Cuba Libre...
Strolling through the sun-kissed streets of Old Havana, one of my group stops and excitedly pulls his camera from his pocket. I was a few paces up the street before I noticed and turned to see him doing battle with the lens cap, as a childlike joy spread across his face.

I traced the line of vision from the camera's eye to its subject and witnessed a shock of wild, untameable hair reminiscent of Sideshow Bob of Simpsons fame. A suitably Caribbean looking, sun-drenched body provided the shoulders to support this mop like Barnet, and a tatty pair of bright orange shorts reluctantly, but sufficiently denied gravity enough to maintain a degree of dignity for this stumbling, bin searching drunk.

Curious as to why this particular Cuban excited my friend so, I retraced my last few steps and sidled up to the budding David Bailey. Before I'd even uttered a semblance of sound I was hushed and an outstretched finger directed my attention back toward the object of his camera's desire.

And it all became soberingly clear, for there, staring back at me were the most unexpected and unpleasant looking sun-dried breasts I've ever seen in my life. Each miniature mound of wrinkled flesh was punctuated by tiny, deep brown, pointy raisins, circled by oven baked cornflakes that looked ready to peel off. Breasts rarely fail to provide at least a mild trouser tingle, but these were like a powerful dose of visual bromide that rendered me softer than Santa's sack for the follow few days.
( Moey, Fri 29 May 2009, 15:14, Reply)