The Pool Boy

Chapter 2: The Pool Boy

Chapter 2: The Pool BoyI was transfixed by the young man upon meeting him. He’d pulled a white T-shirt over his head and buckish chest, buckled Reebok sandals on his feet, and had showered, shaved, and slipped into navy Nike shorts before his interview.

I was impressed that he found the twelve-acre estate and arrived in the West Garden on time, carrying a brown folder with what I presumed had his resume tucked inside. As he approached, I could make out his dashing brown eyes, thick eyelashes, broad eyebrows, sloped chest, and narrow nose. Greek came to mind, but not quite. Definitely English over American. Maybe even Irish. Then again, perhaps not.

Did he know that his n*****s protruded from his too-tight tee? Did he know that he smelled of honey soap and Edge shaving cream, inexpensive hair gel, and of a young man’s sweat?

I lifted sunglasses and glowed. A smile creased my face. Happiness. Bliss. Temptation. Something stirred within my stomach, perhaps a hint of nerves, but I thought them away just as quick as they arrived.

He flaunted his handsomeness. Tacoma’s thighs were tight and his biceps glimmered with pumped muscles. From afar, I could tell that he looked as if he cared about his body, stayed in shape, ate well, happy with himself. If he had allowed his military cut to grow, he would have pushed creamy brown strands away from his fall-into eyes like a young Orlando Bloom, but the cut was high-and-tight, very military, almost too military, perfectly clean looking, and professional—not that I minded.

I wasn’t a soothsayer, but I guessed that he was single. Probably like other young men his age he didn’t want to commit to long-term relationships. I guessed that he didn’t enjoy being closed in, or trapped, in relationships. I deduced that Kent Tacoma kept to himself, enjoyed the outdoors, and preferred looks over brains when it came to other men he had a s****l interest in, if he were queer, which I guessed he was. I could tell by the long and narrow lines on his stretched forehead that he enjoyed a variety of different food and Gatorade, but very little else to drink. He was not a predator, nor hunter, just naturally elegant with his temporary surroundings. A drifter, perhaps. Woebegone. More needed by others than being wanted. Definitely a candidate to be my pool boy. For hire, of course. Mine for the taking if I wanted. Amen.

In conclusion, the pool boy had the look of innocence about him, an upturned smile and rounded chin, perfect dimples in his cheeks, and a comforting glow about his skin that resembled playfulness and a sense of immaturity. He looked scrummy and brainy and charming. Edible came to mind. Available. Willing to work for me. Untouchable and homosexual…I’d have to see.

* * * *

I climbed out of the hammock, placed The Next Fall down on a nearby table, stood, and smiled. I offered the obligatory handshake. “Welcome, Tacoma. And welcome to our possible summer together.” I ended up calling him Tacoma that summer, something that he was comfortable with.

I could tell he was trying to ignore the shitty smell of the green-brown pool in the distance, hidden from sight in the East Garden. His nostrils flared ever so slightly. I made no acknowledgment. Instead, I paid close attention to his handshake, which was firm and to the point; a plus mark for choosing him that summer. Again, I noted that he stood over six feet tall, solid looking, V-like in the afternoon sun with his muscles and suntanned looking skin glowing. Did he realize how toned he was? Probably not.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Indeed,” I returned.

Our eyes connected. Simple joy flooded throughout my body, tingled all over, and dissipated. I knew he would become my new hire for the next few months, if not longer. Feeling fuzzy-headed, admiring the young lad and embarrassing myself by licking my lips, I kept my yellow-green eyes locked on his chiseled face and instructed him, “Please. Please, sit down. There’s much we have to discuss.”

He sat in the semi-shade under the tilted umbrella that hung over the Tropicana table, with his legs spread slightly apart and a straight back in the deck chair. Pecs firm. Biceps glowing in the June sun. Smile glinting. Calm. So very calm. Quiet. Still.

How piggish of me to ogle his toned legs and arms, his offered package in his Nike shorts, a soft tube of six inches outlined in the material. Hairless kneecaps. Little brown tangles of hair on his legs. Navel covered by his tee.

“Would you like to see my resume, Mr. Fine?”

“No…no. I’d rather find out about you by asking questions, if that’s okay?” I reached for the extended folder and resume, placed it down on the table beside The Next Fall, and kept my gaze on Tacoma’s slightly spread legs and the prize under his crotch-covered material.

Tacoma nodded his handsome head. A sprig of light danced in his eyes, shined, reflected within pools of dark brown that looked like creamy chocolate. He swatted at a disturbing bumblebee near his nose, kept his composure, sat still, and answered, “Yes. That will be fine. I’ll answer any question you have.”

“Good then. Before we start, can I offer you a drink? What would you have?”

“Water, please.”

He’s on his best behavior, I thought. “Nothing stronger? A little vodka? Gin perhaps? Young men like you are into IPAs these days, correct?”

He shook his head. “Just water…with ice.”

“Of course. Water it is. With ice.”

I fetched water, finished preparing a light salad in the kitchen off the West Garden, and then returned to Tacoma through the blistering sun with both. “Here you are.” I placed the water down on the table in front of him, and the salad in the center of the table for later enjoyment.

“Thank you, Mr. Fine.”

“Robert is my first name. I don’t have a problem with you using it.”

A powerful and masculine smile laced his face: attractive; blooming with innocence and delight; power and a sense of light nervousness. “Thank you, Robert.”

I circled the Tropicana table, umbrella, and chairs. My gaze observed the pool boy for the hundredth time. Enamored, I noted the glistening dots of perspiration on his sculpted and corded neck. The young man glimmered in the semi-sun: skin shining, eyes twinkling, chocolate-colored hair gleaming. Stunning. Handsome. So very good looking.

Exhausted, I sat down across from him, crossed my legs, and asked, “Are you ready to begin answering my questions, young man?”

“Yes,” he replied, eyes locked to mine, model-like face shining, intrepid stare. Just a boy in a man’s tight-looking body with muscles and beauty and high testosterone. Just a boy. Nothing more. Nothing less. I drooled.

Ruffling through my mind for questions, watching him sip a sweaty glass of chilled water with ice cubes floating and clinking inside, I thought to myself:

He already has the job, but he doesn’t know it.

My God is he handsome, I can’t stop looking at him.

Robert, get a grip. Pull yourself together. You’re older and wiser. Be ethical about this venture. Be polite, or at least try.

Stop removing his clothes with your stare. Shame on you.