THE FINGER

"I could eat you," I told her during our ravenous infatuation. "My desire for you turns me into a cannibal. I'm going to ask you a personal favor. I want you to cut off the pinkie of your left hand. You're right-handed so I'm not being too unreasonable. When you go for breast implants or a tummy tuck, you might be able to work out a package deal that will cost you practically nothing to remove this appendage that can't have much more worth than an appendix. I will not eat your finger raw as if it were ceviche. And I definitely want you across from me as I consume it. My options for its preparation are limited because my culinary talents are limited. I have never baked anything. An oven is as foreign to me as China; I'm not going to jeopardize a once-in-a-lifetime repast experimenting. I won't boil it. I boil hotdogs. I won't put it in a microwave either. I'll either fry or barbecue it, the two culinary approaches I utilize for most my lunches and dinners. In fact, I've received compliments from you for meals I've prepared on both the stove and the grill. I will without a doubt marinade the finger in my secret sauce. How was the steak the other night? Since your finger will be the main course, it will be a light dinner, which complements my physical regimen. A chicken consume and a shrimp salad will set the stage. I'll place the cooked finger in the middle of the plate with asparagus radiating from it in the form of wagon spokes. I'll contemplate the finger and then I'll contemplate you. I'll take the tiny limb between the index fingers and thumbs of both hands and hold it like a miniature corn cob. I'll suck the marinade as I rotate the finger in my mouth. I'll be curious to discover if the taste I associate with your skin will have found its way into the sauce. I hope you're with me on this and don't think I'm a weirdo. You know how much I love you. I would cut off my ear for you. Before I take my first bite--nibble would be more precise--I'll study the lines around your knuckle. As part of the preparation, I'll char your pinkie so all its physical characteristics will be readily observable. I'll eat your pinkie after I have extracted the nail. I am going to my internist and asking him to perform the procedure. He can bill the insurance company for minor surgery. As I said, this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and I want everything to be perfect. You wouldn't think about giving me another finger, would you? Or a small toe? I'm sorry. You're right. This could become a habit. Or an addiction. With an exceptional red to wash down the delicacy, I'm not worried about the calories. Sometimes we have to splurge. The whole time I'm savoring your finger, I'll be staring into your eyes. It will be like making love to a part of you. I'll be so excited that I'll do everything I can to stretch this five-minute moment into a half-hour experience. Once consumed, I'll suck the marrow out of the thin bone before dropping the digit into a pot of boiling water and having soup the next day. It'll have the subtle taste that only a connoisseur can appreciate. I'll take the bone to a jeweler and have a gold chain inserted through a small hole after having the bone polished and lacquered, the exotic piece hanging from my neck for the rest of my life. Ancient peoples decorated themselves with the parts of those they had slain. And dessert? Your pussy, mamacita, your sweet pussy. Did I hear you say, 'Bon apetit, mi amour?'"