Read Online The Gorgeous Girls by Marie Wilson - Free Book Online Page A

black-and-white photo, a naked but out-of-focus movie star sits on a branch holding his erect penis. The star is purportedly James Dean, but we will never know for sure. Is it the young actor, or just an extremely good look-alike? I like to think it actually is him, although it hardly matters fifty plus years after his death.
    James Dean lassoed a million teenaged hearts in the vast emptiness of 1950s America. A rising star with a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a cold bottle of milk pressed against his brow. A shooting star who ignited pining hearts into rebel-red passion then was suddenly gone.
    Frozen on a branch in the Hollywood Hills or created in some photographer’s darkroom, this shot, which I found in a soft-porn magazine from the eighties, holds me rapt for three reasons: Dean himself (I am a fan), the marvelous erection (also a fan) and the tree (fan again).
    Ah, trees. Like marvelous erections themselves, tall and strong and sensuous. Oak, linden, pine—they gather me to their majestic selves like a moth to a flame. As a child I spent hours perched on their strong limbs, swaying back and forth, eating their fruit, showering myself with their blossoms, daydreaming in their sun-dappled leaves. The big cherry trees in my front yard, the apple trees on our boulevard, the maple beside our house.
    That majestic maple’s first branch was as high as the second storey of our house, so I needed a ladder to climb it. The perch was a great place to stargaze at night or to blend in with the leaves by day.
    One afternoon, while balancing on that high-up perch, I slipped and spun around such that I was left clinging to the limb with just my bare nine-year-old hands. I had to work with all my might to pull up my legs and wrap them around the branch.
    As I dangled and struggled in those moments, with death itself waiting to claim me should I lose my grip—think Cary Grant on Mount Rushmore, Norman Lloyd on the Statue of Liberty—the most amazing thing happened. A delicious orgasm pulsed through my body as I hung in peril. Starting at my groin, it spread out deliriously, waves of ecstasy reaching the ends of my toes and the top of my head. It made me feel gloriously, if perilously, weak.
    This marked the beginning of a beautiful relationship between the trees and me.
    Once the climax had peaked and rolled away, I secured myself on the branch, where I rested in joyous, post-orgasmic bliss. From that day on, lovely orgasms transported me as I hoisted myself up from branch to branch in other, easier-to-climb trees.

CON
    Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.
    â€”Dorothy Parker

    Through the seasons, Con persisted in her practice of sex magic. The man across the way moved out and Con put up blinds without ever learning of his lustful viewing. Every night she donned her vintage black velvet cape, lit several tall candles, breathed in jasmine incense, chanted melodious incantations and brought herself to exquisite, supernatural climax.
    The book kept her busy with exercises meant to sharpen her magical powers: rites and rituals, hexes and elixirs. She even overcame her aversion to naming her sex organ and settled on “Elspeth.”
    As an artist she was appalled by the lifeless, sterile drawings in the book, so she transformed them with her pencil crayons and paints, giving a skinny woman wearing a tawdry teddy a little oomph by adding a carmine feather boa and some vivid jewelry.
    In her sketchbook she worked on symbols, one for every desire. She created beautiful symbolic renderings of her wishes and prayers with oil pastels. Experimenting with stars and hearts, busting them out of clichés and into sensual territory, she readied them to send up through her chakras and out the top of her head with orgasmic determination.
    In time she had to acknowledge that it worked. She’d used the magic of sex to conjure gifts for friends and family. She didn’t tell