Foot in mouth disease.
They clearly aren't aware of the financial worries affecting most of the world, but my company recently packed us all up and shipped us to sunny Havana. And very nice it was too.

I spent my time wandering the streets, drinking bottle after bottle of lovely rum and capturing hideous clichés on my camera.

One of the days was spent with a colleague I'd not spoken to before. She was easy on the eye, keen on her rum and content to stop at every corner as I shot yet another old, decrepit Chevy parked in front of yet another old, decrepit building.

We stumbled into a Cathedral that sat a few streets back from the Malecon and, with rum coursing through my veins and driving my libido ever higher, I tried my hardest to be respectful and decent as she told me about her love for God.

All credit to her, she had a fantastic attitude toward religion, with a great respect for each individual's individual belief and a strong desire not to press hers onto anyone else, so I relaxed and allowed my mind to resume its previous sexy thoughts.

She was, however, determined to engage me in a discussion about religion. Not to push her thoughts onto me, but to ascertain what my views were. I told her and she didn't seem to care that there was no room for religion in my cluttered, simple little mind.

It was stupid of me, I know, but I was drunk and I couldn't help myself; I allowed my mouth to share my drunken thoughts, in the middle of a very quiet and rather beautiful cathedral. She seemed to enjoy the opportunity for debate at first, but Mr. Sweary and Mr. Rude are never far away when my head's full of rum, and try as I might I couldn't keep them under wraps.

It wasn't the profanities that did it. Well, not exclusively. I skipped the foreplay and thrust straight in with a tedious array of tired old guff that I don't really remember. I built my pointless ranting, not to a spectacular climax, but to a pathetic and premature dribble, before leaving her empty and angry in the soggy patch my words had left behind.

It's obvious now, it was from the moment I casually flung out the old "all priests are peados" nonsense. It's precisely the kind of thing that is all too predictable when you suffer terminal foot in mouth disease, but I was drunk and my brain wasn't really paying attention.

She was very calm as she told me her father is a Father and to the surprise of no one I'd lost any chance of taking her back to my hotel room. But that's no doubt for the best, really; I'd hate to have disappointed her twice in the same day.
( Moey, Tue 24 Mar 2009, 11:54, 2 replies)

egads
she sounds well adjusted for someone who's father is a paedo.
(tweebianmonkey Should be known as Widget, Tue 24 Mar 2009, 12:38, closed)

Well you'd see it as normal
if your father molested you.

Saves being stuck in a basement.
(Ethelred is watching cheese grow, Tue 24 Mar 2009, 12:55, closed)