The Pool Boy

Chapter 3: The Interview

Chapter 3: The InterviewI reached for my manuscript and green pen (never red, which always shows/proves anger, intolerance, hostility, prudence), turned to a blank page where I would make notes, or prepare on-the-spot questions to ask my prey while he answered my questions. I didn’t have a list of questions ready for him. I was winging the task, so I started with, “How old are you, Tacoma?”

“Twenty-two.”

He continued to sip his icy water, got a droplet of the chilled liquid on the end of his chin, and set his water on the edge of the table to wipe his chin with the back of his right hand.

That simple action was a turn-on for me, pure excitement; a masculine action that I found potent and consuming. The place between my thighs stirred and came to life.

I cleared my throat and asked, “Your age tells me that you immediately left high school and found a comfy home in the Navy. Am I right?”

Tacoma smiled: soft, tender, beautiful. It was the kind of smile I preferred. Silky looking with narrow lips and a tiny gap between the pool boy’s two top teeth. Gleaming, white teeth that could be in vintage magazines like Torso, Freshmen, or In Touch. He answered politely, “Exactly.”

“What did you do in the Navy?”

“Radar analysis. I watched submarine radar for hours on end. I don’t want to call it boring, but I could have thought of six hundred other better things to do with my time while serving my country.”

I chuckled.

He chuckled.

“And your reason for leaving the Navy?” I searched for my own answer within his admirable glance: Don’t ask, don’t tell; secret love affair with a mannish, sea-bound cohort that recklessly soured abroad.

“To be honest, I needed a change, Robert.”

I laughed, keeping polite. “Every man needs a change, doesn’t he?”

My green ink pen strayed and jotted swirls on the paper in front of me, a secret language, translating to a discreet and flirting afternoon.

I surfaced from my temporary longing and said, “You don’t look like you’re from West End, parts of Lake Erie, or even Ashtabula, Ohio, my friend. Where are you originally from?”

“Beverly Hills.”

“Yes. Yes. I should have guessed that with your good looks. A young Orlando Bloom, if I may say so. Shame on me for second guessing myself.”

He leaned ever so slightly forward and picked up his water again, took three sips, placed it back down on the tabletop between us. The action of drinking his water was surely helping him take the edge off the interviewing process, leaving him less nervous. He needed something stronger, though, I believed. Vodka or gin. Whiskey. Tequila. Rum.

“Tell me how you ended up in West End, Pennsylvania. I’m sure you have quite the tale to share.”

I scratched notes on my manuscript as he spoke: Aunt nearby; used to visit as a child with his parents; used to fly east once every year, usually around the Fourth of July; decided to move east after being in the Navy; needs a summer job; wants to attend college in the fall, preferably UCLA; plans to take engineering classes; clear head on his shoulders; goal-oriented; doesn’t intend to be a pool boy forever.

Eventually, I lifted my head and said, “Why, out of all the things you can accomplish here in West End, do you want to be a pool boy?”

He shrugged, shared that glistening-sweet smile with me again, melted me to the core, and caused an erotic fire to burn within my khakis and under my white tee. “The ad said that room and board are included. These work for me. I have to be responsible for my own actions, Robert. I realize I can be doing many other things, but I can meet the job’s requirements because of my work history. It’s a perfect fit, if you want to know the truth.”

I pressed the pen into the manuscript a touch too hard and almost ripped the paper beneath. I looked him square in the eyes, felt an intense pressure build between my legs, hardening, inflating. I became bemused, overheated, perhaps poisoned by the raunchy smelling pool in the distance. He seemed truthful. Real. I wanted to laugh, but didn’t, being professional. I abandoned all hope of sharing an erotic interlude, disposing of naughty thoughts of showering with him after dinner each night and pressing my bare chest against his. Instead, I swallowed warm saliva, coughed, and told him, “Just so you know, I will be your immediate supervisor.”

“And there is room and board, right?”

“Just as the ad says. For as long as you stay.”

“Good to know.”

I filled him in on the salary and other minor duties that he would need to carry out, all of which were related to the pool, of course.

He smirked, nodded. “Sounds good to me. I can meet your pool duties. I’ll make a fine pool boy for you.”

Seconds of silence passed between us, eyes locked. Whether he had an attraction to me, I didn’t care. Only my attraction for him mattered.

“Are you hungry, Tacoma? I didn’t prepare lunch for nothing.”

“Yes. Starving.”

I placed the manuscript aside, pushed away the semi-growing private parts between my legs, smiled at my fresh find, and told him while pointing at the salad, “Then lunch shall be served.”