanity

boob touch in crowd pic

sex fail girl shitting (how and why did looking for someone taking a shit during sex lead to my blog?)

boobies in the crowd

dry hump ur leg 

inappropriate places to vomit (Let me help you out with that one, that’d be almost everywhere other than a toilet bowl.)

dirty hard dick words

fuck girlfriend knickers

dry hump my sleeping wife

images vagina epic fail (how does a vagina fail epically anyway?)

 i saw a mans penis flopping in his trousers  (bahahahahaha, I don’t know why you Googled that, but I am so glad you did.)

random tits in a crowd pics

And finally, my own personal favourite:

 unknown men pressing lonly womens huge boobs picture

I bet you didn’t even know that was a thing, did you.


In other news, I have moved again, this time to a small town in the Queensland Outback.

Heading to my new home.

Heading to my new home.

There are only a couple of thousand people within a 20,000 square kilometre radius out here so not sure how my love (sex) life is going to go. There are more men than women though, so at least the odds are in my favour. Maybe I’ll meet a nice cowboy and get married and move to a farm.

What randomness has led people to your blog? I’d love to hear it.




Bali. Heart trouble in paradise.

I’m home, back on Australian soil after a few months of backpacking through Europe, Bangladesh, Malaysia and Bali. Just 48 hours ago I was trying to surf in Kuta, now I am at my parent’s house. I still have Balinese sea salt in my hair.

Bali wasn’t initially part of the plan, but I followed my heart, or at least my vagina, to see a man I had a holiday fling with four years ago. I met him in Guatemala and followers of this blog might remember when I wrote about getting drunk and demanding Owen “spank me OH GOD spank me” while we were getting naked in the dorm at a backpacker hostel.

Yes, I am one classy broad.

Meeting up with Owen in Bali turned out to be another exercise in rejection for me. Foolishly thinking we’d re-kindle our Guatemalan romance, I threw myself at him as soon as I saw him.  We did have sex a few times, but I wonder now if it was more out of politeness or pity on his part than any kind of attraction. The only time he ever touched me was if we were having sex, and he didn’t particularly seem that into that.  I soon completely and totally backed off, and without even talking about it, we spent the last few days hanging out as friends. Which is fine, ’cause he is a good friend to have.

Owen isn’t the only man I have lost my heart a little bit to in Bali. Nearly 10 years ago now, on my very first trip over there, I met and fell madly infatuated with a man named Wayan.

Fresh out of uni, some girlfriends and I headed to Kuta, Bali, for a week-long holiday of sun, surf and cheap booze. We’d all just graduated from our BA Nursing and had a few weeks before real life kicked off. I was 22 years old.

I met Wayan on the dance floor of Paddy’s nightclub. He came up and started to dance with me. I thought he was gorgeous. We had our tongues down each other’s throats before we’d even exchanged names.

“I’m going home? You coming?” he asked me over the music.

I followed him out of Paddys and jumped on the back of his bike and we headed to his room off Poppies II. We didn’t have sex that night, just sat up outside  talking and smoking Marlborough Lights. He helld my hand in his.

He really was beautiful. 24 years old with long hair that went down to his waist, gorgeous brown eyes and a huge smile. The next morning I threw all my stuff into my bag, left the hotel, and went to stay with him.

It was a stupidly, gloriously, intoxicating wonderful few days. If he wasn’t at work, we were together. He took me on his bike to remote beaches, we ate at restaurants that tourists never go to and got drunk together. We spent a lot of time fucking on the mattress on the floor in his room, both of us dripping with sweat in the tropical heat. When we took magic mushrooms together one night  he took care of me while I spent most of the time with my head in the toilet bowl, dry retching as a psychedelic wolf stared back at me.

I absolutely adored him.

He did have a funny way with compliments though….

“You know who you look like, Evie?”




I can kind of see the resemblance.

I can kind of see the resemblance.




I didn’t want to leave and I very almost stayed. I was however, about to start my first proper job as a new grad registered nurse and wasn’t quite ready to throw everything away to stay in Indonesia until my money ran out.

We promised to stay in touch, and for a while we did. I printed out the emails he sent me and still have them tucked away in a box somewhere. Eventually though, our lives went on and our emails slowed to a trickle, then stopped.

Several years later, when I was about 25 I headed back to Bali for a holiday with a girlfriend named Mel. It crossed my mind to contact Wayan but it had been a long time, so I decided to best just to leave things as a happy memory.

Mel and I were on Kuta beach, drinking beer in the late afternoon sun, when suddenly I heard someone say,


I looked up and my heart nearly stopped. “Wayan!” We both stared at each other in disbelief. His long hair had all been cut off but I thought he was just as beautiful as I remembered.

“Mel”, I spluttered, still not believing it, “this is Wayan”. Wayan, who I’d gone on and on and on about a few years before. She knew exactly who he was.

It had to be fate. At any given time there are thousands of people on Kuta Beach. Wayan did not even live in Kuta anymore at that time and had decided, on a whim to head out there for the afternoon. On that long stretch of crowded sand he’d strolled right on next to me.


If life was a fairy-tale it would have been the beginning of a love story. We’d be married by now with a couple of babies and divide our time between Australia and Bali.

Life isn’t a fair-tale though, or at least, mine isn’t.

We hung out for the next few days, but whatever magic we’d had in 2004 had gone and he seemed more interested in Mel than in me. I’m no stranger to dudes preferring my mates over me, but this time it had a particular sting to it. It was awkward and weird and our final good-bye was a half-hearted hug.

I don’t miss him, but sometimes I miss those days when we first met. I don’t know if I’m ever again going to quite experience that feeling of freedom and exhilaration I felt on the back of his motorbike, stupidly wearing just a bikini and a sarong, my body pressed against his as we rode out to Dreamland Beach.

I don’t miss Wayan, but I do miss those few days.








How Not To End A First Date.

The end of a first date is where things can start to get really, really awkward. Do you hug? Shake hands?  A kiss on the cheek? Or do you just go for it and have a tonguey right there out the front of the restaurant?

This isn’t a rhetorical question.

If you have read this blog before you’d know when it comes to dudes and dating I could use all the help I can get.

I remember once dropping a guy home to the sound of a Kanye West CD playing in my car. We chatted briefly out the front of his house and then, right in the middle of “Hell of a Life”, the conversation hit a wall. We sat silently while the words, “Fuck with the lights on, fuck with the lights, fuck with the lights on”, reverberated around my car over and over again. Then seemed to just keep going.

I remember him glancing at the CD player, then glancing over at me, clearing his throat and saying, “well, thanks for that” before quickly scooting out of my car and into the night.

Simon was another guy I drove home after a not entirely unpleasant but forgettable dinner.

“Well”, I said as I pulled up outside his house, “thanks for a good night”.

“Yeah” he said, “yeah it was a good night.”

He made no attempt to exit my car.

“Ok then” I said, “goodnight”

“Yeah, yeah” he said, “good night.”

He continued to sit in my car.

I continued to sit in my car.

I made a kind of “mm hmmm” noise.

“Yeah” he said.

Then he leaned on in.

“Oh dear god no!” I thought as I turned my head in an attempt to kiss his cheek. I didn’t quite get the angles right and managed to instead give him a big kiss right on the ear.

“Oh god I’m sorry, I just kissed your ear.” I blurted out. We both realised I had kissed him on the ear, I probably didn’t need to emphasise the fact.

“That’s ok,” he said, “well, goodnight.” Then he finally, finally, climbed out of my car.

The story with Simon doesn’t end there, but I reckon that is for another post.

If you have been following this blog you might know I have been escaping winter by backpacking around Europe for the last few months. Unsurprisingly I am as about as un-popular with dudes in the Northern Hemisphere as I am back home. I was hoping to update my blog with some zany holiday romance tales, but that turned out to be nothing more than some wishful thinking. My trip is nearly over now, I land at Sydney Airport in about 10 days.

If I don’t pull soon all be all out of blog material. I feel like I am already scraping the barrel.

Conspiracy Theory and Travel on the Cheap.


I have just spent the last week and a half living with some hard-core conspiracy theorists. Lovely, lovely people, but I think they left their critical thinking skills somewhere back in the mid-2000s.

Question everything… unless it’s written by some random dude and posted on the internet, then it must be true.


I’m travelling Europe on the cheap, couch-surfing, hitch-hiking and working small on farms in France, Spain and Portugal.  I found Karen and Greg, Mr and Mrs Conspiracy, through a work exchange website. Work exchange is truly a wonderful way to travel, offering people the chance for free food and accommodation in exchange for a few hours’ work per day. Being that I am a bit of a tight-arse, being able to experience life in another country virtually for free is a bit of a dream come true.

Karen and Greg are a British couple with a small plot of land in Spain, working towards getting off the grid as much as possible and becoming more self-sufficient, both ideas that I am quite interested in. I had no idea though that not long into my stay, my brain would start to implode from a lack of rationale thoughts surrounding me.

 Did you know for example?

Michelle Obama is a man (Never mind that there are multiple photos of her as a young girl and young woman)

The moon landing never happened, (so the hundreds if not thousands of people involved, from the astronauts to the people in the control room to the blokes at the Parkes Radio Telescope in country NSW have kept this a secret since the 60’s?)

Modern music video clips are styled to look like the 80s to sub-consciously make us think of the Cold War (not quite sure why we are being brain-washed to think about the Cold War. And can I point out that most people watching MTV music videos don’t even remember the 80s and I’m guessing half of them don’t even know there was a cold war.)

And don’t even get me started on the ‘Chem-trails’

We were in the car, when Greg glanced at the sky,

“They’re chem-trailing again” he said.

“They” being the shadowy elite banker freemason illuminati, or something like that.

Chem-trails, are how the elite are poisoning us with nano aluminium. Of course, once you release something into the atmosphere it is out of your control and at the mercy of wind currents, presumably at risk of drifting to where ever it is the ‘elite’ like to hang out. When I pointed this out to Karen, she replied,

“Yes, well they are insane aren’t they?” Hmmmmmm


‘Chem-trails’ tend to come from commercial airliners so I guess hundreds and hundreds of pilots and aircraft mechanics are complicit in poisoning the masses, and presumably their own family and friends.

Don’t get me wrong, I am sure there is some dodgy shit in this world, governments and big business don’t exactly always tell the truth and act in our best interest, but to suggest there is a shadowy group faking moon landings, poisoning every one and brain-washing us with 80s style video clips is a bit of s stretch, especially when you consider to make it work, tens of thousands of people would have to be in on it.

In a world that couldn’t even keep Bill Clinton getting a blow-job secret, I have to say, I’m sceptical.

Meeting people with different views is what it’ all about though hey, and for all their interesting beliefs, they were good people and treated me with kindness.

What’s that I hear you say?

“Evie, I don’t come and read this blog to hear about your opinions on conspiracy theory and small-scale agriculture in rural Spain! Where is the drinking and disgraceful behaviour and your pathetic attempts to find a boyfriend?”

Right. Well. Since arriving in Europe things have been romance-free for me. My box of condoms remains sadly, unopened.


I purchased these with such high hopes!

I purchased these with such high hopes!

There was this one guy, in Paris….

As I was walking through the streets of Montmartre, a French man started talking to me. He seemed nice enough and I thought it might be fun to chat with a local so I agreed to have a wine with him. We ended up getting a bottle and drinking it in the park.

Unfortunately, this is not the beginning of a Paris love story.

We sat and talked and within about 20 minutes he decided I was “beautiful, wonderful Oh Mon Cherie!”

He grabbed my hand in his.

“Oh my bizarre hair girl.”

I sort of smiled awkwardly and gently pulled my hand away. He was a nice enough bloke, but I had no interest in being his ‘bizarre hair girl.” I drank some more wine and shoved some cheese in my mouth so he wouldn’t think of kissing me. I tried to think of a polite excuse to leave.

“Oh I want to know you,”

Which I am pretty sure meant he wanted to know me in the biblical sense.

“I want to know you, tonight!”

H grabbed my arm and kissed it like Gomez Adams would Morticia. I pulled my arm back gave an awkward smile and told him that actually, it really was time for me to be getting back to me hotel.

Other than that, I was hit on by 96 year old Senor Carlos, the other day. He is a neighbour of the people I was staying with, and by all reports, fancies himself a bit of a ladies man, though sleaze might be a better description.

One of the girls who had been there a lot longer than me said that he followed her into the shed once where she was stacking fire-wood and reached over and squeezed her boob!

“I bet he’s always been like that with women” she said, and she is probably right. I’m guessing you don’t go through life having a healthy respect for other people’s boundaries then turn 94 and think, “Screw it, I’m gonna start groping titties”

Anyway I have moved on to Portugal and am in the city of Porto for just one night tonight. I am going to help on another farm tomorrow so I’m going to make the most of being in the big smoke before I start living in a tent again.

Despite my mocking, I’ve always had a bit of an interest in conspiracy theory. Are there any theories that you have heard that you think might be right, or at least have a grain of truth to them?


Taking on … SoPi with Girl Seule and Lily la Tigresse


When I was in Paris a few weeks ago, I met the gorgeous and fun Lily La Tigresse of the blog Je T’aime… Me Neither. Over on her blog is a joint post we did about our night out in Paris, so have a look and check out her great blog while you are over there!

Originally posted on Je T'aime... Me Neither:

photo 2 copy 2
In the second (official) version of the “Taking on” series, I was lucky enough to spend the evening on a crawl of the SoPi area with visiting blogger Girl Seule from Australia. We connected over the blogosphere early 2013 and quickly became virtually friends, instantly relating to each other woes with our romantic misadventures. I was eagerly looking forward to meeting her in person when she told me she’d be passing through town for a few days. I had a feeling she’d like SoPi… a Saturday night to remember! Let our adventure begin!

View original 1,361 more words

Off The Grid.

I am in France camping on a small farm with a bunch of people from all over the world. We have no wifi and very limited power and the only place to wash is in a creek, so life is pretty rustic, but I love it. I am doing a few hours work a day in exchange for food and accomadation. I love this simple kind of living. We take turns cooking and all eat together. At night we sit around the campfire drinking and talking, then people bring out the guitars and we all sing together.

I have just hitched into town today to jump online and let my mother know I am ok. I won’t be online for the next few weeks so if anyone leaves a comment I am not ignoring you, I just have no internet!

Bye for now I’ll be back in a few weeks!

From Scotland with Love

I am starting to think I might have a teeny-tiny problem with alcohol. I have been in Scotland for my beautiful friend’s wedding. It was wonderful but as usual I spent most of my time in Scotland either drunk or hungover.

I woke up on Lucy’s wedding day, naked and with no recollection of how I got back to my room. There was a lump under the blankets next to me in the bed, which I assumed to be Fiona, one of the bridesmaids I was sharing the room with.

The night before we had all had a pre-wedding party. At one point I threw up in my hand, looked at Fiona and said,
“I just threw up in my hand, are we still friends forever?”
It all fades to black not long after that.

“Why am I such a naked drunk?” I thought, sitting up in bed. “I hope poor Fiona didn’t see all my bits last night when I decided to sleep naked.” I wrapped a blanket around me and got up to go to the toilet. I saw there was a tuft of short, brown hair poking out from under the blanket lump. I immediately realised that this was no lump of bridesmaid, it was a lump of man! Oh.Dear.God I gasped and put my hand over my mouth and quickly went into the bathroom.

I had a bad, bad feeling about all this. I tend to get a feeling of impending doom any time I drink to the point of amnesia, which means I get that feeling on a bi-weekly basis. Waking up with no memory of the night before and being stark naked however, is even worse.

I knew exactly who the lump was too, a Scottish friend of the bride’s whose name I couldn’t remember, and who was staying in the same house as me. It wasn’t that I minded the thought of sleeping with him, it was more that I had zero recollection of whether or not I had slept with him.

I came out and crawled back into bed, just as he was getting up. I noticed he was fully clothed.

“Oh god, he has ALL his clothes on so we mustn’t have had sex! What if I took off all my clothes in a pathetic seduction attempt and he turned me down and fell asleep beside me!”

My naked body tends to be a lot more repelling than seducing so it seemed like a viable, humiliating possibility.

He got out of bed, looked around the room a bit and then said,

“I can’t find my other sock.”

“Ummmm I’m sure it’ll turn up.” I said, not knowing what else I could say to that.
He gave up on the sock and left the room. Ok so clearly whatever happened last night couldn’t have been good, it was clear Scottish boy couldn’t wait to get away from me and back to his own bed.

I stayed in the room until close to midday, hiding away with my post-black-out drunk paranoia. When can’t remember the previous night, my brain tries to fill the gaps with worse case scenarios. What if not only did I take off all my clothes and attempt to seduce Scottish boy, but what if everyone knows about it, and the bride is pissed off with me and everyone hates me.

I couldn’t hide forever with my brain inventing shameful scenario after shameful scenario. When I got up he was already up and dressed. I thought he looked very handsome in his kilt. He was distantly polite to me. Everyone in our house was acting normal so if I had behaved disgracefully at least everyone was pretending I hadn’t. I found out his name was Liam when someone else spoke to him.

The wedding was awesome. If you have the chance to attend a Scottish wedding, I can highly recommend it. The bride was beautiful, the band were great and we all got drunk and danced. I didn’t catch the bouquet, but dammit I tried.

Liam and I chatted a little bit at the reception and we had one dance. There was something about him that made me want to be around him and I started to think maybe he felt the same. But he’d been pretty keen to get the hell out of my room that morning so maybe he was just being nice because it was a wedding and it’s nice to be nice. I had no idea, so I downed some more wine and went off to dance with the bridesmaids.

I don’t quite remember who followed who, or who made the first move, but not long after we returned to the house after the reception, Liam and I went to bed together.

I don’t want to make anyone vomit in their mouth here, but it felt like more than just a casual hook-up that night. It felt like something a little bit special, like being in love just for the day. We did have sex, but we spent most of the night and the morning just laying around naked together, talking and kissing and not getting much sleep.

“You do remember us having sex last night, don’t you?” he asked at one point.

“’Course I do” I replied, “It was lovely.” I assume it was anyway.

“When woke up there was a trail of clothes from the kitchen to your room”

Damn, shit must have got real last night.

We didn’t use a condom, which is completely stupid.

Falling into bed with someone in a glow of post-wedding romantic feelings and red wine doesn’t create some special STD protection.

Someone stroking my hair and saying, “I think you are beau-iful” with a Scottish lilt isn’t some magic contraceptive spell.

I’m a registered nurse, I should know better.

“I’m probably never going to see you again after today am I?” he asked.

“Probably not,” I said.

That thought made me sad. He lives in a small town close to Glasgow and I live on the other side of the world in Australia. I probably won’t ever see him again.

Sorry, that was a bit soppier than my usual posts. I’m going to Paris next so no doubt I will do something to embarrass myself there. I have packed some nice clothes in an attempt to try and fit in with the Pariesans but the reality is, no matter how nice I try to dress and how classy I try and pretend to be, my inner-bogan just always seems to shine through

The Time Shit Got Really Real In Mexico.

Trigger warning: I thought it might be time for my first ever trigger warning because this post does talk about the threat of sexual assault or rape (didn’t happen, had good reason to think it might). Anyway it might be triggering or upsetting for some people.

Back in 2010, I took a bit of time out from real life and went backpacking through Mexico and Central America. After spending three weeks with my sister and a friend ripping it up in Cuba and Cancun, it was time to say good-bye to the girls, and start making my way south, alone.

My first night without the girls was spent in a pretty little town in the south of Mexico. Not wanting to spend the night reading alone in my hostel room, I headed out to see what the town had to offer.

I headed to a bar and grabbed a mojito, hoping it was only a matter of time before I found some fellow travellers to talk to. If you have ever travelled solo you will know this feeling. Sitting by yourself, nursing a drink, trying not to look like you mind being alone, but hoping someone interesting will come along and talk to you. Sometimes, these nights turn into the best nights travelling and five hours later you find yourself skinny dipping in a hotel pool with ten new best friends, other times, you don’t find anyone to talk to and leave alone to go and sit on a beanbag back at the hostel and send an email to your Mum.

This night was one of those nights where no one seemed interested in talking to me. A few cocktails later I was feeling pretty sloshed and decided it was best to get going. I stood up and the full effect of the mojitos I’d been drinking hit me. I don’t have a whole lot of recollection after that, but from what I can piece together, I walked out of the bar, climbed into a cab and promptly feel into a drunken sleep in the back seat.

The next thing I remember is being led up some stairs to a room with a bed. When I’m really drunk I just want to sleep, in bars, by the side of the road, in the back of taxis, so when I saw the bed I gave no thought to where I was, or who had been behind me leading me up those stairs, I just thought “ahhhh bed!” and collapsed on to it.

The lights went out and a minute later I felt hands trying to undo my skirt. Reality, fear and panic suddenly hit me. “Oh God no!” I thought, suddenly a little less drunk, “I’m about to be raped.”

I started screaming the place down, “No, no, no.”

He jumped off the bed and turned on the light.

“Shhh! Shut-up!”

I looked up at the huge man looking down at me. I could only think that he must have been my taxi driver. I suddenly felt a little calmer, figuring if he was going to do anything he would, he wouldn’t turn on the light and tell me to shoosh.

I got up still swaying. I attempted to say in Spanish, “ok so I am going to go”.

He walked over and blocked the door, his hands on his hips. I looked at him and my head started swimming. Fear might have woken me up a bit, but I was still pretty drunk. I remember looking at him thinking.

“Fuck is this really happening? I am alone in a room, somewhere in Mexico with a huge dude blocking the door.”

He stood there. He had a cold look on his fat face.

I remember thinking “Ok so I know I am in a pretty bad situation here, but I am so drunk, I’m not as scared as I probably should be.”

I started to garble broken Spanish “Please don’t hurt me, Please let me go”. I remember trying to make my voice sound more frightened than I was, because a big part of my brain was just going,

“What the fuck? I’m too drunk for this noise, I need a nap,”

I took my phone out with the plan to call the police, forgetting that I had no idea what the number was, and even if I did my Australian mobile had no service in Mexico. Also I had no idea where I was.

He took my phone off me and put it in his top pocket.

I backed away from him and looked around to see if there was some other way out. It was just a small room with a double bed, a few chairs and a bathroom. The whole thing just didn’t seem real and my drunk brain was just thinking,

‘Is this actually happening?”

“I just want to leave, I want to go home.” I told him.

“How much money have you got?” He asked me, looking annoyed.

For some reason him asking me for money made me feel more scared all of a sudden.

I attempt some Spanish again, “Por favour, no dolor me’.

He rolled his eyes. Probably because I was trying to speak in atrociously bad Spanish with a broad Australian accent, while he had been speaking to me in English the entire time.

He then said, “Well you have to pay for the hotel.”

I wouldn’t have called it a hotel, but I was not about to argue. I handed over the equivalent of $10 and finally he leads me out of the room.

Hang on.

“You have my phone.” I said. He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it back to me.

As I walked back down those stairs I took a look around. We were in some kind of warehouse. There was a guy asleep on a couch by the wall. The taxi driver went and woke him up and he got up and opened the chained and bolted garage door.

Then, after all that, being the good taxi driver he was, he offered to drive me home.

I just started to run without looking back.

It turned out I was in some sort of industrial area. Probably not the best spot for a drunk, lone female in Mexico to be wandering about late at night. I had no idea where I was or what to do or even which direction to start heading. Then, I saw it, trundling down the deserted street. A taxi. I think it might have been accompanied by the sound of angels singing.  You’d have thought I’d had had enough of cabs by this point, but when I pulled up I happily jumped in.

“How much to Sea Hostel?” I asked.

“25 pesos”

25 pesos, the exact amount I had in my wallet after giving old mate the rest for the ‘hotel’ fee.

This time I was taken back to where I was staying. I promptly fell asleep on my bunk-bed and when I woke up the next day, decided this was one of those stories it was best not to tell Mum about.

Hitting the Road

I left the Hunter Valley at 5.30am on Sunday morning, hungover and in a flood of tears. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the help of my wonderful girlfriends, I don’t know if I would have left at all.

I took a cab to the station followed by a three and a half hour train trip to Sydney airport. Then I boarded a 7 hour flight to Singapore. I then spent  8 hours sleeping intermittently on the airport floor because I am too cheap to pay for a hotel for less than half a day.

I woke up looking even worse than I do in my passport photo, something I wouldn’t have thought was possible.

Then it was time for another flight to Sri Lanka followed by an endless cab ride through traffic to the hostel.

It’s been a massive day and this single bed in the cheap hostel I am staying in is feeling like a slice of heaven right now.

I am day one into a four month or so  backpacking trip. These last few weeks have been a manic blur of packing up everything and trying to see my friends and family before I go, as well as working.

I moved out of my place and put everything in storage.


My room, just a week ago. I'm not the most organised and methodical when it comes to packing.

My room, just a week ago. I’m not the most organised and methodical when it comes to packing.


I sold my car,  but just days before I handed over the keys this happened-


The only thing taken was a small bag with some Napolean make-up, at least the thief will be walking around with good looking skin now.

The only thing taken was a small bag with some Napolean make-up, at least the thief will be walking around with good looking skin now.

Nobody was more surprised than me when my story about someone vomiting in my bike basket was Freshly Pressed.

I went here to visit my parents

Well, near here, my parents don't actually live in the sea.

Well, near here, my parents don’t actually live in the sea.



My parent's dog Lucy, I will miss her!

My parent’s dog Lucy, I will miss her!

Then I went up to Brisbane to see my sister and all her kids, then went away with my girlfriends for a last hoorah girls week-end away, going around to wineries on a karaoke party bus.

Catching up with everyone before I left reminded me of how much I love everyone so by the time it was time to go, I didn’t want to leave at all. I am a bit more excited now that I’m here, but I think there is a good chance I’ll come home earlier than planned.

With all this going on I haven’t really been on WordPress much lately. I am very much looking forward to warm weather and wi-fi, writing and binge reading blogs that I haven’t had much of a chance to look at lately.

I know this post has lacked my usual ‘get drunk and make a tit of myself’ theme that most of my posts have.  My next post is going to be about the time I drank too many mojitos and got myself into a very bad situation in Mexico, so more idiot behaviour to follow.