The Pool Boy Page 2

  He already has the job, but he doesn’t know it.

  My God is he handsome, I can’t stop looking at him.

  Robert, get a grip. Pull yourself together. You’re older and wiser. Be ethical about this venture. Be polite, or at least try.

  Stop removing his clothes with your stare. Shame on you.

  Chapter 3: The Interview

  I reached for my manuscript and green pen (never red, which always shows/proves anger, intolerance, hostility, prudence), turned to a blank page where I would make notes, or prepare on-the-spot questions to ask my prey while he answered my questions. I didn’t have a list of questions ready for him. I was winging the task, so I started with, “How old are you, Tacoma?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  He continued to sip his icy water, got a droplet of the chilled liquid on the end of his chin, and set his water on the edge of the table to wipe his chin with the back of his right hand.

  That simple action was a turn-on for me, pure excitement; a masculine action that I found potent and consuming. The place between my thighs stirred and came to life.

  I cleared my throat and asked, “Your age tells me that you immediately left high school and found a comfy home in the Navy. Am I right?”

  Tacoma smiled: soft, tender, beautiful. It was the kind of smile I preferred. Silky looking with narrow lips and a tiny gap between the pool boy’s two top teeth. Gleaming, white teeth that could be in vintage magazines like Torso, Freshmen, or In Touch. He answered politely, “Exactly.”

  “What did you do in the Navy?”

  “Radar analysis. I watched submarine radar for hours on end. I don’t want to call it boring, but I could have thought of six hundred other better things to do with my time while serving my country.”

  I chuckled.

  He chuckled.

  “And your reason for leaving the Navy?” I searched for my own answer within his admirable glance: Don’t ask, don’t tell; secret love affair with a mannish, sea-bound cohort that recklessly soured abroad.

  “To be honest, I needed a change, Robert.”

  I laughed, keeping polite. “Every man needs a change, doesn’t he?”

  My green ink pen strayed and jotted swirls on the paper in front of me, a secret language, translating to a discreet and flirting afternoon.

  I surfaced from my temporary longing and said, “You don’t look like you’re from West End, parts of Lake Erie, or even Ashtabula, Ohio, my friend. Where are you originally from?”

  “Beverly Hills.”

  “Yes. Yes. I should have guessed that with your good looks. A young Orlando Bloom, if I may say so. Shame on me for second guessing myself.”

  He leaned ever so slightly forward and picked up his water again, took three sips, placed it back down on the tabletop between us. The action of drinking his water was surely helping him take the edge off the interviewing process, leaving him less nervous. He needed something stronger, though, I believed. Vodka or gin. Whiskey. Tequila. Rum.

  “Tell me how you ended up in West End, Pennsylvania. I’m sure you have quite the tale to share.”

  I scratched notes on my manuscript as he spoke: Aunt nearby; used to visit as a child with his parents; used to fly east once every year, usually around the Fourth of July; decided to move east after being in the Navy; needs a summer job; wants to attend college in the fall, preferably UCLA; plans to take engineering classes; clear head on his shoulders; goal-oriented; doesn’t intend to be a pool boy forever.

  Eventually, I lifted my head and said, “Why, out of all the things you can accomplish here in West End, do you want to be a pool boy?”

  He shrugged, shared that glistening-sweet smile with me again, melted me to the core, and caused an erotic fire to burn within my khakis and under my white tee. “The ad said that room and board are included. These work for me. I have to be responsible for my own actions, Robert. I realize I can be doing many other things, but I can meet the job’s requirements because of my work history. It’s a perfect fit, if you want to know the truth.”

  I pressed the pen into the manuscript a touch too hard and almost ripped the paper beneath. I looked him square in the eyes, felt an intense pressure build between my legs, hardening, inflating. I became bemused, overheated, perhaps poisoned by the raunchy smelling pool in the distance. He seemed truthful. Real. I wanted to laugh, but didn’t, being professional. I abandoned all hope of sharing an erotic interlude, disposing of naughty thoughts of showering with him after dinner each night and pressing my bare chest against his. Instead, I swallowed warm saliva, coughed, and told him, “Just so you know, I will be your immediate supervisor.”

  “And there is room and board, right?”

  “Just as the ad says. For as long as you stay.”

  “Good to know.”

  I filled him in on the salary and other minor duties that he would need to carry out, all of which were related to the pool, of course.

  He smirked, nodded. “Sounds good to me. I can meet your pool duties. I’ll make a fine pool boy for you.”

  Seconds of silence passed between us, eyes locked. Whether he had an attraction to me, I didn’t care. Only my attraction for him mattered.

  “Are you hungry, Tacoma? I didn’t prepare lunch for nothing.”

  “Yes. Starving.”

  I placed the manuscript aside, pushed away the semi-growing private parts between my legs, smiled at my fresh find, and told him while pointing at the salad, “Then lunch shall be served.”

  Chapter 4: A Savory Appetite

  Tacoma held his fork like a shovel; I didn’t mind. We ate salad and pieces of cold, fried chicken. Beverages were iced teas with slivers of lemon. From the shade he admired the West Garden, stared at the statue of David near the foxtail lilies, perhaps wondered about the cobblestone walkway meandering off to in the nearby woods. His interests and curiosities seemed active, but he asked no questions about his surroundings. In silence, he observed the hammock, the gazebo in the distance, the surrounding garden, and the tool shed that was half hidden behind too-tall oaks and maples, a slew of birch and cedars that offered shade, and an arrangement of roses, more lilies, and baby’s breath scattered throughout the property.

  I dabbed a linen napkin against the corners of my mouth. “There is watermelon for dessert. Do you like watermelon, young man?”

  He had a tiny piece of chicken stuck to his left upper lip. When the pool boy nodded the small morsel fell off and onto his glass plate. Seconds passed when he realized what had happened and he used his napkin to wipe away the mayo-glaze from his lip. After his brief episode with the chicken, he said, “I do like watermelon.”

  To keep the conversation flowing between us and get to know him better, I asked, “What are your hobbies?”

  “Sunbathing and swimming.”

  “How appropriate. The pool boy who swims and sunbathes.” I laughed without insulting him. “Any other hobbies or activities, my friend?”

  A light summertime breeze fluttered through his high-and-tight hair, caressed his thick brows. I was sure the wisp felt pleasant, rewarding.

  He took a semi-large bite from his salad, shoveled it into his thin mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Running and working out. I’m into my body. You probably guessed that.”

  I thought: I’m into your body, too. “Good. You can do all those things here. There’s a gym near the East Garden in the house. I think you’ll find it useful.”

  “Does it have weights?” Not the quickest lark in the barn, but the handsomest.

  “That’s why they call it a gym, my boy.”

  * * * *

  I believed him straight, relishing women over men. It was his eyebrows: they were not groomed and willy-nilly in shape and size. Something told me that he had never kissed a boy or man before, and mostly dated women of his own age. In truth, it was the bad boy look in his daring eyes that confirmed bluntly that the pool boy enjoyed the company of females: an intense brown, unyielding, so serious. I couldn’t help myself
from asking him, “Do you have a girlfriend here in West End?”

  “No. Not currently.”

  “But you have had one, right?” I was being completely selfish, rude, nothing more than an old bitchy queen. How easy I found my game, and how intoxicating to pry answers out of him about his life, treating him like prey. How distasteful, but it felt sweet to me, rewarding.

  He nodded. “I did have a girl back in Cali. A beautiful ginger.”

  “Cali?”

  “California. It’s what some people call the state.”

  “Of course. Yes.” I moved the conversation forward. “Now tell me who this beautiful ginger was?”

  “I’d rather not discuss her, if you don’t mind.”

  I waved a hand at him. “Of course not. I respect that. It doesn’t really have anything to do with you being my pool boy.”

  He blushed, half embarrassed, but kept eating.

  “Being a writer, I like to obtain as many details as I can from those I employ. Forgive me for prying. I honestly shouldn’t pay attention to such facts, but I do.” I patted the manuscript next to me on the table. The green pen rolled off the pages and onto the cement patio. A new collection of words quickly created a line inside my mind: Robert, you’re such a loser. Stop the nonsense. Move on.

  “I’m sorry, Robert…Have you hired me or not? I’m quite unclear at the moment.”

  I chuckled.

  He didn’t.

  I pointed at him with an index finger and told him, “In due time you will find that answer out, young man. Patience is a virtue, you know.”

  Chapter 5: Danielle Silver

  “You’re a writer, Mr. Fine?”

  “Yes. I thought you would know that already.” I nibbled on a leaf of lettuce, then a slice of tomato. I admired his handsome face yet again, intoxicated.

  He leaned back into his patio chair, played with his napkin, and relaxed in the partial shade. “Any books I know of and have possibly read?”

  I pushed a sliver of green pepper around on the plate. “Are you familiar with Danielle Silver?”

  “The best-selling romance author? It says she has sold over forty million copies of her books on the back of her paperbacks.”

  It was my turn to nod. Delight filled me at his acknowledgment and familiarity with my pseudonym.

  “My mother and aunt read her books. She’s a woman, though, Robert. You’re a man.”

  “Danielle is my pseudonym. I write using her name.”

  “A what?”

  Not very smart, but very cute. Yes, deliciously cute. I’ll still take him. All of him. “It’s a name that hides my identity and private life.”

  “You look different than the photographs on the back of her books. She’s young and beautiful. She has skin like a princess. Plus, she has some cleavage.”

  “Because it’s not really me, Tacoma. I don’t have red hair and long eyelashes. The woman you see on the back of the books is Rosemary Dublin, a very close friend of mine. I create the novels and she has her picture taken for the beautiful, hardback dustcovers, and paperback covers. It works out very well and is quite lucrative for the both of us.”

  Truth said, here and now, I used to not tell people those personal secrets, but after years and years of solitude, and twenty-five books under my writing belt, plus forty million copies sold worldwide, and a healthy chunk of change to live on from promising sales, I found that when I did tell people or strangers of my hidden-writing career as a national best-selling author, they failed to believe me, found me ludicrous, a liar, and crass, perhaps even mentally challenged. A fine joke. Although Danielle Silver was real, and Rose Dublin was also real, no one ever believed that we were one and the same person, a best-selling author.

  For some awkward reason, perhaps to continue a conversation with the pool boy, I believed I had to convince Tacoma of my secret, not that I was getting anywhere with him since he seemed to have the IQ of a Whirlpool dishwasher.

  “But Danielle Silver lives in San Francisco, which is states away from here.”

  “I have two houses, Tacoma. I live here in the summer and there in the winter. Sometimes.”

  He tested me. Damn him. Tacoma asked how many children Silver had (nine), and how many times she had been married (three), and what were the first three best-selling novels Silver wrote (Twice Golden, The Pirate’s Island, and Simply Red), and how old she was (thirty-six), the same as me.

  I stopped him from embarrassing himself any further because I could sense his weakness and lack of details regarding Danielle Silver’s life. “You’ve never read one of her books, have you? You know nothing about the woman, do you?”

  Tacoma shook his head. “I like King and Grisham. I read some V. C. Andrews occasionally. I’m not into romances.”

  “Of course you’re not. Why would I think you were? I don’t blame you. Go for the gore and the law and the incest, young man. All those writers are very interesting and quite entertaining. Silver is for women…or middle-aged gay men perhaps. I can’t see her entertaining young, ex-men from the Navy, to tell you the truth.”

  He looked up and shared a glance with me across his water and the remains of his salad. “Gay men?”

  I nodded, somewhat perplexed. “Yes, gay men. You’ll be surprised how many gay guys read romance novels. Too many to count. Lots of them buy my novels. You don’t have anything against gay men, do you?”

  Again, he shook his head. This time with wide eyes. Then he began a new sentence but I stopped him. The interview had changed dimensions and it was turning into an analysis of my life instead of the pool boy’s. Quickly, I capped off his speaking with, “Enough about this nonsense. Would you like some watermelon? It’s fresh and juicy. I’m quite sure you’ll enjoy a slice, or even two.”

  He showed off his white teeth, and dimples, agreeing to my suggestion. “Yes…I guess so. Watermelon isn’t so bad.”

  I waved a finger at him, suggested, “Never guess. Be a determined man. Be strong and capable. Guessing won’t get you anywhere in life. Now, would you like some watermelon, sir?”

  He sat up in his chair, straightened his shoulders and back, puffed out his chest, popped one nipple, then the other. He broadly smiled and showcased his dimples in full, seemed to grow poise and attitude, and a delectable gruffness about him that allowed a shiver to roll ecstatically up the branch of my spine, itching the back of my neck. “Yes, Mr. Robert Fine. I would like some watermelon. Thank you.”

  “That sounds better, Navy man, doesn’t it?” My limp cock bounced between my legs. A flutter of excitement zipped through my core.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “That’s a good man, Tacoma.” And off I went to fetch his desired watermelon, and a slice for me, having come to enjoy the afternoon with my strange and sexy visitor.

  * * * *

  He didn’t take his time eating the watermelon. Didn’t use his utensils and available napkin. He picked up a slice of the melon from the center of the table and began eating it like an animal. Pinkish liquid collected over his fingers, down and along his wrists, around his lips and dimples, and against the roundness of his handsome chin. I watched from afar, enjoying him, crossing my legs, and admired his sloppy activity with the fruit. Correctly guessing, he was not a nibbler, but rather sucked and gulped at large bites of the melon, consuming chunks clumsily. Once, and only once, he took the back of his hand and wiped it against his mouth in a primitive action that I found erotic. A line of melon-dribble rolled down along his chin and into his white tee-shirt where it was absorbed by the cotton, lost.

  “You’re a hungry boy, aren’t you?”

  Tacoma sucked and gulped, sucked and gulped, until the two slices of watermelon were gone, and honey bees from the nearby garden and its blazing floral beds buzzed around his adorable head and tight skin, needing as much attention as I wanted to obtain from him.

  And after gobbling up the fruit, he washed up with a damp towel that I carried to the table, placing it nearby him. He dragged the
towel over his hands, one wrist, his second wrist, his wet mouth, and a sticky forearm with pulsing veins.

  I asked him in my most hospitable manner, “Would you like to see the pool now?”

  “Yes. Please. Of course. Where is it?” He dropped the towel to the table, grinned, so enamored with my idea, so child-like with wide eyes and interest.

  I did a naughty thing. I picked up the towel and started wiping my own mouth after Tacoma; such horrible hygiene, but erotic for me nonetheless. I could smell his sweat on the towel: sweet and fruitful. Just a boy’s smell. Young and carnivorous. Devouring. Simple and youthful. Eventually, I tossed the moistened towel to the tabletop and stood, walked around the table, and patted young Tacoma on the back. My fingers touched his tee, molding my flesh to its cotton. My words were clever, I thought, mysterious and enchanting as I said, “Hidden, my boy. The pool is hidden, just like all the wonderful and amazing things in the world.”

  Chapter 6: His Skin

  Tacoma was still seated but looked left and right as if he wondered where the pool was hidden, as if we were playing a game like hide-and-seek.

  “Follow me,” I suggested, helping him out of his chair from behind, touching both of his shoulders again, enjoying the strength of his bones and muscles under my gentle grip.

  He stood with ease. I stepped in front of him and rolled fingers down the length of his left arm, then his right arm, caressing the fine brown hair on both, and then allowed my stray fingers to dance along his tee-covered chest, southward to his navel. Crossing a line, being selfish, needing and wanting him, I pressed a palm between his solid and rounded pecs, and stared spellbound into his cocoa eyes. I was hypnotized by Tacoma; the aged and experienced author bedazzled by a youthful prince who didn’t back away from me.

  As I led him to the pool I said, “You have to be careful, Tacoma. I don’t want you to fall in the pool. It’s in a dreadful state. Just a warning.”

  “Yes, sir,” he breathed. His chest rose and fell. Softly. Gently. Just right for a young man of twenty-two, and for an older man such as myself in need of youthful flesh.