Games, Desires & Meeting Daddy
It's
the time of the season
When love runs high
In this time, give it to me easy
And let me try with pleasured hands[1]
When love runs high
In this time, give it to me easy
And let me try with pleasured hands[1]
When I surfaced, Rita was sitting on
the pool steps. "Would you like to
play some golf?" she asked.
"Sure," I replied.
"Come on," she said,
exciting the pool and heading in the direction of the trellis opening cut
through the wall of purple bougainvillea.
I passed through the opening to find
an expansive yard scattered by a small legion of umbrella-like coconut trees filtering
sunlight on to a finely manicured lawn. Brightly colored metallic birds and
animals sat throughout the grass marking each hole of an elaborate 18 hole putting
course. The thorny wall of bougainvillea
ran down to Intracoastal where it met a seawall that stretched the entire length
of the
backyard. Towards the center, at
the far back of the mini golf course and nestled between a cluster of coconut
trees, sat a small tiki hut. Behind it, a dock extended beyond the yard, jetting
out to a 45 foot white Bertram gently rocking in the blue waters.
"Daddy loves golf," Rita
said, as she walked to a small shed made of driftwood attached to the rear of
the house and trimmed in a large sun-bleached rope. She opened its weathered
doors to find a number of putters and multi-colored golf balls.
"Do you like tennis?" she
asked.
"Um, I guess." I replied.
"Daddy said he's going to build
a tennis court on the other side of the house—when he can afford it." Rita
explained, while handing me a putter and an orange ball.
"Cool," I answered, while
considering—I don't know what to say to this girl. I wanted to tell her
how beautiful she was or how she made me feel when she smiled, anything
. . . I searched for something to say as I took the putter and ball, and then she
looked straight at me.
"Do you like me,
Harry?" She asked.
I was in shock. Of course I
do. Why is she asking me this, again? I questioned. She's
probably use to guys falling all over her and maybe if I say I don't like her,
she'll try even harder to get me to like her. If I say yes, it will be
over before it even got started—if I say no she may be hurt.
"Why are you asking,
that?" I asked, not even sure if I wanted to know the answer.
"Well, I’m not sure if you like
me . . . and because I think you're sweet . . . and handsome." She
blurted.
Handsome, I considered, was I blushing
while going through various shades of red? My mother had been telling me that for as long as I could remember.
But, that’s what mother’s do. Other people often remarked, he’s such a
good-looking boy, but handsome is a word used for men . . . grown up men.
Just because I grew six inches in height over the last year and looked like I
could be 14 or 15, does not mean I was a man or matured to a level of
understanding women, or at the least, an older girl and definitely more
developed than me.
“Has anyone ever told you that you
look like a movie star?” Rita continued.
I laughed, mostly from the
embarrassment. Still at a loss for words, I uttered, ”Yeah, who?” perhaps
wishing it would be Bond, and maybe making it easier for me to deliver a sharp
one-liner.
“Oh a bunch of them . . . maybe Paul
Newman or . . .”
Oh,
man, I thought to my self, he’s cool.
“ . . . Clint Eastwood.”
All
right! I’m cool. My mind raced with
pleasure. I felt my posture straighten, my confidence grow.
I turned and walked to the first
hole designated by a pointing blue sea cow with a number one hanging from his
neck. I had nothing to say, and if I could, I would have probably screwed it
up. But I felt good as I meticulously placed the ball on a small white rubber
cup that had been set in the finely clipped grass. I stood back up and looked at Rita. She was staring at me, perhaps wanting me to
tell her how beautiful she was.
And then she said something that
didn't seem like it came from her. It
was as if she was repeating something she had heard from a movie or read in a
book.
"I like the strong silent
type," she smiled.
I smiled back, knowing she liked me:
the strong silent type that is. My social ineptness, absence of communication
skills, and intimidation of the opposite sex had its rewards.
"Fore," I confidently drew
the putter back. And then she laughed;
not a big laugh or a small giggle, but a sincerely affectionate laugh for that
stupid little "fore.” And in that moment of bliss I knew what love was, or
at the least what it might possibly feel like.
We continued playing the small
course passing different vibrantly colored tin mammals, birds, or fish along
the way. Her father had designed the
course so the most intimidating creatures presented the toughest holes. A Walrus sat smiling with its tusk lying at
the foot of a hole, its broad flat limb inviting a spot to start the ball. A
large Marlin's bill pointed to a long straight uphill challenge, while a
Hammerhead Shark’s eyes lead us in two different directions before meeting at
the hole behind a grouping of elaborately stacked coral rocks Rita said her
father brought in on a barge.
At the end of the ninth hole we
stopped at the small tiki hut that sat at the foot of the dock; its roof
covered in palm branches and the base surrounded by a mahogany bar and bamboo
stools.
"I'm getting a soda, do you
want something?" Rita asked.
"A soda will work," I said
as I sat at the bar adding the scores from the front nine.
Rita went under the bar, opened a
small fridge and pulled out two cokes.
She set them on the counter, and then reached up and pulled two glasses
from a shelf above the bar.
"Rum?" she giggled as she
scooped ice from an icemaker into one of the glasses.
Geez, rum? I thought as I looked at her.
"I'm just kidding," she
smiled. "Daddy only lets me drink it if he's around."
Thank god, I thought. I wasn't ready for booze. My father didn't
drink much, but he seemed to attract people that enjoyed drinking; and from
what I remembered it was never pretty. I recalled two of my dad's friends
getting into a drunken fight one night after a deer hunt. One of the men
had to be taken to the hospital after the other guy shoved a buck knife into
the right cheek of the other guy's ass. No, drinking wasn't on my agenda that
day as I sipped my coke under the palm frond roof of Rita's dad's tiki hut.
"I heard Melanie Fisher got so
drunk she passsed out at a party she had at her house while her mom was gone .
. . She woke up with hickeys all over her tits."
Geez! I thought. I'd heard the story, but not from a girl.
It was from Harley and . . . Rita just said tits! I was amazed . . . as
well as aroused.
"Yeah, I heard." I said.
"Melanie went out with Mr.
Stock. He picked her up in his Austin Healy," Rita continued. "Mr.
Stock hit on me, too . . . Some of my friends say he's cute. I think he's
kind of creepy. And I don't really like men with mustaches." She
smiled.
Mr. Stock was a science teacher at
the junior high school we both attended. There was always rumor about this guy
who looked like a surfer and drove a dark green Austin Healey taking advantage
of many of the more "mature" girl students. Some of the girls would
brag about going for a ride in his car. Later that year in school I would hear
he was arrested for hitting on the wrong teenage girl. I didn't care for
Mr. Stock, it was already tough enough trying to impress a girl without having
competition from an older guy who drove an Austin Healey, and I especially
didn't like him now knowing he had hit on Rita . . . but considering I was
years away from having a mustache, I was feeling pretty good.
"What's he like 40 years
old?" I questioned sarcastically.
"Melanie said, he's 24."
I think Melanie slept with him."
Now at this point in my life the
expression slept with him, was unclear to me and a little outside my
prevailing understanding of what actually was the act of sex. In fact my
understanding of sex was limited to what I had seen in the movies; which was
basically: people started to kiss, the camera went somewhere else, and then it
was either quickly over after a few seconds of heavy breathing or there was a
fade to black, and the next morning the two lovers were in bed together.
Cigarettes were also a tremendous part of the ritual.
"Does Melanie smoke?" I
asked.
"Yeah . . . Why do you
ask?"
I downed the last of my coke.
"I don't know. Just seems like most people, that have sex, smoke."
Rita had a curious look on her face
as she perhaps referenced the same movies I had seen. She smiled.
"Hmm. I think you're
right. But I know a few people that have had sex, that don't smoke,” she
paused for a moment and smiled. “At
least cigarettes.”
At this point I was feeling
extremely uncomfortable. She had just said tits, we were now talking
about sex, and the conversation may now be leading to the other thing that was
often smoked by older kids—marijuana—another subject I was completely ignorant
of.
I went back to our scorecard.
She had been kicking my ass the whole front nine.
"Uh, let's see. You have
30." I said, knowing she had botched a few shots to make me feel perhaps a
little less foolish at the game, and trying to not appear like I was cheating
too much. I was actually about three to six strokes behind her for every
hole placing my score at around 70 at best. I wondered, would she
think me a total dork if I told her how far behind I was?
"What's your score?" she
questioned.
"I'm not really keeping my
score, but it's close." I said.
She laughed and came from behind the
counter heading to the 10th hole.
She stopped, rubbed up against my
back and leaned into my ear.
"If you can beat me you can eat
me," she said teasingly as she ran towards the 10th hole.
What the heck does that mean? I thought. The idea, of oral sex at that age, had never entered
my mind. I'm not even sure Rita new what she was saying. But when
she said it, in that playful way, whatever the meaning, I felt excited, and was
compelled to chase her to the next hole.
I got up from my bar stool and
headed in her direction at a fast pace, blissful, and completely ignorant of
what to do when I caught her.
She had already made it to the 10th
hole when I reached her and wrestled her to the ground where a metallic red
narwhal stood—with his twisted tusk extending upward twice the length of his
body. He looked at me with a huge toothless grin.
She struggled only slightly as our
faces met.
"I don't think this is proper
golf etiquette," she smiled mischievously.
And then, as I looked into her eyes,
there was a moment of silence. I was lost in my thoughts, dizzy, excited,
unsure of my next move, questioning if I had the guts to kiss her . . . That's
when I heard a voice of someone from the other side of the wall of
bougainvillea vines.
"Rita, where are you?" A
male shouted.
Rita stopped, her head lifting to
the direction of the voice.
"Oh, shoot! It’s Lance. He made
it back." Rita smiled, quickly kissed my cheek, pulled from my grasp and
got up.
"Wait here," she said as
she headed for the trellis opening.
Oh man! I thought—Was that really a kiss on the
cheek, and why is Lance here again?
I questioned. He's on my time right now. What the heck does he
want? His bad timing angered me. I was so close to actually kissing
her I could taste the sun block on her lips.
I got up and moved to the far end of
the massive bougainvillea fence where it met the seawall, trying to get a
glimpse of what was happening on the other side. The dense hedge had grown to a
point where it limited access across the narrow concrete seawall to the other
side of the yard and cabana. If I were
to fall to the waterside, trying to work my way around, I'd land in an area
full of barnacled rocks and scurrying sea roaches. And if I pushed along the
dense bush itself I'd be ripped and scratched by the plant’s twisted branches
of jagged thorns.
I quietly and carefully worked my
way along the wall trying to get to a vantage point to find out what was
happening with Rita and Lance.
I squeezed into an area where I
could see the cabana and then I heard music. I'm not sure what was playing, but
it wasn't Barry White. In fact, it was all instrumental: a kind of jazzy tune I
wasn't familiar with. Through the shroud of blue and green curtains surrounding
the cabana, I could see Lance sitting in a chair as Rita passed him. I shifted to my right to get a better view of
what she was doing, but I could only lean so far without the bougainvillea
thorns tearing into my temple and shoulder.
I could see her hands swaying in a dance to the delight of Lance as he
attempted to move closer to her. I saw her push him back into his chair. Her hand came forward and she shook her
finger as if to say no, and Lance's move towards her was off limits. And then her hands disappeared for a moment
towards her body. At this point, Lance's
eyes shifted from Rita's face to her breast and Lance went into a kind of
hypnotic state of ecstasy. Rita's hands
now returned to my limited view holding her black top and swinging it back and
forth as if to distract Lance from looking at her naked breast—at least that is
what I thought or perhaps even hoped. I
leaned farther in to look around the cabana curtain and slipped off the
concrete embankment into the bougainvillea vines.
"Shit!" I screamed as the
razor like thorns tore through my side and head.
I looked up to see Lance staring at
me and then Rita came from behind the curtain quickly putting on her top. Lance pulled a bill from his pocket, dropped
it, and exited in the opposite direction, as Rita was making her way outside
towards me.
I pulled myself slowly from the
flowering spikes. My embarrassment
perhaps pumping more blood than the wounds demanded. I was feeling dizzy, as I stood quickly
trying to gain some inkling of dignity as Rita made her way to my side.
"Harry, are you okay?"
I could see she was genuinely
concerned for my well-being.
"I'm sorry, Harry. I'm saving to buy a gift for my Dad, for
his birthday with my own money, and I promised Lance another dance. I didn’t
expect he'd get the money so quickly." She said, while leading me to the
cabana.
I wasn't bleeding as bad as I thought, but I could feel the sting of the
plant's juices.
Rita found a towel and wiped the blood from my hair and shoulder.
"It'll sting for a while," she said.
I didn't know what to say. She didn't seem to be embarrassed that
I just caught her in the middle of a strip tease.
"My sister, Sheila taught me how to do it," Rita said—perhaps
reading my thoughts. “Sheila says our mom was an exotic dancer in Miami when
daddy met her.”
Her thoughts seem to drift for a moment, and then with a little half
smile she said, “Just keeping up the family tradition.” She laughed.
I would later find out from our conversations that her sister Sheila was
18 and in her first year of college. Rita had tremendous regard for her sister
whom she often referred to as her hippie sister.
“Your mom was a stripper?” I blurted.
“I don’t know. Daddy doesn’t talk about her—they broke up when I was three—and
that’s what my sister says. She jokes around a lot.”
She stopped for a moment. I considered she might have been thinking
about the mom she never had.
“Funny how boys will pay to see tits . . . They're just tits."
She gently put pressure to the wound on my temple. At a loss for
words, I sat wondering what to say.
I looked down at her now covered breast. She noticed.
"Do you really like me, Harry?”
What was she getting out?
"Ye..es." I slurred.
She smiled.
"A lot." I blurted.
"Well . . . Would you like to see me naked?" Rita smiled.
Yes, of course, I thought, my
breathing suddenly loosing its rhythm. I gently blew out some air, trying to
catch my breath.
"Um, I don't have any money." I replied
"Don't worry, I'll pay for you." She laughed.
Oh shoot, I thought. Would
this be a charity striptease for the poor dumb kid that had just got caught as
a Peeping Tom and fell into a pit of flowering barbed wire? She's only
doing it because I'm such a dork . . . Because she feels sorry for
me. Because I'm so poor I don't have twenty bucks. I thought about it
for a moment—a very brief moment. I can live with that.
"O... okay." I stammered between breaths.
Rita led me to a pink and blue ottoman and pushed me down into it.
She went to the record player and turned off the jazz tune that was playing for
Lance.
By a turntable and an elaborate sound system sat shelves full of albums.
Rita would later tell me there were mostly Sheila's and she had collected them
over the years.
"No music for you," she smiled.
My mind fried in unusual delight I searched for reason. No music for
me? What the heck does that mean? Is that good? Is
that bad? Geez, I really only knew one other woman and that was my
mother. This one—the one that was about to get naked in front of me—made
absolutely no sense, but my mind’s elation was willing to except the
responsibility of understanding her—whatever that meant.
She stood before me close and reached behind her back to undo her
top. Oh, god, I thought. I had only a brief glimpse earlier of her
breast and now this loving, beautiful creature with the sincere smile was about
to reveal both of her titties . . . at the same time! She
unclasped the straps and as her top went limp she cupped her breast and removed
her arms from the straps.
And then she dropped her top.
"Uh." I sighed. I had often sneaked a look at my dad's Playboy
magazines—and Rita's breasts were just as sweet—perhaps even sweeter because
they were real and less then a foot away.
Was I dead? Was this really happening to me; this awkward 13 year
old kid? Had I drowned in the pool earlier? Had I died in the
bougainvillea fall and this was heaven?
"Would you like to touch them?" Rita asked.
I thought, Does this cost extra? Is she going to use all her
money satisfying my pubescent needs? My mind flurried with pleasure
and confusion. Where was I? Am I really sitting in a rich girl's
cabana staring at her bare breast? Is she kidding? Of course I'd love to
touch them,
"Harry, did you hear me?"
Yes, I heard you, my mind scrambled,
but I can't lift my arms. They were heavy as if they'd be ripped open at
the shouldered and filled with lead all the way down to the palms of my hands.
"I'd uh . . . I I’d love to, Ms. Moneypenny," I mumbled.
"What?" She asked—oblivious to my attempt at British secret service
cool.
"Uh, yes." I said in pure American anxiety . . . and perhaps a
few octaves higher. She took my hands and pulled them to her chest. Her
skin was soft and delicate. I moved my hands towards her nipples. I
squeezed her left breast.
"Not so hard, Harry," she cooed.
I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do with these things—I thought—or with the pressure that was building in my groin.
She took my hands again and gently cupped them around her breast.
"Would you like to see more," she smiled, knowing I couldn't
resist.
"Yes," I exhaled. The Bond cool had completed escaped my
thoughts, as my mind was absent of all things past and future; the hot pressure
in my crotch on the verge of eruption.
Rita turned around peeling her black bikini down.
Up until that time I had never really thought too much about a
woman's—or in this case—a girl's, derriere. But at that moment, I became
a fan. Fan, of course, being an abbreviation for fanatic or in this case
perhaps fanny—I didn't know. Like I said I was confused, completely lost in
some other form of reality I had never experienced. All I could do was stare at
this perfectly round milky white bottom framed by exquisite hips a foot from my
face. Just below her rear through a small hallow, where her butt cheeks
met the inside of her thighs, I could see light from the other-side and a wisp
of pubic hair. Not knowing what to do I reached out and squeezed her
cheeks like I had seen my mother checking melons in the local A&P grocery
store. Rita giggled.
My heart pounded like a runaway jackhammer. My breathing was heavy
and out of rhythm. I grasped for air as she slowly began to turn. Oh,
god, I thought. What was coming? I had never seen a
vagina before. My father's Playboy magazines had given me an idea of what
they looked like. I had also seen some photos in a Hustler magazine
Harley had stolen from a 7/11 store. I loved the beautiful images of
Playboy, but the cavernous raw vaginas of Hustler magazine were somewhat of a
turn off to me, as well as a bit scary. If there is a god in the
heavens, I thought, let the other-side of this sweet butt be an enticing
Playboy snatch and not a hungry Hustler crustacean. My blood pumped wildly,
my mind dizzy with anticipation. She turned and then it was there: between
her perfectly shaped hips and above the small hallow between her thighs was
this flawlessly manicured triangle of silky black hair. While trying to
regulate my dis-jointed breathing, I exhaled a lung of hot air slightly blowing
some of Rita's pubic hair. I heard her sigh.
"What do you think?" Rita broke my trance.
I looked up between her round breast and she was looking down at
me. I couldn't speak. I didn't know what to say. My mouth
moved but nothing came out. The feeling in my crotch was overwhelming.
Rita reached out and pulled me up towards her. I could feel my erection
struggling in my bathing suit.
She rubbed her crotch to mine.
"Hmmm," she sighed.
"Ahh," I moaned again releasing hot air. She pushed
harder, her hands slid down my back and came to a grip on the cheeks of my ass
. . . I exploded: my first orgasm being in the confines of my blue and white
Hang Ten baggies. My knees buckled, my mind feverish. She continued to
rub as fluids pumped from my body. I had never had such a feeling: never
playing basketball, or baseball, or being a member of the team winning the
Morton County eastern division for Gray Y football. Never. It was painful
and euphoric at the same time. I felt my legs getting weaker as Rita moved to
my neck and began sucking. Not only was I experiencing total bliss from
the eruption in my groin area but I was also receiving my first hickey.
She sucked hard and it somewhat hurt, but all my anxieties slowly disappeared,
my mind went calm and even the embarrassment of my untimely enthusiasm
expressed towards her slipped away into bliss; I was with the most beautiful,
giving creature that walked the planet earth.
"Rita," a man's voice boomed from outside the cabana.
"Rita. Where are you?"
Ah, crap. Another interruption. Who now? I thought. I’ll kill Lance no matter what the consequences. Rita
grabbed her bathing suit and quickly started to dress.
"Coming," she replied.
Well, sort of, I thought—it was
mostly me. I nervously laughed to myself. I glanced down to my saturated
lap and then up to Rita who was almost dressed and snapping her bikini top
behind her back. She looked at my bathing suit and then to me.
"I want you to meet daddy," she said.
"Huh," was all I could muster up. My arms and hands
embarrassingly gesturing to what might be perceived by her dad as a young man
that has, either: pissed in his pants, or had a premature ejaculation. Either
way I felt it wasn't the best first impression I could make when meeting
"daddy.”
Rita looked around the room finding a pink towel. She tossed it to
me.
A pink towel, I thought.
"Your dad will think I'm queer," I reasoned.
She gave me a look as she exited the cabana as if to say, what would you
prefer? I stood for a moment in thought; questioning . . . Looking queer or
semen stained . . . hmmm.
"Harry, come on out and me my daddy," Rita yelled from
outside.
Queer it is.
My eyes took a moment to adjust to the sun bouncing light from the
bright white house and mirroring pool waters where Rita's dad stood. I
approached him slowly. I could slightly make out his eye movement through
a pair of yellowed lensed Ray Ban aviators perched on his nose. He was
chewing gum and making little bubbles he popped between his teeth.
"He… hello, Mr. Tobinskey," I stuttered.
"Hello, Harry," he spat, while extending his hand.
"Call me, Roger"
Oh, god, I thought. I just
had these hands on his daughter's tits and ass. Will he know? Has
he already figured me out before the first handshake? Was it a test? My
right arm seemed heavier than ever before, it tingled as if asleep.
Somehow I found the strength and slowly lifted it to shake his hand, but before
my hand could reached its peak, Roger had my fingers gripped, not giving me the
opportunity to grasp his hand with my palm and use the manly handshake my
mother once taught me to use when meeting important people. Roger
squeezed my fingers, and behind the yellow aviators I saw his eyes glancing
down at the pink towel.
"Been swimming?" he questioned.
Oh, man—I gave him this girly handshake, and now he's checking the pink
dress I've got wrapped around my hips.
I wanted to tell him I wasn't that way. I wanted to tell him I enjoy
girls—especially his daughter. I wanted to pull the towel off and say,
look Roger this is what women do for me.
"Uh, yeah, swimming . . . I . . . You got a great pool," the
words slowly slid out.
And then his attention was drawn to my left cheek. He removed his
sunglasses and began to squint while inspecting my neck.
Was he checking out my wounds from the Peeping Tom mishap? Oh, shit! I thought... The friggin hickey is already there.
Maybe it was best he think I was queer. Maybe I could give him my
best Liberace impersonation. What would I say? Would I comment on
the colors of the patio furniture, or the cabana curtains, or the flowers on
the bougainvillea trellis?
"Rita," he sheepishly grinned. "What have you kids
been up to?" He said jokingly to Rita, and then gave me the official wink
and pop.
Oh, man, hickeys are all right with this guy. How cool was that, I thought.
Roger reached out and pointed to the hickey. "Don't you kids
do anything, I wouldn't do." And then a strange questioning look
crossed his face. Hickeys appeared cool, but I was sure that’s as far as
Roger would want it to go. He looked down at my towel again.
OH, SHIT! In a frenzy my
mind shot. He thinks I'm naked under the towel! Oh, no!
I'm no longer a flaming fag in his mind but a twisted child molester. What can
I do? I'm still feeling the sloshing wetness of the first
encounter with a naked girl—which happened to be less than five minutes ago
and was triggered by Roger's 15-year-old naked daughter. I have to show
him I'm wearing my bathing suit. He stood between my escape and me: the
wet waters of the pool ten feet way.
"Harry and I were playing golf," Rita said.
"You a golfer, Harry?"
"I'm new to the game, sir." I replied.
"Rita's pretty good. Maybe she'll teach you some
things." He said looking me straight in the eyes.
Teach me some things? Oh, man, this guy is playing with my mind, I thought. I felt him leaning forward as if readying to rip my
off my towel. I've got to get to the pool, I reasoned. Once my
bathing suit is completely wet, no one will know, and Roger would see that he
has no worries about his daughter and me.
"I'm going to get a soda. Does anybody want one?" Rita
asked.
Oh, shit she's leaving me alone with this suntan psycho dad that's
breathing Dentyn cinnamon gum in my face.
"I'll take one too, sweetie." Roger said, looking
directly at me as if to say, okay kid, lets see if you got pants on under that
towel.
I glanced over at Rita. She stopped at the table she had laid by
earlier and discreetly picked up the money left there and walked to the cabana.
I've got to make my move, I
thought.
"I love your pool, sir." I said. "Especially the dolphin
and the turtle."
"Thanks, Harry." Roger turned toward the pool.
"Some Puerto Ricans did the tile work. There excellently craftsmen .
. . and cheap."
With him looking towards the pool, I made my way past him and stood at
the pool's edge. With my rear to him, I felt safe to unveil my bathing
suit and proof of not having screwed his daughter. I removed the towel
and tossed it to a lounge chair. I secretly glanced at my bathing suit's
front. It was still a puddle of dampness and extremely incriminating
evidence.
"I'm sorry, sir. I can't resist." I readied myself for a
perfect jack-knife.
"Enjoy," he said. I could hear a sigh of relief in his voice.
I prepared myself for an impressive dive. I took a deep
breath. I looked up to the house for a moment and at the window holding
back the vertical blinds—staring at my crotch—was Nora: the maid. My mind
could hear her voice saying, you crazy fuckin' white boy shootin' off in
your pants on the first day you come to my house. I hit the water in
a belly flop stinging my stomach and as I sank to the bottom I somehow felt
safe, cleansed . . . and maybe in love.
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