The Pool Boy Read online

  The Pool Boy

  By R.W. Clinger

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2020 R.W. Clinger

  ISBN 9781646564279

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  For KH.

  * * * *

  The Pool Boy

  By R.W. Clinger

  Prologue: May

  Part 1: June

  Chapter 1: The Ad

  Chapter 2: The Pool Boy

  Chapter 3: The Interview

  Chapter 4: A Savory Appetite

  Chapter 5: Danielle Silver

  Chapter 6: His Skin

  Chapter 7: Necessary Wage

  Chapter 8: Sweat and Gym

  Chapter 9: Masculinity and House Rules

  Chapter 10: Abandonment

  Part 2: July

  Chapter 11: Return Trip

  Chapter 12: Settling In

  Chapter 13: Breakfast

  Chapter 14: Binoculars

  Chapter 15: Attic Trip

  Chapter 16: Celebration

  Chapter 17: Cannibal

  Chapter 18: Push-ups

  Chapter 19: Pumped

  Chapter 20: Exercise of My Own

  Chapter 21: Smoke

  Chapter 22: Fireman and Rescue

  Chapter 23: Sleeping

  Chapter 24: Confrontation

  Chapter 25: Pool Boyless

  Chapter 26: Hidden

  Chapter 27: Stick Figure

  Chapter 28: Dreaming

  Chapter 29: Sunbathing

  Chapter 30: Biting Mosquitoes

  Chapter 31: Drunk

  Chapter 32: All About Timing

  Chapter 33: Just Like Me

  Part 3: August

  Chapter 34: Heat

  Chapter 35: Staying Inside

  Chapter 36: The Stranger

  Chapter 37: Argument

  Chapter 38: Pity

  Chapter 39: Wicked

  Chapter 40: Something Bad

  Chapter 41: Taking Tacoma Out

  Chapter 42: Paired

  Chapter 43: Scolding

  Chapter 44: Sofa-Jumper

  Chapter 45: Torture

  Chapter 46: Camera 7

  Chapter 47: Rough Boy

  Chapter 48: Ghost

  Chapter 49: Suffocation

  Chapter 50: Jump

  Chapter 51: Rendezvous

  Chapter 52: Survival

  Chapter 53: Apology

  Chapter 54: Football

  Chapter 55: Burglary

  Chapter 56: Coming To

  Chapter 57: Opinion

  Chapter 58: Prince Marchessi

  Chapter 59: Cessna 182

  Chapter 60: Decision

  Chapter 61: Acceptance

  Chapter 62: Watching

  Chapter 63: Drowning

  Chapter 64: Poolside

  Chapter 65: Nirvana

  Chapter 66: In the Deep End of the Pool

  Chapter 67: Pillows

  Chapter 68: Spoons

  Chapter 69: We Were Together

  Chapter 70: This Seems Right

  Chapter 71: Blind

  Chapter 72: Shivering

  Chapter 73: Packing

  Chapter 74: Rain

  Chapter 75: Goodbye

  Epilogue: December/The Ad

  Prologue: May

  I stared up at the sun and blinked once, twice, and three times. Before causing a self-induced episode of blindness, or a migraine, I closed my eyes and saw my future. I envisioned a blue pool, a clean spirit and body, like a glass orb in a museum or the inside of a kaleidoscope, swirling. Sweat rolled over my cheeks and the cords that lined my neck. The heat felt as if it were over a hundred degrees. It would stay there until the end of August, or longer. A young man dangled in the folds of my mind, but I didn’t know his name. A stranger. Someone beautiful and charming. Someone younger than my middle-aged self. He swam in a vast abyss of blue-blue water, stroke after stroke, head under the silky liquid for over three minutes, sunken, water-logged, and capsized…something. Eventually he stepped out of the pool—my pool!—and he was only a boy, a pup, so very young, someone beyond handsome, almost god-like, and just right for my needs. A younger man. Perhaps too young for me. The perfect specimen of masculine beauty. He dripped with water from the pool, stepped up to me and shook my hand, introduced himself to me, no longer a stranger, and eventually I smiled, welcomed him into my tiny social milieu, into my semi-sightless world of an older and wiser man, allowing me to fall in love with him during a summer of sticky heat, bliss, and lust.

  And when I opened my eyes, bedazzled and unsure of the realities around me, grasping at sanity and clarity, this is what I:

  saw

  heard

  felt

  tasted

  smelled…that summer, so long ago, in my own youth.

  Part 1: June

  Chapter 1: The Ad

  I needed a pool boy. What man nearing forty wouldn’t? It was the truth. The pool looked murky and less dazzling than when Reynolds used to take care of it. But Reynolds moved back to Puerto Rico with a lover, didn’t he? Thereafter, the pool became shabby.

  Gross, green-brown algae clung to its aqua-colored cement sides. A distressing smell lingered over the pool’s strangled and lifeless surface that shrieked of early death for any diver or stray canine that might be trapped in the pool and drown. The water was no longer warm because the heating device was broken, no longer safe. The pool was quite dangerous if you want to know the truth. Any professional would have agreed with me and placed hazard tape around its perimeter.

  All the pool devices (skimmers, chlorine tablets, rafts, and the other unnamed whatnots that slip my mind today) were covered with a thick layer of dust in the pool shed, lost and forgotten.

  Because of the pool’s disrepair, I could no longer stare at my lonely reflection by the edge of the pool and see an elite man of thirty-six with gray-blonde hair, shimmering yellow-green eyes, narrow hips, and a flat stomach. A man who considered himself still quite fit, trim, and bearably handsome. And let’s not forget wealthy, loaded with money. The pool left me as a singular, green blur near its unsettling edge, hideous, monstrous, and unrefined, an unpleasant spectacle in the June sunshine. Nothing of beauty. Atrocious. Something that should be kept in a cage, unfed.

  I needed a pool boy. No argument there. That is where the ad came in. Almost immediately. I created it to be simple and to the point, easy to read, self-explanatory:

  POOL BOY NEEDED

  CITY AREA. FREE ROOM/BOARD

  FOR INTERVIEW CALL:

  800-555-1512


  I placed the ad into two major papers for a week, also online, and waited for the calls to come in on my 1-800 line: patiently, resolutely, unconditionally.

  * * * *

  June. The heat turned humid and sticky, well above ninety degrees. I cursed Reynolds for leaving, for moving to Puerto Rico with his sexy boyfriend. Had he stayed, I could have paddled from one end of the in-ground pool to the other like an Olympian or Neptune. Back and forth. Willfully. Instead, I stayed in the shade, waiting for calls from the ad, losing my mind.

  Eventually a call came. Giddy, I fumbled my phone like a quarterback on the lawn. “Hello?”

  “I’m calling about the pool boy position.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded strong, pumped, uninhibited, and husky with a somewhat sweet edge.

  I’d been editing and revising a manuscript called The Next Fall, my newest work, and lounging in the shade, swinging in a comfy hammock near the back patio. Flustered and sounding pompous, I asked, “I beg your pardon.”

  The person sounded young, very much a gentleman. He said, “I’m answering the ad in the West End Cardinal…There’s a pool boy position available. I’d like details regarding an interview, please.”

  Charming and debonair. Just right. Twenty-twoish…maybe. A strong voice, perhaps muscular, with will behind it. Confidence. Nice tone. Comforting. A smile formed at the edges of my mouth. “Your name please, sir.”

  “Kent…Kent Tacoma.”

  “And where are you calling from? Tell me the city please.”

  “Ashtabula, Ohio.”

  “You’re not very far away. Sixteen miles perhaps?”

  “Yes, something like that.”

  “Do you know anything about pools, Mr. Tacoma?”

  “I was a lifeguard in high school, and then a Navy private for four years. I feel comfortable around water. I know CPR and how to clean pools. Plus, I can hold my breath for almost three and half minutes. I feel that I’m quite experienced for the position.”

  Interesting. Informative. He spoke quickly. Not that such a detail mattered to me. In all honesty, Tacoma sounded…young and delicious. Perfectly respectable. No lisps or bad grammar. Simply enjoyable. Someone intriguing for my selfish needs, and the care of my pool. I puffed, “Does tomorrow work for an interview, Mr. Tacoma?”

  “Yes. Sure. Fine. Where? When?”

  I gave him the address without directions, mentioned the time of noon. “You can meet me in the West Garden, Mr. Tacoma. We’ll be sharing lunch together. There’ll be no one answering the door. Come right in. Make yourself at home. Don’t plan to swim in the pool, though. It’s quite a fright if you must know the truth.”

  Silence. Calmness. Then, Mr. Kent Tacoma breathed into his end of the phone rather softly, and slowly, “This may sound crazy, sir, but what do I wear?”

  “Something a pool boy would wear of course, Mr. Tacoma. Play the part you’re interviewing for. A bikini will be fine. A towel. Sandals if you must. Sunglasses. Nothing like starting right off the bat, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Mr. Tacoma?”

  “Yes?” He sounded surprised by my abruptness and tone, alert.

  “Is there anything special you would like for lunch?”

  “No, sir. But thank you.”

  Before ending our conversation, disconnecting his world from mine, I became rather pleasant with him, and professional, “It shall be a delight to meet you. Thank you for responding to my ad. I shall see you tomorrow at noon.”

  Chapter 2: The Pool Boy

  I was transfixed by the young man upon meeting him. He’d pulled a white T-shirt over his head and buckish chest, buckled Reebok sandals on his feet, and had showered, shaved, and slipped into navy Nike shorts before his interview.

  I was impressed that he found the twelve-acre estate and arrived in the West Garden on time, carrying a brown folder with what I presumed had his resume tucked inside. As he approached, I could make out his dashing brown eyes, thick eyelashes, broad eyebrows, sloped chest, and narrow nose. Greek came to mind, but not quite. Definitely English over American. Maybe even Irish. Then again, perhaps not.

  Did he know that his nipples protruded from his too-tight tee? Did he know that he smelled of honey soap and Edge shaving cream, inexpensive hair gel, and of a young man’s sweat?

  I lifted sunglasses and glowed. A smile creased my face. Happiness. Bliss. Temptation. Something stirred within my stomach, perhaps a hint of nerves, but I thought them away just as quick as they arrived.

  He flaunted his handsomeness. Tacoma’s thighs were tight and his biceps glimmered with pumped muscles. From afar, I could tell that he looked as if he cared about his body, stayed in shape, ate well, happy with himself. If he had allowed his military cut to grow, he would have pushed creamy brown strands away from his fall-into eyes like a young Orlando Bloom, but the cut was high-and-tight, very military, almost too military, perfectly clean looking, and professional—not that I minded.

  I wasn’t a soothsayer, but I guessed that he was single. Probably like other young men his age he didn’t want to commit to long-term relationships. I guessed that he didn’t enjoy being closed in, or trapped, in relationships. I deduced that Kent Tacoma kept to himself, enjoyed the outdoors, and preferred looks over brains when it came to other men he had a sexual interest in, if he were queer, which I guessed he was. I could tell by the long and narrow lines on his stretched forehead that he enjoyed a variety of different food and Gatorade, but very little else to drink. He was not a predator, nor hunter, just naturally elegant with his temporary surroundings. A drifter, perhaps. Woebegone. More needed by others than being wanted. Definitely a candidate to be my pool boy. For hire, of course. Mine for the taking if I wanted. Amen.

  In conclusion, the pool boy had the look of innocence about him, an upturned smile and rounded chin, perfect dimples in his cheeks, and a comforting glow about his skin that resembled playfulness and a sense of immaturity. He looked scrummy and brainy and charming. Edible came to mind. Available. Willing to work for me. Untouchable and homosexual…I’d have to see.

  * * * *

  I climbed out of the hammock, placed The Next Fall down on a nearby table, stood, and smiled. I offered the obligatory handshake. “Welcome, Tacoma. And welcome to our possible summer together.” I ended up calling him Tacoma that summer, something that he was comfortable with.

  I could tell he was trying to ignore the shitty smell of the green-brown pool in the distance, hidden from sight in the East Garden. His nostrils flared ever so slightly. I made no acknowledgment. Instead, I paid close attention to his handshake, which was firm and to the point; a plus mark for choosing him that summer. Again, I noted that he stood over six feet tall, solid looking, V-like in the afternoon sun with his muscles and suntanned looking skin glowing. Did he realize how toned he was? Probably not.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Indeed,” I returned.

  Our eyes connected. Simple joy flooded throughout my body, tingled all over, and dissipated. I knew he would become my new hire for the next few months, if not longer. Feeling fuzzy-headed, admiring the young lad and embarrassing myself by licking my lips, I kept my yellow-green eyes locked on his chiseled face and instructed him, “Please. Please, sit down. There’s much we have to discuss.”

  He sat in the semi-shade under the tilted umbrella that hung over the Tropicana table, with his legs spread slightly apart and a straight back in the deck chair. Pecs firm. Biceps glowing in the June sun. Smile glinting. Calm. So very calm. Quiet. Still.

  How piggish of me to ogle his toned legs and arms, his offered package in his Nike shorts, a soft tube of six inches outlined in the material. Hairless kneecaps. Little brown tangles of hair on his legs. Navel covered by his tee.

  “Would you like to see my resume, Mr. Fine?”

  “No…no. I’d rather find out about you by asking questions, if that’s okay?” I reached for the extended folder and resume, placed it down on t
he table beside The Next Fall, and kept my gaze on Tacoma’s slightly spread legs and the prize under his crotch-covered material.

  Tacoma nodded his handsome head. A sprig of light danced in his eyes, shined, reflected within pools of dark brown that looked like creamy chocolate. He swatted at a disturbing bumblebee near his nose, kept his composure, sat still, and answered, “Yes. That will be fine. I’ll answer any question you have.”

  “Good then. Before we start, can I offer you a drink? What would you have?”

  “Water, please.”

  He’s on his best behavior, I thought. “Nothing stronger? A little vodka? Gin perhaps? Young men like you are into IPAs these days, correct?”

  He shook his head. “Just water…with ice.”

  “Of course. Water it is. With ice.”

  I fetched water, finished preparing a light salad in the kitchen off the West Garden, and then returned to Tacoma through the blistering sun with both. “Here you are.” I placed the water down on the table in front of him, and the salad in the center of the table for later enjoyment.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fine.”

  “Robert is my first name. I don’t have a problem with you using it.”

  A powerful and masculine smile laced his face: attractive; blooming with innocence and delight; power and a sense of light nervousness. “Thank you, Robert.”

  I circled the Tropicana table, umbrella, and chairs. My gaze observed the pool boy for the hundredth time. Enamored, I noted the glistening dots of perspiration on his sculpted and corded neck. The young man glimmered in the semi-sun: skin shining, eyes twinkling, chocolate-colored hair gleaming. Stunning. Handsome. So very good looking.

  Exhausted, I sat down across from him, crossed my legs, and asked, “Are you ready to begin answering my questions, young man?”

  “Yes,” he replied, eyes locked to mine, model-like face shining, intrepid stare. Just a boy in a man’s tight-looking body with muscles and beauty and high testosterone. Just a boy. Nothing more. Nothing less. I drooled.

  Ruffling through my mind for questions, watching him sip a sweaty glass of chilled water with ice cubes floating and clinking inside, I thought to myself: