The Gorgeous Girls: A Novel

By Marie Wilson

Three strong, beautiful women dish on their romantic and sexual exploits in Toronto, New York and Paris.

Erotica for the thinking woman, this well-written and sexy novel is driven by three gorgeous women on the prowl. Rose, Con, and Wanda, all disciples of the legendary Dorothy Parker, meet regularly for drinks to dish on their romantic and sexual exploits. From Toronto to Vancouver to Paris, these three strong, beautiful women are out to explore as many sexual possibilities as they can while also finding l’amour. Featuring shoes, martinis, clothes, champagne, and of course sex, The Gorgeous Girls is a smart, playful and delicious sexual extravaganza that delivers non-stop thrills and a great deal of fun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Apr 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781443423946

Marie Wilson

Marie Wilson was born to a paint merchant and an Olympic runner in Vancouver, BC. After studying painting and theatre at UBC and SFU, she moved to Toronto to put herself on the boards. Following appearances on some of Toronto’s best stages, she turned her attention to writing. Marie has published work in a number of magazines and newspapers, including NOW and The Globe and Mail, had a handful of good reviews, met some great people, found love, and birthed three geniuses along the way.

Book preview

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The Gorgeous Girls

Marie Wilson

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Epigraph

I don’t care what is written about me so long as it isn’t true.

—Dorothy Parker

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Epigraph

Part One:

Black Lace & a Touch of Scarlet

Con

Rose

Wanda

Part Two:

Lilac Testimonies & the Breakfast of Champions

Rose

Con

Wanda

Con

Part Three:

Fur-Lined Handcuffs & Licorice Shoes

Rose

Rose

Part Four:

Ruby-Red Slippers & Pure Sexual Magic

Rose

Wanda

Rose

Part Five:

Splendid Mounds & Overflowing Cups

Rose

Con

Con

Part Six:

Candy Cock & the Sex Bomb

Rose

Wanda

Con

Part Seven:

Fairy Lights & Lingerie Up the Yingyang

Rose

Wanda

Rose

Wanda

Rose

Wanda

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Part One

Black Lace & a Touch of Scarlet

Dorothy Parker once said, ‘I require three things in a man. He must be handsome, ruthless, and stupid.’ Upon delivering this Dot bon mot with much waving of sparkly rings and jingly bracelets, Constance Langtry adds a fourth: Deft tongue. And I don’t mean a good talker.

Con and her two best friends, Rose and Wanda, are gathered at Cherry Beach on a summery evening to sip martinis, roast marshmallows and talk about sex (and love). They offer a toast to their patron saint, Dorothy Parker. St. Dot of the Algonquin Roundtable, St. Parker of Wit’s End, St. Dorothy who inked A Star is Born, Big Blonde and Smash-Up: The Story of a Woman—all titles the girls feel have described them at some point in their lives.

Placing another log on their campfire, Rose observes that Wanda seems to require only two things in a man these days: youth and unavailability. Babies with good fantasy potential—no commitment, no strings. In fact, no actual contact; just dreaming of a young man from afar, right Wanda?

Wanda, who turned thirty-three a month ago, has been pining after a lad who lives across the road from her in Toronto’s West End. But having been stung not so long ago (three months, one week and five days, to be exact) by a man she’d given her heart, soul, mind and body to, she’s not eager to get involved again. So she’s chosen this neighbour who looks barely out of high school.

Sometimes, Wanda says, staring dreamily into the fire, I sit on my stoop just waiting for him to come out onto his balcony. She takes a contemplative sip of her drink and pokes at the fire with a stick intended for marshmallows. I have come to sense and anticipate his times of arrival and departure, his direction of destinations, the rhythm of his gait, the colour of his T-shirt, the style of his hair . . .

Wanda, Rose says, snapping the dreamer to, you’re beginning to sound like Blanche DuBois. Blanche hid behind gossamer curtains and Chinese lanterns and never realized just how gorgeous she was. But you, Wanda, must acknowledge that you are a one hundred percent, bona fide gorgeous girl. Go ask that boy out!

I don’t feel gorgeous, Wanda murmurs, staring at the glittering city across the lake. A gentle breeze ruffles her short brown curls as a few tears dancing with red and gold reflections spill from her sea-green eyes.

Just imagine what it would be like to lick cherry soda off his smooth young flesh, Rose coos in a sultry Southern accent, unaware of teardrops.

I’m still not over Jag, Wanda moans, dabbing her eyes with black-lace-covered fingers. This glove, laced with memories of what she thought had been the deepest love and of what she knew to be the hottest sex, was a gift from Jag when their love was new. I don’t think I’ll ever get over him. She places the lacy conduit of erotic dreams beneath her nose and inhales deeply, as if to find her lover once more.

Oh, you will get over him, Rose says, popping a gin-saturated olive in her mouth. And this young man may very well help you do it.

Release your inner poodles, Con commands, smoothing her bubble-gum-pink mane with bejewelled fingers. And relinquish every last memory of Jag Silvertree. He was nothing but bad news from the get-go.

It is true that Jag is far from my mind whenever I lay eyes on my young neighbour, Wanda confides, dropping her gloved hand to her side. My heart beats so fast every time I hear that boy’s door, the click of the key in the lock, the rhythm of the rap music he listens to at night . . .

Wanda downs the last of her martini. In the fire’s glow she looks innocent as a child, which reminds Rose to issue a warning.

Just so long as he ain’t jailbait, go get him, urges the fortysomething Rose. A younger man helped me get out of a bad marriage. This one could make you forget Jag forever.

As Wanda warms to the idea of the young man obliterating the jagged memories from her mind, Con puts more tomato juice on ice. In the first trimester of her first pregnancy, she is strictly adhering to an alcohol-free happy hour.

Last week I sat outside on my stoop painting my toenails ‘A Touch of Scarlet,’ Wanda muses. Like rubies, the tips of my toes flashed a message of magic and surrender. I dreamed the flash set that boy on fire, a burning that could only be quenched by me.

Sounds like the opening paragraph of a new novel, Con suggests, her jewels flashing fire and ice. Con hopes that by evoking Wanda’s passion for writing, she will lift her out of this blue funk.

Rose adds, And the opening paragraph of a new chapter in your life.

My boy leaned back by the plastic tulips on his balcony and took off his shirt, Wanda continues, as if dictating the next paragraph. He did that for me. He knew I was watching. I looked him straight in the eye from above the rim of my coffee mug, full Dark City sliding down my throat. She stabs a marshmallow with her stick. Then his mother came out and looked at me sideways.

Never mind Mama, Con instructs. Like Rose, I, too, have had the pleasure of a younger man, one who saw me through a very nasty breakup. Yes sir, let the boy take your mind off ol’ what’s-his-name.

With that, Rose and Con start to count as Wanda, with an understanding of what must happen on three, peels the glove from her hand. It actually takes until twelve before she sends it flying into the fire, but then she gleefully roasts a marshmallow over the last of its gossamer dreams.

CON

Tell him I was too fucking busy—or vice versa.

—Dorothy Parker

Breaking up is hard. Real hard. Hard in ways I never knew. For the first week following a bad breakup a few years ago, I couldn’t sleep or eat. I became a walking anorexic zombie.

The week after that I slept a little, but cried a river and still couldn’t eat. I wanted to go to Mexico and drown my sorrows, lose myself in a bottle of tequila and never return. But I didn’t have any money. I couldn’t even afford tequila.

I contacted my spiritual adviser, who told me to envision something better for myself. Visions flooded my consciousness. Still, every morning I’d wake up with a pall hanging over me, a dark cloud, a scum of sour relationship clinging to my skin and bones in the humid days of August.

I’m not a religious person, but I took to praying