AN ODD FASCINATION WITH PUDDING

Someone mentioned bread-pudding today. So of course, as the stereo-typical frustrated single male, I automatically thought of breasts. There is a great range of similarity between a fine bread-pudding, and a lovely breast.

Custard.

Not, please understand, the texture or mouthfeel. It's the appearance, and certainly the visual essence.
Mental imagery and tactile things.
I haven't had bread-pudding in so long I cannot even remember what it smells like.
Unlike many males, I am not a bread-pudding man.
Well, not overly so.
To my mind, the ideal serving of bread-pudding is small and diplomatic.
That way, one can have another helping, without feeling bloated or over-indulgent.

You will no doubt grasp that the restaurant chain 'Hooters', which presents both enormous breasts and spicy chicken wings, consequently holds no attraction for me whatsoever.
Chicken wings - feh, I say.
That will not lure me in.

Bread-pudding, on the other hand......

Do they have excellent bread-pudding?

It just might tempt me.

Did I mention that it has been a while?



If some sweet young thing were to offer me bread-pudding, I would lavish her with flowers.
And whipped cream.
Bread-pudding NEEDS whipped cream.


This post should NOT be construed as an obscene proposition.
I would really love some bread-pudding, that's all there is to it.
Don't read anything into this.
Repeat: not obscene!
At all.


Well, except for the whipped cream, that is.


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