Eating Betty Grable

I am at a delicatessen. An old crone is serving me. I order pumpkin pie with raspberry ice cream, coffee and rye toast. I get a ham sandwich. Protesting that I'm a vegetarian, I'm ordered to damn well eat it. "Pig is a vegetable," the irritable old woman says. I refuse to eat. "We'll see about that," she replies and calls the manager, a tall woman in a mask and black cloak. Both of them berate me, upsetting the other customers who get up and leave. The manager runs after them, demanding payment, leaving me alone with the crone.

She finally accepts that I won't eat my sandwich and tells me to wait while she goes back into the kitchen to find something else. I try to sneak away but can't get out of my chair. She comes back with a serving platter upon which she has placed one of her long thin breasts (still attached) between two pieces of white bread. Once again I protest I'm a vegetarian. I'm told not to worry; the breast is a fruit. I realize that this is so and am left without argument, so I take a malicious bite. She screams "Don't bite it, suck!"

"It's my lunch and I'll do what I want!"

"I was young and beautiful once!" she shouts.

"I don't believe it. You were always old and revolting!"

"You'll see!" she runs back into the kitchen and emerges a minute later in black fish net stockings and nothing else.

"I used to be Betty Grable," she says, sitting on a table, crossing her legs and lighting a cigarette in a long ivory holder. The manager returns and orders the crone back to the kitchen.

"She tells everybody that," says the manager. "The truth is, I used to be Betty Grable. How do you like your lunch so far?"

"I wasn't really hungry to begin with."

"That's the best time to eat. You don't make a pig of yourself."

The crone returns wheeling a big cart covered with a cloth. She whips off the cloth revealing Betty Grable under glass. Betty is lying on her belly, naked, with a lily up her ass. She winks at me. The crone sharpens a carving knife and asks me what cut I want: "Breast, rump or thigh?"

"But I'm a vegetarian!" I repeat.

"Betty Grable is a vegetable!" both my hostesses insist.

I'm sure they're wrong, but suddenly I'm very hungry indeed. The crone shaves wafer thin slices of Betty's lovely bottom. Betty sighs with each slice. I start grabbing the slices, shoving them in my mouth. Nothing ever tasted so good. "Thigh?" says the crone? I nod, my mouth too full to speak. Betty gasps as the crone pares the soft inner surface. Better, even better. My hunger increases with each mouthful.

"Breast?" She rolls Betty over on her back. Betty blows me a kiss.

Betty moans as the crone removes the left breast and serves it to me, lofted by the erect nipple, plops it on my plate. There is no blood which pleases me, being a vegetarian.

"Care for the other?"

"mmph - please!" Like angel food cake and ice cream. My hunger only increases as Betty's pelvis begins to move rhythmically with my chewing, her moans become feverish. Her eyes roll back, her golden hair dampens with sweat.

My appetite becomes so voracious I can no longer bother with being served. Starting with her toes, I work my way up to her head. Approaching her eyes, she winks one more time as I devour her whole. Only as I floss my teeth with a strand of her hair do I realize my appetite is fully appeased.

"Will there be anything else? Coffee? Wine?"

"No thank you. Am I allowed to smoke?"

"By all means. The tall woman in the mask provides an ashtray. I light up and take a big drag, realize I don't really want it, and stub it out."

"May I have the check please?"

"There is no check," says the tall woman. "No charge. The pleasure was all ours. Do come back if you're ever hungry again."

I walk down the sidewalk feeling strangely light for having eaten such a big meal. I used to wish I could play trumpet like Harry James, but I never had the lip for it. It's a genetic thing,the lip, you have one or you don't. All the practice in the world won't make up for lack of natural talent.