The Pool Boy Read online

  “Do you have a stash in here? Where are your cigarettes? Where do you keep them?” I didn’t step inside his room, but I did look to my left and right, searching for a pack or cartons of his cancer sticks, unpleased with his behavior and dishonesty.

  He didn’t lie. “Yes, a few. Two packs. Behind my Patricia Cornwell paperbacks. I have others too.”

  The paperbacks were on his dresser, among other belongings.

  “Have you been smoking in here during your entire stay?”

  “No.” He wasn’t lying. I viewed him smoking outside, often from my private Hardy Boys room. I spent hours upon hours watching him, and not once during those intimate moments of spying on him had he smoked within the confines of the house, particularly his room. He had always smoked outside, mostly near the pool or pool shed, and sometimes in the gazebo.

  “Why did you do this?” I asked. “It was such an easy rule to follow.”

  He pulled three cigarette packs out of the bottom drawer of his dresser. They were tightly wrapped in cellophane, hidden from my eyes. Tacoma passed the red and white boxes to me, placing them in my opened palms. “I don’t know why. Forgive me. Take these. Get them out of my sight.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked sad, ashamed of his behavior. His eyes were puffy, and he resembled a boy more than a man, beaten down.

  I pointed to his lighter on his bed, and then snapped. “The Zippo. Hand it over.”

  “Yes.” He fetched it from the bed and placed it on the pile of cigarette boxes in my palms.

  “You won’t do this again, right?”

  “Never. I’m sorry.” He looked as if I would force him to pack his things and boot him off the estate. He looked panicked and on edge, lost and in a state of confusion. The lines on his face were pale as his lips pressed ever so gently together. “I’m sorry, Robert. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  I backed into the hallway with the goods and stared directly into the pools of his glistening brown eyes. I told him, “I’ve already forgiven you. I just prefer nonsmoking over smoking. I hope you understand.”

  He looked as if he would start to cry. “Yes. I understand. I’m sorry. I mean this. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll put these cigarettes and Zippo near the pool. You can use them there. But if I see you with them in the house again, you’ll have to leave. Do you understand? You’ll be terminated. It will be the end of you…us.”

  He nodded, petrified and pale-faced, shivering in the evening’s heat of the house.

  I realized his lesson was learned, and then I walked away.

  Chapter 22: Fireman and Rescue

  The lock on pool boy’s bedroom door had been repaired; I didn’t have a key. If the house caught fire while Tacoma slept behind locked doors, I would have had to instruct a fireman to break the door down and save him. Or, I would have to save him myself, throw my weight against the door, crashing through its plane of wood, in rescue mode.

  Being a writer, oftentimes scenes came to mind. I imagined a short scene after scolding the pool boy for breaking a house rule:

  Blond hair falls over my blue eyes as the summertime temperature rises. My tired limbs carry me back to the house where I immediately fall into an empty bed after stripping down to bare flesh.

  Without a shower, I have a few puffs on a Camel and swig on a long-necked beer. I eventually dab the red-tipped cigarette out in a nearby ash tray, roll a palm down and over the muscled flesh and hard-core sweat on my chest. It’s time for sleep. Yawning.

  Seconds drift…drift…drift…by as the lake calms outside. I fall into a slumberous dream of an igloo and an Eskimo-god in Alaska named Berg. He welcomes me into his arms, holds me close, says something like, “Let me keep you warm, Robert.” Inside his igloo, we undress together and he moves his mouth over the hard staff between throbbing legs. Berg eventually rises from my eight inches of veined, Northern meat, and whispers, “You’re hot now. You won’t freeze in these parts.”

  The dream ends. I wake before Berg’s mouth slips over mine. Outside the lake house there are the loud and alarming sounds of fire trucks. They blare and echo around me, endless noises. The night’s quiet is gone for good as I open my eyes and feel smoke and heat sting them. A warm circle bites at my skin. There is heavy smoke in my lungs, and my bedroom. I feel my slick and hard chest covered in thick sweat, and realize almost instantly that the peaceful house by the lake is on fire. Everything I own is up in flames: manuscripts and photos of lost boyfriends, poems and dust jackets, rare books, furniture, wooden knickknacks from Peru. Black smoke rolls under the closed bedroom door and settles into my mouth, eyes, and lungs. I cough, feel my head sting with the obnoxious aroma that prevents me from breathing, and causes immediate head pain. There are flames everywhere, burning down the door that leads to the rest of the house, burning the ceiling tiles and walls. The fire crackles and chews the edifice apart, and causes me to feel numb and motionless. Panic takes over me. My skin begins to feel the intense heat as the uncontrollable inferno builds around me; inevitably I will be carried into the threshold of broiled death.

  I hear someone outside the door; a rakish voice that I find soothing and welcomed. “Are you in there? Are you there?”

  What’s left of the fiery door breaks down before I can respond. It smashes forward and there is a hulking figure dressed in a fireman’s bright yellow outfit, boots, hat, mask, and jacket. The door frame of orange-red-yellow fire consumes him. Black smoke collects around his bulky figure as he rushes towards my bed and leans over me. The fireman takes control, says, “We’ll get you out of here, man. I’m here to save you. Everything’s going to be all right. You just have to follow my move, okay? I won’t hurt you.”

  He is a hulking and masculine beauty above me: gentle, careful, smiling. I believe he slips one of his hands out of a glove and brushes my blond hair away from my squinting, smoky, and burning eyes. I feel his touch against my forehead, relishing the moment. The bulky man in my bedroom smiles down at me through his fire-retardant face shield and promises, “You’re okay now, Robert. I’ve found you.” He lifts me in his massive arms off the heated mattress and carries me to safety, rescuing me.

  Can it be Kent Tacoma? I want it to be him.

  Fire crackles behind us as the bedroom blooms into more heat and flames. The fireman breaks through the window with one outstretched arm, using his axe. Through my dazed and half-conscience view, I can see flames eat across the floor behind me. They lick at the mattress on my bed as I lie over the hulking rescuer’s right shoulder. My hero holds me tightly with his masculine grip and yells through the crackling blaze, “My buddies are moving a ladder to the window! We’ll use the ladder to escape! I’ll save you! I promise you that!”

  But it’s too late for promises. I choke on smoke and feel heat against my neck, face, and forehead. The heat and flames move quickly towards us. Fire builds and laps at the lake house with ease, growing and spreading. As my body goes limp against the fireman I see unfiltered darkness and the fireman’s soot-covered back as he attempts to rescue…

  * * * *

  The incomplete scene never ended up on paper or in a book. It never turned into a stand-alone story. Truth shared, I erased it from my mind as quickly as it entered there.

  Frankly, I had something better to do with my time than think of a ridiculous, hot fireman-themed rescue scene that had no purpose in my life. The small camera room called for me again. I entered my study. I found my way into the camera room, settled down in the single seat and…

  Password: nipple-ring72

  View Camera Number: 17

  Pool Area 18: yes

  Second Password: the-pool boy72

  Confirm: yes

  A blue-blue view of the in-ground pool appeared. The pool boy did laps from one end of the pool to the other. Butterfly stroke. His back and shoulders bobbed up and down. Then I saw his bare bottom move up and down and realized he wasn’t wearing
trunks, fully naked. To the right of pool his crumpled, blue suit lay in a ball, drying in the sun. He did one lap across the pool, north to south, then returned, then a second, and a third lap. He looked elegant in the water, gliding, barely making waves or splashing, majestic. His speed seemed remarkable. Nothing like Michael Phelps in an Olympic event, but close. My star. A prize. My secret water god.

  Eventually he climbed out of the pool. The camera showed a view of his wet center: dripping cock and drooping balls. He found his yellow towel by the set of Adirondack chairs and dried off: one leg, the other leg, both arms, his back, his chest, his pecs and private parts. Then I thought he would slip into his trunks, but he didn’t. Instead, he found his pair of sunglasses on one of the tables and slipped them on. He sat in one of Adirondack chairs and spent the next hour sunbathing, warmed in the rays of hot light, naked and alone, limp between his legs, cock flat against his lower section, just the way he enjoyed spending his afternoons. My pool boy posing for me. Mine.

  Chapter 23: Sleeping

  The pool boy’s stay continued and the summer became cooler, but only for a day or two. With the air less humid and without the sun boiling and barbequing West End, a rainstorm arrived. Thundering noises and pitter-pattering sounds performed an enchanting play overhead.

  In passing, while fetching laundry from the second floor folding room, I found Tacoma’s bedroom door unlocked and ajar on one of those cool afternoons. As soon as I saw the three inches of the pool boy’s door open I moved up to the door and began to slowly inhale, exhale, captivated by the young and naked man napping inside on his bed.

  He lay curled up and in a ball on his left side with his legs tucked underneath him, sleeping. I couldn’t see his face, but imagined his nostrils moving as he breathed. I believed his eyes were closed, twitching beneath their thin lids while he dreamed. My view scanned his bulky muscles, arched buttocks, and smooth looking back. His left shoulder looked kissable in the afternoon shadows. Tacoma slept peacefully, but stirred a bit, and eventually awakened. He opened his eyes.

  Surprising me, he lifted his head and shared a confused glance with me. Our stares locked as my heart thumped within my ribcage. I swallowed saliva down the back of my tight throat as he recognized me, tried to share a smile, but couldn’t because I was far too nervous, unsure of my behavior. I think he called out my last name as I immediately spun on my heels, fully aware that I had startled him awake, and dashed towards the bathroom in search of cold water for my face, and to find calmness.

  Chapter 24: Confrontation

  That evening, with rain still pouring outside, the occasional lightshow of lightning occurring overhead, and the sounds of banging and booming taking place on the lake house’s rooftop, we sat across from each other in the bleak sitting-room, drinking lemon-flavored cocktails. Again, I was working on The Next Fall’s manuscript and Tacoma read a novel on his cell phone called The Glass Hotel by Emily St. John Mandel that I recommended. I don’t think he was really reading, though. Instead, I believed he scanned over the words or paragraphs or sentences of his e-book, wasting time and drifting, his mind elsewhere. In all honesty, I believed that if it hadn’t been raining that evening, he would have been down by the pool, swimming. But since the weather prevented him, we ended up together drinking, side by side in the sitting-room, in each other’s company.

  Having his face half hidden by his phone, he asked, “You were watching me nap today, weren’t you? You woke me.”

  Startled by his comment, I drew my attention away from my work, pursed my lips together, placed my manuscript with my green pen aside, and amply lied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. You woke me up from my nap. I saw you standing outside my bedroom. You were looking in through the crack of my door. You were watching me sleep. I was naked.”

  “No. I would never do that, Tacoma. You must have been dreaming.”

  “I wasn’t dreaming. And I’m not mistaken.”

  “Of course you were dreaming.” He placed his phone on his lap and shared daggers at me: illuminating brown in the sitting-room’s light, wide, alert.

  Silence hung between us like a cold breeze. Thunder rumbled outside, adding a heavy ambiance to our conversation, dampening the moment.

  “You only thought you saw me, Tacoma. Besides, I wasn’t even there.”

  “I wasn’t mistaken. You were there. You were watching me sleep. Why are you arguing with me?”

  I shook my head, toying with him, and trying to get away with my sinful act. How much gumption did he have for a debate with me? “The house is large, Tacoma. Perhaps you don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps you were seeing things. Besides, you were probably groggy, just waking up.”

  I had what was coming to me next. Most people do when they lie to other people and get caught; simple logic, of course.

  Tacoma rose from his reading chair, ditched his phone on a nearby, hexagonal table imported from Germany, and rushed to my side. He hunched down in front of me with his forehead locked against my own. His deep brown eyes held my calm stare. Silence dragged between us…nothingness for a second, two seconds, three seconds. Both of his firm hands clung to the arms of my chair, pressing them against the modern Danish material. As he breathed, his chest puffed in and out, and the man’s thick breath caught in my semi-opened mouth and smelled like dinner: tacos from a local stand. His nostrils flared like a bull’s. Through gritting teeth he asked, “Why don’t you tell me the truth, Robert Fine? Can’t you be a man and do that for me?”

  I saw things in his eyes that I had longed for: fantastical mermen with chiseled chests and scaled tails; underage nightclub dancers in G-strings and oiled bodies; naked Navy men lined up in a long row, ready for sloppy blowjobs; and a sunbathing pool boy with ripped and glistening abs, spending the summer with me. Calmly, unblinkingly, I told him, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You keep spying on me. You watch my every move, Robert. I’m the one who doesn’t understand. I feel that you don’t trust me, and you’re lying to me about this afternoon. I know you were watching me nap today. You make me feel that I might be doing things I shouldn’t be doing. I feel too contained here. You make me feel uncomfortable because of all the games you play.”

  I consumed his thick breath, turned on by him, even if it smelled and tasted like lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. A semi-erection grew in my shorts. How adorable he was there next to me, angry, with his eyes locked on mine, beads of evening sweat on his chin, his neck tight and lips clasped together, confronting me. How wonderful I felt there, connected to the angry and questioning pool boy. Powered by his outrage. Energized as he demanded answers from me, calling me out. It was the closest we had ever come to each other, combined as one, and almost kissed. No wonder I was growing hard between my thighs!

  “Tell me what we’re doing according to you,” he said, shaking in front of me.

  “Monitoring you. I can’t help it. I have to know what you’re doing here on the estate. It’s my job. The employer watching the employee. It’s a rather simple responsibility if you think about it.”

  “But, Mr. Fine…”

  “Robert…Tacoma. You must call me Robert.”

  “It makes no sense to me.”

  “Maybe you’re not supposed to understand. Some things in the world are like this. Age and wisdom and experience will teach you this, young man.” I paused. “Besides, if you recall, I did catch you smoking in your bedroom. That was a house rule you broke.”

  He huffed, lowering his head.

  I stayed calm, cool and collected, unmoving.

  He lifted his head and puffed in my face, frustrated. His eyes grew even wider. “I will ask you one last time, Robert. Did you watch me nap this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Of course I did. If you must know.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “I already answered you. You’re a rule breaker, young man. You must be w
atched.”

  Fury burned in his cheeks as they turned red. “I thought you’ve already forgiven me for smoking in the house?”

  “I did. But I still have to watch you.”

  He paused.

  I paused.

  Summer absorbed us. Quiet. Something.

  He eventually backed off and away from me, whispered, “Will you ever hurt me, Robert Fine?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m not that kind of man. Have you been hurt before by someone?”

  He didn’t answer me. Instead, he vanished from my side, and I didn’t see him for the next twenty-four hours.

  Chapter 25: Pool Boyless

  Lying in bed naked because I was too lazy to slip into silky pajamas, I imagined:

  My pool boy beside me on the sweaty sheets. I desired nothing less than his cotton briefs and booty socks scattered over the floor. I pictured him naked, useful.

  My legs spread opened for his enjoyment, and my joint poking in his hungry mouth.

  The pool boy sucking on a joint, eventually passing the joint to me, and telling me, “Take a long puff. Let’s get high together, Mr. Fine. So fine and high.”

  Buzzing inside his boyish world with him. Buzzing. Buzzing.

  “Watch me stroke my tool. You’ll like this show.”

  So, I watched the boy-thing stroke his naked, bulging, and veined meat between his legs; the pool boy at work on his delicious-looking pole in the darkness of my bedroom.

  Oh dear! Oh me-oh my!

  Buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing.

  “Do you want to feel it, Robert? I’ll let you…But only if you want to.”

  “Yes, please. I’d love to. Please. And please. And please.”

  Was I smiling too much? Was I greedy for him in the darkness? Was the growing spike between my legs hardening too much for him?

  Buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing.

  Did I fall into half-sleep, dreaming?

  “Touch my pole, Mr. Fine…I’m so fine.”