"All those skinny girls are jealous."

"Hey, miss. Can I ask you something?"

It was almost 11 pm when I heard a voice call to me from behind as I walked along Flatbush Avenue towards the subway.

"Miss?"

I hesitated since I could almost predict the conversation to follow, but I turned around anyway and saw a tall skinny man in his 20s. Maybe he was lost? Maybe he was looking the subway? Oh, I should have known better.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Uh, sure."

He looked me up and down excitedly. "I just wanted to say that I saw you walking and I just had to say that you look amazing."

"Uh, thanks."

Just to prevent you all, dear readers, from thinking I'm sort of narcissist who gets off on having strange men praise me on the street, just wait till you hear this guy's sales pitch.

"See I love heavyset women. All those skinny girls are jealous. I just wanted to know if we could keep in touch?"

Cue embarrassment.

"Uh, I'm seeing someone," I sputtered as I started to back away.

"There's no way we could keep in touch? See not a lot of men could handle you." He said this last bit with the sort of feeling one would reserve for an overly large steak.

And then . . .

"See I got twelve inches on me and I could definitely make you happy," he said with an earnest grin.

"Oh I bet you'll make some lady happy someday." Just not this lady.

I have to say that this was a first for me. You know, being a lesbian and have a man praise my curves in tandem with his penis size. I really wasn't threatened as it was more hysterical and surreal than anything. I guess I'll give the man points for trying, but I laughed as I left him still pleading to keep in touch before disappearing into the nearby subway.

"Oh my god! Look at that ass!"

If I were a country with abundant natural resources such as oil or precious metal, I could be described as "ass rich." Yes, I have a rather large badonkadonk along with D cup sized tits. Men feel the need to make comments, going so far as to stop me in the street.* Generally I'm not bothered since I think the comments are made out of sincere appreciation, but I do feel the need to write about them here when they are extra ridiculous.

I had a new dress on yesterday, which garnered a little more attention than usual. It was a little past midnight when Ms. K and I waited for a bus in Park Slope after watching the Spoon concert in Prospect Park. A couple of eighteen year old boys walked by, one of whom had a big grin on his face.

"Excuse me," he said, "I just wanted to tell you that you are the most beautiful woman I've seen all day."

"Thanks," I replied, embarrassed.

"I just wanted to congratulate you."

"Thanks," I said again.

His friend carried a hockey stick with him and made a swing with it like he was hitting an invisible puck. "Varsity hockey," he said randomly. "Wanna date me?"

And then the guy proclaimed loudly to an empty Seventh Avenue, "Oh my god! Look at that ass!"

Indeed. I told Ms. K that she's a lucky girl. High school boys find me hot.

* Ah yes, that asterisk again. The irony is that I never got ANY attention from guys as a teenager or in my 20s, which doesn't matter since I'm a lady loving lady. So why now? Ms. K says it's because I "grew up pretty."

"Ladies, can I ask you a question?"

Thick.

In British English it can mean dim witted. In American English it mostly refers to the girth of something, perhaps a steak. In American slang, thick is an adjective used to describe a woman who has meat on her bones in all the right places, specifically the bootay.

A couple days ago Ms. K and I were crossing Bedford Avenue just as a man rode up on a bicycle. He slowed down as we approached, which I initially thought was because he didn't want to run us over. But then he opened his mouth to speak.

"Ladies, can I ask you a question?"

Crap. Normally I don't engage weird bike riding strangers in conversation, especially since I had a good idea about his angle, but I hoped that perhaps he was lost and was looking for some friendly directions.

"Uh, yeah," I responded as he looked directly at me.

"Is your thick friend single?"

For a moment I was confused . . . and possibly offended as a woman generally never wants to hear herself described as thick. But then I remembered that in some circles thick is a complement. Was he referring to Ms. K? Probably not as she is a little thing and I'm the one with the badonkadonk.

I laughed nervously and answered, "No, I'm not single."

He looked disappointed. "Lucky guy," he said before riding away.

We walked off and laughed off the encounter. I playfully punched Ms. K in the arm. "Hey honey, you're a lucky guy."

But I'm the gay lady that attracts weird guys. Or on the subway. Or at the car wash. Or in cabs.

"I'm the drummest one at the scrty."

I tried to start many a blog entry last week. Multiple paragraphs were written, not always coherently, in the hopes that an entry would finally come together and artfully convey this sad point:

I need to go on a diet.

The thing is is that I don't believe in diets (which is probably part of the problem). I feel that they are only temporary solutions that don't address the root cause of weight gain or someone's relationship with food. That and when I die and my life flashes before my eyes, I'm not going to wish I had starved myself more.

So how does a girl who doesn't believe in diets diet? I've been trying this new thing where Ms. K and I "exercise." However this has come to mean going on a 3 to 4 mile walk around Park Slope and Prospect Park while periodically stopping at bars for a beer (eg, Commonwealth). I've been informed that this is not "exercising" but merely a jaunty bar crawl. And it probably doesn't help my new resolution to have my clothes fit again by eating nachos last night and drinking two beers, a margarita, three beverages named the PLG, and a bourbon and soda. (Plus, for the bonus round, I smoked a cigarette.)

Maybe I should rethink that diet and go for another bike ride.

"You're so beautiful. I'm going to sing you a Hall and Oates song."

In a fit, I found myself scrubbing every surface of the kitchen with green tinged cleaner on Saturday. Ms. K had complained that there was cat hair everywhere and I felt sensitive to the cleanliness of my home lest it was a reflection of myself. I took to the trash can vigorously, spraying and buffing the chrome with a wad of paper towel.

Bent over, I was well aware that Ms. K was watching me from behind. As my spectacular badonkadonk bobbed up and down with each pass of paper towel over metal, Ms. K began to pull at my pants.

"Mmmm, you should be a naked maid," she mused.

I feigned annoyance and brushed off her advance as I focused on getting the trash can sparkling clean. However I could feel my clothes slipping off in spite.

"Mmmm, I just want to take a bite out of you," she said before teeth playfully met exposed skin.

There was a long pause. Still bent over and partially naked, body anticipating the next touch, I could feel Ms. K behind me but I couldn't tell what she was doing.

"You have some toilet paper stuck in your butt."

I whipped around and saw a gleeful look on her face. Mortified, I pulled up my pants and tried to flee to the other room. She grabbed at my arms, laughing, and tried to prevent my escape.

"Don't touch me!" I protested. "I need to go die now!"

Ms. K could barely speak, her words choked by waves of laughter. We were practically wrestling in the kitchen as I tried to make my escape.

"No, baby, come here!"

"No!"

I pulled free and darted into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

"Aw," I could hear her say from the other side of the frosted glass. "I still love you."

Mortification. Let me show you it.

"I know it's a butt, but whose butt is it?"

Ms. K has this thing where she really wants to take dirty photos of me. I'm not a fan of this idea because there seems to be a universal rule where naked pictures of yourself end up on the internet -- or at least viewed by a third party. It just happens; there's nothing you can do about it. That said, I allowed Ms. K to take a picture with her cellphone camera of my spectacularly naked badonkadonk -- a picture that she gleefully turned into her cellphone wallpaper.

Yes people, my white ass is my girlfriend's cellphone wallpaper.

But Rouge, you interject. What about that universal rule? Why would you tempt fate? Well I figured it was something to keep Ms. K company during those long and lonely Pennsylvanian nights when she's away from me. She's a big fan of my bandonkadonk, you know.

But . . .

Okay, you're right. I should have known better than to tempt fate. And I shouldn't have been surprised when Ms. K said this to me:

"So my mom saw your butt."

"How did she see my butt??"

"She just picked up my cellphone without asking and when she opened it and saw my wallpaper she did this thing were she looked at me over the top of her glasses and asked, 'What is this?'"

"'It's a butt,' I said. 'I know it's a butt, but whose butt is it?' she asked. Then I told her it was your butt."

I sighed a deep a long sigh that underscored the level of embarrassment I was feeling. "I told you not to show anyone!"

"I didn't show her! She showed herself!"

Ugh. My girlfriend's mom has now seen my white ass. What could be worse?

"She asked why there were holes in your butt," Ms. K continued.

(BTW, In case I die without identification, rest assured that my dead body can be identified by the moles on both of my pale pale ass cheeks.)

"Those are freckles!"

"That's what I told her! Then she took the cellphone and showed it to Keith" -- her boyfriend -- "and asked, 'Do you want a picture of my butt on your cellphone?'"

"Wait. Keith has seen my ass too?"

"Yeah."

I gave her another deep sigh.

"But you should feel flattered," Ms. K said. "My mom is going to take a picture of Keith's butt and put it on her cellphone. You've started a trend."

There you go, people. The lesson is to never tempt fate.

"Is this body for real?"

It's been a while since I've regaled you all with tales of men trying to pick me up, but it was a bumper weekend.

Picture it. A Brooklyn bound Q train. 1:50 am Sunday morning on my way back from the Modest Mouse concert at McCarren Park Pool. A man, whose name I later discovered as Chris, sat down next to me after boarding at the DeKalb Street station. I could tell that he was checking me out, but I was tired and really didn't feel like engaging him in conversation so I stared intently out the window. My, don't those darkened tunnels look pretty.

"You're very beautiful," he said, although we're not making eye contact.

"Thanks," I murmured.

"I just got off work."

Silence. I continued to stare out the window. One must nip these things in the bud.

As I got up to leave at Prospect Park, he left me with a plea of "Stay beautiful." Okay, not so creepy.

The next day, after a couple of margaritas at my local bar, my roommate Libby and I stopped by the Dominican grocery store to pick up some mixers for the continued drinking we were planning for the evening. Perhaps it was the salsa music playing overhead or perhaps it was because I was taught to dance to Latin music by a former Colombian friend of mine, but the music made my Anglo hips, loosened by two margaritas, jerk to the salsa beat, absently so as I moved between shelves of tamarind juice and other exotic items. And when I say move I mean I really started to get into it thinking my roommate was right behind me and would enjoy the margarita induced silliness.

When I turned around to confirm her presence, I instead saw a five foot five heavyset Hispanic man who looked old enough to be my father. And he was dancing with me.

"Is this body for real, mami?" he gasped as his stubby hands appraised my curves.

I let out a nervous laugh and my eyes searched the length of the aisle for any sign of my roommate. My new friend, Señor Papi, even slipped an arm around my waist, cajoling my body to move to the rhythm of the music.

"Help," I called out weakly as I was met with a torrent of praise.

"Is this body for real?"

Then he grabbed my ass. It was a good natured grabbing, but still a Bad Touch. Woah.

"Okay, no mas," I told Señor Papi firmly. He bowed apologetically and began to gravel with a level of reverence that one normally reserved for royalty. I grabbed a bottle of guava juice and made a break for the check out line where I found Libby. Mostly I found the incident humorous.

The trifecta of Man Love came this morning when lo and behold I again saw Chris again. He was coming up the stairs of the Prospect Park station and he stopped when he saw me, eyes registering a familiar presence. It took me a moment to realize that he had been the guy sitting next to me only the night before.

"I thought I was seeing a ghost," he proclaimed and gestured towards me as if he was trying to remember where he knew me from. "I saw you on the train. Late night, right?"

"Yes, that was me."

"What's your name?"

"Rouge."

"Hi, I'm Chris. I just wanted to let you know that you got it going on from head to toe."

Word.

"Turn right. Right! NO YOUR OTHER FUCKING RIGHT!"

Hello, my lovelies. Did you miss me? Where have I been? Floating in a swimming pool in Staten Island surrounded by scantily clad lesbians and at one point a bunch of plain clothes cops with guns and badges. HOT! I have the pictures to prove it.

For the sake of my international readers, this past weekend was a huge holiday weekend in America and the unofficial start of summer. Not only did I spend two days in the borough of Staten Island, but I also ended up at a mall in New Jersey for some shopping. My more astute readers will see a joke in there somewhere.

The unfortunate reality of spending two days in a pool is that I also had to break out the bathing suit that was buried deep in one of my drawers. In fact I own 2.5 bathing suits and hurriedly tried them on before packing to meet my caravan. I was left with one realization.

Oh. Holy. Jesus. I'm in trouble.

Nothing is worse than the painful knowledge that your summer clothes, nay, your bathing suit, doesn't fit anymore. As I surveyed the wide expanse of my thighs in horror and a very unsexy ripple of belly fat via full length mirror, I contemplated three options. (1) Commit ritual suicide, (2) wear the other unflattering bathing suit that at least fits, or (3) quickly fashion a burqa made of shower curtain lining or an old bed sheet.

I went with Option 2.*

Bathing suit crisis aside, I had a good holiday. And as I laid in the pool, drifting on a piece of aqua colored foam hoping that no one would notice the size of my thighs, I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I had a proper holiday over Memorial Day weekend. Last year I was at a wedding and the year before that I was apparently getting propositioned by a lot of men.

Hmmpf. I do detect a whiff of progress. Now I need to work on my Ass Crisis.

* The irony to all this is that we ended up skinny dipping on Saturday night. I discovered the heretofore unknown fact that my boobs float.

"Hey cutie in the sexy new glasses."

I don't really have much to say other than I think I am getting bored of my own love life. I don't really have much to report anyway other than an increase in texting between Lawyer Girl and I -- not exactly a plot advancement. And I didn't even hear from Cute Girl, not that I expected to.

So in the interest in keeping you all, my gentle readers, from getting bored, I present you with this random assortment of things.

* My new glasses.

* The second pair I purchased as a back up in case I'm an idiot again and leave them at the bar.

* The first issue in the new Buffy comic comes out March 14, but you can download it for free here. The storyline picks up right where the television show left off. Awesome.

* Switzerland accidentally invaded Liechtenstein. Ooops!

* Finally, praise for the overly large female backside. If only all lesbians were so badonkadonk lovin'.

"What up, big girl?"

Four words a woman never likes to hear. Have you gained weight?

Oh god, yes. A little. 10 lbs since last Christmas and some extra padding on top of that -- too afraid to look at the scale. Why have I gained some weight? Because I no longer live in a 4th floor walk up and have been drinking/eating more than exercising and all the jolly holidayishness of December hasn't helped.

Remember the ass crisis? I do. Something must be done. SOMETHING!!!!! No one will fancy me at all in 2007 if I don't strike hard and fast.

But not until after Christmas. There's still some cookies I haven't sampled yet.

"Do you have any kids?"

Oh good! Picked up by another man, though this time on my way to work this morning.

"Good morning, miss." It's one of the carwash guys that I usually walk past. They like to ogle me -- probably because of my spectacular badonkadonk. Sometimes they say hi and I manage a response in that very flat non-commital way that says that I'm polite enough to say something back, but I'll be going now. Normally I have my iPod on and ignore them, but not this morning.

I turn around. "Good morning." I'm all flat and non-commital and continue on my way.

"I've been watching you." This said not as a threat, but as an acknowledgement of my apparent beauty. He starts to follow me as I round the corner towards Flatbush Avenue. "What's your name?"

"Rouge." This is awkward and I just want to be left alone, but I'm a nice person. I don't feel threatened, just inconvenienced. If he told me his name, I don't remember it.

"Are you on your way to work?" He continues to follow me.

"Yeah."

"I change oil at the carwash over there. What do you do?"

"I'm an art director."

"Do you live around here?"

"Just over on Xxxx Street.

"Are you married or have a boyfriend?"

"Yes -- I mean I have a boyfriend."

"I see." He looks me up and down like I'm Thanksgiving dinner. "How old are you?"

"I'll be 28 in November."

"Any kids?"

"Oh god, no."

"Alright. Alright." He looks me up and down again. Apparently I've been saying all the right things -- young, hot, employed, no babies, and no baby daddies. We're at the corner now. "So I'll see you around, right?"

"Um, okay. I have a boyfriend, you know."

"I don't bite," he says with a smile.

Well thank fuck for that. I'm this close to shaving off all my hair and dressing in combat fatigues and a t-shirt that says, "Dyke."

"You got pretty eyes under those glasses."

What is it about the Atlantic Avenue/Pacific Street subway station? Why is it that I get picked up by men there? Though it has only happened twice, we all know that a trend starts with two.

My conversation with Chris started innocuously. We had a near collision as the flow of people narrowed before the stairs heading down to the Q train. He stopped and motioned for me to go before him. "Ladies first." I said sorry and hurried before him. That's where our conversation should have ended, but he's one of those guys who keeps making small talk after that invisible wall of anonymity has been breeched.

He asked me what book I was reading. He told me what book he was reading. Classic small talk. Then he proceeds with, "I like full figured women."

Okay, I know I have a badonkadonk, some junk in the trunk, back it on up like a U-haul truck, my humps. Whatever. I also have a D cup rack completing the whole collect-them-all T&A commemorative set. There's a certain badonadonk loving population that let their eyes linger a little a longer and have no qualms about stopping this woman as she tries to catch a Q train to let them know that, "they have it all in the right places." For some reason hearing this man say he likes a full figured women made me cringe in the way that Azrati, the Ethiopian man who was in love with me every time I visited the Black Cat in DC, once said, "Other men might not think you're beautiful, but . . ."

Sigh.

"I bet you have a boyfriend."

"Well . . ." I guess I could have lied to him and said yes his name is Ken and he lives in Greenwich Village and works in finance. Nice lie, but I didn't.

"I like a full figured woman."

"Uh . . ." Dude, I'm a lesbian.

"You got pretty eyes under those glasses."

It's late and I just want to be left alone. Actually I was really into my book and was looking forward to reading as I waited for my train. He lingered with my on the platform and asked for my number. I totally fake numbered him and gave him a false email address. He gave me his number and asked when was a good time to call.
Uh . . .

Sorry, Chris, you're not my type. You'll realize that when you try the number I gave you yesterday.

"You'll be able to recognize me by my fashionable shoes and distinct lack of mullet."

Oh crap. The annual chocolate laden holiday gift basket has arrived at work and I've already broken into the dark chocolate covered pretzels something fierce. Christmas, why must you make me a fatty chocolate eating whore? No one will want to date me with an Ass Crisis.

Anyway, in case you thought I wasn't being proactive about my singleness, I can assure you that I've taken some key steps to end the Great Drought of 2003-2005. No, I haven't sought out lesbian speed dating, but I have stuck my toe into the online dating waters again, receiving a bounty of responses.* I've also joined a lesbian social group in Park Slope.

I'm pretty outgoing, so I don't mind showing up somewhere in the hope of connecting with a bunch of strangers from Craigslist. My only fear is that I will show up on time and no one will be there. Or rather the meeting location will be packed and I won't be able to find the people I'm supposed to be meeting.

So there I was at the Tea Lounge, armed with a chai latte, and furtively scanning the room looking for anyone who looked remotely butch. Keep in mind that I was in Park Slope so the odds were about as good as finding a gay man in Chelsea. I did the whole scanning thing for a couple minutes, trying not to look like an idiot. Although I identified a couple of lesbian candidates, none of them looked like they were part of a group or even a gaggle. I resisted the urge to shout loudly, "ARE THERE ANY LESBIANS IN THE HOUSE?" When it almost seemed like the evening was a bust, I managed to locate the group organizer without causing a scene.

Huzzah! I'm now part of a lesbian social group!

* It looks as though I have a date tomorrow. Please MTA, please don't strike!!

"Whatever point you're going to make is accurate."

I don't get it. Why is it that I have a litany of men who like me and want to take me out, but my batting average with the ladies is abysmal? Let us look at the line up of options here (includes a couple of Fleet Week edits):

Bowery Pay Phone Guy
Do you always offer random women your cell phone number? And why were you on a pay phone if you have a cell phone in the first place? You said I had a beautiful smile. I politely declined your offer, but was officially branded a "creep magnet" by Jane.

Canadian Airforce Man
I was so tired and ready to go home, but you saddled up to me looking for some action. Your Nova Scotian accent was cute and you were probably 20 years older than me. At least you were a gentleman.

Royal Navy Seaman
Though very good looking, you were so drunk you could barely stand up. You humped my leg, licked my face, and introduced yourself as Ben Dover from Nottingham. Thank you for defining the word class for me.

FedEx Man
Very good looking man, nice smile and build, always makes the flirty flirty eyes with me. I'll break your heart one day.

Pot Dealer
Thanks for buying drinks for me and my roommates last night. I really enjoyed your compliments about my smile, but I'm gay, which prompted you to ask, "So that means no men?"

Photographer
I really like the flirting and attention. Keep it coming, but know that I like girls.

Cab Driver
You asked if I was a model. If you weren't driving me back to Brooklyn, I would have thought you were blind. At least you know how to work a nice tip.

Construction Man
Yes I saw you wave and when you stared at me from your backhoe even though it was creepy. I smiled and kept walking.

Anyone spot a winner here?