The Pool Boy

by R. W. Clinger

  Upon my decent, he saw me out of the corner of his left eye, said, “I was wondering where you’ve been.”

  I wanted to explain the obvious to him: that I had jerked off to his supine and relaxed body, but kept quiet. Instead, I said, “Around. How’s the sun?”

  “A true friend today.”

  My walk carried me to the side of the pool near its left corner, closest to the pathway, next to a somewhat dreaming and half-sleeping Tacoma. I hunched down, next to the pool, and placed both hands into the chlorinated water. I acted like I was testing the pool’s temperature, waving them under its blueness. Instead, I was rinsing the ooze away from my jack-fest. As for the water, it was breathtaking, warm on my skin, caressing and smooth, a true friend, just as the pool boy said.

  I rose from the pool, satisfied with my hand-washing, and stepped up to him. I leaned over his semi-sleeping frame and brushed a hand against his left, hard nipple and pec. Startled, he opened his eyes. I whispered a lie, “There was a mosquito ready to munch on you. I shooed him away.” But in truth, nothing was there. Not a bug, or a breeze…nothing. I simply wanted to feel his nipple and pec, and become aroused again by his physical form.

  “Always on the ball, aren’t you, Robert?”

  “I happen to know when to react. Perhaps it’s a gift.” I stared at his V-shaped torso, his mounds of abs and rolled muscle, his golden arms and glistening thighs. The young man devoted his skin to the sun, providing me with his perfect body to gaze upon, study, and yearn for. My stare moved to his navy swimming briefs. Again, I wanted to touch him there, dance fingers over its pulsing mound, and brush my fingertips against it smooth and hidden roundness.

  Instead, less carelessly, I waved my hand over and above his left pec, barely touching his flesh, and said, “The return of the biting mosquito. You’re going to be eaten alive out here.”

  “I can’t even tell they’re around. I don’t even see them.”

  I snickered, “Of course you don’t. That’s what you have me for.” My gaze glared at his sun-glowing nipples, which hypnotized me. The urge to lick both with an extended tongue rocked me.

  Looking down at him, I asked, “Will you swim with me?”

  “No. I’m just not in the mood. I’ve had enough water today.”

  “Just a short dip in the pool, my friend. Nothing to harm you.”

  He sat up then, elbows bent, holding up his weight, eyes squinting in the bright sun, hard pecs and nipples gawking at me, needing licked and lapped by my tongue. “Maybe.”

  “I’ll buy you more smokes if you do.”

  He smiled in a boyish manner, replied, “It’s a deal,” and jumped to his feet and dove into the pool, headfirst.

  I followed behind in my boxers and khakis.

  Chapter 31: Drunk

  Later that evening Tacoma said something that I thought interesting, among other things, something that he had never told me before: “I like to bathe.”

  We were drinking imported, white wine together and seated out on the patio near the West Garden in the stinging heat. He kept swatting at mosquitoes. His brown eyes glimmered in the candlelight, and his bare shoulders gleamed in the glow’s wavering illumination. Our conversation became sloppy like our drinking. He spoke of Hollywood and how his cousin was a child actor. I mentioned a lover named Franklin in my early twenties who looked just like him. He called me robust. I called him drunk. He spoke of a summer he spent in Vancouver, Canada. I spoke of a fall in Madrid when I was twenty-six, and that I was in love with a bullfighter there named Manuel Carlos. And our conversation lingered for an hour…almost two hours, until we became fully inebriated, wine bottles scattered around us like dead soldiers in a war.

  July became too hot. Unruly with the high humidity and even higher temperatures after dark. The heat became stinging and unremorseful on the patio. Tiny droplets of perspiration clung to our bodies, lingering on our skin, trespassing. I abhorred July because of the Pennsylvania heat and humidity, because it felt dirty and unclean, moist in places I was not supposed to feel moist.

  But the month and hot evenings seemed better with Tacoma around. Particularly that evening. The sticky heat and humidity seemed lighter and less unbearable. I could have lived a thousand Julys if Tacoma were present, lingering and becoming sticky-hot with me, moist and unclean.

  He told me, sounding so adult-like, twice his age, “If you’ll excuse me now, Robert, I should bathe and turn in.”

  “Certainly.” I stood and he stood. We shook hands. Tacoma’s palm and fingers were firm and sweaty within my own hand. “I won’t be far behind you.”

  I believed for a second or two that he would lean into me, hug me with his free arm by draping it around my back, perhaps thanking me for his stay at the house in West End. That didn’t occur. Too bad.

  “I hope to see you at breakfast.”

  He nodded. So adorably handsome. So sweet and charming. So sultry. So hot. So young and inexperienced regarding life. My find for a summer by the pool. All mine, at least for now. “I’ll be there.”

  “Good night then,” I whispered.

  “Goodnight. Robert.”

  Before he pulled out of our shake, I…I…I don’t know what came over me. Too much alcohol perhaps. Too much lust for him. Too much of the wine. I touched his left hip with my right hip and set my lips against his cord-stricken neck. I pressed my mouth to his skin. My first kiss with the young man. An opened door. An explosion. Fire in the evening. Everything that I had been waiting for.

  The candlelight wavered on the table beside us, and bothersome mosquitoes danced around our connected bodies, ready to bite. I felt that erotic July heat turn into a blanket around my lips and his neck. A quick jump and wetness in my shorts. It was a gentleman’s kiss. Nothing more than a warm and tender and pleasant goodnight kiss.

  He didn’t move. He said nothing.

  I slowly pulled my lips away from his neck and whispered, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s okay.” He stood there, quiet and reserved. A sullen moment that hung and lingered between us: confusion, muted bliss, surrealism.

  Following that kiss, I wanted things from him, honestly I did: a brush of his fingertips against my lips, cheek, chest, and neck, anywhere; his veined and spiked and throbbing erection pressed against my center or bottom; his fingers to shift through my blond hair, or over a shoulder, or down the center of my back. I wished for Tacoma to lean into me, grasp the back of my head with his free hand, pull me towards him, aggressively press his mouth against my mouth; I wished for him to plunge his thick tongue past my teeth and into the back of my throat. I wished that he would take one of his hands and cup the area beneath my shaft, caress my balls and…

  “Too much to drink,” he whispered. “Both of us. There are four bottles on the table. That’s two each. We’re drunks.”

  “I’m sorry. I crossed a line.”

  “Really, it’s fine. We had fun this evening. The talking was enjoyable. Forget about the kiss. Things happen.”

  I wanted to fuck him, or have him fuck me. Something between men who were attracted to each other. I wanted nothing less than to have his fingertips pinch my nipples, or to have my fingertips pinch his nipples, until he let out a yelp for me to stop. I wanted his mouth against my navel, or my mouth against his navel. I wanted my cock inside his mouth, or his cock inside my mouth. I wanted…

  “I like to bathe,” he whispered again, turned in the evening’s daunting shadows, and walked away.

  “Yes,” I answered to his back, and felt a cool shiver in my heart. Lowering my head, I wrapped my arms around my middle as two mosquitoes started to suck the blood from the nape of my neck. I felt sorry for myself, bemused, at a loss for lust and words, and whatever hardship a pool boy could cause to a somewhat older man.

  Silence.

  Stillness.

  I was alone.

  Chapter 32: All About Timing

  July 28. Close to August. Closer to the end of su
mmer than not, and to the pool boy’s final days at the estate.

  We didn’t discuss my kiss to his neck. The topic never came up. Some things were better left unsaid. Perhaps he had chalked it up as both of us being drunk and sloppy, having too much white wine to drink. Silence was golden, as the old cliché went. I didn’t object to such an action. Not at all. Amen to that.

  * * * *

  July 29.

  Rare, hardback Steinbecks sat in my private library and I pulled four of them off one of the mahogany shelves. Nothing went better together than an expensive vodka and The Red Pony, Of Mice and Men, Cannery Row, or The Pearl. I kept clean tumblers behind rare, leather copies of Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls and one of my all-time favorites, Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine, and poured myself a drink. And there, tucked beside Leavitt and White and Baldwin, I consumed the two fingers of vodka straight, letting it burn the tip of my tongue and the back of my throat.

  I don’t know how long I sat there with Of Mice and Men on my lap and thought about my actions on the patio with Tacoma, touching him with my lips, wishing to do more with him, and creating forbidden passion with the young man. How could I slip like that and become reckless as his employer? How could I forgive myself of such a disgrace? How could I…

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I gazed at the closed door of the study. There was only one other person in the lake house besides me. There were no apparitions. Things never went bump in the day, or night. Obviously, Tacoma stood in the hallway, needing my attention, concerned about something.

  I placed my drink down on a nearby table with the copy of Mice, stood, and walked across the wooden and creaking boards that sounded like a bed shifting under two men having rough sex. Sporting a smile on my face, having enjoyed the evening thus far, I turned the brass knob on the library’s door, and pulled on its brass door, opening it. Again, as always, the pool boy’s handsomeness and youth caught me off guard, leaving me breathless.

  “Robert.”

  “Dear Lord,” I gasped. Tacoma stood in front of me, semi-naked. He had nothing on except for a cottony towel pressed between his legs with the help of one hand, instead of having it wrapped around his middle. I could see the top of his dark triangular-shaped pubes, his thick thighs, and the narrow landing strip of hair that fell down to his hidden cock, beneath his navel; he hadn’t manscaped or shaved his chest in a few days and it had grown in. Without thinking I licked my lips, stared at his perfect abs, the mounds of firm muscles that designed his pecs, the semi-thick neck that I had casually kissed two evenings before on the patio.

  He blushed. Part of the towel between his pumped legs fell away and exposed a sliver of his limp, meaty rod and more of his pubic triangle. “I…I can come back another time. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I clamped a hand to my chest, exhaled, inhaled, and attempted to catch my breath. “Come in…come in. You caught me off guard with your attire, or lack of. It doesn’t mean you have to run away. Make yourself at home. I was just reading and enjoying a drink.” I stared at the sliver of his cock-tube that was barely hidden by the towel positioned over it. My gaze studied his pubic triangle and…

  He broke my concentration with, “I know I’m not very good with timing but I need to talk to you about something.”

  I waved a hand at him, faking a smile, and allowed him to feel comfortable within the small library as he entered. “It’s okay, really. Say what you need to say. Your timing is perfect.”

  I closed the door as he entered. In passing, he smelled of a fresh shower and ash-scented soap mixed with wild, summertime apples. No longer did he reek of chlorine and sunscreen lotion. The soapy aroma hung between us; a rustic and simple scent that caused my dick to bounce in my khaki shorts, hungry for him yet again. My glance stayed on his hard stomach instead of his brown eyes, which allowed me to count his abs again: one set, two sets, three sets.

  “It’s about Danielle Silver. I was thinking that you could finally introduce me to her. I don’t know if this possible, but I would love to meet her.”

  I smiled, completely having the need or desire to touch his neck again, a nipple, his thigh, or cock. Anywhere. Every area on his body. “But I am Danielle Silver,” I whispered.

  “I mean…Rosemary Dublin. Your friend.”

  I laughed, captivated by him, always. “Yes. Yes. Now I understand. My better half. The person on the back of my hardbacks and who signs my books for the fans.”

  “That’s who I’m talking about. My visit will soon end and I’d hate not to meet her.”

  How sweet and adorable he was, caring and interested in my world, and wanting to meet my closest friend. Simply irresistible. Perfect in every way. A marvel. The god of water and pools and swimming. “Your wish is my command. She’s making arrangements for a visit. I don’t exactly know when, but I’m pretty sure it should be soon. Rose can’t stay away from me, the estate, or the pool.”

  “Good to know. I’m excited. To understand her is to understand you. I hope she comes sooner than later. I’m only here for the next few weeks.”

  “Not to worry. She’ll come. She never lets me down, or herself. As I’ve said, she loves it here. It’s a nice break from her run around the world and all her fans. She likes to hide here. Not that I blame her.”

  He bowed his head as if I were royalty, which I didn’t understand. “I hope I wasn’t bothering you, Robert. I just really want to meet your friend.”

  I shook my head, tried to keep my eyes focused on his perfectly developed chest and not the portion of his cock that was showing. I saw nothing less than a flawless man in front me. Inflated nipples and abs, corded neck, puckered navel. Such a fine specimen of a pool boy. So much better than Reynolds, William, or Ian. Tacoma had become my toy in the past weeks, a piece of art, a decoration on the estate, and just right for my needs. A delight. Tacoma-fabulous. Yes. Tacoma-fabulous. How perfect a description of the young man. How right…

  “It’s never a bother, Tacoma.”

  “I should get back to my bath now.”

  “You probably should. I’m sure your water waits for you.”

  “Thank you, Robert.”

  “No,” I shook my head, “thank you for staying with me this summer.”

  And off he went, leaving the library, turning away and showing his bottom to me, sporting those succulent and rounded ass cheeks that wiggled left and right for my obsessive view, a tight and flawless buttocks that should have been in adult movies for men to pleasure themselves with. So attractive. Sinfully perfect.

  Following his exit, I had to close the door so I could discover my breath, so I could stop my heart from thump…thump…thumping in my chest because I honestly thought it was going to explode just as the swollen package between my legs had already done, leaving ooze behind in my boxers yet again, a sticky and bothersome load; another mess to clean up thanks to my hired help.

  Chapter 33: Just Like Me

  He wouldn’t let the topic of Rosemary Dublin go. Rather, Tacoma prepared eggs Benedict for us on the morning of the thirtieth-first, the last day of July—slices of fresh fruit, pulpy orange juice, sunny-side-up eggs, and buttered toast—and we shared breakfast on the library’s narrow balcony overlooking the pool. There, positioned across from me at a two-person, wrought-iron table, he brought up Rose Dublin again.

  I usually abhorred a man eating without a shirt on, but it didn’t bother me regarding Tacoma because he was movie star-perfect. The pool boy sat shirtless and steamy-hot across from me. The July heat shined his nipples, pecs, and shoulders. During any previous time in my life before the pool boy came along, I would have instructed any other man to go and put a shirt on, practicing some manners while eating with me. But with Tacoma, a distinctive breed of man—my toy, my fixation, my artwork, and my desire—I found him delicious looking at the table, beautiful and surreal, a pleasure to admire and desire.

  Obviously hungry, he shoveled the eggs into his mouth. Yellow yolk dripped from one of the corners
to his chin. I sat watching and concentrated how he wiped the string of yolk away with a napkin: rushed and aggressively.

  Between bites, he asked, “Is she coming?”

  “Who?”

  “Rose. Is she coming to visit?”

  “Yes. As I already said, sometime soon. She’ll call before arriving. We both have to be patient.”

  He sipped orange juice and then took a bite of his triangular piece of toast. He ate and drank quickly, wasting no time. With his mouth full of egg, he boldly said, “I know guys who are fags, but they still sleep with women. Are you and Rose lovers? Do you mess around in the sack?”

  I laughed out loud, thanking God my mouth wasn’t full of the pulpy orange juice or I would have spat it all over him, and everything on the table’s surface. “Jesus Christ, no! Rose Dublin is very private about who she beds, if anyone at all. I think she has three boyfriends around the world, men that she uses in the sack. Lovers, but men she will never marry. Otherwise, she’s very single, if you must know the truth. No man will ever be attached to her. Especially a gay man like me. Besides, she doesn’t find me the least bit attractive.”

  Tacoma squared eyes with me and became straight-faced. He looked shell-shocked because of my comments. His eyes grew wide and his narrow lips pursed. Everything about his demeanor suddenly stopped at once, froze, and became solid in his chair. “Tell me more.”

  I waved a napkin at him. “There’s little more to tell. Rose Dublin will never love a man. Gay or straight. It’s quite self-explained. She enjoys her singlehood. She likes to be alone.”

  “You’re gay?” His mouth fell ajar and his eyes widened.

  “Stop toying with me, young man!” I snapped.

  “I’m not toying with you.”

  “You know perfectly well that I like the affections of men over women. Now, be nice. I don’t like this game.”