This Betty

“Come with me, I have a surprise for you”, Henry said. He took my hand to lead me down the dock and his palm was slippery wet with anticipation.

I will admit when we first pulled into the marina parking lot I was overcome by a hot rage, so certain was I that he had bought “that boat”. My brother had been trying to talk him into his old, dilapidated cabin cruiser for years. Henry must have sensed my blooming anger because he quickly turned to me and said, “No, I did not buy that boat.”

His words had given me a moment’s pause but I held my tongue and followed him out of the car.

I allowed Henry to lead me down the floating dock, boats of all sizes looming in their slips on either side. The sun was setting, and their sleek silhouettes were awash in amber light. We walked on to the very end of the dock where an old wooden 28ft sailboat bobbed in the last slip. Its hull was painted dark emerald green and the teak woodwork was so polished that it gleamed. I was in love.

“This is perfect!” I threw my arms out and hugged Henry fiercely.

I had lobbied, unsuccessfully for years, for a sailboat. If we were going to take the plunge and become seafarers I wanted to see our hard earned money manifested as a grand sail ship and not a clunky, stinky, old cabin cruiser. The debate had raged on and summer after summer; we had gone boat-less as a result of the impasse.

Henry beamed back at me, “there’s more, “he said and gestured me on board with a grandiose sweep of his arm.

Stepping on the deck, I found the boat was as mint as I could have dreamed. Every inch of it was clean and bright, neatly chromed and waxed. The teakwood had a high shine. There was a bottle of bubbly and glasses perched on the cabin door. Henry opened the champagne, holding it over the side so the pink foam ran into the sea and not on the deck.

I noticed there were three glasses. I raised my eyebrows, questioning, “Someone joining us for the celebration?”

Henry ignored my question. He stepped forward and caught me up in his arms, planting a big, warm kiss on my mouth. The kiss turned quickly and unexpectedly passionate as he slipped his tongue between my parted lips, drawing me deeper in. I felt his fingers working the buttons on the front of my dress and within minutes, he was cupping one of my lace-encased breasts. He broke of the kiss and met my eyes.

“The boat isn’t your surprise.”

He smiled at me and I noticed with a nervous flutter, that he was very anxious. Henry suffers from a mild facial tick when extremely nervous or excited and now his right eye twitched and blinked. A bright red flush had crept up his neck, painting his collarbone pink as it made its way into his cheeks. Before I could say anything, Henry pulled open the cabin door and invited me to go down the narrow stairs into the galley. There was music playing faintly and the flickering candles created shadows that seemed to dance along to the floating jazz. I started down, feeling wary. Then I stopped short, unable to stifle the startled gasp that slipped from my lips. There, perched in the bow of the cabin, was Betty Page.

Okay well, it wasn’t “the” Betty Page, but the woman looked enough like her that it was uncanny. She had the same milky skin and voluptuous hair, so black it looked like wet ink. Her lips were cherry red and parted to reveal perfect white teeth. Her wide blue eyes seemed to spark under their dark, thick lashes. I pulled my eyes from her stunning face long enough to drink in the rest of her. She was wearing a black corseted top that barely contained her impressive breasts and hugged her body so aggressive that her waist appeared impossibly narrow above her swaying hips. The leopard print pencil skirt stopped just below her knees. She wore no stockings and her feet were bare and each of her perfect toes was painted a bright red that matched her lips. The Queen of Pinups, and my personal obsession over the last two years, was smiling seductively at me across the cabin. Looking at her, leaning casually against the edge of the bed, I felt my skin grow hot and my throat constrict. All at once I wanted her to undress me, kiss me, taunt me, to punish me. The desire rolled over me, urgent and white hot.

For the last two years I had been working on my book about Betty Page, an intense labor of love that Henry had often joked, had caused me to fall madly in love with the woman. Betty Page, this unassuming and surprising shy girl, had become the very face of female sensuality for her generation and beyond. Her photos, her films, had been the harbingers of the erotic revolution. Before the Varga girls, before Playboy Bunnies, before all the modern sex symbols of the day, there had been Betty Page. She had quite easily become a heroine of mine, and perhaps closer to Henry’s suggestion, she had become the ultimate object of my desire.
Henry. I suddenly remembered my husband and my eyes found him, lurking in the cabin doorway looking guilty but positively delighted. He passed me two glasses of champagne and wordlessly backed up the stairs.

“I’ve been playing Betty for years, I have her down pretty good don’t you think?” this Betty-but not Betty, took one glass and giggled playfully just as the real girl might well have.

I nodded, still unable to find my words. Her commitment to character was astounding.

“I’m not a prostitute or anything…just an enthusiast and a fan, of yours, “ she added quickly, attempting to waylay any fears I might have had surrounding my husband’s procurement of her company.

“I read your book. It was amazing,” she gushed, blushing a bit in her zeal.

“You really got inside her; you breathed life into her legend. It was so intimate. And touching.” She was speaking in a rush, drawing closer and closer as she spoke, reaching out and capturing one of my wrists in her hands.

“Thank you, “ I finally managed to stammer, allowing this Betty to pull me along beside her so we were standing face to face, sideways along the edge of the bed.

Up close, it was a marvel how much she resembled the real Betty. Her blue eyes, most likely contacts, contrasted with the dark black mascara and liner with all the accuracy of an artistic rendering. The site of her face made me ache with a longing long kept private, or so I had thought.

“I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s alright? Henry told me it would be okay with him. He understands you very well. He has complete trust in you. That’s very sweet.” I was struck dumb by the mastery this girl had over her role, the nuances of her movements, the tone and candor of her speech.

My blood was pounding so loudly in my ears that I had to strain to hear her over the noise. I didn’t dare breathe as she leaned in and pressed her lips to mine. Her lips were soft and moist. I tasted mint and felt her darting tongue. She pressed closer, opened her mouth wider and continued to kiss me, pausing to tell me how much she had been looking forward to meeting me, before going back at my mouth again. Then, without waiting for an invitation she stepped back, reached behind her and unhooked her skirt. She wiggled her body until it dropped down in a pool at her ankles. With another girlish giggle, she kicked it away with one pointed foot. She wasn’t wearing anything under that shirt and the hem of her corset top ended just above the sculpted, dark triangle of her mounds. She rushed forward and eagerly unbuttoned my dress, a flowing, sheer thing that slipped off my shoulders with a whisper of fabric on flesh. Then all at once I was standing, clad only in my bra and thong, and trembling with obvious desire in front of this vision of a woman.

This Betty was not shy. She climbed up on the bed, pulling me with her. I suddenly never wanted anything more than to be naked with her, my skin pressing hers, our breasts touching, our legs entwined. I thought briefly about Henry topside, but before the guilt could find a home this Betty was taking off my bra and slipping her hands over my breasts, pinching my nipples into hard points with her expert fingers. I turned my attention to her body, to the maddening task of getting the corset off her. At last the material gave way and I had those perfect, heavy melons in my both my hands. Emboldened, I lowered my head and flicked my tongue over her nipples. I closed my mouth around one, sucking the swollen nipple while this Betty arched and moaned.

I pulled back to remove the last remnants of my own clothing. I gazed at this Betty, now completely naked and as wanton-looking as I felt. We kissed and explored each other in the dim light. Our hands slipped on slick skin and the air was filled with a warm, musky perfume. This Betty liked to talk dirty. She whispered nasty little nothings into my ear that made me blush red hot and transformed me into a clawing, biting, pleading thing. I was panting, barely able to draw a full breath by the time she pressed me onto my back on the bed. I was almost sobbing with need by the time she eased between my legs and began to cover me with her mouth. She moved over me, turning my desire into a blazing, burning coil in my stomach, furling and unfurling, with each flick of her eager tongue. She brought me to one rushing climax after another, all my nerve endings vibrating with exquisite ribbons of pleasure. I melted into her, and felt at one surreal moment, as if I was bonded to her. I felt as if our bodies had merged and we were one set of slick thighs, thrusting hips, heaving breasts, and pulsing sex.

I don’t have any understanding of how long this Betty and I spent together in the cabin of that sailboat. It was long enough I think for me to develop an intimate understanding of her every curve, long enough to have covered every inch of her flawless skin with my kisses. It was long enough to have climaxed so hard and so much that my legs were almost useless to me when I pulled free from her arms and tried to stand. It was, I realized, just long enough to feel a crushing sense of loss as soon as she stepped back into her clothes, covering the expanse of beautiful flesh again. In a few moments, she was put together, slightly disheveled but amazingly, uncannily Betty Page. She smiled at me warmly, producing a shiny gold compact mirror. She used to it to expertly reapply her lipstick and smooth out her thick black tresses. She swiped at a smudge of liner under one eye and then snapped the compact shut. She handed it to me.

“A memento to remember me by,” she offered. Then this Betty kissed my cheek and was gone, soundlessly ascending the cabin stairs in her bare feet.

It took me a bit longer to compose myself. I warily slipped back out on deck and found Henry, smoking a rare cigarette in the moonlight.

“Well, did you like your surprise?” He asked, pulling me to him. I nodded, feeling suddenly completely spent and at a loss for words. I was suddenly flush with guilt.

“We must have made a racket,” I began.

“Like nothing I have ever heard before.” he finished, grinning from ear to ear.

“The view was something too,” and seeing my confused expression, added, “Portholes darling, you didn’t think I wasn’t going to peek a little?”

“By the way, did you happen to notice the name of this little boat?” he asked, playfully.

I leaned over the stern and looked. There written in a lovely gold and red script was the name he had chosen for our new sailboat, “The Bettie Mae”.