4 Blondes

By: Candace Bushnell


Janey Wilcox spent every summer for the last ten

years in the Hamptons, and she'd never once

rented a house or paid for anything, save for an occasional

Jitney ticket. In the early nineties, Janey was

enough of a model to become a sort of lukewarm celebrity, and the lukewarm celebrity got her a part (“thinking man's sex symbol”) in one of those action movies. She never acted again, but her lukewarm celebrity was established and she figured out pretty

quickly that it could get her things and keep on getting them, as long as she maintained her standards.

So every year around May, Janey went through the process of choosing a house for the summer. Or

rather, choosing a man with a house for the summer. Janey had no money, but she'd found that was irrelevant as long as she had rich friends and could

get rich men. The secret to getting rich men, which so many women never figured out, was that getting them was easy, as long as you didn't

have any illusions about marrying them. There was no rich man in New York who would turn down regular blow jobs and entertaining company with no strings attached. Not that you'd want to marry any of these guys anyway. Every rich guy she'd been with had turned out to be weird a freak or a pervert so by the time Labor Day came around, she was usually pretty relieved to be able to end the relationship.

In exchange, Janey got a great house and, usually, the man's car to drive around. She liked sports cars the best, but if they were too sporty, like a Ferrari or

a Porsche, that wasn't so good because the man usually had a fixation on his car and wouldn't let anyone drive it, especially a woman.

The guy she had been with last summer, Peter,

was like that. Peter had golden-blond hair that he wore in a crew cut, and he was a famous entertainment lawyer, but he had a body that could rival any underwear model's. They were fixed up on a blind date, even though they'd actually met more than a dozen times at parties over the years, and he asked

her to meet him at his town house in the West Village because he was too busy during the day to decide

on a restaurant. After she rang the buzzer, he left her waiting on the street for fifteen minutes. She didn't mind, because the friend who fixed them up, a socialite type who had gone to college with Peter, kept emphasizing what a great old house he had on Lily Pond Lane in East Hampton. After dinner, they went back to his town house, ostensibly because he had to

walk his dog, Gumdrop, and when they were in the kitchen, she spotted a photograph of him, in his bathing suit on the beach, tacked to the refrigerator door.

He had stomach muscles that looked like the underside

of a turtle. She decided to have sex with him that night.

This was the Wednesday before Memorial Day,

and the next morning, while he was noisily making cappuccino, he asked her if she wanted to come out to his house for the weekend. She had known he was going to ask her, even though the sex was among the worst she'd had in years (there was some awkward kissing, then he sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing himself until he was hard enough to put on a condom, and then he stuck it in), but she was grateful

that he had asked her so quickly.

“You're a smart girl, you know,” he said, pouring cappuccino into two enameled cups. He was wearing white French boxer shorts with buttons in the front. “I know,” she said.

“No, I mean it,” he said. “Having sex with me last night.”

“Much better to get it out of the way.”

“Women don't understand that guys like me don't have time to chase them.” He finished his cappuccino and carefully washed out the cup. “it's a fucking bore,” he said. “You should do all of your friends a favor and tell them to quit playing those stupid girl games. If a girl doesn't put out by the second or third date, you know what I do?”

“No,” Janey said.

He pointed his finger at her. “I never call her again. Fuck her.”

“No. That's exactly what you don't do. Fuck her,” Janey said.

He laughed. He came up to her and squeezed one

of her breasts. “If everything goes well this weekend, maybe we'll spend the whole summer together. Know what I mean?” he said. He was still squeezing her breast.

“Ow,” Janey said.

“Breast implants, huh?” he said. “I like 'em. They should make all women get them. All women should look like you. I'll call you.”

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