The Gorgeous Girls Read Online Free PDF Page B

was heartbroken.”
    â€œWhat did you do?” Wanda asks, scooping red-hot salsa with a nacho chip.
    â€œI wrote him a letter and lied that I had begun my training as a dominant in earnest. ‘Lucky Earnest,’ I wrote. And that I’d be happy to practice on him sometime. ‘No strings attached—just rope.’ That was a lie, too. I was casting out all kinds of webs and umbilical cords and fishnets for him. I drew little stylized whips and handcuffs on the corners of the page and signed it ‘Mistress Wrapture.’ I never sent it.”
    â€œWhy not?” asks Rose.
    â€œSuddenly, in my dark torment, a light went on and I thought I understood the whole meaning of the breakup. It was all part of the S/M thing. There was a reason for the pain he was causing me: he still loved me.
    â€œI phoned him up and said, ‘Quick, what’s the safe word? This is hurting too much.’ ‘Honey,’ he said, ‘the safe word is only for sex. There is no safety when it comes to emotions.’ I never saw him again.”
    â€œWhat did you do with the clothes?” Wanda asks.
    â€œI still have them.” Con tosses her multicoloured dreads over her shoulder. “I eventually did get my degree in the Dark Sexual Arts. Tyler and I take ours light, though: Dark Sexual Arts Lite.”
    â€œThey have that?” Wanda asks, open-mouthed.
    â€œ
We
have that,” Con says. “Order what you like, Wanda. Dark Sexual Arts with extra cream. Dark Sexual Arts with cinnamon on top. Dark Sexual Arts with a twist.”
    â€œWhat’s your ‘lite’ all about?” Rose inquires before downing the last of her drink and hailing the waitress to bring another.
    â€œWhipping without welts, insults without injury, fur-lined handcuffs, no diapers.” The girls are silent, so Con continues, “No asphyxiation, no blood, no . . .”
    â€œNo edge play,” Rose interrupts, and Wanda and Con level her with a stare.
    â€œMistress Rose, methinks you have walked a mile or two in my spiked heels,” says Con, arching an eyebrow.
    â€œIndeed,” Rose replies. “Long ago . . .”
    â€œWhat’s edge play?” Wanda asks.
    â€œTreading the line between life and death,” Rose answers.
    â€œWhich is what I wasn’t into,” Con says.
    â€œSo . . . is what you’re into now with Tyler still considered S/M?” Wanda asks.
    â€œSure. Small
s
, small
m
, accent on sensuality,” Con concludes.

ROSE
    You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.
    â€”Dorothy Parker

    Old whores never die. They just fuck off. Actually, I think that phrase—old whores—is redundant.
    Breathe.
    My palm sweats around the small black revolver as I raise it up to eye level. Quickly, I shove the barrel into my mouth and . . .
    Bite it off.
    Tricks, illusions, sleight of hand—it’s my business. I stole this licorice gun bit from the movie
Adam’s Rib
, in which Katharine Hepburn plays a lawyer defending Judy Holliday, a potential husband-killer and fully realized addle-brained blonde.
    I was just that sort of platinum fool when I became a hooker. Young and not as bright as my uniform: a turning-heads-then-turning-tricks lipstick-red dress with white polka dots sprinkled all over it like confetti; strawberry lip gloss; blood-red Carmen Miranda shoes.
    I have always loved shoes—especially outrageous shoes, like the ones I’m wearing now. Chosen with great care for this very important event, they are as black as licorice and shiny as lip gloss. A twenty-first-century take on a 1940s platform: more streamlined than clunky, they have large gold buckles and three-inch gold heels. And from the moment I saw them in the window of Heel Boy, I knew they would bring me luck. These shoes will go down in history, I said to myself—like Dorothy’s ruby-red slippers, Cinderella’s glass slippers and