KenW

This thread is dedicated to my mate Butch McGraw. It was Butch who first put it up on another site I was once party to. Lung has since tried to get Butch to join us here (I've lost B's email), without luck as yet. Hopefully in the near future. There are several things of genuine significance to watch for in this very short clip. 1) OK, it's a GG Japanese, not a LB, so the act involves her cunt. 2) But watch her arsehole. As the animal finally flops out after writhing around and about, her anal sphincter contracts and expands three or four times. She is in orgasmic ecstacy. Shame there's no sound accompanying the footage, for then we'd hear her yelling as only JPese sluts can. 3) The JPese willingness to go to whatever borders they can push back, whatever boundaries they can challenge. They are the masters. They stop at nothing and are always innovating. 4) In this example that involves a live animal. When we in the mainstream West hear about or think about bestiality we always seem to think that implies farm animals. Girls being fucked by dogs, sucking horse's cocks. Not the JPese, they're out there, creating the new all the time, exploring, pushing, octopussying. Enjoy! http://www.octopusgirl.com/

Love at first sight (#7) In addition to these lunchtime liaisons, we also rented hotel rooms and karaoke rooms some evenings. He was an aspiring singer, one of those bloody awful modern crooners the Vietnamese go gaga over Lady. Imagine the very worst of say, Englebert Humperdink combined with the cheapest of 70s pop rock rythyms set among saccharine chorus lines, then trowel on dreadful schmaltzy lyrics (all to do with love and mush), and you are getting somewhere near to appreciating how godawful modern Vietnamese music is. The karaoke sessions for two consisted of him singing and me suffering through my Heinekens. But at least it would be punctuated by a bit of sex. He revealed he was actually studying singing at the local conservatorium. Even took me there to show me the joint. I thought jeezuz, they should have their tonsils cut out and their licences withdrawn if they TEACH you to sing that shit. So it went. It was fun, but after a time I began to tire. It was especially fun when I had a high powered meeting directly after lunch. There I’d be with all these suits, pontificating and carrying on about all the money they were going to make, how important they all were, what bigshot businessmen they were, dreaming dreams. I would take notes and nod dutifully. But I’d be thinking all the while none of you could even remotely begin to imagine that one of our number has just had a big mouthful of thick live paddy field python for lunch. As I said at the outset, Tung never once put it on me for money. He never hassled me, except after I gave him the bad news, when he began to pester me on the phone telling me how much he loved me. But his time was up, and I needed something, someone, else. I have an index I use to think about where and how such relationships are going. It follows from the answer to the question: where in public would I want to take this person? To show them off, to have them on my arm, to feel proud flaunting them, to spend money on them. (Some TR Readers will recall how much I enjoyed being ogled in Walking St with First; or how Meena and I swayed arm in arm like Dylan and the late Suze back to the Sawasdee in soi 10.) In this case, answer: nowhere. I said to the Demon inside my head: tell me again about the fifty ways.

Boy genofa is my kinda gal. For my tastes good looks, big cock sucking lips, perfect titlets. Unfortunately web wank holds no attraction for me. I'd like to meet her in the flesh. But the location is a problem. They bomb Australians on Bali.

Shame upon you who thinks evil of me cock bubba. Very clever. So very clever. +1, but it should be +10 judged on a scale of what +1s are usually dished out for. In fact most clever riposte I have yet seen on this site or any other. Mate, you also got the pun on the name Tung too... Jeezuz that's two clean hits. 30 love. Or is it advantage server. I can't see the scoreboard thru the red blur. I could have called him Kok, I swear nobody woulda noticed.

Love at first sight (#6) Upon locking the cubicle door he grabbed me in a bear hug and gave me a five minute tongue kiss, my back pressed against the wall, his full weight hard up against me. Then with his left duke (he turned out to be sinister handed) he pushed down so hard on my collarbone I was still sore the next day. He drove me down while opening his fly with his right mitt, as he kept kissing. Out came the cock and I gave, from squat position, a good long suck. It was a thick pugnacious snake the hue of dark Hershey chocolate. You could almost hear it hiss. Tasted good too. Then he broke off and before he could cum dashed back to his duty station. I sat down in the closed dunny, lid of the Doulton down, getting my breath and waiting for my head to stop spinning. I looked at my watch. Have to go. Then I flushed, in case there was anyone at the piss trough (there wasn’t), washed my hands and returned to my table. As I paid the bill he gave me a big smiling bye bye. For the ensuing six months I found excuses to eat alone at least two days a week. The time following that first encounter he would not let me sit at the front parlour table. He ushered me instead through to the back of the restaurant. I had noted, that first time I went to the toilet, the space was indeed that of an old house, all sorts of nooks, crannies and side rooms (no doors) opening off what would have once been a large lounge room. In a deeply intriguing sense these gave an amount of privacy, especially amid the gloomy dim lit pot planted ambience. Couples, mostly in their forties or late thirties, dressed like office workers, took advantage of this sequestered privacy for what I fantasised were secret trysts. Tung led me to a table in the very back nook, a space slightly bigger than the table set for two at which he told me to sit. There was wall directly behind me, about a metre wide. The space gave to another, also containing one table, which in turn joined the large lounge room. Very efficient. I could sit so no-one going through to the toilet or emerging from the kitchen could see me. Yes, they could see a set table, but not who was seated there. This became our kissing hugging cock sucking space. For the next six months, twice a week or on rare occasions three times, I would sit at this table, eat my meal, then the gratis watermelon slices they provided, following which I would sample for dessert one thick dark sausage. There was rarely time for him to cum, but he did a few times. Sausage with cream. Mostly we were interrupted by calls from the cashier’s desk, for him to take meals, brought to said desk by a kitchen hand, to waiting tables. Customers sorted, he would return to tableside, return his sword to its sheath my gob. Brazen bliss between boy and ol buggerlugs.

Love at first sight (#5) Toilets are places of dirt. Of filth and bad smells, of piss and shit. So why is it that I like, very like as the Vietnamese say, having sex in toilets? What is so deviant about me that such a thing looms large, like Nancy’s equine erection, in its attractions for me? Here we are back six months before I met my perfect looking LB and fell in love at first sight, the night bubba headed off on his train journey, the night my mysterious SMS sender had failed to show, and we are now where this faggot waiter has instructed me to go to the toilet in the restaurant upon finishing eating. I had only used up just over half my lunch break so had plenty of time before I had to be back in the Singapore company’s offices. He instructed. Liking sex in toilets I had no hesitation whatsoever in following. Why though is sex in toilets considered odd, deviant, bad, unclean? Mary Douglas in her book Purity & Danger talks a lot about dirt, and that may give us a clue. Dirt, she says, is stuff out of place. It is when the systematic order into which we place things gets out of kilter. Something’s rotten Johnny in the state. For example there is nothing intrinsically dirty about shoes, yet we frown if they are placed on the dining table. There is nothing intrinsically dirty about food, but to leave food or food scraps in the bedroom, especially in the bed, is an issue of general disapproval. So it is with toilets. They are places where we shit and piss or change our tampons, even vomit. They are not typically thought of or approved of as places in which to eat, or, and this is where my present case is at, to conduct romance. Douglas lists the discovery of the bacterial transmission of disease as one of the great findings of the nineteenth century. This links us directly to toilets. It tells us that toilets are locations where we might just, should we not be careful, pick up some dreaded scourge that will do us harm. And she wasn’t meaning STIs. So the anti-toilet phobia has become a hygiene thing, at least for us in the so-called developed world. For most of human history toilet was taken in some private place in the bush, or down the gully, in the fields. In much of rural Vietnam people who still live in thatched huts have a ladder and squat board set up over a nearby paddy field. They shit and piss in the water, adding fertilizer as well as keeping the house and its adjacent area clean. In modern contexts, especially in towns and cities, almost all cultures have developed this arrangement whereby a special room is designated for our fouling. Even in the pueblo of the southwest of the USA pre-European Indians had toilet rooms. Sex on the other hand, also once practiced in private places in the shrubbery, is now largely allocated to set spots too. Bedrooms obviously, but office desks, kitchen benches, lounge room carpets and settees, back lawns, back seats of cars, in Vietnam motorbike seats, etecetra, if sex ya after. But hang on, I know plenty of folks who’ve had sex on the throne. I’ve seen stacks of pix of LBs perched on the ceramic with cum dribbling. It’s not just me. So maybe I’m not so deviant after all. Especially if we move on beyond Douglas and her hygiene to the need for privacy. My gay waitboy could hardly say let’s get down under the table, could he? Or meet in the forecourt among the motorbikes. He couldn’t invite me into the restaurant kitchen (at least while staff were working). So it was the toilet. Yes, it is privacy, but it’s more. I go back to my idea of forbidden fruit. When that WC door closes and locks you’re in there with someone and whatever is in their undies. And for me anyhow, the tingles that sets forth is such a high. A real buzz. It’s about not being sprung, set in a context of fear that you might be. It’s about nobody knowing as they continue blissfully to piss and shit right nearby, juxtaposed with a likelihood that you might be heard and discovered. In a city like Singapore it is the possibility that your would-be sex partner turns out to be an undercover policeman and you’re on your way to the slammer. So there go I, liking my sex in toilets as places of the forbidden, of fear, where ordinary life goes on right nearby, where the probability of exposure, humiliation, punishment is ever present and lurking. Customers were quietly clinking cutlery throughout the restaurant as I walked to the rear. Where were these next ten minutes taking me?

Love at first sight (#4) Mention of that Singapore company I was working for in Saigon reminds me, Fondest Reader, of the silliest sex event I have never taken part in. For it was actually a non-sex event. Around small lanes and alleys in Little India, Singapore, such as Hindoo St, there are brothels (or were anyhow, not sure if they’re still legit as of 2011) populated by LBs (I met a gorgeous one from Malaysia) and by subcontinental hijras (the ones Professor Serena Nanda called “neither man nor woman” in her book of the same title). My first hitup at one of these was simply an unmarked doorway, plain wooden door open, behind which there was a steep staircase. The action took place upstairs, and I thought well, I wonder what might befall me up there? Stairway to Heaven? I doubt it, especially if one of those 40 year old hijras gets you in a deathlock. In the doorway lounged two hijras, old, ugly, fat (same as me) with this gorgeous 22 year old Malaysian LB standing a metre apart from them, on the footpath. I chatted and flirted a bit, but it being so early, I told them I needed to eat and have some strong drink, after which I would return. I hoped my wink to the Malaysian would be interpreted as something like: wait for me. I walked a couple of blocks to an Indian eatery I wanted to sample, had a superb meal, with a couple of carafes of red, after which I was ready to go wandering again. In one of the lanes near Hindoo St – a rabbit warren of door to door brothels, ground floor, all open, whores lounging like buxom bunnies on divans and settees, but as far as I could tell, only populated by GG types, many of whom were old hags, literally, like some of those you find in the beer bars on Second Rd, Pattaya, the white roots of their bottle dyed hair showing through at the parting – I bumped into a chap, when I was too busy, like a Jabiru exploring a marsh pond, craning my stickybeaking neck at all these sights. Though he didn’t look all that much like a fellow traveler, it was immediately obvious from his body language he was, and hoping I was, he sent out several unspoken signals, following which I nodded. He took off, walking quite fast up the alley, looking back over his shoulder, like a scoutmaster with a trailing troop of initiates, presumably leading me to a site for satisfaction. In fact before we got to the end of the alley he had to stop and wait for me to catch up. When I got to within about three metres of him he took off again. When I reached the footpath of the big drag Serangoon Rd I drew breath. There he was again, pretending to look over the goods of a street vendor. He looked up, making eye contact with me. As soon as I got to within touching distance, he off once more, plunging into the traffic as if determined to die right there and then. A shaggy dog slipped onto the roadway as though shadowing the scoutmaster. If I wanted to be part of this I had to do likewise. Perhaps a red light would part the rollercoaster of cars trucks and vans like Moses parted the Red Sea. It didn’t. I held my breath and stepped off the kerb into six lanes of terrifying Formula 1 lunatics going a thousand miles an hour. I lived. (Vietnam has some redeeming features: at least it’s taught me to cope with serious mayhem on the roads.) This scoutmaster’s trek went on for several blocks on the other side of Serangoon, down alleys, up alleys, round corners, there he would be waiting me. Then taking off. I kept checking over my shoulder for his accomplices. Be prepared. But there were none in sight. In each dark spot I stared hard at the small groups of men staring hard at me from behind the glowing tips of cigarettes, their eyes bulging white like Murali about to deliver his doosra. He had me going for fully 45 minutes this guy, after which I was in a lather of sweat, getting impatient, wondering why he had not led me to any open doors, to any mini hotels, to any house, to the glans of his cock. Then the next leg of following had me suddenly in this crowd of about two thousand subcontinentals all baying and braying, as they sought instructions for, directions about, bus departures. It was like being outside Eden Gardens; I waited for some tout to try to sell me a ticket. This was a huge open block from where long distance buses came and went, a terminal of sorts. Were we bound for Bangladesh? My sex partner had disappeared. I wandered the parking lot between buses, through throngs, hoping he would find me even if I couldn’t find him. But like an unobserved quantum object he had completely vanished. I wandered back down Serangoon. What had that been all about? It was certainly not about sex. Was he just setting me up for robbery? If so, he had ample chance in various dark alleys we walked. Among the various groups of men hanging about could have been his henchmen. No-one bothered me. Did he genuinely lose me? I doubt it. He had waited for me at every corner and turn, or when in thick crowds I lagged behind. For most of the time I had the only white skin in sight, so hard to lose. Was he just taking the piss out of the dumb Caucasian? Being a prick teaser in the real sense of those words. Probably. Silly me. I headed back down to Hindoo singing Ah caint get no.

Thanx willie, thanx duke, more to come.

Interesting, and Dianne is/was gorgeous. I know nought of CR. But you mention Spanish, and she certainly looks of Caucasian descent. Is that the population? Spanish origins? Any other parts of the population mix? Are there any Indigenous Indians who get into travestis scenes? Fascinating, thanks.

A large falang has just received the worst of all possible news: a blood test following a condom free encounter in a bar reveals he is now HIV positive. That evening he storms into the bar, sees the 32 kg girl he fucked sans condom at the rear, goes straight over to her, screams at her: You fucking filthy bitch, you just gave me HIV. The bar turns its collective heads agog. All ears. No I didn't, she whimpers. He reaches out and grabs her by the throat, lifts her off the floor and holds her against the wall. You fucking bitch you fucking gave it to me, he screams. No I didn't she gasps through a constricted throat. Then gasps again: You paid for it.

Love at first sight (#3) I’m told there must be fifty ways to lose your lover. Hide in the den, Ken. Hold up a sign NO MEN, then… I had not seen the gay boy for some weeks and was, frankly, trying to drop him. I suspected the original text message wanting to meet me as well as the apology cancellation had come from himself, rather than some fake brother. But I wasn’t to know. He was a nice boy who had never hassled me for money, but like the LB First from Pattaya would four years later, he made the mistake of falling in love with me when it was not reciprocated. He was a big lad, some 76 or 80 kilos, not tall, but thick set, with a quite ordinary face – some might even say ugly – and very camp. Yet in contradiction, he was an obligate and demanding top, who was only ever interested in having his cock – and a lovely thick cock it was too – in my arsehole or my mouth. I had met him some six months previous, and we kind of hit it off straightaway. At that time I was doing a job for a Singapore company out of a premises in District 3, which is the business district immediately north of the CBD in Saigon. There are many companies with offices there, hence lots of eateries around to cater to the workers who file out of offices at lunchtime and after the day’s toil concludes. I used to eat in these every working day. Usually when I went out with other staff we would head for a place very close by, but on days when I ate by myself I liked to amble further afield and see what else was on offer. You never know your luck in the big city. In a street some 10 minutes walk from my office I was intrigued by this place that was sign boarded as a restaurant, but squat on the ground like an old house in a yard with a forecourt where two or three tables were set out and half a dozen motorbikes parked. I decided to give it a try. Too hot to sit outside at midday, I opened the door to be welcomed by two waitboys, wearing white shirt and black trousers uniform, into the air conditioned interior. One was the lad in question. It was an extremely peaceful place, gloomy, other customers talking quietly among themselves. I sat at table, ate a very enjoyable meal, and was fussed over by this overtly and somewhat pushily camp boy. I enjoy a bit of camp, especially when it’s got a dress and stilettos on, but I have to say I found this boy a bit over the top, a little embarrassing even. I mean, everything in its place, but at lunch I was dressed in the full clobber, long sleeve shirt, tie, shiny laceup shoes, the lot. What if someone who knew me from the professional scene walked in, and I’ve got this gushy camp boy palavering over me? There goes another contract. I paid the bill, but not before this boy, who I’ll call Tung, had introduced himself and forced me to give him my phone number and take his as well. So addicted am I to The Holy Member that I will make myself available to owners of them even if I’m not all that attracted to their other features. In the grip of the Pope – the Holy Pole. (To get the joke you have to give me a bit of leeway, for it’s actually the previous Pope.) I went back for lunch there the next day. O Hiiii, I was greeted, hand flopping campily towards me. Everything proceeded as previous, a few other customers about, similarly good meal, hovering waitboy. But as I drew near to the final few nibbles, he leaned over towards me and whispered in my ear: when finish, go toilet. Pretty clear instruction. Finishing, I rose, asked the girl behind the cashier’s counter where the loo was, and headed off to whatever destiny awaited me.

PS: I've been intrigued by your signature or subheading or whatever it is. So nice to see a happy man. I envy you and people like you. I've often thought my life has been so shithouse I wish my old man's swimmer had been as weak as him and given up the ghost halfway up my mother's goo canal. Might have saved a lot of folks (including me) a lot of pain. Sorry to offend those who do, but I don't believe in any religious or superstitious shit. But I do hope you get to live your life twice. As regards the superstition & shit, I love to tell a story about the great Neils Bohr. A fellow scientist had come to visit him at his house in Copenhagen. As Bohr welcomed him he could not help notice a sprig of misteltoe above the doorway. Forgive me Professor Bohr, he said, but you don't believe in that do you? Of course I don't believe in it, Bohr replied. As the visitor made to enter Bohr added: But you know, they say it works whether you believe in it or not. Lovely story. So I hope it might be with your two (or more) lives (that may happen whether I believe it or not).

I'd be interested JD. I studied with a graduate school Professor back in the Pleistocene who ran a course involving what I might term Ways of Knowing (not the course title, but a fair description of this part of it). I read for that segment the first 2 of Carlos Castaneda's books, The Teachings of Don Juan was the first, I forget the name of the second. Then I read bits of his fourth book which was called something like Ways of Power; no, that's not it; something to do with power anyhow. Castaneda was born in Peru. He migrated early to US and lived out his life there. (PhD UCLA circa 1973) Don Juan was a Yaqui Indian from Mexico, so that experience will be different to yours. I've also seen the ethnographic films made by Tim Asche on the Yanomamo of Venezeula and Brazil, especially Magical Death where, after snorting this shit, shamans become invaded by their hekura spirits, agents that fly through the dimensions to kill the souls of the children of their enemies. Powerful stuff. Top flick. I don't do that drug stuff. Old and boring fart. To use a term I learned from Castaneda back then, booze is my "ally", and has been since I was quite young. That'll do me. But these other ways of knowing are fascinating. I hope you not only entertain us (as in your current who dunit thread), but provide some insightful knowledge about knowing. I'm already looking forward to it.

Yep. It sure as hell gets my vote. They were gunna make me a major for this, but they didn't know it, I wasn't even part of their fuckun army anymore. [or something like that anyhow] classic alright.

Love at first sight (#2) I knew immediately that these were the most beautiful face eyes lips neck hair that had ever come into my purview. The boy had the head of a keen young fawn, alert, attentive, aware, and the highdomed skull of sapient intelligence. Here was a star awaiting discovery. I had never in the entire galaxy of my life gazed upon enchanted beauty such as this. Cho hay la giong huu tinh. You are sooo beautiful, I enthused one more time. Then thought to ask: how old are you? The other turned to a male friend standing by, another gay boy, slightly older, and asked in Vietnamese: how do you say nineteen in English? The reply came in English: nineteen. The boy dutifully told me: nineteen. Then he queried once more: can I go with you? You can go with me Sunshine. You can go with me now and forever. It was love at first sight. ("Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?") Rockets launched. Supernovae exploding. Sunspots erupting. The most beautiful creature I had ever encountered had turned out to be a boy with the Face of a girl, wicked winking soulful eyes of a girl, lips of a girl, soft dark skin of a girl, hair of a girl. Boy. Nineteen. Forbidden fruit. That’s how it began. Much later there would be private revelations of body beauty, the most perfect feminine hands I could imagine, with long groomed fingernails, well shaped legs, unhairy, yet calves covered with a faint down, almost blonde, that could only be detected by looking from kissing distance, well structured muscled toned feet, with 10 out of 10 toes, a pair of buttocks like small rounded melons (about the size of some Pattaya LBs’ implant tits), and a wonderful circular nut coloured youknowwhere. O and a cock any bull would die for. But that was all for later. For now I had to deal with the immediate question: could he go with me? As we exchanged phone numbers I said – which was true – I had to go meet somebody, but I’d call him tomorrow. Knowing bubba would need an early night, I had agreed to this meeting a couple of days previous. My appointment was with a supposed brother of a gayboy I had been having a fling with for the past 6 months or so. He had texted me out of the blue, or maybe out of the red. It was not at all clear whether this supposed brother wanted to a) usurp his brother’s cock in my mouth, getting the action for himself; or demand to know on behalf of the family, my intentions; or c) to simply have the large lads he’d arrive with extort money from and/or then bash me; or d) all of the above; or e) none of the above. I tingled in anticipation as I ordered a beer in the bar we had agreed to meet in. I had suggested the place, a joint I drank in occasionally, because I knew it was tiny, pokey, populated by almost no custom, and whose owners knew me as a regular customer. That way I figured any large strangers would be easily spottable and definable as potential threats. It was also a place amenable to easy escape, as like at Sally’s in Jomtien, it was mostly outdoor tables. It amazes me as I write this now, four years later, how even as an old fart the unknown, the forbidden, sets my nervous system on fire, producing what I call a toey-ness, a kind of productive nervousness that I only ever experienced as a youngster before going out to bat when I played our Aussie game of cricket. Half an hour later a text message: sorry, I’m have to help my mother tonite. What a fizzer. What a way to end such a build up. And, on top of the no-show, I could have gone with my newfound LB. When I went back to the place I had encountered the Face, he had gone. Of course. Tomorrow, I told myself as I hailed a cab. Remain calm. Tomorrow.

Love at first sight (#1) It was love at first sight. To begin: a wink. Can I go with you? It was 2007, and my mate bubba was passing through Saigon to embark on a train trip north to meet up with a friend from Australia and go touring. I went into town to meet him, whereupon we went to drink some beers, after which he suggested an eatery opposite his hotel that served imitation (ie Vietnamese) Italian. Surprisingly nosh was OK. We had an early night as he had a train to catch. As we left the eatery and shook hands, me giving him a bottle of gin to ease the tedium of a long train journey, amid the footpath throng of passing humanity, motorbikes and vendors, the most beautiful sight I have yet seen on the planet winked at me. I winked back. The sight spoke. It said: Can I go with you? Those wild wild eyes, so deep, so alive, living chocolate, window to the soul, sparkle, laughing, welcoming, warm. The eyes hath arrows. A returned wink. The smile was laughing on lips so big, swollen, fleshy, voluptuous, bee stung. So dark they were blood red purple black, the colour of a good red wine under evening light. Hair spikey, and collar length. Face and neck the hue of fine cut tobacco. My mate bubba gone across the road to his kip, I moved face on, looked squarely into both eyes, seeing all the way down into the soul, like looking down a coalmine, where there was located a thick seam of rich reflection, warmth, intelligence, goodness. Melville says you cannot hide the soul. He has Ishmael comment of Queequeg: "I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils." Such was it with this boy. His soul was there, exposed, and it revealed something. At that moment I could not quite express what, but something that was as attractive as autumn sunshine, clear, bright, warming. Daring a thousand devils. You are so beautiful, I raptured, and as if to make sure I was being understood clearly, repeated it twice: You are so beautiful. You are so beautiful, stamping emphasis upon the so as a sentry’s boot heel would be stamped on gravel. This all produced an even bigger smile, one well pleased with itself. Beauty likes nothing better than being told of its beauty. Little did I know I had begun an adventure with a Vietnamese LB that was to unfold as quite a story.

willie, those are indeed gorgeous tits. Probably a bit big to rate great for me, but objectively very fine, lovable and morish.

O Lung my friend, cartons always go down well. Make mine Heineken please. And in addition please give us some more of your cartoons, I enjoy them and hope I'm not a P-stine.

I fully concur Bb. I had one lovely evening there back in Nov 2010 with my friend bubba and his GG GF. We had 2 LBs at our table for most of the evening but they didn't hassle us at all, and were delightful company. I got full-on blabbermouth drunk, and also being nearly 4 months ago now, I cannot get the 2 LB faces up on screen, so can't tell if they're in your pix or not. But one was a big footballer of a girl, 70 or more kilos, life of the party, with melons but she'd also obviously had a big history of hormones because her party trick was to do a nipple squirt of milk in our direction. The other one was a quiet lil mouse - who may or may not be that one hiding in the back of your first pic in the black & white frock. She talked happily, but was quiet and I think, a bit shy. Nice kid. Anyhow, regardless, a wonderful evening, with bubba's GG full of questions to me about what's the attraction of LBs. I think I gave a good account of the attractions, for at least myself...

Like I said, I really do not know what this thread is really saying. If names like Tim Buckley can crop up as unheard of. Makes me wonder what FMs would think of a name like Stan Getz (nicknamed The Sound). In a female singers thread here I listed Astrud Gilberto to stunned silence. One of my favourite singers. Stan Getz introduced her to the West (or should that be to the USA) as she was already a star in her native Brazil. And thay made genteel cool music before cool was cool. This all circa 1955 or so - and onwards - as I recall, but correct me. Both professionals, and amateur players - like Bill Clinton - all seem to agree that Stan Getz was the greatest sax player who ever lived. So what am I saying? Hoo noze? Just perplexed by musicians folks have/or are supposed to not have/ heard of...

No-one's ever heard of Tim Buckley? Jeezuz, I am not getting this thread at all. I posted a couple of names obviously really truly no-one had heard of and that was the end of that. No more comment. Totally ignored. (Foolishly, stupidly, not knowing what the thread was up to, I expected replies like: hey, Ken, never heard of him...) Ha! But you guys are posting (or some of you are) names so well known and well, ... maybe many FMs haven't heard of them, but jeezuz,... I went to You Tube as Larry (so kindly) said to do, but being an old fart who pales in fear the next step after the on/off button is negotiated, I couldn't figure out what to do. The magic little box that makes noise I was trying to download was: Professor Longhair singing Tipitina. Now I'll bet ya aint never hearda that... (PS: I got it up on screen - thanks Larry - but there was no help to tell the old bugger how to get it pasted into a thread on LBR) Larry, don't be cross with me - I'll have to go read your kind post again.

You're right Trenton, Willard just repeats it... My memory banks too damaged.

And her front! And her top, bottom & sides... (if this is only 18, what feasts are in store??)

Boy, I seem to have started something with Apocalypse Now quotes. That one Trenton is from Capt. Willard (Martin Sheen).

Anybody got any info on Mexico? I do not know if they even have LBs. I'd like to hear.