The Pool Boy Read online

  Honest Rose. She had cared for me in the lowest times of my life, and the highest, a roommate in college, a dating expert on guys during my twenties and now, a dish for any gay man in the world, a perfect beard in my writing world, and the best fag-hag anyone could have. She was single and straight, thin and beautiful, but just as lonely as me. She had everything because of our Danielle Silver contract: money out the ass, three homes, a stylish wardrobe and jewels, a list of handsome, European men that waited on her. She was my goddess, but I pitied her because she wasn’t married, nor had a boyfriend, because she couldn’t go anywhere without someone recognizing her as the best-selling romance author because of her fame, and people always begged her for a picture with them, or her autograph. I saw her as living in a tyrannical and strange world of captivity and chaos, where she had very little room or space to breathe or move, with many needs of freedom that she didn’t have, caged. A prisoner of our fame and fortune. She had become my trapped relic. My companion for life in a golden tower of solitude. My lonely princess or queen.

  “How dare you insult me like that. I’m not old,” I said, laughing.

  “It’s not an insult. It’s mere fact. You’re older than you believe. You suffer from a misconception. You’re not twenty-two, as I’ve already said. You are thinking with nothing more than your jewels. I know you well enough to say this. You love your young men. You always have. But there is a time to stop. Perhaps today is that time. Let the pool boy go. Don’t worry if he doesn’t come back. Let him be free of your selfish ways, your seduction.”

  “Shame on you, Rose. Ladies don’t talk like that. Besides, I have no intentions of seducing Tacoma.”

  “You are a kind liar, my friend. It’s why I adore you.”

  “I won’t be hanging my head in shame.”

  I missed Rose severely, every day. I wanted to see her and share dinner with her, cup her against me in bed as a friend, and dream the night away with her. She had truly become my life-partner, my dearest navigator in a reckless world of romantic scenes and stories and book sales. How large the world was, separating us. Purposely, I changed the topic and asked her, “When are you coming home?”

  “To see the pool boy, or you?”

  “To see me, of course. But only if you want. Or, the pool boy. Whatever.”

  “You fool. I will never come home to see the pool boy. I don’t need boys in my life, Robert. And nor do you. I need real men. Like marines or firemen. Like football players. Like the men you write about in your novels. Like boxers. Like James Bond or Arabian princes.”

  “Like the pool boy,” I whispered. “I want the pool boy.”

  She became silent. Seconds ticked by as an intermediate pause hung between us. “You like this one, don’t you?”

  “I do. I had a certain connection with him I can’t fully grasp. But I have to be honest. I don’t know much about him. At least not yet. And I probably won’t learn anything about him if he doesn’t come back.”

  “Time will share more with you, Robert. I’m glad you found an interest in him. Kudos to you, my friend.” We talked well over an hour, about her success in London on the book tour, and the book signings, about the paper write-ups and fans, all of which were related to a single, twenty-seven-page contract which allowed her twenty percent of the hardback/paperback earnings from my novels. We talked about her next stop: three cities in Ireland; and how the ladies there loved Silver. We talked about food and wines, a selection of global topics, about Prince Harry and his dashing looks, Big Ben, the current book she was reading (Our House by Louise Candlish, whom she recently met, a native of London) and how I should find a copy, and then she whispered into the phone, “Darling, you must be exhausted with all this chatter?”

  “Yes, kind of.”

  “I should let you go. It’s past one o’clock in the morning over there.”

  “Yes, I know. That doesn’t matter. Don’t leave. Talk some more.” I sounded as if I were begging, boy-like with her, needing her company for as long as she would allow.

  “I know what’s best for you, Robert. It’s time for me to go.”

  “All right then.” I had to give in. She had a very busy life; shame on me for taking up her time.

  “Good night then. I miss and love you. And don’t forget that I will be home soon for a visit.”

  “Good night. And I miss and love you too.”

  And then she was gone, abandoning me with nothing more than Martha Stewart pillows and silk sheets, and my irrational dreams about a pool boy I had taken a great liking to, found myself hard for. But deep in my heart and soul I knew he wouldn’t return to the estate as my employee, my find, my pet.

  The pool boy had left, and I would never see him again.

  Never.

  Part 2: July

  Chapter 11: Return Trip

  July 1. I was tucked under the eaves of the gazebo between the East and West gardens reading David Leavitt’s Arkansas when the pool boy returned. A part of my mind believed that I was hearing things (car door slamming, a “Hello!” being called out in the distance, rushed footsteps on marble and Parquet flooring inside), but when I placed the hardback on the wooden bench next to me, I lifted my head and saw a handsome shadow lurking about inside the house on the first floor, moving from room to room.

  He was in search of me, only me, which caused my cock to bubble up with warm life inside my khakis. The high temperature was grueling. I found that the shade in the gazebo was the best way to keep cool. I had a beautiful view of the blue-green lake, the distant lighthouses, and sail boats.

  He found me less than a minute later when he stepped into the backyard wearing nothing more than a skimpy pair of shorts and Nike tennis shoes with Ralph Lauren booty socks. I smiled upon his arrival, counted his bare abs on his sweaty, lower torso, admired that spot of dark treasure hair that lingered from the base of his navel and dove directly into the V-area of his tight crotch. Tacoma’s pecs were hard and round, glistening in the afternoon sun. Thick thighs moved as he approached and walked into the gazebo and stood approximately three feet away from me. He planted his hands on his firm hips and stated at me. “I’ve been looking for you for over the past five minutes.”

  It had been less than a minute since the car door in the distance slammed closed, but whatever. I laughed at him. “Nothing like a summer’s game of hide-and-seek, huh?”

  “It’s an obnoxious house. Far too big.”

  “Yes. And you love it, right?”

  “Yes. I do. It’s a big lake house. We could play hide-and-seek for days.”

  I stood for a second, fascinated by his beauty, and walked towards him. Instead of holding out a hand and having Tacoma shake it, I took advantage of his return and wiped sweat from his chin and said, “I didn’t think you were going to come back. I would have bet money that you didn’t. It’s been almost too many weeks.” I turned around ever so slightly to hide my face from him and enjoyed the view of the lake—a blue-green and sunny intoxication of sailboats and gulls and sand, a distant Cedar Island that looked like a dot, and swaying waves—and slipped two fingers of the pool boy’s sweat between my lips, craving him. The perspiration was hot, sweet and blissful. After that brief scene of necessary pool boy-indulgence, I spun around, smiled, and listened to his response.

  “Of course I was coming back. I thought I made that clear to you. If you think about it, I wasn’t gone that long.” He still had his hands on his hips, stood aggressively, showed off his chest, the bulge between his legs, and flat stomach; like some dirty pic that I might have come across on the web to masturbate to.

  I nodded. He resembled David in the West Garden. Perfect in all the right ways. Gorgeous. Worth my time. “Time doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re here.”

  He moved to one of the narrow benches lining the gazebo, sat next to Arkansas. “My Navy satchel is sitting on the lawn out front.”

  “Did your friend, Strong, help you bring it here? I heard the car door slam. Or did you hire an Uber?”


  He seemed surprised that I remembered his friend’s name, became wide-eyed. “You mean Katz?”

  “Yes. Katz Strong. Your friend.”

  “He did.”

  “And he didn’t come in for a glass of chilled tea or water, something refreshing in this squelching heat?”

  “No. He had a summer class to attend. He goes to West End College.”

  “Too bad then. But education is a key factor in our lives. A smart boy always attends his classes, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, he should anyway. He’s paying a lot of money to go there.”

  Silence then. I had to turn my attention away from the half-naked pool boy because of the newly growing hard-on that was beginning to climb in my shorts. Again, I looked at the lake and distant island. “Can I help you get settled in, my friend?”

  “Yes. In a few minutes. I just want to sit here in the shade with you and talk, if you don’t mind. The breeze is great. Hot but great.”

  And so, being the good host and employer, being a man interested in that fine specimen of a human being, finding him attractive, connected to him, I sat next to his athletic frame, with our thighs almost sliding together in the afternoon’s sticky heat, the way men really aren’t supposed to sit without making a spectacle. And there, getting to know each other, we talked about the toxic pool, his time in the Navy, my trashy novels, Rosemary Dublin, foods that he enjoyed, his tan, and Arkansas, until we became too hot in the afternoon warmness, and we decided to find shelter in the lake house, and the air-conditioned sitting-room.

  Chapter 12: Settling In

  Located at its rear, there was a small, private, and concealed room inside my study. It had a single key. I kept the silver key on me most of the time. When I didn’t have it on me, I hid it inside a hollowed-out Michael Cunningham novel called The Hours among a collection of queer hardback books on a narrow shelf outside its entry door. To get to the door, I had to push on a secret panel/bookshelf (floor-to-ceiling in height) of hardback adventure books and wait as the plane of wood/door spun around in a semi-circle. A space of sixteen inches opened like a hungry mouth and left me to peer at the familiar and shadowy door behind it. Minimal space allowed my upright and slim body to stand inside the narrow, closet-like compartment. I moved forward, stepped inside, and slipped the silver key into the door’s available keyhole. The door to the hidden room was much smaller than the other doors in the lake house: narrow, less ornate, cracked down the center, and carved out of cedar. It looked shiny and had a woodsy smell; like something that should have been outside instead of inside. With arms and elbows locked at my sides, I twisted the brass knob to the left, listened to the lock click open, and then pushed on the cedar surface of the door to expose the hidden area behind it that no one but myself knew about.

  Once the door stood ajar, I pulled the door behind me closed, shutting myself off from the world; a Hardy Boys move if there ever was one. Turning around and positioning my body sideways, facing the interior wall of the house, I slipped two fingers into a three-inch, steel diameter ring that looked like it belonged on a bull’s snout, and locked the door and faux bookcase behind me, keeping all trespassers at bay. Then I moved into the private room ahead of me, on business.

  An office-like cubicle greeted me. I observed the familiar five-foot long wall layout, which was covered with thirty color units of six-square-inch monitoring flatscreens. Each scanned the rooms inside the lake house and estate in various quarters: bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen, sitting-room, gazebo, the gardens, lengthy drive, and the pool. Thirty-plus 1080-5K Philips cameras showed views of empty chairs, beds, corners, closets, the foyer, the kitchen, statues, the cobblestone pathways, bookshelves, shower stalls, toilets, and various mirrors on the property. Beneath the thirty monitors sat a Dell computer and printer with enough hard drive to run the Pentagon. To the computer’s right sat a Spectrum 5E, twenty-four-inch flatscreen that was blank. Positioned in front of the span of desk and wall-structure was a leather chair that resembled something out of Star Trek, or a video gamer’s chair. I pulled the chair out, sat down, and began to type on the keyboard. Words appeared on the Spectrum 5E’s screen:

  Password: nipple-ring72

  View Camera Number: 21

  Spare Bedroom 1—Second Floor: yes

  Second Password: the-pool boy72

  Confirm: yes

  Seconds passed and the Spectrum 5E popped up Camera 21’s view. There in high-definition stood the shirtless, chiseled, and attractive pool boy over his Navy-registered satchel, unpacking and settling in. He moved socks and boxers from the canvas bag and placed them inside the top drawer of a dresser, and found jeans and shorts, placed them into the second drawer. He unpacked five hotrod magazines, two cartons of Marlboros (no surprise since he occasionally smoked), two cans of Edge shaving cream, a Colgate toothbrush (without a traveling caddie), and Speed Stick deodorant, which he left scattered on top of his dresser in what looked to be a post-apocalyptic action and war-torn area.

  I pressed the F8 key and the SpyGram 570 Program asked me a string of more questions:

  Zoom In: yes

  Percentage: 70

  Mouse Accessible: yes

  I used the mouse and clicked the left button, zoomed Camera 21 on Tacoma’s right nipple, his abs, the area between his legs as he unloaded his bag. He unpacked more clothes, a pair of military books, ear buds, an electric body razor, and tubes of moisturizes for his skin. As I mastered the buttons on the mouse and zoomed in on his smooth biceps, then his narrow mouth, thin nose, and brown eyes, he moved to the window of his private room and stood with his arms dangling down at his sides. A perfect silhouette of his chiseled body appeared on the flatscreen. I pulled back on the focus level, lowered the percentage, and pressed the F5 key. The program asked me:

  Take a Picture: yes

  Autofocus: yes

  Ready: yes

  I clicked the right button on the mouse and watched Camera 21 do its thing, snapping a crisp and clear photo of Tacoma near his window as he stared out at the perfect day. After the computer made a clicking sound, the program asked:

  Re-Take: no

  Print: yes

  I pressed the enter button after yes and sat back in the leather chair, relaxed, and allowed the printer to work as it mastered one of the most striking and handsome photos that I had ever taken of a young man. GQ-perfect all the way. When the laser printer finished, I picked up the photo, admired Tacoma’s stance in front of the window, his half-opened satchel on the bed, his unorganized dresser’s surface, and said to the empty room, “I’ve got my eyes on you, young man, and I like what I see. Our relationship is just beginning.”

  After staring at the photograph of him for more minutes than I could count, minutes that led into a late afternoon, I carried the prize back to my study room area and stashed the piece of art under an old manuscript titled Hidden Repairs with an unopened bottle of Jim Beam. Both would be left safe and untouched there, hidden from view, mine for keeps, valued. Trophies.

  Chapter 13: Breakfast

  Oversleeping is not one of my favorite ways to start the day, particularly when one has a fictitious world of characters and dialogue to organize, and a precious deadline to meet for a pissy agent in New York City. I walked into the kitchen feeling dazed and confused because of a splitting headache. Feeling sickly, my gaze fell on Tacoma’s sleek body: Boxer Joe’s were snug around his waist as he prepared breakfast, which was a complete surprise since it was already late in the morning. I didn’t smell French toast, bacon, or sausage, but he was preparing something to consume.

  Upon sitting at one of the bar stools at the island, leaning over a cup of black coffee that he had already (and kindly) poured for me, I couldn’t prevent my stinging eyes from straying to his molded thighs and bulged package between his stern legs; medicine for my stinging headache. Tacoma stood with his cotton-covered cock almost pressed against the countertop, thighs slightly hairy and firm, and the thin patch of treasure hair only
inches away from a sliced and toasted onion bagel next to a bowl of whipped cream cheese that he had fetched from the refrigerator. I watched his hands in motion: using a silver butter knife to spread cream cheese on the bagel as the other held it. Thereafter, he poured orange juice into two tiny glasses and placed one in front me.

  I sat rubbing fingertips against temples, trying to push away the morning headache. “For you, Robert,” he said in a whisper, walking away to fetch his bagel. “Would you like one?”

  “No, thank you. I’m good. The juice will be fine.”

  He carried the bagel to the island: long arms in front of him and his chiseled chest looking delicious. He was beyond beautiful to me, even as my head pounded, and I wanted to wake up with him at my side every day, for the rest of my life. A boyfriend. A lover. My companion. Even as a husband. I didn’t care what our ages were. Numbers didn’t matter to me. How mad: I wanted to be married to him, coupled in the house by the lake. Just the two of us, in love, and sharing orange juice together for the rest of our lives.

  “I’m sorry to say this, but you look terrible.”

  “Thank you. Damn headaches. They have always bothered me.”

  “You look like you spent the night on the town and had too much to drink.”

  “I would have liked to spend the night on the town, bombed out of my mind. At least I would have a legitimate reason for all the pain I’m having now.”

  “Drink this. The juice will help.” He pushed the tiny glass my way. Slender fingers in movement. Knuckles bent, fingernails nicely manicured, unbitten. Perfect fingers on a perfect man. “You should try a banana, too. I hear that potassium is good for headaches.” He fetched one and placed it down by the glass of orange juice. Seconds later, he sat down in front of me and faced me.