Not too long ago, a friend of mine from New Zealand was in town for a couple of days. During his time here, we hit most of the usual Los Angeles highlights for guys like us: Frye's Electronics (one of the few sorts of shopping I can honestly say that I enjoy), Op-Amp Technical Books (another shrine to consumerism for our kind), and of course, several good restaurants. As his final evening in my fair metropolis approached, I regretted not booking reservations at the Getty Center or making some other arrangements suitably auspicious for his last night on the North American continent.

Since we were both a bit tired by this point, he didn't seem too put off by my lack of celebratory foresight (though if you're in town, the Getty Center is definitely worth the trip... for the architecture and gardens, if not the collection itself). We settled upon a low-key evening in the lovely San Fernando valley (yes, THAT valley... the world capital of the adult movie industry). After a cholesterol-laden meal at the original Bob's Big Boy in Toluca Lake, we decided to try to forestall our impending coronaries with a little gentle exercise. Thus, we found ourselves strolling up one side of downtown Burbank's San Fernando Boulevard and down the other. It was a warm evening, with the clear skies common to L.A. during this time of the year, and the streets were well-populated by other folks enjoying their evenings. Of course, finer examples of the female form were everywhere to be seen... ranging from vivacious teenage Latina girls from East L.A. wearing mini-Ts and denim cutoffs, to thirtyish valley queens in expensive dresses and wonderbras, toting Gucci purses undoubtedly containing keys to late-model BMWs. My friend and I took in all of these sights along with the warm evening air as our stroll wound down and we headed back towards my car.

He saw her just a moment before I did, giving me a none-too-gentle nudge in the ribs as we walked past. Looking over into a courtyard filled with diners, I glimpsed one of those rare sights that, no matter how jaded you think you've become, never fail to take your breath away. Through wrought-iron gates separating courtyard from boulevard, I beheld the slender form of a young blonde woman rising from her table. During that first quick momentary glimpse, I'm not sure what impressed me more... her astonishingly abundant bosom, or the fact that she was able to get up from a seated position without assistance. Only because this is L.A. can I state that her breasts were not the very largest I've seen during such a local sighting. They were, however, firmly ensconced in the top ten percent... each one the approximate size of a child's head. Moments later, our pace carried us past the gates, and my mind's eye feverishly attempted to glean additional details from the image burned onto my retinas. Only a few words passed between my friend and I before we entered the establishment whose courtyard we'd just passed.

Once inside, I learned that the place was the Gordon Biersch microbrewery and restaurant: a vast and noisy expanse of walnut, brass and clinking glass. We settled ourselves at the massive, stone-topped bar, situated so as to have a clear view of the courtyard, presently devoid of our quarry. Drinks were ordered and consumed, and just as my friend wondered aloud if perhaps the object of our attention had departed, she miraculously sauntered into view, re-entering the courtyard from another doorway to rejoin her female dining companion. I was afforded several seconds of time in which to clarify my preliminary observation: in her late twenties, shoulder length dark blond hair framing her face, close-fitting jeans defining shapely legs and buttocks, and a tight-fitting garment that I can only describe as a sleeveless mini-sweater revealing her flat midriff. Above that band of skin, firmly encased by fuzzy white material were a pair of globes the likes of which I've rarely seen: frankly massive orbs that seemed to defy the laws of physics in their ability to exert a magnetic influence upon the eyeballs of all those nearby. Like my friend and I, women and men throughout the brewery could be seen watching the woman closely as she passed, with glances ranging from furtive disgust (most of the women) to unabashed lust (most of the men). She sat down all too quickly, and --much to our dismay-- it was no longer possible to view her from our spot at the bar.

Before we could gather our wits about us and consider relocating to a more rewarding vantage point, she and her companion exited the courtyard and approached the bar where we sat, affording me a much closer view than previously possible. Revising my estimate of her age upwards by a few years or so, I also determined that she possessed a weak chin, small eyes and a certain familiarity of expression. Which is not to say that she was unattractive upon closer inspection; she remained an object of unconditional lust, though now one tempered slightly by human flaws. No alcoholic soft-focus filter would be required to attribute to her the air of a desirable, hyper-sexualized pixie... an elfin spirit disguised as a valley babe and cavorting through our plane of existence sporting enough breast meat for any three mortal women.

Approaching the bar, her truly staggering bosom clove a path through the crowd before her, like the bow of an icebreaker pushing through pack ice. Enormous spheres far too perfect to be God-given... almost certainly the product of some gifted surgeon's labors. Sadly lacking first-hand experience with breasts of this imposing scale, I'm reluctant to supply a numerical estimate for fear of doing them a disservice... if pressed, however, I'd state that if I were told they easily exceeded 50 inches I'd have no reason to doubt it. Regarding her cup size, I'm at a complete loss... they were simply huge on her otherwise slim frame, and certainly so far past 'D' that it no longer mattered. As mentioned, each round wonder was about the size of a human head, albeit that of a child. To the thinly-veiled amazement of everyone near us, she sat down at the bar, perching her sweet little bottom on a stool (surely, that rump must suffer from a significant inferiority complex on such a woman!) and leaned forward, actually resting her fleshy burden on the surface of the bar. I imagined that I heard the sturdy marble and hardwood structure groan under the load! If a normally-endowed woman sat down at the bar and placed a pair of honeydew melons upon it directly in front of her, it would have had the same approximate visual effect. I mean, there was no way to avoid looking and being amazed! There she sat, just three stools from mine, looking for all the world like a younger, fresher version of Letha Weapons. Although I've since been told that Letha is semi-retired and a mother now, and that her most recent work showed her to have passed her prime by some distance, I still can't help but wonder at the distinct resemblance between her and the woman at the bar. Facial features like her chin, mouth and eyes all lent weight to some sort of relationship with the well-known porn star, as well as her overall presence: a pleasantly slutty, somewhat haughty "keep watchin' my tits bud, 'cause you ain't gonna touch 'em" character that she exuded in spades. Unlike Letha however, this woman (now firmly entrenched as 'Little Letha' in my mind) carried off blonde with admirable success, and if anything, her globes were even larger!

Smiling, she rebuffed an attempt at conversation from a balding man perched next to her, and briefly flirted with the bartenders instead (all of whom suddenly found reasons to tend to her portion of the bar while patrons seated elsewhere risked dehydration). This went on for a couple of minutes, while I continued to observe her as discreetly as possible. It was during this time that I managed to take brief notice of her companion, a very pretty brunette sporting a pleasing pair of 36 inch D-Cuppers in a knit top. In any other situation, she'd surely have been the center of attention, but like the moon in the afternoon, her light was wholly occluded by that of her outsized companion. Shortly thereafter, the two of them (really, it felt as if there were four entities altogether... I kid you not) rose from the bar and left, 'Little Letha' in front, passing by us on their way out. As is my habit, I inhaled deeply as they passed, sampling the sweet, warm fragrance of womanhood in their wake. Following their departure, an almost audible sigh of relief could be heard from the patrons nearby as bellies relaxed, eyes returned to drinks and erections subsided.

Our evening complete, my friend and I finished our drinks, found my car and went home... 'Little Letha' a recurring topic of conversation throughout. The next day, he was on his way back to the southern hemisphere, taking with him fond memories of one of L.A.'s not-so-natural wonders. An evening at the Getty Center wouldn't have been any more satisfying