The Pool Boy Page 9
Men at work. Men smoking pot together in the darkest hours of the evening/night. Bed buddies. Sexual partners in my contaminated mind.
Buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing.
My aged palm slipping over silky sheets and his fleshy thighs; a light texture of hair on his legs, muscles and veins, reaching for him, and reaching and reaching, and eventually slipping my hand around his…
“You found it, Mr. Fine…Oh so fine…So fine…So fine.”
But he wasn’t there, was he? The pool boy in West End had vanished somewhere. Not in my bed. Not with me.
He stayed hidden from me, escaping my sexual madness, my secret desires. The pool boy was on his own somewhere in the lake house. Somewhere distant and away from my side. Purposely lost? Maybe.
Buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing.
I was alone in the room. Just me. Alone. In misery.
* * * *
The house phone rang after midnight. I jumped out of my skin. I sat up in bed and reached for the receiver, and listened to a familiar voice ask, “I thought you’d be sleeping, Robert.”
“Rose, darling. Such a pleasure. I’ve missed you. Where are you? I need to know. My sanity relies on it tonight.” A smile bloomed on my face, and thoughts of the pool boy escaped my mind for the very first time in what felt like months instead of hours.
“Hidden,” she said. “Somewhere in Peru. Perhaps Amsterdam or Taiwan. I’m the mysterious traveler, if you remember.”
“Yes, of course. The famous romance writer of the world. The navigating maiden of the world. Such a treasure you are. My true friend. I’m so thrilled you called.”
“How are you, Robert?”
“Terrible. Absolutely terrible, and miserable.”
She huffed. “No sex, chap?”
“Absolutely not. Not a single kiss, touch, or tiny connection with anyone. Life is sexless here by the lake. My cock is dead.”
“Sexless with the pool boy?” she asked. “It seems so uncivilized. A pool boy without sex. It seems illegal.”
“Yes, Rose. It’s hard for me to understand, too.” I paused, swallowed air and saliva. A sigh took the seconds over, but only briefly. “What makes it doubly worse is that he’s currently pissed at me.”
“At you, his employer?”
“Yes, me. He caught me spying on him? I’ve been called out.”
She giggled on her end of the line. “While he was showering or masturbating in the pool, Robert? Or, did he learn of your secret Hardy Boys room with all the cameras? I’m sure that royally ruffled his feathers, didn’t it?”
“He doesn’t know about the camera room. I watched him napping in his bedroom this afternoon. He woke up and caught me. I denied such an accusation.”
“Dear heavens. How unoriginal and boring. You must have it bad for this little man, don’t you, love? More than with Reynolds, William, and Ian put together, I suppose?”
“Tacoma isn’t little,” I piped back, quickly.
“Of course he’s not little. I was just being funny.”
“Your sense of humor drains me.”
“Well, I’ve never drained anyone. The truth is, the pool boy drains you, not Rosemary Dublin! Not Danielle Silver! You’ve got it bad for the young man’s cock, my dear. I can hear such evidence in your tone. You can’t convince me otherwise.”
I became quiet, realizing my lost battle with her. I never argued with Rose when she was right, like now. I wanted and needed the pool boy like no other man I had ever met (Reynolds, William, and Ian), or who had lived with me. My every minute of each day had become fogged and consumed by Tacoma. Rose was right, the pool boy had me trapped. Shame on him. And shame on me for falling under his simple, youthful cock-spell.
“Are you there? Did I lose you?”
“I’m here.”
“Of course you are. How soon do you need a visit from me? Maybe I can lift your spirits and take your mind off your pool boy. I’m quite sure a visit must be needed. How does that sound, Robert?”
“Wonderful. Just wonderful. Sooner than later would be nice. I need some comfort from my best friend.”
“I’ll schedule it in, darling. Don’t know when exactly, but I will.”
“Promise me?”
“Yes, of course. You know I never break my promises.”
“I love you, Rose. I miss and love you.”
“Yes, I know you do. I’m always with you. You should know that by now. I’m never very far away.”
“I know. You’ll call with details about your upcoming visit, right?”
“Of course. Always. I would never barge in. That would be so unladylike of me. So uncivilized. And so not like me.”
We shared our goodbyes then: simple and sweet. And then our lines clicked off. Again, Rose Dublin had floated out of my life, traveling the world and being famous. Doing what I paid her to do. Fulfilling her contract as Danielle Silver. Working.
Chapter 26: Hidden
Barnie’s Books. Keller Street. West End.
A large bookstore on the other side of town that I often frequented was called Barnie’s Books. It was three levels of old refurbished barn wood. The third level, my favorite, had shoulder-narrow passageways with dusty male-on-male books. While visiting up there, if I were lucky, I sometimes had the opportunity to retrieve a pretty boy’s phone number or smile—maybe even more. The narrow passageways permitted one to glide one’s hand along a masculine back or buttocks, and share a polite, “Excuse me.” Elbows could bump together in some type of literal dance. Chests could frequently connect in passing, as well as chins, lips, and noses because of the close proximity. In truth, one could not consider the bookstore a dirty place. Rather, just narrow in places, particularly on the third floor, which offered very little room to move about.
Away from the estate and pool boy, I became involved in the pages of a delicious piece of fiction on the third floor of the magical bookstore. A vintage, hardback copy of James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room kept my interest as I stood among the dusty books, immersed in the man’s lyrical and threesome-tale. I stood still, sucked into the literature, fully consumed. Unfortunately, I became distracted by a large-framed man with a handsome and muscular back and broad shoulders. He stood six inches away from me. I checked out his bulbous bottom in jeans and his brownish hair in the limited light of that darkened space. The gentleman did a half-turn to greet me, possibly ready to get my number or…
I snapped Room closed seeing Tacoma’s handsome face beside me. He glowed with summer sunshine in his eyes and said, “Robert, is that you?”
I blushed. He could see that a rose hue had filled my cheeks. “Tacoma,” exited my lips, and I nodded, sharing an uncomfortable greeting.
It was the last place I believed to run into him. I couldn’t imagine how he knew about Barnie’s Books, since he really didn’t seem to be interested in literature. He didn’t really read. But there he was nonetheless, among the many queer books and their pages on the third floor of my favorite bookstore, just the two of us. I looked down and saw a battered, queer, horror-themed paperback in his hands. I wondered if he was still mad at me for watching him nap. Didn’t really care. Whatever.
To be kind, I asked him, “What brings you here?”
Half of me wanted him to say mansex, cockcrave, or rimjob. I wanted him to explain to me if he knew what sometimes happened on the third floor to young men like him in Barnie’s. How older men would seduce younger men in that seedy place, acting out such naughty scenes in reads likes Whipping the Boy, Tied up Tight, and Bringing him Home to Daddy. Did he know that he could be pushed against one of the bookshelves on that third floor, face-first, while being dry-fucked, and have his tender lips drag across a well-used paperback called Do Me More Favors? Was he aware that blowjobs occurred inside Barnie’s as often as book critiques? I doubted. Surely, he didn’t. The ex-Navy man knew nothing of the sort, naïve.
But, maybe he wasn’t as naïve as I thought, since he responded to my question with, “Rumor has it that a boy
like me can find something fun up here.”
I raised an eyebrow, slightly gasped. “And what kind of fun did you have in mind? What are you saying?”
I should have never asked those questions for two reasons. One, I was still his employer, and stepped over my boundaries as a professional. And two, Kent Tacoma, I realized for a brief moment, was too perfect for me, too model-handsome, too beautiful. Shame on me for asking those questions.
He fingered the queer horror novel in his hands and ignored me. Instead, he asked, “What are you doing here, Robert? Shouldn’t you be at home writing?”
I felt woozy, light on my feet, sick to my stomach, comprehending his gig. He knew damn well what sometimes occurred on the third floor of Barnie’s Books; that was the reason for his visit. That young man was looking for a blowjob or rimjob…something. Wasn’t he? Tacoma was horny, needing the company of a man? Needing sex. Needing his cock sucked? Something…because he was only human with urges and cravings and sexual longings. Something.
Weakness came over my legs and arms. Dizziness filled my head. I couldn’t stand on my own; I was about to lose my balance. I felt breathless and Giovanni’s Room slipped out of my hands and hit the wooden boards at my feet. Before falling against his chest, semi-fainting, I told him, “Young man, that’s really none of your business now, is it?”
The pool boy caught me with one arm, wrapping it around my side. His lips dove for my neck and brushed its skin, melting me. As all of that untangled, he said, “I followed your here. Keeping my eye on you. If you can watch me nap…I can watch you do things. Besides, I find you interesting and wanted to know what the day in the life of a writer was like.”
“Me?” I whispered, listening to the heartbeats in his chest, his breathing.
“You.”
“There’s nothing especially important or interesting about me at all. You should already know this.”
“If you only knew how untrue this statement is.”
I felt something hard against my left thigh. At first I didn’t know what it was, but then I realized from the plumpness of its mass and length that it was his erection. How shocking. How undignified between an employer and employee.
Just as I was about to bring his hard tool to his attention, pointing out the obvious, he pulled away from me. “Tacoma…”
He shuttered, shaking his head. His face turned a beet red. His arm fell away from me.
I didn’t lose my balance, standing on my own.
Silence settled between us. Shock.
He looked at the floor, probably taking in the copy of Room, whispered, “What have I gotten myself into?” He dropped his horror paperback next to Room. It thudded against the boards at our feet, bounced.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” I said.
It was too late to console him, though. The pool boy dashed away, leaving my side, running down the stairs to the second floor, to the first floor, and out the door of Barnie’s Books. Gone.
Standing there alone, I imagined his lips against my neck and his warm breath along the length of my throat. Drained, I fell into one of the shelves of books behind me and slid to the floor. In doing so, I pushed Giovanni’s Room and his chosen horror paperback out of my way. I sat with my knees bunched next to my chin. To my left on a shelf sat a title called Hard for You Now. To my right sat a second title Catch Him if He Runs Away. Shaking all over, breathing in quick huffs, I thought how appropriate the titles of those books were to my life at the moment. I tried to calm my unsteady breathing for the next minute, two minutes, three minutes. I closed my eyes and attempted to find some Zen. And then I whispered to the third floor and its many homosexually-themed tomes, “You like me, Kent Tacoma. You really do. You’ve proven that today. You’re such a good boy.”
Chapter 27: Stick Figure
At the pool again. Both of us. The place where Tacoma belonged. And the place where I wanted to be. We didn’t talk about the day before and his “boner” episode in Bernie’s Books. The uncomfortable topic was never brought up. Instead, life went on as usual at the lake house. The pool boy swam in the pool and I watched him. I guess it was how things were supposed to be between us. Normalcy.
I sat with The Next Fall on my lap, but couldn’t work. Tacoma consumed my time. He resembled a beautiful, gliding fish within the blue-blue pool. A merman with velocity and underwater spirit, magical powers. My Neptune. He looked smaller under the water, sliding through the glistening surface of the pool’s water, such a handsome man with glistening and glowing and wet muscles. My employee. My Poseidon. My secret liking. Someone who had an erection for me the day before. Someone who became attracted to me. Hard for me. Mine. All mine.
He leaned over the side of the pool, catching his breath. Such a stunning looking man in the summertime sun of July: wet and shimmering dark hair, rounded shoulders that still sported droplets of pool water on them; nose dripping with water; brown, moistened eyes reflecting in the bright afternoon sunshine; too young for wrinkles around his eyes or on his forehead. Beyond beautiful. My wet soulmate.
“How is the water today?” In the shade, I sat in one of the six Adirondack chairs next to the pool, trying to read over Chapter 27 in The Next Fall. I became bored with the words and characters and dialogue, and started to draw a stick figure in the right margin on the top page. Once that became dull, I started watching the pool boy doing laps in the pool. Now, with a green ink pen in hand (never red!), I drew muscles on the stick figure, biceps and quads, abs and gluts. And underneath the stick figure, I wrote in script: Tacoma.
He looked up from the edge of the pool and answered my question, “Super warm. Just great. Get your trunk on and join me.”
I kicked one leg over the other to hide my excitement for him. Again, I thought of his erection against my leg at Barnie’s Books. “It seems ironic that I own a pool, but I’m not much of a swimmer.”
“Do you ever get in the pool?”
“Sometimes. But it’s very rare. I’m more of a lounging lizard.”
He hung on the edge of the pool, kicking his legs behind him. “You hired me to be a pool boy, though, and you don’t swim?”
“It’s not all that strange. I could have guests over who may want to swim. I could have pool parties for writers or editors. You do have a purpose, Tacoma. Every pool needs a pool boy. It’s not all a waste of your time if that’s what you’re getting at.”
He shook his head. “I’m not getting at anything. It just seems odd that I’m here using your pool, keeping your pool clean this summer, and you aren’t keen on swimming.”
“I never said I wasn’t keen on swimming. I just don’t swim much. You should know that I do enjoy sitting by the pool and looking at the water. Plus, I like to edit out here, when I’m in the mood. And I like to watch you swim, just like I’m doing right now. It eases my mind.”
He jumped out of the pool and fetched his yellow towel. Pool water careened down and over every muscle and plain on his body. His pumped arms and chest glowed, which made him look like an expensive art piece. My eyes lingered and consumed his tight package between his thighs; a tube of trunk-covered meat. He became a piece of sweetness before my eyes, candy. A pure luxury for an older man who desired him. My mouth fell ajar and my tongue hung out. I do believe my eyes bulged out of their skull. Such improper behavior on my part. Repulsive.
With his towel in hand he rubbed his shoulders and chest, and finally the area between his legs. His action with the cotton caused circles of erotic vibration to jump and spin inside my shorts, and droplets of cream unloaded in my underwear.
Tacoma caught my stare, cocked his head to his right, in my direction, and asked, “What are you looking at, Robert?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all, young man.” I lowered my head to the muscled stick figure on the manuscript in front of me, lifted my green ink pen, and decided to add a cock to the drawing: a single tube-like structure with a cut head and piss-slit on its tippy top. Feeling creative, I added a pair of hairy looking balls
hanging from the tool with excess skin.
I didn’t see or feel Tacoma move up behind me. How did he manage to do that unnoticed, sneaking up on me, and staring down at my caricature?
“Are you working on an illustrated book about me, Robert?”
Becoming embarrassed, surprised by his out-of-nowhere appearance, I quickly flipped the manuscript over one of my knees, dropped my pen, and snapped, “It’s nothing! I was just…”
He chuckled, patted my shoulder. His palm and fingers grazed part of my neck. “I understand. You were doodling. Nothing more. Nothing less. You don’t have to explain yourself. We all doodle. Nice dick and balls, just so you know.”
I blushed, feeling hot, even in the shade.
Tacoma walked away with his towel in hand, up to the lake house. He left me sitting in my Adirondack with a burning erection between my legs. Alone, I thought: I’m a fool. Horny for him. Now he knows about my need. Now he thinks I’m a lunatic and hopeless.
Chapter 28: Dreaming
July 23. Hot as hell. Too hot. Almost one hundred degrees outside in the sun. I realized far too late that there was an inadequate amount of food in the lake house, leaving the cupboards bare. The reason being was simple, of course: Reynolds usually did the grocery shopping; I didn’t. Therefore, I had to buzz into town and pick up the provisions at a small food store called Marcello’s, and then return to the estate.
Once at home, enjoying the air conditioning, I put the groceries away, filling the house again. Thereafter, I put light jazz on the stereo, showered, and shaved for a second time that day because I became sticky-hot with a heavy beard, and decided to take a short nap in a narrow library on the second floor, next to Tacoma’s bedroom. There, a room filled with numerous books and a comfortable and puffy lounge, I drifted off to sleep. And there, I dreamed:
Evening. I sported a light, summer robe made of cotton, reached for two wine glasses and a bottle of Zinfandel in the kitchen. I took a short walk down and over the cobblestone pathway that led to the East Garden and the pool area. Empty Adirondack chairs waited for me. Once there, among the tranquil and perfect summer evening, stars in the majestic looking sky, I spotted Tacoma floating in the pool on a slim raft.