The Pool Boy

Chapter 5: Danielle Silver

Chapter 5: Danielle Silver“You’re a writer, Mr. Fine?”

“Yes. I thought you would know that already.” I nibbled on a leaf of lettuce, then a slice of tomato. I admired his handsome face yet again, intoxicated.

He leaned back into his patio chair, played with his napkin, and relaxed in the partial shade. “Any books I know of and have possibly read?”

I pushed a sliver of green pepper around on the plate. “Are you familiar with Danielle Silver?”

“The best-selling romance author? It says she has sold over forty million copies of her books on the back of her paperbacks.”

It was my turn to nod. Delight filled me at his acknowledgment and familiarity with my pseudonym.

“My mother and aunt read her books. She’s a woman, though, Robert. You’re a man.”

“Danielle is my pseudonym. I write using her name.”

“A what?”

Not very smart, but very cute. Yes, deliciously cute. I’ll still take him. All of him. “It’s a name that hides my identity and private life.”

“You look different than the photographs on the back of her books. She’s young and beautiful. She has skin like a princess. Plus, she has some cleavage.”

“Because it’s not really me, Tacoma. I don’t have red hair and long eyelashes. The woman you see on the back of the books is Rosemary Dublin, a very close friend of mine. I create the novels and she has her picture taken for the beautiful, hardback dustcovers, and paperback covers. It works out very well and is quite lucrative for the both of us.”

Truth said, here and now, I used to not tell people those personal secrets, but after years and years of solitude, and twenty-five books under my writing belt, plus forty million copies sold worldwide, and a healthy chunk of change to live on from promising sales, I found that when I did tell people or strangers of my hidden-writing career as a national best-selling author, they failed to believe me, found me ludicrous, a liar, and crass, perhaps even mentally challenged. A fine joke. Although Danielle Silver was real, and Rose Dublin was also real, no one ever believed that we were one and the same person, a best-selling author.

For some awkward reason, perhaps to continue a conversation with the pool boy, I believed I had to convince Tacoma of my secret, not that I was getting anywhere with him since he seemed to have the IQ of a Whirlpool dishwasher.

“But Danielle Silver lives in San Francisco, which is states away from here.”

“I have two houses, Tacoma. I live here in the summer and there in the winter. Sometimes.”

He tested me. Damn him. Tacoma asked how many children Silver had (nine), and how many times she had been married (three), and what were the first three best-selling novels Silver wrote (Twice Golden, The Pirate’s Island, and Simply Red), and how old she was (thirty-six), the same as me.

I stopped him from embarrassing himself any further because I could sense his weakness and lack of details regarding Danielle Silver’s life. “You’ve never read one of her books, have you? You know nothing about the woman, do you?”

Tacoma shook his head. “I like King and Grisham. I read some V. C. Andrews occasionally. I’m not into romances.”

“Of course you’re not. Why would I think you were? I don’t blame you. Go for the gore and the law and the incest, young man. All those writers are very interesting and quite entertaining. Silver is for women…or middle-aged gay men perhaps. I can’t see her entertaining young, ex-men from the Navy, to tell you the truth.”

He looked up and shared a glance with me across his water and the remains of his salad. “Gay men?”

I nodded, somewhat perplexed. “Yes, gay men. You’ll be surprised how many gay guys read romance novels. Too many to count. Lots of them buy my novels. You don’t have anything against gay men, do you?”

Again, he shook his head. This time with wide eyes. Then he began a new sentence but I stopped him. The interview had changed dimensions and it was turning into an analysis of my life instead of the pool boy’s. Quickly, I capped off his speaking with, “Enough about this nonsense. Would you like some watermelon? It’s fresh and juicy. I’m quite sure you’ll enjoy a slice, or even two.”

He showed off his white teeth, and dimples, agreeing to my suggestion. “Yes…I guess so. Watermelon isn’t so bad.”

I waved a finger at him, suggested, “Never guess. Be a determined man. Be strong and capable. Guessing won’t get you anywhere in life. Now, would you like some watermelon, sir?”

He sat up in his chair, straightened his shoulders and back, puffed out his chest, popped one n****e, then the other. He broadly smiled and showcased his dimples in full, seemed to grow poise and attitude, and a delectable gruffness about him that allowed a shiver to roll ecstatically up the branch of my spine, itching the back of my neck. “Yes, Mr. Robert Fine. I would like some watermelon. Thank you.”

“That sounds better, Navy man, doesn’t it?” My limp c**k bounced between my legs. A flutter of excitement zipped through my core.

“Yes, sir!”

“That’s a good man, Tacoma.” And off I went to fetch his desired watermelon, and a slice for me, having come to enjoy the afternoon with my strange and sexy visitor.

* * * *

He didn’t take his time eating the watermelon. Didn’t use his utensils and available napkin. He picked up a slice of the melon from the center of the table and began eating it like an animal. Pinkish liquid collected over his fingers, down and along his wrists, around his lips and dimples, and against the roundness of his handsome chin. I watched from afar, enjoying him, crossing my legs, and admired his sloppy activity with the fruit. Correctly guessing, he was not a nibbler, but rather sucked and gulped at large bites of the melon, consuming chunks clumsily. Once, and only once, he took the back of his hand and wiped it against his mouth in a primitive action that I found erotic. A line of melon-dribble rolled down along his chin and into his white tee-shirt where it was absorbed by the cotton, lost.

“You’re a hungry boy, aren’t you?”

Tacoma sucked and gulped, sucked and gulped, until the two slices of watermelon were gone, and honey bees from the nearby garden and its blazing floral beds buzzed around his adorable head and tight skin, needing as much attention as I wanted to obtain from him.

And after gobbling up the fruit, he washed up with a damp towel that I carried to the table, placing it nearby him. He dragged the towel over his hands, one wrist, his second wrist, his wet mouth, and a sticky forearm with pulsing veins.

I asked him in my most hospitable manner, “Would you like to see the pool now?”

“Yes. Please. Of course. Where is it?” He dropped the towel to the table, grinned, so enamored with my idea, so child-like with wide eyes and interest.

I did a naughty thing. I picked up the towel and started wiping my own mouth after Tacoma; such horrible hygiene, but erotic for me nonetheless. I could smell his sweat on the towel: sweet and fruitful. Just a boy’s smell. Young and carnivorous. Devouring. Simple and youthful. Eventually, I tossed the moistened towel to the tabletop and stood, walked around the table, and patted young Tacoma on the back. My fingers touched his tee, molding my flesh to its cotton. My words were clever, I thought, mysterious and enchanting as I said, “Hidden, my boy. The pool is hidden, just like all the wonderful and amazing things in the world.”