I want a divorce!
Unfortunately, my amour had never been good at lip reading.
"Ask the waiter!"
Later. I returned to the crab and Harry reattached himself to the bimbo's cleavage.
"I Married A Leech."
Sounded like one of Boner's lurid efforts, which were generally ripping yarns set at a frenetic pace that made Indiana Jones look like "The Sound Of Music." Something was always either exploding or decomposing, frequently both, as in his magnum opus, "The Squishing." They'd make great B-movies, 'though.
I'd like to squish that blonde. Monopolizing my husband!
Suddenly, I realized that something very strange had happened. And it had little, if nothing to do with the crab. I was jealous. Furiously, green monsterishly, hand-me-a-dagger-and-I'll-make-a-kebab type jealous. This was a new emotion and I fought back a large lump in my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had discovered the secret in Crab Surprise.
"Oh, Mr. Boner, what a lovely suit!"
Boner preened as Mrs. G turned her attention to him.
"I buried my third husband in one just like it!"
Boner depreened. A hint of a smile appeared on Frippery's prim mouth.
"He was such a dear! In oil, you know. I do so miss him. And the others." For a moment Gigi looked sad. The she brightened up.
"Perhaps I'll meet number seven on this cruise! Lucky seven!"
She gazed around the table as if sizing up the candidates.
"Now," she said archly, "who have we here for Gigi? Doctor Dunnett?"
Dunnett shrank.
"A confirmed bachelor, Mrs. Goldfinkel, wedded to my profession. Never had the time for courting."
Or the sobriety, judging by the rate the decanter was emptying.
"Ooh, Doctor, you are such a tease. I bet you have the ladies swooning over you on every trip!"
There was a faint snort from the Captain.
"Mr. Boner, you are of course spoken for."
Mrs. G moved on without further comment. Boner looked put out.
"Mr. Neptune, I am just a day too late! Poor Gigi should have got her skates on! And you look so good in that tux!"
I took my wife's hand across the pristine linen tablecloth and bowed to Mrs. Goldfinkel.
"The fates would not have it so, my dear Mrs. Goldfinkel – Gigi. I have captured all my heart's desire and could want no more in life. I shall dance at your nuptials to the fortunate seventh Mr. G, whoever he may be."
For some reason Mrs. Neptune dug her fingernails into my palm. I looked at her and she smiled sweetly. She mouthed, Bar Steward!
"Just empty your glass dear, he'll soon refill it."
Gigi turned her attention to the Captain. She linked her arm in his and rested her frosted head on his shoulder.
"Ah, Captain, I do love a man in uniform!"
Captain Ahab was no stranger to these scenarios. He disengaged his arm politely and stood.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a toast! To fine weather and a happy cruise!"
We raised our glasses – the Boner's were filled with some carroty colored liquid Boner had brought with him in a thermos flask – and repeated the toast.
"To fine weather and a happy cruise!"
Glasses were drained and replaced with a late model Burgundy for the main course.
"And what is the weather prediction for the duration, Miss Swat? Any frontal systems we will be exposed to?"
"Why, Mr. Neptune! If the weather don't oblige, Ah sho' will do my little bitty best not to disappoint yuh!"
This was a bit rich even for me, but if listening to it was what it took to get Swat in the sack for a honeymoon treat Harry was your man. I could see by the way Jay snuck glances round me at Loretta's magnificent unfettered chest that she was of similar mind.
"Darling, I left my hair brush in the cabin. Would you be a dear and fetch it for me?"
"Of course, sweetheart." I made my apologies to the table and trotted off. If I trotted rapidly I would get in a swift Old Turkey to wash away the taste of the Burgundy before I came back.
There was no sign of a hairbrush in the cabin, so I pocketed my comb as a reasonable substitute and headed off to accomplish the second, unofficial, part of the mission.
When I got back to the table Miss Swat was picking ratatouille out of her cleavage and Miss Lawrence was addressing Boner.
"Did the discharge stop, or do you still wear the protective underwear?"
Harry's face was quite a picture when he resumed his seat at the Captain's table. Suddenly realizing that he'd been well and truly had, he shot me a masterful look and mouthed a warning. It looked a bit like:
I'm going to shag your button!
I smiled enigmatically and pretended not to notice. Boner had (thankfully) stopped talking ringworm and boils and Ms. Flyswat was taking the accident with the vegetable entree quite well really, all things considered. There had been a fairly major expletive when the piping hot slop hit her bronzed decolletage, but the ship had lurched just as I passed the bowl and my dainty little wrists have always been on the fragile side when it comes to lifting great big heavy items like dishes of steaming ratatouille. Oops. What was more, a brief but educational stint as The Great Superbo's glamorous assistant, Miss Fortune, taught me that the swiftness of the hand deceives the eye. It was a good flip. Superbo would have been proud. Meanwhile, the blonde was busy trying to turn the mess to her advantage.
"There was waaay too much liquid in that dish! Ah shall have a word with the chef. Ah might even offer to show him a couple of mah specialties."
There was a polite murmur of appreciation. I noticed that either Blondie's boobs had swollen with the heat of the sudden hot shower or she had artfully eased the melons another inch or so out of her skin-tight black gown.
Whichever it was, she looked ready to pop, her pronounced nipples defining the very edges of the plunging neckline. A glimmering crevasse opened up, like a bosomy gold mine and, unable to help himself, Harry grabbed his napkin and began to dab furiously, muttering inanely about the high cost of dry cleaning. And the Flyswat let him! A true Southern belle would have launched into outraged Scarlet O'Hara mode faster than you could say mint julep. Hmm. It wasn't just the boobies that were fake. In fact, there was something vaguely familiar about Ms. Swat. I calmly watched my husband eradicate every last molecule of ratatouille from the valley of the doll. I wasn't the only exponent of sleight of hand. He'd given her titties quite a massage beneath the white linen napkin. The harlot gasped as he finally withdrew. I swear her breasts looked as if they'd just been polished. The Southern drawl grew huskier and more pronounced.
"Why, Mistah Neptune. Y'all sure know how to treat a lady. Ah'm eternally grateful to you, ah'm sure. Ah mean, really grateful, if yuh know what ah mean…"
This was getting quite indecent. Then it came to me. The super-sized chest, the phony Southern drawl. I knew Loretta Swat's true identity or, at least, one of her former incarnations.
"Well, I'll be damned! Voluptua Luscious!"
Everyone turned to me and stared. Except for Blondie, who positively glared. I giggled.
"Oops! Hey, this ratatouille is really rather good. Dig in before it gets cold!"
Harry excised his peepers from the thrusting orbs. His mouth worked furiously:
"Rocket thrusters?"
We really had to take a lip reading course.
"I'll tell you later!"
I returned to the veggies and a trip down mammary, sorry, memory lane. Voluptua Luscious was a former porn star and exotic dancer, once upon a time, way back in the shady mists of antiquity (the mid-1980s, to be precise). It was an era of big hair, big tits and big tips, and for one brief but heady season, Lush, (as the other girls affectionately called her for various reasons), was the veritable Queen of the Pink Pussy Lounge. What she couldn't do with a brass pole and a gallon of baby oil wasn't worth knowing. Why, it was there that I learned the infamous pussy dance. My own XXX career was brief but fascinating. A quick dip in the retro section of an adult video store should unearth at least one Titty Boomboom erotica classic.