Takeaway bliss.

You have company and she is sizzling hot. She is sizzling hot because of some or all the reasons below:
1. She was actually beautiful, in a distant past
2. There is little or no light in the pub
3. Your vision is f*d (you have been drinking)
4. Your brain has migrated to the neighborhood of your crotch.

Migration is a very good thing. It is time to migrate the party to your home. Bills are paid in a hurry, cabs are hailed.

There is a full war alert down in Australia.

The man at the wheel can't seem to find his way in the intricate sub-streets in the estate. Finally you are there. The cantankerous gate watchman is already asleep and your loud banging/honking/yelling is not helping matters....

After an eternal five minutes, you throw the light switch in your living room and look appreciatively at the lady.
Time to feed the demon.
The main encumbrances, the blouse/top and skirt/jeans are speedily gotten out of the way and the time to deal with more delicate items is nigh.......

Women's breasts are magnets for men's hands (physics, form 2). The hands lock to the target and lash out. Hmmmmm...Solid. Hmmmmm. Not supple. There is a hard, metal-like substance below the lining or lace. You round to the back and try to prise free the annoying hook-like things at the back; Arghhhhh!

The bra comes free.

You almost hear a whoosh as b*bs dash for the waistline. You have been conned. Bra fortified with metal. It is an elaborate ruse. The mind blowing cleavage has disappeared like a fart in a hailstorm. Mr President decides there is hardly any point in standing and takes to bending and folding like someone who has just had his liver removed without anesthesia. Two things are needed here; A miracle, or furious leg pumping action, a vial of adrenaline and a tank of pure oxygen.

A cursory eye check reveals other things that are not as flattering as they were 10 minutes ago. A bit of plastering and plumbing around the midriff, the make-up looks a bit ghastly under the clear, ordinary fluorescent lamp. Those who have hung wall posters of Ciara or Shakira turn and look at them sardonically. The light switch is flipped off while the Ciara image is still at the top of the memory stack.

Some semblance of action can then begin.....