At the end of my junior year I felt I had to take a personal inventory. It went: Looks -- average. Actually, who knows; it's hard to be objective. Athletics -- average, definitely. Brains -- much better than average, as long as you count only nerd smarts. Assets -- well, no debt (my parents were both successful professionals), and I had a cool old British sports car, which cost less to buy than maintain.
Personality -- Maybe non-existent.
Actually, that was too harsh. On the one hand, I liked me. I was self-aware and I thought I was even pretty funny. I could get along well with most people, at least for a while.
But on the other hand, I had some deficits, and they were big ones. I had always been introverted. I had all the symptoms. I could handle small talk one-on-one for about ten minutes and a party for maybe an hour. And so I was low in social confidence. Deservedly so, since there's nothing more embarrassing than that silence when you run out of things to say. In particular I had a tough time with extroverts. Well, I liked extroverts individually, because after all, what do two introverts talk about? But with more than a few, they start blabbing and pretty soon it's a dance party.
That explained my current dry spell between girlfriends. Keeping them interested was hard enough. Meeting them was almost impossible. I decided I had better do something about it before I ended up a monk in a cave.
I didn't really know what to do about a trait that seemed to be inborn, but phobias are treated by de-sensitization through gradual exposure. So instead of interning at an investment bank, I took a summer job as a lifeguard at a private club. I'd meet lots of people and have lots of time to talk.
****
The club was in a famous old coastal resort town. It was a place where people didn't have second homes so much as second mansions. Most had been built in the 1890's, when everyone had servants. My guess was that nine-figure portfolios were common.
The wealthy families would come for the whole summer. The spouses and younger kids stayed for months, but the plutocrats and their young adults would drop by only briefly, while they weren't working at a hedge fund or whatever. So since I don't date thirteen year olds, I was faced with a rotating cast of entitled young women in $300 bikinis who would be around for a week at the most. They seemed like tough targets.
Other potential opportunities were the
au pairs
who were brought along to watch the younger kids. And the junior lifeguard, of course.
The junior lifeguard, Jenny, was, unfortunately, a tall, slender, and unapproachably beautiful blond who didn't strike me as having much personality anyway. Think Baywatch but with smaller boobs and longer legs. We always opened and closed the pool together and we got along well as a working team, but at other times she was disinterested and aloof. Anyway, she was constantly surrounded by a phalanx of wealthy young suitors.
The au pairs, on the other hand, had potential. They were here all summer, they were mostly young and earnest, and they were looking for friends in this strange land. The question was how to approach them. The answer, frequently, was swimming and diving lessons for their charges.
I was fine with them while we had their kids' swimming as a project, but then I would have to find a way to extend the conversation. I'd ask them all about themselves, their employers, their kids. That would work for a while, but then it got creepy.
Eventually I found one who seemed happy to do most of the talking. She was not overly beautiful, but she was shapely, chatty, and clearly not wealthy, which was a relief. We had a nice conversation one day, after the lessons. She did the talking, of course. I mostly kept stealing glances at the substantial bulges under her tee shirt. She may have noticed. When she had to take the kids back home, I said how nice it had been talking to her and asked when she would be back. Bold! But the kids were squalling and all she could spare was a harried wave goodbye. Still, I went home on a kind of optimistic high.
The next day I pathetically wore my coolest tee shirt. She didn't show up.
Nor the next day. I spent both days admiring the scenery around the pool. Some of those rich girls were really hot. Too bad there was a dress code.
She finally showed up the afternoon of the third day, kids in tow. She came right over, pulled up a chair and sat down next to me! Her name was Sheila. She watched the shallow end with me, but probably only because her kids were there.
And she talked. I marveled at how she never ran out of things to say. Apparently some peoples' brains just spout conversation like a lawn sprinkler. I envied the ability and resented not having it. Unfortunately, after the first few minutes her chatter was less interesting than my own thoughts. Staying out of my own head became effortful and, eventually, stressful. I worried I wouldn't be able to keep track of her ramblings. But at one point she reached over and put her fingertips on my thigh to emphasize a point, and concentrating got easier.
Jenny was meant to be watching the deep end, but she was surrounded by the usual wall of studly young fellows. They were showing off their best funny dives for her. Being the only one really watching, I couldn't leave the pool. Sheila offered to get me lunch from the snack bar. She returned with a sandwich and asked me for $10.16, returning nine cents change from my quarter.
She seemed more businesslike than empathic or romantic. But she did seem bold and confident. She had short, close cropped hair which, I thought, was strangely sexy with her big boobs. It said that she didn't need long hair to advertise her femininity.
****
The next day she showed up alone, later in the afternoon, and again came straight over to talk. She cross-examined me about my parents, our house, our hobbies, my college and my career interests. I felt like I was filling out a résumé. She seemed impressed by my academics. She stayed until closing.
Promptly at closing time, while Sheila and I were still chatting (or listening), Jenny came over. Silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, her tangled blond mane looked like a halo. Really, it was better when you couldn't see her face, because once you did it was impossible to look away. She asked, in her usual soft voice, whether I would close up for her; she had to leave. So logically I said of course. I'm a doormat, and girls like Jenny were made to walk on me. She was led off by a beautifully coiffed young man with a movie star profile, as was often the case.
When I had finally managed to get all the kids out of the water, Sheila said she wanted to take one quick dip. She took off her shirt and dropped her shorts.
I was in charge of dress code enforcement. Her bikini didn't meet the standard. For one thing, it was a thong. For another, the top was microscopic and precarious. She had huge boobs but it seemed to rely on just her nipples to stay located. She quickly dove in, flashing her ass at me. She repositioned her top as she resurfaced, but not before I could see her boobs floating free underwater. She smiled at me with an inside-joke grin.
I wasn't in enforcement mode, apparently, because I did nothing but get slightly stiff.
She hauled herself out right in front of me, giving me a long look at her big, shiny wet boobs expanded by gravity. Then she grabbed a towel, stood slightly inside my personal space, and shook her whole body while she vigorously toweled off her hair.
I was stunned. This was a good sign, probably. She might be signaling me, but I couldn't believe it. Me? And even if she was, what then? I didn't want to make a mistake and embarrass myself. I wouldn't sleep for days and I'd be cringing for weeks.
