The Pool Boy Read online

  * * * *

  Following breakfast, around nine o’clock in the morning, she asked me, “Robert, darling, can you drive me to the county airport? I’ve already missed my early flight. I’m hoping to catch a different one out.”

  The airport was only eleven miles from the house. “Of course. Do you think they’ll have a flight for you?”

  “Most assuredly,” Rose rattled off.

  I knew that if they didn’t, she would prompt them to find one. Danielle Silver always had the uncanny ability of getting what she wanted, unfailingly.

  * * * *

  In the foyer, with her bag packed, she held out her hand to the pool boy, who scooped it up with ease, and kissed the back of it.

  Rose quipped, “Goodbye, Tacoma. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “And you,” Tacoma said, nodded like a prince.

  She pulled her hand free and laughed.

  We watched Tacoma walk away, into the house: tight bottom in its navy swimming trunk shifting left and right, bronze and muscular back, ripped legs.

  “He’s so delightful, Robert. Such a nice find for you this summer.” She eyed the pool boy one last time, licked her lips. “It’s too bad I can’t have him for myself. We would travel so well together.”

  I said nothing. What was there to say?

  “Come now, Robert. Grab my bag. My Lincoln waits. I can’t be late.”

  “Of course not, my queen.”

  She giggled at my quip.

  I giggled back.

  Such good friends. Always and forever.

  Chapter 58: Prince Marchessi

  I decided to drive the sky blue Lincoln to the county airstrip because it was flashier, expensive, and caused Rose Dublin to feel like a superstar. She climbed into the back and settled behind the driver’s seat.

  I sat behind the steering wheel and we slowly drove out the long drive. She leaned forward, patted my right shoulder, and said, “The pool boy’s a very nice fuck toy for the summer, Robert. I do hope you take advantage of him before he leaves. Every man your age needs to slip into something as beautiful as Kent Tacoma.”

  I looked into the rearview mirror, stunned by her comment, open-mouthed.

  She started applying make-up to her cheeks, using a compact.

  “I must say that I’m very proud of you. Your taste in men is remarkable. Kudos to you. I never thought you had it in you. Ian, William, and Reynolds were all very nice to look at, but Tacoma takes the cake, darling. He’s stunning, a masterpiece.”

  I sighed, pulled onto the main road. “We barely even spend time together, Rose, if you really want to know. He tends the pool and I write.”

  She seemed surprised, lifted the compact away from her round face. “That’s a shocker. And terrible news. All this time together. Days and days of summer. He seems very fuckable. Such nice skin. A beautiful rump. I don’t know how you keep your hands off him.”

  I said nothing in return, headed east on Route 3E, and kept both my hands on the steering wheel. My view swiftly moved from the review mirror to her, back and forth.

  Rose applied lipstick next, a color that matched her name. The Lincoln bounced up and down; she didn’t seem to mind at all, clearly experienced with artistry in the backseat.

  “You’ve tried to sack him, haven’t you?”

  “Sack him?” I asked.

  “You know…get him into bed so you can fuck that stud?”

  I shook my head. “You’re so blunt.”

  She giggled. “I’m not being blunt, sweetheart. I’m being honest with you. Now, answer my question. Have you fucked him yet?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Why are you wasting your time? He’s far too perfect to let him hang around the property all summer long in his navy bathing suit. If you’re going to keep him on your staff, then I think you should bang that young man as soon as possible. He drinks, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I suggest you get him sloppy drunk and take full advantage of him. Remember how you wrote that in Prince Marchessi? Our fans absolutely loved it when the prince was drugged by the town beggar woman with big breasts, and then she sexually took advantage of him. If I remember right, she had twins by him, Reynolds and Ian.”

  “You’re correct. Rosetilda Baye, the beggar, had twins by Prince Marchessi. But if I got Tacoma drunk and raped him, that’s illegal, Rose. The police would show up on the estate ten minutes later. Besides, Prince Marchessi is fiction, not reality.”

  “Life is based on fiction, pumpkin. Don’t think it’s not.”

  Again, I said nothing, and kept my eyes on the road.

  Rose placed her lipstick away, found a thin Maybelline mascara brush, which she started using. “Think of it this way, honey. He’s tender and young, and he’ll repair easily if you shove your big dick inside him. You can give him the world if he lets you. I can’t see any harm done if you start fucking him. Whether you have to give him a drink or two to get it started, then so be it. I’m not telling you to get him shit-faced drunk and rape him. I’m just saying a drink might help loosen him up, and loosen you up. No one wants to be prickly, of course.”

  “I think I should have shot you last night, Rose. You’re very raw today. Besides, the pool boy is hardly interested in me. He wants nothing to do with me.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I just do.”

  “I think you’re wrong, sweetie. You have enough money and spin to get what you want from him.” She pulled at an eyelash with the long and thin brush in her right hand, sighed. “You exhaust me. Stop being such a queen. You know I hate that.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Well, you have. Now for my next question. Have you any interest in the young man? Because I’m under the impression that you do?”

  I could have lied, or fucked up her eyeliner by driving the Lincoln through a few potholes, but didn’t. I played nice and stayed honest. “Yes. I do have an interest in the pool boy. I’ve been thinking about him all summer long. More than I’ve wanted to.”

  She laughed, finished with her task, and slipped her tool away. “There’s nothing wrong with a good screw. Don’t you think? I have three men in hiding to prove that. And there’s certainly nothing wrong with a handsome pool boy like Kent Tacoma to share that screw with, right?”

  I rolled my eyes, smiled in the rearview mirror at her. Sometimes I could only take her in small doses, like just then. “I hear you.”

  “Of course you do.” She winked. “I just hope your cock hears me too. Get that stick some ass, darling. Sooner than later.”

  Chapter 59: Cessna 182

  At the small airport, a privately owned blue-and-red striped Cessna 182 Rose had rented, waited on the narrow runway strip for her. I kissed her on both cheeks, hugged her hard, and asked, “When will I see you again, angel?”

  “Soon. Perhaps September, near the fifteenth. I have a lot of running around to do until then. We have our meeting in New York with the publisher, of course. Don’t forget.”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. I have the date in my phone.”

  “You’ll take care of yourself, right?”

  I held her hard against me, face to face, and wished that she didn’t have to leave. “Certainly. Right as rain.”

  “And you’ll strum up something hard with the pool boy, right?” she laughed, being bad.

  I nodded, squeezed her, breathed in her strong lily scent, and eventually pulled away. “Call me when you get to Chicago, okay? I need to make sure you’re safe.”

  “Most assuredly, Robert Fine. I love you too much to abandon you.”

  I smiled at that, adoring and loving her unconditionally. Rose was my best friend, my sanity, and fresh air in the toxic world. My life would not be perfect without her.

  “Goodbye now,” I whispered, waved a sullen farewell as she slipped away, towards the Cessna.

  Once at the plane, she climbed up the tiny and narrow steps that led into the mouth of
the Cessna 182. And once inside, next to a handsome pilot that somewhat resembled the famous actor Harrison Ford, she turned around with her Gucci pocketbook tucked snuggly into the fold of her left hand, her knee-high skirt blowing in the delicate wind, she waved her farewell at me.

  Harrison pulled the steps into the plane and closed the door behind them. Within minutes the plane was swallowed by the sky, and Rose vanished from my life for the next few weeks until I would see her in New York City, on Hudson Street, at our publishers, where we would enjoy lunch, and each other’s company, again.

  Chapter 60: Decision

  Later that day, I sat in the shade of the gazebo and pondered my current situation. A mystery by Nagio Marsh lay on my lap but didn’t hold my interest. Instead, I stared out at the lake and studied sailboats and waves and gulls and a blistering sun. I turned Rose Dublin’s opinion over and over inside my head. Summer was quickly coming to an end, and if I were ever going to bed the pool boy, I couldn’t delay my seduction a moment longer.

  I had fallen for him. Half of me believed Rose’s opinion: the pool boy was a fuck toy. Kent Tacoma was fuckable in all aspects of the word. Mine for the summer and something to dispose of by September. Hired for nothing more than to get off on, and by. Is that what I really wanted?

  But…the other half of my mind, a saner region, suggested that the pool boy had feelings and emotions, that he was tender and sweet. Not a piece of meat I could eat and send away after the end of summer. The young man could be cuddled and become boyfriend material, someone who could live at the lake house with me, through the winter months. Was that possible? Maybe. Maybe not. I wasn’t sure.

  I couldn’t lie to myself; I wouldn’t keep him through winter. I had hired Tacoma as a plaything for the summer, and summertime only. A handsome young man with dimples, a nice build, deep brown eyes, and military charm. I had hired him in June to sleep with, cling to my body, cause me to feel younger, to touch his skin, and to play with. He was my toy. Yet, as June had passed into July, and July moved into August, my heart became involved. Unplanned. I had feelings for him. I had fallen for the young man and was head over heels in love with him, all the way. Not only did I need him, I wanted him around as a friend and a good listener. I enjoyed his company, time, and conversations. How did I let that happen? When did it happen? And why? Couldn’t I use him as the toy as I intended him to be, and then let him go at the end of August, just as I had planned? Couldn’t I slip into his bedroom upon a stormy, summery night and spread his jockish legs, swallow his cock into my mouth and…

  “Robert?”

  I slightly jumped where I sat and turned my view from the lake to the pool boy, who stood at the entrance of the gazebo. He’d startled me.

  “Yes?” For once I didn’t admire his bare nipples or cut chest, his sweaty thighs or strong looking shoulders, and kept my view hanging over his right ear, stared at the choppy lake, sailboats, and the distant island.

  “I’m going to lift some weights in the gym, would you mind potting me?” He said potting instead of spotting. Our little joke. What fun.

  “No, not at all. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in the gym waiting for you.” He winked at me.

  “Yes.” I didn’t wink back.

  He walked away then.

  I didn’t admire his beautiful bottom or bare back or shoulders or thighs. Instead, I was left to more thoughts, Rose’s opinion of him, and my final decision: He’s not a fuck toy, Robert. He’s a lover now. You’ve fallen in love with him. Shame on you for even thinking he’s something else. Shame on you.

  Chapter 61: Acceptance

  One o’clock in the afternoon. A thin, blondish gentleman by the name of Paul Channing usually delivered the daily mail. Thirty-two-year-old Channing was a model resident of the West End community: eloquent, delightful, always friendly, always smiling, would sometimes stop in and have a quick lunch with me, and seemed to enjoy my company. He spun West End tales with spirit, high energy, and eyebrow-raising entertainment. I found him fascinating, attention-grabbing, and attractive, a wordsmith like myself, a good friend, and someone I didn’t mind at all sharing a conversation with, lunch, and bumping into.

  A letter from California arrived for the pool boy. Channing didn’t deliver it because he was on vacation in Aruba with his current boyfriend, a husky, hairy bear of a fireman named Russel Daring from Edinboro. Instead, a dark-haired, elfin female filled in. She went by the name Poppy Ewing. I watched her drive up to the front of the lake house, walk the few steps to the front door, slip the mail into the slot, and then drive away. She was quick (faster than Channing), and didn’t stay for any chatter, lunch, or tasty gossip like Channing.

  I anticipated the arrival of mail for a few personal reasons. One, mail bridged me to the outer world; two, I liked to receive hard copies of my royalty checks to prove my level of success; three, my agent, Marco DeRabio preferred snail mail over email, and used it all the time; and four, I received loads of handwritten fan mail from Danielle Silver readers, proving her likability.

  After Poppy drove away, I rushed downstairs and scooped up three white envelopes off the foyer’s floor, a sales ad for a local department store, and a book of pharmacy coupons. I shuffled through the three white envelopes and saw that the first was from my agent, the second from my publishing house (most likely it was a fan’s letter that was forwarded to the lake house from New York City), and the third had a return address on it from Los Angeles, California and addressed to the pool boy, Mr. Kent Tacoma.

  Seconds later, I dropped my mail on the kitchen table, deciding to sift through it later, but kept the pool boy’s single letter in hand. I went in search of him and eventually found him upstairs, in his bedroom. I knocked twice and called out, “Tacoma?”

  He answered the door with a white towel wrapped around his lower half, dripping wet and freshly showered.

  “You’ve got mail,” I chirped, holding out the letter.

  “Mail?”

  “Yes. It comes once a day. Usually letters and bills, communication from the outer world. You young people rely on email, but I still love to get snail mail.” I passed the single envelope to him.

  He opened it right there with wet hands, read the single letter, and smiled.

  “What is it?” I intruded.

  “UCLA accepted me for fall classes. They start in two weeks.”

  Deflated, I didn’t smile. Maybe I should have. “Congratulations.”

  The pool boy leaned forward, took me into his damp arms, hugged me with excitement, pulled away, and left me wet. “I didn’t think they would accept me. My grades in high school weren’t that high. Maybe they’ve recognized my time in the Navy.”

  “I didn’t know you applied to UCLA.” I sounded depleted.

  “Yes,” he answered, all smiles, shining with pride, slick-wet. “Before I came to West End I applied. I just didn’t expect this.” He looked down at the letter again, UCLA’s stamp of approval radiated within his brown eyes.

  “You can do anything when you put your mind to it, Tacoma.”

  “I guess I can,” he exclaimed, bubbling with excitement. Droplets of shower water dribbled from his forehead, down and over his adorable face.

  Feeling broken, I guessed his days at the lake house were limited as he read his acceptance letter from the college again, soon to discard me, leaving me, ending our relationship and our summer together. The way things were meant to be.

  Chapter 62: Watching

  Watching: the pool boy didn’t see me on the pathway in the East Garden because I was hidden behind the oak, maple, elm, and birch trees again, completely out-of-view. I observed him from afar as he tended the pool…and then himself.

  Watching: how shocking it was to see him undress in the sun. He dropped his tight khakis to the cement, as well as his white-cotton shirt. No underwear, since he didn’t wear them often. I studied his washboard stomach and lean shoulders. How he had become more muscular over sum
mer left me puzzled, not that I minded, of course. The pool boy’s shoulders were hulking mountains of flesh, and his biceps had morphed into knobs of muscles. His rippled, ladder-like chest swelled before my eyes. And silky sweat droplets glided into the mainstream area of his V-shaped stomach. His nipples were erected points, sweet and sugary looking, delicious gumdrops. Perfection. Everything I had wanted in a younger man. My bliss that summer. Still mine, since the summer hadn’t ended yet. A water god standing next to the blue-blue pool. Mine. Only mine. Always. Food for a thirty-six-year-old writer.

  Watching: Tacoma’s hips were narrow handles that I only desired to hang on, will my weight against and into him, to and fro from behind him, to and fro again and again, passionately, again and again, I wouldn’t stop. He was a god to me, perfect in the August sunbeams.

  Watching: he stood in nothing, showing off the lengthy mass between his legs, and the drooping balls accessorized beneath its length and pudgy width. I wanted to devour his veined tube that hung between his athletic thighs, more with my mouth than with my eyes. My lips slightly parted as my own rod shot a few droplets of thick and steamy-hot ooze inside my shorts. I couldn’t look away from his private parts: the head bulbous and purple, uncut and titanic, almost two inches wide, or maybe even wider; a stake if I had ever seen one! so shocking and real!

  Watching: there in my shadowy world of trees by the lake, I peered at the pool and the pool boy’s tools: his skimmer, his testing kits, his bucket of chlorine, and other instruments. So many tools. Lots of tools. But other things were more important to me—the pool boy and his nakedness, of course! His personal tools! Mine. All mine.

  Watching: the man by the pool (because he was no longer a boy, he was a man) fingered his dick with busy hands, made the piece of protein hard. He had his legs spread slightly apart, and his back arched. He rolled the palm of his right hand over his mouth and extended tongue, juicing it up, and he gently glided the opened palm and his fingers down and over his solid looking chest, one abdominal after the next. The hand rhythmically fell to the semi-soft cock between his legs, and hardened it up, giving it numerous strokes. Desire and excitement shined in his dark eyes. Sweat broke out on his forehead. I saw the beast swell between his legs. And as the tool rose…rose…rose, I became hypnotized by his massive and furry balls, swinging between his thighs. Always mine. Mine.