"A penny for your thoughts? The cat got your tongue? What's wrong Betty? You look so troubled, depressed, and angry. You look like you lost your best friend. Did your dog die? Why would someone as beautiful as you look so glum?"
Every man realized it and commented on it, yet no man took the time to truly question it. Her beauty made them forget whatever else was wrong with her. She was so perfect on the outside, after all. What problems could she possibly have? Just to be with her was enough and when they were with her naked, whatever was wrong with her could be fixed or ignored.
"Oh, nothing," within that five second pause passed a year of psycho therapy that, within that period of time, a psychiatrist could not bridge the troubled waters of her insanity. If only there was a doctor who possessed the key to unlock her secrets and release her misery, maybe she could have been cured. Maybe, she could have been saved.
"I broke a nail," she said looking up and smiling at me with those blue eyes that melts my heart and makes me, someone who is tone deaf and has no rhythm, want to sing like the late, great Luciano Pavarotti and dance like the late, great Fred Astaire.
"Betty, Betty, Betty, Elizabeth, Eliza, Beth, Liz, Liza, I love every variety of her name," I sang as I danced around the room. "I love my beautiful Betty."
As if her every step is practiced and rehearsed, she walks to a choreographed dance that is dangerous to those who take a lustful desire for her. Her body is musical movements to your senses and you cannot help but stare at her while hearing Frank Sinatra's voice singing the song, the Girl From Ipanema when Beautiful Betty passes by you.
"Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking, and when she passes, each one she passes goes -- ah. When she walks, she's like a samba, that swings so cool and sways so gentle, that when she passes, each one she passes goes -- ooh."
She was nice, sweet, personable and kind and those who saw her that day imagined being with her that night in a dream and dreamt of her every night thereafter. Such a rare beauty, no one has every seen a woman so beautiful.
Her appearance was reminiscent of that natural and unpretentious beauty Ellie Mae Clampett. Wearing Daisy Duke, short shorts, a knotted up, unbuttoned blouse, and tucking her thick, lush, hair beneath a straw hat, whenever you are alone and lonely lying in bed with your hand wrapped around your cock, you imagine her stepping out from the back of a barn chewing a blade of grass. You, a tired and thirsty traveling salesman, not believing your eyes that this beauty lives here on this farm alone, needed to use the telephone to call a tow for your Buick Regal that suddenly died a mile down the road. Is she real or is she a mirage?
"Hello?" You call out to her with a wave hoping that she will answer and hoping that she is real and not in your imagination.
