Free The Gorgeous Girls by Marie Wilson Page A

Bernhardt was sixty when she played the teenage Joan of Arc!” Rose exclaims. “And Jean Arthur—fifty-three when cast as the young wife in
Shane
. I could do the same if they’d give me a chance.”
    â€œOf course you could, Rose,” Wanda says supportively. “Picasso said all art is a lie.” She proffers this bit of wisdom like a tipsy sage in poison-blue Comrags.
    Con takes a slug of her spritzer. “Picasso lied exquisitely for art’s sake.” Her left hand arabesques gracefully in the air.
    â€œYes, for art’s sake, not for sex’s sake, Con. So if you’re trying to defend your pretend orgasm again, don’t bother,” Wanda says.
    â€œI wasn’t trying to defend anything, Wanda,” Con replies peevishly, letting her hand drop to the table. “The faked orgasm that you can’t seem to forget might be classified as a white lie, if you have to classify it as a lie at all.”
    â€œA lie is a lie is a lie,” Wanda persists.
    â€œMrs. Parker, come sit by me,” Con snarls.
    â€œIt was an insignificant fabrication, Wanda,” Rose offers, feeling guilty for setting the bitchy tone.
    Trying to get the bee out of Wanda’s bonnet and the peeve from Con’s patter, Rose reasons, “If lovemaking is an art—and I’m sure we all agree that it is—and if what Picasso says is true, that all art is a lie concocted to reveal the truth, then the same would apply to lovemaking. What is more truthful than intimacy, that union one achieves through sex?”
    â€œDeception is what it is,” Wanda insists, not deceived by Rose’s philosophical meanderings.
    â€œPlay-acting,” Rose counters.
    â€œPlay-acting.” Con rolls the word around on her tongue the way she does Tyler. “Ty and I do a lot of that.” She breathes huskily on her deep blue gem, then polishes it on the yellow bouclé skirt that barely covers her huge tummy.
    Wanda opens her mouth to object but, as if on cue, “Take this Waltz” plays on the sound system and Wanda remembers Gorgeous Girl and the Pinstripe Suit. At the library bar he’d told her tales of his worldly travels, and at night’s end he’d kissed her so passionately and sweetly that she’d forgotten where she was and even
who
she was. Wanda? Gorgeous Girl? Jag’s cuckold? Leonard’s muse? Pinstripe Suit’s plaything? She sighs deeply, then raises her flute. “To play-acting.”
    The girls bring their glasses together, and it is then that Rose and Wanda finally notice Con’s betrothal bling. Wanda screams and Rose gasps as Con yells, “I’m tying the knot!”
    The boys at the bar applaud.

ROSE
    Those who have mastered etiquette, who are entirely, impeccably right, would seem to arrive at a point of exquisite dullness.
    â€”Dorothy Parker

    Dear Joe,

    I’m in a tree and you’re on the ground. We are naked and the opposite of “exquisite dullness”; we will always be at odds with the masters of all that is “impeccably right.” Let us be only impeccably adventurous and playful in our love.
    My legs straddle a large branch of deep red bark. I cool my hot self against the smooth, cherry bough and my juices penetrate its hardness. The musky scent of my sex mingles with the freshness of new leaves and sap.
    As I reach to grasp a branch above me, my nipples brush against light green leaves. I pull myself up, and my clit gently meets the main trunk. Undulating, I pull myself up farther, all the better to roll my pelvis forward, as if to make love with the tree. My wetness like a balm to its ancient wood, the fragrance of sex juice and resin fill my nostrils.
    I am so hot, so close to coming. I look down at you. Your erection looks as smooth and hard as the tree trunk. I could take you right now and fuck you instead of the tree, but it is too exciting to watch you watching me, taking your hardness in