Filthy Royal

by Roxeanne Rolling

  “It’s just pool water,” I say. “Look, I’m sorry. You’re just so sexy, I can’t help it.”

  I give her a look to gauge her response. She’s still standing there. That’s a good sign.

  “Look,” I say. “Maybe you don’t like me at all, but that’s OK. I know you want to do this story on the swim team, and coach wants me to show you the ropes. He wants me to give you a personal tour, essentially. I’ll help you with all the terms. I may not know as much as you,” gesturing to her bag of books, “but I do know a lot about swimming that you probably don’t. If you’re going to write this article, then you’re going to need me.”

  “Fine,” she says, curtly, turning and beginning to walk away.

  Fine? That’s it?

  “Come to the pool tonight at 5 pm, before the evening practice. I can give you some things to look for during practice.” I call this out to her, as she’s already ten feet away from me.

  She raises her hand above her head, giving me a noncommittal gesture that I can’t quite read. But I’m pretty sure she’s going to come. After all, how can she resist the famous Anchor?

  6

  Allison

  What a jerk! What a creep. How can he live with himself? Does he really think that woman like that sort of thing? Does think I didn’t notice him taking sneaks at my breasts?

  I pull up my shirt a little bit, getting self-conscious just thinking about my breasts.

  Finally, I get to my dorm room, and flop myself down on my bed.

  But I’m still wet.

  Cursing Anchor (what a ridiculous name!), I make myself get up again and change my shirt.

  I look at myself in the mirror, analyzing my body. I pull in my stomach and stick out my breasts a little, trying to see if I can change my profile.

  I’ve never been happy with the way I look. I certainly don’t look like the other campus girls that flock to Anchor and the rest of the swim team.

  There’s something going on inside me, though, something that I don’t want to admit to myself.

  It’s that same feeling that I felt up in the pool balcony, when I saw Anchor.

  I can almost feel his naked chest still pressed against me. I have to admit, he’s certainly hot, at least physically.

  His body is stuck in my mind. After all, I got a pretty close up view of it when I helped him up from the ground. I wonder if he was actually hurt, or just wanted me to help him up. If so, that’s completely pathetic, the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard of.

  I close my eyes, and try to think about something else, but his sinewy muscles are practically etched in my mind. He’s just so ripped. It seems like every fiber of his body has been perfectly placed, his muscles perfectly sculpted to fit some ideal idea of a male body. He reminds me of the statue of David, in a way, but an updated, far sexier statue of David.

  I reach for a book on journalism, a thick tomb of a textbook, to try to take my mind off Anchor. After all, I’m going to be seeing plenty of him, if he’s going to be my inside source to swim team activities.

  I come across a passage I must have read a hundred times already. I’ve got it highlighted, with a little footnoted I added myself in my neatest handwriting, which looks practically like it was printed itself. “Sometimes, the adventurous journalist needs to take advantage of an inside source’s more obvious vulnerability, to ensure that the full story is told, and told to the greatest detail possible…”

  That was it!

  I could tell Anchor liked me somewhat. He liked something about my body. Surely, it was only a passing thing. He just wanted to fuck me and add another notch to his bedpost or belt, or whatever those swimming creeps used… they probably notched their goggles for all I know.

  But as this textbook was saying, I could play Anchor’s weakness to my advantage. I can pretend I’ll give him what he wants, my body, and without ever delivering the goods, I can extract all the juiciest details about the swim team. He doesn’t seem too bright, and he’ll surely tell me all the dirt on who everyone’s slept with, and all the details of their most outrageous parties.

  If I can manipulate Anchor as my inside source, I can write not only the best article I’ve ever written, but the best article the campus paper has ever published. And not only will I ensure my place at The Journal next year as a regular staffer, I’ll basically destroy the swim team in one fell swoop. Beaumont said he has my back, and there’s nothing the campus administration can do to touch me, no matter how mad they are about their precious little swim team being insulted and raked through the proverbial mud.

  My mind is racing with the possibilities. I’m firing on all mental cylinders.

  But despite my mental excitement, I manage to get distracted again.

  I can’t get that image of Anchor’s body out of my head. Maybe this is understandable. After all, it’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man. I think the last time was a year ago, at one of the campus newspaper parties, and he wasn’t half as good looking as Anchor.

  Despite myself, I find my hand sliding down under my belt, reaching the edge of my underwear.

  No!

  I stop myself just in time.

  I don’t want to just be like Anchor and his swim buddies, letting desire of the flesh overtake rational thinking. After all, Anchor disgusts me. Everything about him disgusts me!

  I pull my hand up, and go back to reading my journalism book.

  I take out my journalist pad that I always carry around and begin taking notes. I need to plan out my attack on Anchor and his swim team. I need to do this thing right.

  Suddenly, the phone rings.

  It’s Beaumont.

  “Hey, Allison, just wanted to see how the swimming story is going,” says Beaumont.

  I know I’m one of the very few students, perhaps the only one, who has regular telephone contact with one of the professors. The rest of the students don’t even visit professors in their office hours, at least not the majority of them. And most students limit their contact with professors to sending a couple last minute frantic emails a semester, desperately begging for an extension on a paper due the next day.

  “I think I’m making some real progress,” I say. “I’ve got an inside source.”

  “An inside source?” says Beaumont, sounding a little worried, which surprises me.

  I go on to explain the plan I just cooked up. I read Beaumont the quote from the textbook. I’m practically cackling as I tell him my devious plan.

  “Look, Alison, this is pretty advanced stuff. I mean, that’s not a bad idea in some ways… But… Look, I just don’t want you to get hurt. I’ve heard a little bit about this Anchor character that you’re talking about, and I know what an effect he can have on women.”

  I’m annoyed at his tone of voice, and it sounds like he’s giving me a lecture like I’m his daughter.

  “Look, Professor Beaumont, with all due respect, I’m not one these idiotic college girls who falls for the jock. Don’t worry. I’m not the typical story.”

  “I know you’re brilliant, Allison, and I know you have a good hold on yourself. But aside from this Anchor thing, I’ve been thinking the project over, and perhaps I was a little too enthusiastic. I mean, we’re going to be essentially taking on the whole college, and the whole sports establishment. It’s not going to be easy. There’s going to be a lot of pressure, and you’ve got to worry about graduating, after all. You have to know that I’m going to write you a great recommendation letter anyway, and I’m sure you’ll end up working at a great newspaper, even if it’s not The Journal, necessarily.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Professor Beaumont,” I say, my tone of voice curt and professional. “But I’m going ahead with the project. There’s nothing you can say now to convince me otherwise.”

  We say goodbye and I hang up.

  I’m feeling nervous. Beaumont sure seems to be taking this very seriously. Maybe I’ve gotten in over my head with
this article? After all, as I look around the room, there is normal classwork that needs to be done. However easy it is for me, I still have to do it, and it’s going to take time.

  But I’m determined.

  For one thing, I want to get back at these stupid jocks. Just their mere presence on campus has bothered me since my first day as a freshman. I’ve had to put up with them getting passing grades in classes just because they’re swimmers, even when they’re total idiots.

  But am I being honest with myself?

  The image of Anchor’s muscles comes back to me for a moment, before I shake it off.

  Do I want to do this to secure my place at The Journal, to prove I can be a real investigate reporter, to get back at the jocks, or to get closer to Anchor? After all, even though he’s plenty obnoxious, I wouldn’t mind being close to him.

  7

  Anchor

  I’m meeting Allison this afternoon in half an hour.

  I find myself checking my appearance in the mirror, once, twice, then again. I’m trying to flatten out my pool-bleached hair but it’s useless. It sticks up at odd angles no matter what I do. The chlorine has made the texture strange, thick, and frayed, and impossible to work with. Then again, none of the twenty or so chicks I’ve slept with this year have had a problem with it.

  “Where you headed?” says Dave, who’s in the middle of shoving a microwaved burrito into his face.

  “Meeting Allison, that reporter chick,” I say. I’ve already told Dave about the whole deal with Coach. What I haven’t told him is that I think I have a bit of a thing for Allison. Despite what coach says, I know I’m going to have to have her, one way or the other. As I know plenty well, there’s always a way around the rules.

  “Ah, the hot one,” says Dave. He’s leaning back in his student desk chair, with his laptop balanced precariously on his knees. He’s watching a porn video with the volume turned all the way up.

  “Dude, can’t you watch that once I’m gone?”

  “What’s the big deal?” says Dave, firing up the microwave again, another two burritos already loaded in.

  “Never mind,” I say, shaking my head.

  “You need me to leave the room… You know, give you some time alone before the big date with the reporter?” says Dave, eyeing me with one of those smiles Dave wears when he thinks he’s being real clever. Although with Dave you can never quite tell whether he’s being sincere or saying something tongue-in-cheek.

  “It’s not a date, dude,” I say.

  “Yeah, yeah,” says Dave, not buying a word of it. “But don’t you think it’s a good idea to clean the pipes before you meet her? If things get hot, you don’t want to blow your load too soon, right?”

  Dave’s referring to a traditional swim practice, or at least it is in our swim house, where a guy’s roommate knows to give him space before a date, so that he can masturbate himself silly, so as not to be too excited before the date.

  “It’s not a date,” I say, making sure my words sound final.

  As I’m leaving, Dave calls out to me, just to be obnoxious. “I’ll jack off to her for you, then, dude.”

  Normally, this would just be regular banter between us, and it wouldn’t mean anything to me. But for some reason, the thought of Dave jerking off to Allison makes me mad. My face is red, and I can’t contain my anger, which feels like it’s boiling up through my stomach and into my chest.

  “Not cool,” I say, turning around, so that Dave can see my face, which I’m sure doesn’t look the least bit pleased.

  “Whatever, dude,” says Dave, cowering a little bit with his posture. It looks like he wants to curl himself into a little ball. After all, we already know who wins in a fight between us, even if he pretends not to remember me tripping him and knocking him out. “It was just a joke.”

  “It better have been,” I say, and leave.

  Allison’s waiting for me outside the pool building when I get there. She looks hot. I think she’s wearing something different than normal. Her shirt is a little tighter, and seems to be cut a little lower than what I’ve seen her in earlier. Instead of having her hair up, she’s wearing it down. It gives her a sexier, more mysterious look. I have to peel my eyes away from her, to make it not too obvious. But the way her hair hangs over her breasts—it’s stuck in my mind.

  “You’re late,” she says. Her whole posture reads no nonsense, like she’s trying very hard to say, “I’m not taking any shit.”

  “I was off stealing another statue,” I say, making it clear that I’m joking with my smile.

  “Hmmph,” is all she says. “You sure are funny.” It’s meant as sarcasm, but I think I can already see her demeanor cracking a little.

  “Come on,” I say. “I’ll show you some of the basic stuff about the pool.”

  “I think I already know what a pool is.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t know anything about swimming as a sport, do you?”

  She shakes her head. “I used to be a swimmer when I was a kid, though.”

  “Another swimmer, then!” I say, my hand instinctively moving around her waist, in order to guide her into the pool building. But I stop myself just in time, and merely take her hand in what I hope is a platonic gesture.

  I take her around, showing her the blackboard with the practice diagrams, and relay team plans. I explain everything to her, down to the last detail. She has a little notebook with her that makes her look like a real journalist when she writes in it with a stubby little pencil. She seems intent on taking down every single detail, although it also seems like she’s writing other things in that little notebook. Is she writing about me? Even once I’m long done explaining the relay teams, she’s still scribbling away. What is she writing?

  I show her the trophy cases in the hallway. We haven’t done too bad for a college swim team. The last four years in row we’ve won nationals. We’ve already competed this year, and I brought the team to victory, by breaking a national record, not to mention a personal record.

  I show her the record board, on the pool deck, right by the door to the locker room.

  “Wow,” she says. “You’re name’s all over the place, isn’t it?”

  I’ve never been good at acting humble. I just nod my head and smile.

  We’re the only ones in the pool now, but the guys will be coming in in about fifteen minutes.

  “So,” she says. “This is all great stuff.” She’s still scribbling away in her little notebook. “You don’t mind if I record this do you?” It might be my imagination, but it seems like she sweeps her hair back around her shoulders in an elegant gesture as she says this. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she’s trying to get on my good side with her looks.

  “No,” I say. “Not at all. I choose my words very carefully, after all, and I’d rather have direct quotes appearing in the story then some kind of paraphrasing.”

  “Great,” she says, pulling out a professional-looking voice recorder, pressing the red record button. The thing is tiny, but has a big microphone built into it. She holds the thing somewhat surreptitiously at her side.

  “So where were we?“ I say, distracted for a moment by the way she’s still moving her hair.

  “I was just about to ask you what it’s like to be the best swimmer the college has had in years.” She smiles at me like she hasn’t smiled at me before. Her icy demeanor from earlier is completely gone.

  Is it my imagination, or is she starting to like me? It sure feels like she’s about to come onto me? After all, I’m good at reading the signs. I usually don’t even have to chase the girls. They just come to me.

  “It doesn’t feel too bad at all,” I say, growing a little self-conscious for the first time in a long while. It isn’t normal for me to feel this way. For some reason, the positive vibes Allison is putting out make me a little nervous.

  I can now hear the swim team in the hallways. They’re just now entering the locker room.
They’re shouting and goofing off as usual, making a hell of a lot of noise. There’s only one door separating Allison and I between the rest of the swim team. I should be excusing myself and going to get changed myself, but something is holding me there. It feels almost like an electrical charge that’s pulling me towards Allison.

  I take another look at her, and she seems to be shining with some kind of ethereal brilliance.

  “What does that number mean up there?” says Allison, pushing her body closer to me, as she reaches up high with her hand to point. Her hair is falling in my face, and her breasts are rubbing against my chest.

  I can feel the desire rising inside me. My cock is starting to fill with blood, growing erect. Will she notice? After all, she’s pressed right up against me.

  There’s some kind of spark between us.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I start to lean in to kiss her.

  The timing couldn’t be worse. After all, the swim team is about to start pouring through the locker room door, and we’re right in their path.

  Coach likes me, but I also know he’s a grumpy son of a bitch who thinks he’s better than everyone else. And he thinks I think I’m better than everyone else. And that’s true, to an extent, but only because it’s true. After all, it’s my name that has all those records on the board, not coach’s.

  But the straight deal is that if coach finds me kissing Allison, right here in the pool, to top it off, I’m not going to be on the Olympic team. There’s no way.

  But I can’t help myself.

  I feel like some kind of animal trapped in a spider’s web.

  She’s pulling me closer and closer with her invisible strings, like I’m a marionette.

  Suddenly, she pulls away, moving her body away from me. Instantly, I feel a strong aching. I want to be closer to her. I need to be next to her body again. She feels like a drug that I need to take to stay stable, a drug that I never even knew existed until today.

  She pulls away right as the guys sprint through the locker room door, clad only in their swim briefs and goggles, telling the raunchiest jokes imaginable.