The Pool Boy

by R. W. Clinger

  I knew that if we didn’t get up soon the pool boy would become restless and bored, no longer wanting the tour, probably needing a nap. Therefore, I patted his thick, left thigh, and suggested, “Let me show you the view from your outside balcony. It’s one of the best that the house has to offer. What do you say?”

  “I’m game.”

  I knew he was…and possibly gay.

  I could only hope.

  * * * *

  Once outside at a banister surrounding a lakeside overlook, we planted our elbows on the white-washed wood, and had our backs arched like lovers sharing an intimate conversation. Then and there I could have told him that I had already developed a tremendous crush on him, having fallen for his youthful skin, but I kept my composure like a gentleman, and held back. Instead, I told him, “There are certain rules you have to follow here at the lakeside estate. I feel that we have to be honest with each other at all times, and that you need to know, understand, and adhere to my rules. Otherwise we’re going to have problems living together.”

  “Yes, sir. I agree. The Navy demanded rules to be followed.”

  “One, you can have guests over, but only with my permission. Truth is, you never know what type of schedule I’ll have. I can have guests coming and going. Fellow writers. My publisher. My agent. My editor. You get what I’m saying.”

  “That’s not a problem. I hardly know anyone in these parts.”

  “And two, I would appreciate that you were home by midnight. Every night. For safety reasons, of course. If you do plan to be out after midnight, I would like to know in advance. I hate bumps in the night, noises, and things of that nature. Being startled after dark isn’t the kind of adventure I want. I like the house quiet at night because it’s my writing time, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir. Certainly. I can do that.”

  “And three, smoking, Tacoma…are you a smoker?”

  He became quiet, drifted away in silence, perhaps debated whether tell me a lie or not. I smelled smoke on his clothes, just a hint, nothing shocking. His teeth were white, but it was very apparent by the aroma that wafted about him that he was indeed a smoker. “Sometimes. Not always. Just when I have a drink or two with a guy…or girl.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Sometimes when I hook up with friends I’ll smoke. It’s not that I’m a chimney or anything. It’s social smoking.”

  I patted his hand, soothing him, or acknowledging a needed comfort zone between us. “I completely understand. I’d prefer that if you do smoke, when you smoke, it will be somewhere in one of the gardens. But please don’t smoke in the house. Never. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. Smoke in the gardens. Not in the house.”

  “You’re handling these terms quite well in my opinion. The Navy has taught you masterfully.”

  “The Navy is all about structure and following orders. They trained me to be a robot.”

  “Do these seem like orders, or rules, to you?”

  “A little of both.”

  “I like your honesty. Do I sound like a drill sergeant?”

  “No, sir. Not in the slightest.”

  I patted his hand again. He had soft skin, with just enough muscle, perfectly manicured nails, and thin wrists. “Do you think you’ll be comfortable here this summer?”

  “Yes. I like it already. I don’t intend to leave.”

  “Good. Figure it a home away from home then.”

  “Agreed.”

  * * * *

  We walked into his bedroom, back downstairs, and into the foyer. He stared at the statue of St. Sebastian, bronze arrows sticking from the saint’s bare and hulking chest. The life-sized statue had hard nipples and ripped abs; a gift from a lawyer, an ex-boyfriend in the early nineties. Frankly, I had fallen in love with the statue more than the lawyer.

  I watched Tacoma eye the statue’s strong legs, its sharp chin, and the design of abs that created the saint’s lower torso. To break him from his silence and riveted gaze, I asked, “Would you like a glass of water, something to drink?”

  He shook his head. “I would hate for you to go out of your way.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bother.”

  “Then maybe a glass of water is what I need.”

  He followed me into the kitchen and we stood drinking glasses of fresh water with slivers of lemon at the island. “I hope you can start immediately, Tacoma. I really do need your assistance with the pool of death. I’m afraid if the smell grows more intense, I will die, among others in the area.”

  “Yes. I think I can arrange that. I just have to pack a few things from my aunt’s and then I can find my way back here.”

  “Tonight?” I asked, perhaps desperate for a roommate, a fresh companion, new boyfriend, lover, or someone to adore with my sponge-like eyes, soaking him into my world.

  He shook his head, always keeping smart and reserved, perhaps teasing me with his chiseled jaw, dimples, and good looks. “Tomorrow or the next day. Will that be a problem?”

  “Not at all.” I sipped water.

  How clever that he was capable of setting his own boundary; certain that I now had to learn and follow it, because if I didn’t, I knew that he wouldn’t come back.

  “In a few days then. In the meantime, Robert, I have a few things to square up.”

  “Sounds responsible.” I paused, eyed his yummy chest yet again: its V-shape, nipples, abs, concave navel. “By the way, you don’t mind that I call you Tacoma, do you?”

  “Not at all. That’s what they called me in the Navy.” He looked down at his cell phone then. “I should be going now.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I have plans for the rest of the day. A friend is taking me out on the lake in his boat. We’re having dinner together, and who knows what else.”

  “A gentleman?” I asked with interest and raised eyebrows.

  He set his glass of water on the island. “Yes. A gentleman.”

  “From West End?”

  “Yes. I don’t think you would know him, though.”

  I pried. “And what is this gentleman friend’s last name.”

  “Strong,” he answered.

  I stumbled through the names of acquaintances and friends I had gathered throughout my years in West End. I knew the Thompsons, Merricks, Dashings, Hillcarters, and so many others. I didn’t know the family of Strong, though. “I can’t recall ever knowing that name. How long have you known this Strong fellow?”

  “Years. I grew up with him as a child. He lives on Dover Street in downtown West End. One of my best friends.”

  Dover Street. The friend lives on Dover and owns a boat? How strange. Dover sat on the east side of the city. Near High Tide. Lots of money. Huge money. Old money. Company owners. Sons and daughters from those parts didn’t work, they lived off wads of cash. Spoiled brats. Highbrow kids. Interesting.

  “I shouldn’t be pressing you with so many questions about your private life. My apologies, young man.”

  “It’s okay. No problem.”

  “No, really. It was rude of me. Again, my apologies.” I moved around the island and held out a hand for him to graciously shake; if he offered me a hug, pressing his ex-Navy chest against mine, I wouldn’t push him away.

  “It’s fine. Really, it’s fine.” He shook my hand, turned a shade of dark red, embarrassed and uneasy for some strange reason. Every ripple in his arm moved, every crafted muscle and vein.

  “I’ll keep to myself in the future. The best I can, that is. I can’t promise anything, though. Writers tend to speak out of turn.”

  “Sure,” he replied and bounced from one foot to the next, clearly pressed for time by the way his gaze moved nervously from left to right.

  “I’m keeping you from the rest of your day, aren’t I?”

  He nodded, tried to smile, but didn’t.

  “You can run along now if you’d like. The job here is waiting for you. When you return, of course. You can
get settled in at that time. How does that sound?”

  He directed his gaze to me. “You’re too nice, Robert. It sounds as if we’re going to have a nice summer together.”

  “Some have said that. No ex-Navy boys, but some.” And then I followed him into the foyer again, where it was quiet and still, refined with imported tile and St. Sebastian looked down at our bodies.

  He turned and faced me, pressed his hand within my own. “I want to thank you for today. For the interview. For the tour. For lunch and the water.”

  “It was my pleasure, Tacoma. More than you know and realize. A splendid day with a young man. Two gentlemen enjoying each other.”

  “Yes. If you say so.”

  Our hands dropped out of the shake. I looked out and into the drive. “No Uber?” I questioned.

  He shook his head. “None.”

  “Shall I call one for you?”

  “No. I can run. It’s what I do. I like to stay fit, as I’ve already told you. Plus, you don’t want a flabby pool boy.”

  “Being fit is the way to go.”

  “My aunt doesn’t live far from here.”

  “It’s sixteen miles. You’ll be exhausted. Let me call an Uber for you.” I tried to rationalize with him, but he kept shaking his head, sharing that adorable and delicate smile with me, melting me in places that I wanted to melt.

  “I’ll be at my aunt’s in no time. Stop worrying.”

  “It’s very warm out, though. What about water? What about exhaustion setting in. You should take a bottle of water with you.”

  He cupped my right shoulder, stared into my eyes. “I’ve been running for years now. Before the Navy. In the Navy. After the Navy. I’ll be fine. Trust me. Sixteen miles is nothing. If I need water, there’s a gas station or two on the way. I’ll stop and buy a bottle.”

  Trust him? How? Why? He was a stranger. Reality proved this to me. A stranger who had charmed me, impressed me, and caused me to grow naturally semi-hard, needing him. I couldn’t trust him. I wouldn’t. His good looks were far too dangerous and handsome, wicked and perfect. I would never be able to trust him. “I really think I should call an Uber or cab for you. Or I can drive you myself. I do have a Lincoln I can drive.”

  “No. No. Absolutely not.” His voice became louder, more aggressive and alluring. “Really, I’ll be fine, Robert.”

  “I hope,” I whispered. “Sixteen miles is a long run.”

  Before I could argue with him, he vanished, sprinting out the door. One minute he had cupped my right shoulder with his left palm, and the next he was gone, disappearing from my side, running away. Just like all the heated and sexy men in my world before him, including Reynolds. All of them. Such a shame. A shame.

  Chapter 10: Abandonment

  It seemed almost impossible to allow a moment of sexual need with the pool boy to pass me by and prevent me from locking my arms around his tight hips, close my lips against his, press my heated chest against his sculpted chest, cup nipples together, have our crotches meld together, and devour each other the way men in a secluded foyer are supposed to connect when attracted. But that moment did pass. Instead, I was left alone and allowed those seconds of man-holding-man to escape. I became a single man again, disjoined, non-combining, bondless, and only leashed to my solitude. Shame on him for running away from me. Shame.

  To no avail, Kent Tacoma didn’t look back while leaving. He had simply vanished into thin air, running away, claiming he would return to my estate. One moment he stood in the foyer underneath the pained look of St. Sebastian with murdering arrows buried deeply in his flesh, and the next he was gone. It had left a hollow space in my heart and chest area. Empty space. An abyss of man-loss perhaps. Gone for good, I believed.

  * * * *

  He wouldn’t come back. I convinced myself that the young ex-Navy gentleman had abandoned me for good, that the afternoon interview, lunch, and tour of the lake house was nothing more than an ultimate tease performed by the man and a waste of my time. Tacoma would drift back into his own life, somewhere in Ashtabula, Ohio with his aunt.

  I kept busy, mostly for fear of losing my sanity. My unfinished manuscript lay outside by the Tropicana table with the green ink pen. I found both and sat down for the next few hours, became occupied by words and characters and a romance between a wealthy anthropologist and her exuberant, tasteful assistant; teases for each other. The tale unfolded generously before me. For hours I sat in the West Garden, relished my art, edited pages after pages, and carried out the simple connections of words and people on paper, creating. And then, close to nightfall, dusk and mosquitoes present, attempting to suck blood out of me, I realized—or felt the dreaded, harboring understanding—that Tacoma would not return, I went inside and retired.

  * * * *

  Midnight, dark and endless. My mind was uneasy and I stayed up watching reruns of Will and Grace. I ate Godiva ice cream and flipped through the channels during commercials, thought of the delicious-looking pool boy from that entertaining afternoon: soft looking eyes, narrow lips, succulent dimples, broad shoulders, a rounded smile, dashing splay of hard chest, high-and-tight brown hair, pop-through-nipples under his too-tight tee…

  The phone rang. I jumped. Who had the utter balls to call me so late at night? No one I knew. Did an emergency occur with Reynolds in Puerto Rico? Had one of my dearest friends in New York City, a fellow author, fallen ill? Only emergencies come during the night. Fatal calls. Unimaginable calls. I flicked the flatscreen off, picked up the phone on the second ring, and barked into the receiver, “Hello?”

  “Robert?” It was a familiar voice. Serious and feminine. A perfect evening chime to my ears. A non-emergency.

  Goosebumps formed on my arms. Enlightenment. “Rosemary Dublin!”

  “The one and only. How are you, darling?” She had an Irish background with its heavy accent. Very intuitive. Very relaxed. Very pissy and bitchy and scolding and vibrant when she wanted to be. Very much in love with me as a best friend.

  “Just perfect.”

  “And how is London in June, my dearest love?”

  “Wet and miserable. My umbrella broke and I’ve turned into a raving lunatic.”

  “Are the fans all over you?”

  “Terribly, Robert. Like leeches. Like a virus. The book signings and talk shows are a complete success. They’re running me ragged. Your books are a mad rave over here. Every woman and gay man in London love your work.”

  “No,” I somberly replied, “they love you. Don’t forget that you’ve helped me create Danielle Silver.”

  “Robert, if they only knew this little scam you have carried out for all these years. They would burn the two of us at the stake like witches in Salem. Gone with us! Farewell to the liars!”

  “Then we wouldn’t be where we are today, Rose.”

  “I suppose not, darling. Now, tell me why you are so perfectly miserable this evening. You have a beast in your voice that sounds perturbed and jailed. What’s going on?”

  Rose loved to gauge my happiness throughout the years of our long-lasting friendship. If I became low, I could count on her to infuse my mood with cheer, all in a matter of seconds of speaking with me. She was like a drug or pet to me during my blues, always, including that evening. “I hired a pool boy for the summer. But I don’t think he’s going to take the job.”

  Big sigh on her end. “Dear Jesus in heaven, Robert Fine. You will never learn.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “What happened to Reynolds? I thought he was your most recent crush and toy. You loved his dark skin, big dick, and hanging balls. I thought he was staying through the summer.”

  “He moved back to Puerto Rico. The bastard has left me all alone. The pool looks like a nuclear waste dump. It’s toxic. I had to hire someone new, Rose. Plus, I was going crazy, needing company. I placed an ad in the papers and online. A boy by the name of Kent Tacoma answered.”

  “Tell me about this someone, Robert. Who is this pool boy?”

 
; I shared details I shouldn’t have. A mental description in words flowed from my mouth describing an everlasting, mouthwatering desire for the interviewee and new hire. Absolutely no detail was spared. I spoke of his chest, back, shoulders, handsome face, legs, and the package between his legs. Then his history in Beverly Hills, his Strong friend. Everything!

  Afterwards, Rose said, “Darling, you are a prize. I’m very proud of you. He sounds like your next character in a smashing novel. Don’t worry about the loss. He was never in the palm of your hand. He was never with you. So how can you be sad? Forget about him and move on. Write down notes about him that you can use later and move on.” She paused for effect. “If I may be brazen, Robert.”

  “When are you not brazen?”

  “Never,” she giggled. “Are you telling me that young Mr. Tacoma is stimulating your cock and not your brain?”

  I laughed. How could I not laugh? “Right-O, Dublin. How clever of you. How brilliant on your part.”

  “These little boys always break your heart. I’ve warned you to stay away from them. You’ll unfortunately never learn, though. It’s time to move onto real men. Try an older man.”

  “Someone in their fifties, or older?” I inquired.

  “Absolutely. Someone that will take care of your heart. Don’t you agree? You should be tired of spending all your book royalties on young men. I’m sure it gets old.”

  “But the pool boy,” my voice wavered as if I were already involved with Tacoma, having him as my pet, keeping him, “he’s very interesting. And he’s very much my type. If he would only return, I wouldn’t mind spending my millions on him. He would be worth my cash for such fun.”

  “Oh, Robert. You’re speaking with your dick again. He’s very young, that’s what he sounds like. And we both know you’re not twenty-two anymore. You’re older now. Mature. Tacoma sounds handsome and alluring, like bait for your cock. This happens to you all the time. With Reynolds. With William before Reynolds. With Ivan before William. And others. So many other young men in your life. So many pool boys. You’re not fooling me. Buck up and smell the roses. Quit letting your cock run your life. Quit playing these foolish flesh games. Stop being irrational. You’re wasting your time. We both know you are. Find an older man and settle down. Fall in love. Marry. You know what I mean.”