The Pool Boy Read online

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  We became animals of habit; I never expected it, but it did happen.

  He bathed early in the mornings, washing his hands and hair and back, and that prominence between his legs. He ate breakfast with me at approximately eight-ten every morning. Then he went off to the pool for a daily ritual of cleaning and skimming its glimmering surface, testing is PH/acid, or whatever he did with those tiny plastic colorful tubes. He checked the thermometer and analyzed the temperature, he chlorinated the pool and tested the blue-blue water for algae.

  We lunched together at two and napped for an hour in the shade for an hour, usually by the pool and side by side. Thereafter we spent a half hour or longer swimming, enjoyed a cocktail or beer together, and ate dinner together. Then we spent a few hours apart as I wrote and he did whatever a pool boy does on his own. Happy on the estate. Soulful. Combined.

  But we were also apart at times. When that happened, I won’t lie, I became sexually frustrated and half out of my mind, flustered and confused. Wood sprouted in my shorts because of him. I drank more and attempted to be closer to Tacoma whenever I could. I wanted to sleep with him at night and have him locked in my study with me at times. My thirst for the young man was unquenchable. How horribly I longed for the pool boy when we were not together. How he grabbed my attention and sexually bothered me. I wanted to touch, hold, cup, kiss, and blend with him.

  I watched and devoured the pool boy whenever I could: his every move and muscle; his dark hair in the steamy sun; his firm abs that sometimes dripped with perspiration; his healthy and sculpted thighs. I licked my lips when I saw or stared at him. My green eyes would be glued to his meaty and hypnotizing body and I would discreetly seize the semi-erection within my underwear and summertime shorts, trying to tame, discipline, calm, repress, or curb myself of filthy desires for him. But it was impossible, wasn’t it, to stop such urges? Because I was hungry for him, had become a cannibal of sorts for his body and flesh.

  I was out of my mind and body for lust of the younger man. I licked my lips for him, always pushed my hard erection down for him, pinched my nipples for him, and was unable to focus on reality: my writing, editing, reading, confused by my spineless and messy behavior because of him. A cannibal’s behavior. Man needing to eat, devour, consume, and taste another man. Unthinkable acts on my part! Harmful acts! Cannibalism between men. A reality in my fogged, pool boy-infested ways. Shame on me! Shame!

  * * * *

  While shaving one morning, a towel wrapped around my thin waist, nipples tight and hard, chest silken and smooth, almost hairless, I whispered into the mirror, “Who are you, Robert Fine? What has happened to your mind? Where are you hiding that sane man you once were? Get the pool boy out of your head! Now. Don’t wait. Find your sanity. And find it now.”

  But, I needed Tacoma. I wanted him. Was I wasting my time, or did I really have a chance to become intimate with him, able to spoon him at night? Could I have his hard body wrapped against mine, legs tangled together, my muscled erection pushed against his buttocks, slipping between his cheeks? Would that moment of man mixing with pool boy ever come? Or, would I stay the employer and he the employee that summer? Would being a wealthy writer and a poor pool boy prevent us from becoming lovers and intimate? I believed so. Certainly.

  I nicked my chin with the disposable razor. Blood formed a thin line of broken flesh. Maroon droplets fell into the sink, one by one. I dropped the razor and yelled, “Dammit!” Tears stung my eyes and my right hand began to shake. It took over three minutes for the bleeding to stop, and for me to calm down. A part of my sanity became lost during that short period of time as I found a box of Band-Aids and antiseptic pads in the medicine closet above the sink.

  Once bandaged, I stared at the wound on my chin and said into the mirror, “This is what he’s doing to you, Robert. This is how he’s going to slowly take everything from you…slice by slice. If you’re a smart man, save yourself and fire him. Let him go. Let him fly away. He’ll do well somewhere else. Save yourself from death and madness. Get rid of the young man before he tears you apart piece by piece. It’s the smart thing to do.”

  Outside the bathroom door, I listened to Tacoma tap on the wood three times.

  Tap! Tap! Tap!

  “Robert, are you okay?”

  He was a little late to save me, over four minutes, but better late than never as the cliché went. Disgusted, I sighed, chanted, “Fine. Just fine. No worries. You should run along.”

  “I heard a scream.”

  “Shaving. I had a little cut. It happens to us all. No worries, as I’ve said.”

  “Can I help in any way?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer him. Seconds of silence passed between us. I thought of many ways he could help me. Kissing. Holding. Hugging. Spooning. Fucking. “No. No help is needed. Everything is under control in here. No need for your assistance, Tacoma. Thank you, though.”

  “If you change your mind, I’ll be in my room.”

  “Yes, thank you. I understand.”

  Silence again. An uncomfortable emotion settled under my skin. But slowly it started to dissipate as the minutes in front of the mirror ticked by, giving me the time and space to say to the reflection of myself in the bathroom mirror, “You like him too much, Robert Fine. It’s time to pull away. Back down. Back off. Find some shelter for yourself, safety of sorts. Be a man and let him go. He’s dangerous. He’ll ruin you. Let him go while you still have time. Do it before it’s too late and you fall in love with him.”

  Chapter 18: Push-ups

  I saw Tacoma on the lawn a day later, a mere shadow underneath the brilliant and steaming sun. He was doing push-ups on the flat yard. His toes pointed to the ground and his palms were pressed into the grass. His back was parallel to the blue-white sky and his body rose up and down, up and down in a somewhat fucking motion, thrusting. I stood in the gazebo’s shade, and watched his buttocks rise and fall. His bronze biceps swelled and deflated as his bare chest (pointed nipples and solid pecs) grazed the ground, rose again, fell. Sweat dribbled off the point of his nose, his shoulders, and rippled abs. Tiny droplets of the dappled looking liquid sprinkled the grass like rain.

  “I can’t handle this.” I held my package with two hands and whispered to myself, “He’s driving me mad. He’s too good looking. He’s a drug.”

  Pushing up and down. Push-ups of all things. Cock meeting grass. Sweat dribbling. Nipples touching the earth. Skin glistening. Muscles moved on his body in a fine rhythm that caused bubbles of pre-ooze to leak out of me. I licked my lips and tried to catch my breath, found that I couldn’t, and forced myself to eventually walk away, out of the gazebo. I escaped to the lake house where I could hide from him, for my own good. I would become a shadow myself. Because shadows couldn’t be hurt. Because shadows could hide.

  Yes, I would hide from him.

  Hide.

  And masturbate with an image of the pool boy in the creases of my memory.

  Chapter 19: Pumped

  The following day, I heard grunting, groaning, and growling in the house and listened to the pool boy at work in the gym. I was curious. The strange noise begged me to follow the grunting and groaning down the hallway to the gym.

  I had to find out what he was doing in that small and sweaty room. On the prowl, I moved toward the door that separated his flexing and pumped body and my investigative marauding.

  What did I want to find? I wanted to witness him laying back on one of the hard benches with his legs spread wide open, fully naked, thrusting his veined cock up and down with a mad force that would leave poor me trembling for breath. I wanted to catch the pool boy jutting spew up and over his chest like the fountain of youth, white bubbles of sweet-goop clinging to his tight nipples and the thatch of coconut brown, triangular-shaped hair between his thick and muscular legs, the cords along in his neck, and even the tiny and narrow curves to the right and left areas of his slightly parted lips.

  Instead, I tapped tw
ice on the ajar door and entered. On a good day, I would have been able to spy on the young man. Upon my entrance, I called out, “Tacoma, are you okay in here?”

  He lifted a barbell of weights and grunted, sounding like a wild beast, “I’m fine.”

  “Can I come closer?”

  “Yeah. But not too close.”

  I walked into the room, studied the faux leather bench he lay on, the fifty-pound weights he lifted, and one hundred pounds of lead on the single bar over his handsome face; something I couldn’t even dream of lifting. He lay on his back, nipples pointing to the ceiling, exhaled, lifted the bar, lowered the bar, exhaled, and lifted the bar again. His lips and jaw tightened up like steel in the process. Tacoma’s leg muscles bulged and constricted, grew twice their normal sizes. His legs were spread apart as the barbell rose and fell. Bubbles of glowing sweat clung to his chest, cheeks, and biceps. When he finished his reps, ten in all, I asked, “Shouldn’t you have a potter?”

  He chuckled, out of breath. “It’s called a spotter.”

  “Yes. A spotter. Shouldn’t you have one of those? Isn’t it dangerous if you don’t? Couldn’t you kill yourself by accident?”

  He huffed, obviously applying the old cliché no pain, no gain, “Yes, I should have a potter. And yes, it’s dangerous not to have one. And yes, I could kill myself without one.”

  I studied the dots of sweat on his body: the most beautiful artwork on the planet, Bubbling Sweat on Weightlifter #1; something I would have paid millions for. “Can I get you a water or Gatorade?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “You’re fine then?”

  “Absolutely.” He sat up, flexed, and stretched.

  I noticed that he had droplets of sweat on his forehead. The man breathed in and out, lay back down, and lifted the bar again. This time he tightened his feet flat on the floor, which caused all the muscles in his legs to ripple. Enticing. Edible. I never wanted to give him up, or the current view of him.

  “Are you sure about the water or Gatorade?”

  His shorts opened on his inner thigh, creating a gap. It allowed me a dollar peek inside: cockhead and tiny specks of dark pubic hair, tanned thigh, and more perspiration, one saggy ball. I kept looking at that tiny portion of opened space between material and skin, craved the area and licked my lips.

  Between lifts, and heightened breaths, he told me, “Perfectly fine. Thank you, Robert.” He lifted and lowered the bar ten more times and groaned after placing the bar back where it belonged. Then he left out an exhausted sigh and wiped the back of his right hand across his sweaty forehead.

  I fetched a nearby towel for him and handed it over.

  He sat up and took the cotton, said, “Thanks. That was nice of you.” He shared a delicious smile with me, ear to ear.

  “You look exhausted.” I stood beside him, unsure of my position, as if I were invading his personal space. My gaze scanned his span of damp and muscled chest, his hard nipples, and ladder-like stomach. “I didn’t mean to barge in like this, Tacoma. I heard grunting…and was wondering if you were all right.”

  “You’re fine…Stick around. Get on the treadmill and go for a run.”

  I shook my head, “Really, I can’t. This is your alone time. You need your space away from me.”

  “Don’t be silly. I like spending time with you.”

  Again, I shook my head. “Not all the time. You work out. I’ll go and write. Forget that I bothered you.”

  “Suit yourself. Just know that I’m okay with you staying. And remember that there’s a lot of grunting and groaning when working out.”

  Honestly, I had to make my exit from the gym, and quickly. My cock stirred within my shorts, ready to come alive and pump out a load because of his workout. All his moans and muscles and lifting and sweating drove me into a frenzy. At any second I was about to sport an erection in front of him. Wouldn’t that have been an embarrassment for me? Ludicrous behavior in front of a young, rock hard man with god-like muscles.

  “You’ll have lunch with me, right?” he asked from the weight bench, ready to do his next set of reps.

  Did he lick his lips, staring at my center? I thought so, but wasn’t sure. Obviously my mind was toying with me.

  “Sure, Tacoma. After I write a bit.”

  “I should be through here and then I’ll have a shower. I’ll order subs for us from Guy’s. You like those. We can meet in say…two hours?”

  I nodded.

  “Where should we meet?”

  “In the West Garden, of course,” I told him.

  “That sounds great. The West Garden.”

  “See you then,” I said, and immediately turned, walked away, and wondered if he was watching me leave, studying my rump.

  I hoped so.

  Chapter 20: Exercise of My Own

  In the hallway, I pushed my erection down. I said, “He’s a tease. Always playing games with me. Causing me to go hard all the time. Can’t get enough of him. You have questionable needs for him, Robert. Your desires aren’t met. You want the pool boy to pump you with things.”

  I walked down the hallway and continued my rant, “Shame on you, Robert. Stop. Just stop. You’re a disgusting creature. You’re a monster. Find someone your own age.” I cupped the cock and balls in my right palm as I walked, and rushed to my study where I always found safety. Once inside I entered the secret room filled with hidden cameras.

  * * * *

  Password: nipple-ring72

  View Camera Number: 30

  Gym 1: yes

  Second Password: the-pool boy72

  Confirm: yes

  I snapped pictures of the pool boy’s beefy chest, his sweaty thighs, his bulging biceps.

  Click! Click! Click!

  I printed the photos out and set them aside.

  And then I pushed my shorts and underwear down to my ankles, stared at the pool boy on the faux leather workout bench as he lifted weights, studied the beautiful bulge at his center, and brought my dick to a full erection.

  It took just a few minutes to come as I watched him in motion, spraying my stomach down with fresh, hot goo.

  Chapter 21: Smoke

  The house turned quiet and we relaxed during most of those hot and humid, July days. I stowed away like an extra bag in my study, writing. Tacoma wasn’t tucked into the privacy of his bedroom. He was at the pool sunbathing and tending to it as he was paid to do.

  Between chapter revisions of The Next Fall, I found it necessary to sometimes creep to the pool boy’s closed bedroom door to investigate his silent doings. Of course, there was no reason for such an insidious action, but I wasn’t perfect. I only wished for Tacoma’s company, mostly his bare flesh connected to my bare flesh. I wanted to talk to him, or take naked dips in the warm pool with him. I wanted to shower with the young man, soap suds connecting our bodies together, or nap with him in the blistering sun, boiling next to his flesh-melting skin. In truth, I would have done anything to be close to his skin. Anything at all. After reaching his bedroom door, my nostrils flared, smelling something different than his chlorine scent. The thick aroma of fresh smoke wavered at the edges of my nostrils. My heart began to thud. I looked around for smoke in the hallway because of its heavy smell, but I couldn’t see any twirls of gray waves or rings anywhere around me. Fear raced through me, though, and I thought Tacoma needed rescuing, trapped inside his bedroom, which I thought was on fire.

  I yelled, “Tacoma! Tacoma!” and banged twice on the door, turned the knob, but the door didn’t open.

  I heard Tacoma choking. A table or something was bumped and I heard whatever it was fall over, crashing to the floor.

  Tacoma called out, “Hold on one second!”

  I imagined he was suffocating inside, hands wrapped around his muscular throat, eyes bulging, face growing pale, unable to breathe. Hero mode kicked in and I rushed the door, breaking the lock to save him, having the utmost boost of chivalry rising within my body.

  I stood feeling completely
helpless in the opened doorway. My heart plummeted as I watched Tacoma put out a cigarette, stabbing its illuminated end into a ceramic ashtray on the bedside table that read Sammy’s Bar—Beverly Hills, California. Tacoma rushed to a nearby window and opened it. A hideous screeching nose filled the room as the window lifted in its track.

  I looked at the pack of Marlboro’s on the bed with a black, Zippo lighter lying next to it. Shock and distrust shook my heart. My liking for him sank. I was ashamed of Tacoma for breaking a house rule. I couldn’t comprehend what my eyes were seeing: Tacoma smoking in my house, disobeying an agreed-on policy, smoking of all things. Smoking!

  He spun around after opening the window and looked at me, startled. White Boxer Joe’s clung to his center; he wore nothing more. So beautiful. Tantalizing. He looked sweet and innocent, charming, and dashing, yet he was a liar and a dishonest man. His eyes transformed into a puppy-dog stare. And then realizing his downfall, he whispered, “Jesus, Robert, what have I done?”

  Smoke lingered inside the room and around the translucent bulbs. A line of the smoke drifted above Tacoma’s bed, parallel to the rumpled sheets. Some of it wafted outside, through the opened window.

  “Were you smoking?”

  To his right was a second nightstand. It lay on its side, tumbled over, perhaps accidentally bumped into during my surprise visit and Tacoma’s hurried action to put his Marlboro out.

  He couldn’t lie regarding my question, caught. He wouldn’t lie, if he was smart.

  “I couldn’t help it. It’s a terrible habit.”

  I frowned with displeasure. “You broke a house rule.”

  He sighed, looking helpless and abashed. “I’m sorry. I’m addicted to cigarettes. I should have told you.”

  “You’ve disappointed me, Tacoma. You should have gone outside to smoke. You know the rule. There are so few rules. How could you have done this?”

  “It won’t happen again.”