Wearing Speedos Might Be Hard

Disclaimer:

any reference to persons under 18 years of age is for context. All characters involved in, seeing, or talking about sexual activity are 18 years old or older.

I am completely new to this. I hated writing, creative or otherwise, for most of my life. I started writing this one morning and found my imagination spinning, so I ran with it. I am open to feedback, but please be nice. Some of these stories might even parallel real life...

I'm

Luis

,

mucho gusto

(nice to meet you)! I would like to share some parts of my life with you that only my closest friends know about. Some of those friends are part of these stories.

I'm a Latino - a first-generation American. I grew up in a working-class neighborhood in Texas with my mom, Maria, my dad, Joe, my younger brother, Marco, and my abuela (grandma), Pilar. Mom and grandma are from Ecuador. Mom came to Boston for school and naturalized after working in the U.S. for many years. She's a

"wicked smaht"

engineering manager at a manufacturing plant near where I grew up. My dad is a corn-fed-and-bred gringo. Try not to laugh when I tell you--he's a plumber. Yeah, it's been a decade and he still hasn't heard the end of it.

My

Abuela

moved from Ecuador to live with us shortly after my parents' wedding. She shakes her head every time Dad stumbles through Spanish within earshot. It's been 22 years, and he's still trying to get the preterite tense down. I don't think that Dad is anything like who Abuela imagined her daughter would bring home, but I know her.

Abuelita

is

enérgica

(feisty). She hurls verbal jabs at him, and that means she loves him.

My parents share a

near-obsessive

dedication to their health. Mom's family has a history of diabetes, and Dad lost Grandpa to a heart attack when he was only 8. My parents signed my younger brother Marco and me up for every sports league and activity they could afford. They wanted something to stick. For me, it was swimming.

I was a decent swimmer. My event was the 500 free: a 20-lap sprint in a standard 25-yard pool. My best was 4:49.07. I spent the last year of high school chasing the school record, but I missed it by about a second. Regardless, specializing in the 500 gave me exceptional stamina, even among swimmers.

I didn't expect to get recruited to swim competitively in college; I wasn't nearly good enough. My college did have a recreational swim team, though. I joined, figuring it would keep me fit and help me connect with new people. Everyone on the team was great - the atmosphere was chill, sometimes bro-y, and super open. I got invited to parties as a freshman that introduced me to loads of people and new experiences.

If y'all like this stuff and ask nicely, I'll even share some of those stories later...

One thing I didn't expect about college swimming was practicing at the same time as the women's team. In high school, where the pools and budgets were smaller, the men's and women's seasons were staggered. When their season ended, ours began.

Let me explain something about swimmers--men and women.

Swimmer bods are this fantastic combination of lithe and muscled. In my mind? Perfect.

With so many hours in the pool each day, you cannot out-eat your training. Pretty much everyone's body fat is between 10 and 15%. That's the stage between defined and cut. Neither vascular nor soft. All that

stamina

built up from hours of training each day?

It's a nice bonus.

------

I was 19 my freshman year. The first day of practice was the second time I had been to the main athletic facility. The team's website said,

"First practice Monday, August 28th. On deck at 5:45, in the pool at 6, done for 8 a.m. classes."

Uncomfortably, yet comfortably, early. Just like high school. I got there extra early to give myself time in case I got lost.

I pulled the front door at 5:15 to find it locked.

"Oops -- guess I should have checked the website."

I swung my backpack off my shoulder and collapsed onto a bench near the entrance. The rush to find the rec center, only to be stuck waiting outside, made the butterflies in my stomach worse. My swim bag was in my lap, and I tried to calm my nerves by inventorying its contents.

"Could that convince me I was ready?"

The red mesh drawstring bag was full to bursting. After I had a locker, that wouldn't be the case. The bag held two pairs of goggles, speedos, a drag suit, my combination lock, and a towel. Hmm, the exact same items I had double-checked when I left my dorm.

"Great," I said to no one.

Unsatisfied, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through Instagram. Some of my high school friends posted about their college orientations. Duck-faced selfies with new friends, photos of jello shots, you get the idea. One girl posted a picture of herself with a dick drawn on her face in permanent marker. The caption read:

"LOL! this is college! 🎉🍻🥃 #noregerts #collegebabyyyy #dontrememberthis".

I groaned. Only

she

would post that like a badge of honor.

I stopped scrolling while I heard a bike clicking towards me. The rider swung their leg over the bar and hopped off while it was still rolling, elegantly jogging it down to a stop. They wore reflective blue sunglasses and a bike helmet, so I could not see their face. Their body, though?

On full display.

The rider was about my height (6'1"). I assumed it was a woman by her gray cutoff tank top over a dark blue sports bra and black spandex volleyball shorts. The outfit highlighted her pale skin, visible from breastbone to navel and butt to ankle.

"Skimpy, but it makes sense. It's 5:15 and already 80,"

I thought.

I glanced away, worried about being a creep. When I heard the rattle of a bike lock, I risked another look. She was bending over the bike rack. The morning sun glinted off a sheen of sweat, highlighting the contours of her body. My stomach jumped; my pelvic floor spasmed. Her cutoff top slid upward, revealing the entirety of the sports bra.

"Nike Pro. Of course."

A little bit of her ribs peeked out below the elastic band, and even from 20 feet away, I thought I spotted some pokies.

Without looking up, she spouted, "Here for swim practice?" There was no trace of exertion in her confident voice, but she spoke as if she was being timed.

"Yeah, you too?" I replied.

"Yep.

Claire

. Freshman. Got here early to find stuff."

"Same, I'm Luis"

"Swim in high school? What event?"

"Yeah. 500 fr--"

"--100 fly," she blurted, pulling off her helmet to reveal long dirty-blonde hair. She flipped it back and leaned to tie it up in a high pony--yep, two glass cutters under that bra.

Claire walked toward me on long, pale legs. She was "skinny fit." Slight but cut, her abs starting above the bottom of her bra and vanishing into her shorts. She sat down next to me and dropped her backpack on the sidewalk. She was closer than socially acceptable for two strangers. So close I could feel the warmth radiating off her and smell a combination of sunscreen and a bit of BO (body odor). She lifted her hand to the band of her bra and pulled it off her chest with her thumb. A combination of excitement and terror swept over me. She held the band out for a few seconds and let it snap back down.

"I'm from Washington State. Pretty hot here," she said.

"Texas," I said, "My swim season was in the winter; maybe jumping in the pool will actually be nice today."

Claire leaned back on the bench and casually surveyed me from head to toe. "Don't look like a distance swimmer," she remarked. I was immediately self-conscious. Baggy shorts? The "Rage Against the Machine" shirt I grabbed from the dorm room floor? Beat-up sneakers?

"Fuck, Luis. You look like a bum. Pick up your game."

I heard a *click* from the front door and glanced from my phone back to Claire. "5:20. Do you think we can go in now?"

Already halfway off the bench, she blurted, "Yes." I didn't get the rush, but I enjoyed the free view of her ass. The volleyball-style shorts left little to the imagination. That ass was tight, not too big, and flowed down into defined hamstrings. As I stood up and she walked away, I admired her back as well.

"You do look like a fly swimmer!" I called to her.

She looked over her shoulder with a charming smirk. "Yep."

"Is this what members of the swim team are going to look like? Fuck." Wearing Speedos might be hard.

Hey there,

I hope you enjoyed this (not so) little intro to Luis's college life and the swim team. My head is spinning with places his story could go next, and I would love to hear what you'd be interested in hearing about.