The Pool Boy Read online

  “You’re far too kind to me. Such a gentleman. Are you always this nice to older men?” I lifted the orange juice and took a sip: sour but enjoyable. As I slowly downed the cool and refreshing liquid, I could feel one of his calves brush against my calf, up and down under the table; a soft and slow movement that I couldn’t possibly pull my leg away from; just a brush of man against man in the summer morning; a simple and unexplained caress. His muscled calf was there one second, perhaps not even a second, and then gone.

  “I feel for you. God knows I’ve spent many mornings in your condition, but usually it’s from binging the night before, mixing strong drinks with beer and staying up all night, partying. I do like to dance and drink with Katz, what can I say? The two of us have fun together at the bars.” He lifted the cream cheese half of bagel to his mouth and took a bite, chewed, and swallowed.

  I’m sure he has too much fun with Katz. Whatever, I thought.

  “How often do you get these headaches?”

  “It varies. I take sinus medication, but sometimes it doesn’t work. Today is a perfect example of when it doesn’t work.” I cringed, embarrassed because of my condition. Our eyes connected briefly, green with brown, blended; a morning embrace of sorts, hanging together. I wondered what he was thinking and tried to pinpoint the verbs and nouns and adjectives that were floating about in his young mind, but couldn’t grasp anything and pushed the idea away.

  He chewed more of his bagel down, sipped his juice, and enjoyed his breakfast. “I’m going to finish here and spend most of the day down at the pool if you need me. There’s a lot to get done. That smell is atomic and what horror movies are made of.”

  I watched him be polite and use a napkin against his narrow lips. He finished the bagel, swallowed the last of his orange juice, and placed the dirty dishes in the sink for me to take care of; something I didn’t mind doing. “You be careful. I’m going to clean up these dishes, get rid of this headache, and spend a few hours in my office writing, if you need me.”

  “Come and visit me at the pool if you get bored,” he said at the sink, half-turned, with bare nipples pointed and abs glowing in the sunbeams that shined through the kitchen window.

  I licked sweet orange pulp from my upper lip, dabbed a napkin against the same area, and said, “Oh, I never get bored around here. But If I do, you’ll be the first one I’ll visit.” I paused, watched him exit the sink area. “Off you go. Poolside, Mr. Pool Boy.”

  He headed out of the kitchen. “I need to get in my suit first. The rays are hot this morning. A natural tan is calling me.”

  “Don’t overdo it with the sun. But you probably know that already.”

  “I do. Thanks for caring.”

  As he walked out of the room, in search of his navy suit and summery, yellow towel, two articles of material that he would use most of that summer, I wished that he had stayed seated in the kitchen with me at the island, keeping me company, talking about his life, listening to the tales of my life, and gently rubbing our calves together like lovers or boyfriends…rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.

  Chapter 14: Binoculars

  Once I milked the headache away with a morning nap in a shaded area of the lake house, enjoying the wind, knowing that it was beyond a comfortable hour for me in the day for writing or editing, I thought of the pool boy down by the pool, working most of his day away, enjoying the heat and sun and water. How focused he was. How diligent regarding his task. The reason why I had hired him. The means of his weekly paycheck. How easy it was to visit him and praise his hard work, watching him.

  * * * *

  A day went by at the estate in his company.

  Two days.

  Three days.

  On his fourth day of employment I visited him at the pool again. How marvelous the pool looked already, glowing and glimmering, a shiny mass of blue-blue water that curled in circular waves from the touch of a heated summer wind. The cement patio looked tended and clean. ‘Spic and span’ came to mind. Freshly washed in the afternoon rays of light, tidy and spotless. Again, the half dozen white-wood Adirondack chairs and matching tables resembled new items. And inflatables drifted on top of the pool’s reflective surface: a unicorn, flamingo, and an adorable pink panda. The pool looked like a breath of fresh air, exquisite.

  Tacoma had worked from dawn until dusk during those first few days. He stayed poolside, captive in the baking sun, exhausted by nightfall. I imagined him falling into bed in his personal room on the second floor, quickly closing his eyes, drifting off into abrupt sleep, settling into deep nights. I told myself that he dreamed of tasty disco boys dancing on bar tops and loud music played down from overhead speakers as queers danced, mixed together, kissed, and become lovers in darkened corners.

  * * * *

  I couldn’t hang around the pool all summer long, though, gawking at that young man with my dick hard and my tongue hanging out. I wouldn’t. Unfortunately, my interest in the pool boy didn’t dissipate. I do believe it was on his fifth day of employment when I thought of the pathway in the East Garden and hid for numerous hours there, peering; hidden, spying on him, becoming excited by his every move as he tended the pool and its surroundings, bringing the area back to life, providing its rebirth.

  He caught me in the act of invading his privacy. We met on the pathway separating the East Garden from the pool. He traveled upwards as I progressed downwards. His held a skimming device with a thin net attached to its end that drooped over the pool’s surface to collect leaves and drowned insects in the pool. Surprised to see me, he called out, “Robert, we meet again.” His tone projected interest, happiness to see me, delight.

  I didn’t answer. I blushed, nervous because of my bad behavior, knowing he had caught me spying on him, but he kept walking, acting as if nothing abnormal had happened.

  He didn’t scold me for my prying, although it was obvious what I had been doing. He could have lambasted me if he wanted, assumed that I possibly didn’t trust him at his tasks. Instead, he took me passing him on the narrow pathway, heading to the pool or beyond as me simply going about my day.

  As he turned left to the pool shed that afternoon, returning the skimmer, I immediately turned right, circled the pool, and found my way up a second pathway to the house. Once there, I ended up on the second floor and on the east side of the house, to a dead-end hallway with a floor-to-ceiling window. Alas, during any other season it had a lovely view of the pool area and its surroundings. Now the sight was concealed by too many summertime trees, preventing my spying gig of the pool boy.

  Of course, there was only one window that I knew of that could share a sugary-sweet view of Tacoma near the pool—the pool boy’s private room where he slept and dreamed.

  Shame on me for thinking that I could enter there. Shame. Shame. Shame. It was his personal space. His private space. A locale specifically designed for the young man. His private domain. It would have been sinful for me to cross inside, passing through his entryway, driven by my hunger to spy on him. It would be a true invasion on my part if I carried out such a task. A travesty. A sin. Dishonesty at a full level. A red alert. A breach between employer and employee. Top-notch rudeness.

  I wouldn’t enter his bedroom without him knowing.

  I couldn’t.

  I wouldn’t betray him.

  Being an honest man, I kept my distance from his bedroom, became disgusted with myself to even think of entering his world (private bedroom) without his permission. I had limits to prying, to crossing that boundary. I loathed the construction of the house, needing to peep, gawk, and study the pool boy’s suave movements in the blistering July sun at the pool, desiring a different floor-to-ceiling window to spy on him from afar. Damn cameras eighteen and nineteen next to the pool area: the sun’s hindering glare prevented smoldering pool boy shows. Truth said, I became agitated during that first week after Tacoma’s arrival, because I could not fill the depth of my desire with a glimpse of his succulent and dripping wet body. I became moody and har
d; a ticking bomb ready to explode with a spray of atomic spew inside me, and acted somewhat bitchily. I avoided the pool boy and his room so I wouldn’t interrupt his normalcy, promising myself not to break our shared trust. I stayed honest.

  I couldn’t betray him. I wouldn’t.

  But I would betray him. I would.

  Eventually.

  On that seventh day after Tacoma’s arrival, I came up with a genius and devious plan to invade Tacoma’s pool-time. In one of the mahogany closets in my study, where I kept ancient manuscripts that would never see the light of day, there on the top shelf was a pair of Bausch & Lomb binoculars that I had used while traveling through the mountains of Peru two summers before, and also on the heated veldts in faraway Africa. This was my tool of choice to view the pool boy. Feeling devilish, I pulled the binoculars down, blew the dust away, and said to no one but myself, “I don’t give up easily, pool boy. Let my spying continue.”

  Chapter 15: Attic Trip

  Less than a half hour later, behind one of the massive oak doors on the second floor of the lake house, I found the stairway that led to the dark and spider-infested attic. With the binoculars in hand I opened the door and saw the narrow flight of steps that led into thick darkness above. I pushed stringy spider webs out of the way with one hand. Breaking through the shadows, I ascended to the attic, a devilish smile on my face, desiring nothing more than to spy on the pool boy.

  The thick air was sinister, dusty, and dry, like old newspapers or books. Dust floated, performing some afternoon dance with me, caressing my arms, nostrils, legs, eyelids, and brows. I pushed through the dust and webs like a trained military man, skilled, and kept up my pace, unwilling to turn back.

  Once inside the attic’s heart, I stood in the center of the house underneath the highest eaves, observed the slivers of light that found their way inside through a few cracks, four windows, and holes created by nesting birds. The binoculars hung around my neck, already trailing thin bits of spider webs.

  The four windows of the attic—tiny, dirty, dusty trapezoids—didn’t make it easy for a man to study a pool boy, but I made do. I turned towards the east window that overlooked the pool below. Cramped, having very little elbow room, I positioned my feet on the dry and ancient boards and hunched over towards the small window.

  “You’re out of your mind, Robert,” I whispered to the audience of spiders. “All of this for a view of the pool boy.” I pondered the distance between the trapezoid window and where I stood. It was approximately eight inches, so I decided to lean forward to sit down. In doing so, I banged my head against a two-by-four beam holding the roof together. Pain jolted my left temple; it felt ten times worse than a sinus headache or hangover. Naked men in pink tutus danced across my vision with human-sized paper flamingoes behind them. Did I have a concussion? Perhaps.

  “Shit!” I burst out, startled my spider friends, and they scurried away. I felt woozy as heat splintered down the length of my tight neck and spinal column.

  With blurred vision and semi-conscious, I grasped the two-by-four I had just banged my skull on. I saw an arrangement of blues circle in my mind as the ballerinas and paper birds vanished. The blues shimmered, twirled, and glowed like pool water as I reached for the strap of the binoculars that dangled around my neck like a purse, cobwebs and all. Warm, salty blood trickled into my left eye and started to sting; fresh damage in that awkward position. A flesh wound!

  With tears in both eyes, and blood in one, I backed away from the window. Careful not to trip and fall, not to twist one of my ankles, I accomplished a delicate spin, turned around slowly, and began my exit out of the attic. With one hand pressed against my bleeding temple, with a stinging, blood-soaked eye, I navigated through that perilous darkness and attempted an escape to safety.

  Eventually I made my way down the flight of stairs with the set of binoculars dangling from my neck. Pain spun in vibrant circles within my skull. I felt as if I had been slipped a crazed dose of illegal drug in a cocktail, Ecstasy or Angel Dust or Meth or something newer called Dice, Red, or Mertyl. My footsteps were crooked and unbalanced, sloppy and drunken. I moved slowly to the relative safety of the second floor. Once there, I thought I would faint on the floor from heat exhaustion and loss of blood or delirium. I kept my balance, though, worked my way down the hallway and escaped to my bathroom where I could find a compress for my temple, a bandage, two Tylenol, and sanity for a writer who had become completely obsessed with a handsome pool boy.

  Mission un-accomplished.

  Fuck me.

  * * * *

  Later that day, when the temperatures rose well above one hundred degrees in the attic and the sun could sizzle skin to a crisp, when I had finally stopped the bleeding from my temple, and I could remove the bandage from my wound, I found enough energy for another attic trip. Why not? Once a fool, always a fool.

  Again, I traveled to the second floor, then to the attic, and ended up at the trapezoid window on the east side of the lake house again. This time I paid more attention to the beams and less to the cobwebs. With caution, I found a seat in the tiny space in front of the window with the binoculars in hand, a bottle of water, and a towel because I knew my perspiration was going to be a problem.

  And there, tucked under the heated eaves of the attic, among the staring spiders and their cocoon-covered insect-lunches, with just enough room for my six-plus body to cram itself against one of the attic’s eyes, I used the binoculars and focused my attention on the pool boy, finally invading his privacy.

  It took no time to find him. I moved levers and turned knobs on the pair of binoculars, positioned my gaze towards the East Garden and above the trees, and…there he was, gorgeous and stimulating, pumped and sweaty alongside the blue-blue pool. My find. My prey. Mine. A summer god in the sunshine, beaming and golden brown—Kent Tacoma.

  He was cleaning the pool again, just as I suspected he would be. Such a good employee. The shimmering sun glimmered against his muscular arms and legs and he became bronze in the silky, penetrating heat right before my very eyes. I stared at him for quite some time, stretching arms and legs, taking PH/acid tests of the water in tiny, plastic tubes of various colors: pink, orange, and purple. Pointed nipples decorated his hard and golden chest. With the binoculars helping, I counted his abs again and again, licked my lips, felt sweat dribble down and over my forehead, across my damaged temple. The heat in the attic became extreme, but I tolerated it without a fuss since my mind and attention were elsewhere, intoxicated.

  Tacoma finished cleaning the pool and took a moment for himself. He lay down on his yellow beach towel with slightly spread legs. Sunglasses perched over his eyes, his flat stomach eating up every ray of blistering sun. I moved the binoculars down to the V-area of his lower torso and admired his deflated package for what felt like an hour or more. I calculated and re-calculated the length of his swimsuit-covered cock, scanned every square foot of his body, and felt overcome with a new piece of two-by-four inside my shorts.

  “Are you happy now, Robert?” I asked the spiders and myself, caressing the toy between my legs.

  “Happy,” I replied, and felt pre-ooze dampen my shorts. “So very happy…happy…happy.”

  Chapter 16: Celebration

  Some neighbors hosted a summertime party. I thought it was the Westfields of West End: wealthy beyond anything imaginable; the inventors of Westfield Urns and Memorials. That night Kent and I sat on one of the west balconies overlooking the lake. We drank homemade banana daiquiris. The West End Fire Department set off a private firework display from Cape Point. I was quite sure the Westfields had paid a bloody fortune for the fireworks display.

  Near midnight, the sky filled with brilliant colors, blooming among the stars, exploding into mushroom-shaped lights, bursting and filling the sky. Halfway through the display I watched Tacoma across from me. He had one leg propped over the other, neck arched, eyes glued to the colorful night. I couldn’t think of anyone more handsome, charming, and monumental i
n my life; a sex symbol of sorts. Mine for the summer. Found and mine. A prize.

  Tacoma sipped his daiquiri, immersed in the fireworks. Fiery reds, canary yellows, butterfly blues, and sunny yellows filled the heavens. Explosions of fireworks went boom!…boom!…boom!…for twenty minutes or more.

  Before the finale he turned to me and said, “It’s beautiful. One of the most amazing displays I have seen.”

  “Yes,” I responded, speaking of him rather than the fireworks display. “Beautiful indeed. I wish they were here all year round. Something to have and enjoy every day.”

  * * * *

  We became drunk and silly that night on the balcony.

  “Tacoma.”

  “Yes, Robert.”

  “Would you ever think of staying longer than August?”

  “Only if you swim with me tonight. The pool is ready for you…us.”

  “I’m not very good at swimming.”

  “I won’t let you drown. I can swim like a fish.”

  “That’s nice to know. Thank you.”

  “We could slip into our suits and be down by the pool in a few seconds. What do you say?”

  “I’d say we’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Come on, Robert. Take a swim with me. Don’t make me beg.”

  His begging was nice.

  “Please,” he said.

  So we swam.

  Chapter 17: Cannibal

  It happened, just as I presumed it would happen during that heated, untamable summer, humidity at its highest, July reeking of unkind heat. Tacoma moved about the estate as if he were born there, as if the lake house was a part of his soul or birthright, as if he owned the property.

  I didn’t mind. Should I have? I wasn’t sure. I can say here and now, years later, as an older man, a wiser man, that I enjoyed his thoughts of ownership and gall, his presumptuousness. I did. I honestly did.