"Fuck you."
"Only if you eat me first."
"Shut the fuck up. They can hear what we're saying. They're fucking looking at us."
"Nice," he sighed. Just his luck, the one time something really interesting was happening, he didn't have time to enjoy it. On other days he certainly would have lingered to enjoy the show. Today, he was in too much of a hurry. He slipped off his shoes, his socks, then his shorts again. No gasps, no groans. The guys looked like they were okay with it, even though they both still had their suits on. They looked like they were hiding hardons, hopefully inspired by the girls and not by him.
"How far do you swim?" One of the boys was looking at him with a frank admiration that was a little disconcerting. He wondered, fleetingly, if their banter about blow jobs had been all in jest.
"Out around the second island. Want to come along?"
They shook their heads, and he slipped into the water and set off. Eighty strokes freestyle, eighty strokes backstroke, repeat. That gave him a nice even tan, it kept him from getting too tired. He would be swimming that way for about an hour. There was nothing more relaxing than clear calm water, blue sky, the warmth of the sun on the side that was facing up, the smooth power of his muscles as he moved without a ripple. One perfect stroke followed another, building speed until he was flying with an effortless grace. The pond had never been so smooth and calm, the water so clear it seemed like air. When he was on his stomach it seemed like he could touch the boulders below, thirty feet or more away. When he was on his back, he was staring up into a blue so deep it was almost purple.
His mind narrowed to the repeated tabulation of the strokes, the concentration on each one to make it perfect, to pull the water down from his head, to thrust it back behind him, to push out all the air in his lungs with each breath. Eighty on his stomach, eighty on his back. Eighty on his stomach, eighty on his back. He was more relaxed with each iteration. He wondered, dimly, how he was going to get through the next week. Vacation, he was on vacation, and that was supposed to be relaxing. But vacation meant sharing a motel room with two toddlers, it meant swimming squirrel cage laps in a tiny little motel pool, it meant furtive sex in the bathroom, his wife bent sullenly over the lavatory counter fretting that one of the children would awaken, or that he would fail to resist the temptation to go up her asshole. Vacation meant that he was going to have to wear a bathing suit, maybe even develop a tan line. Vacation was going to suck.
He'd had an unexpected reprieve this morning. His wife had decided at the last minute that the kids needed some more summer clothes and she needed a better bathing suit, and the three of them had gone off shopping. So he'd been able to slip off for one last solitary swim. He'd promised to be back before them. He was relishing every precious moment of freedom.
Eighty on his stomach, eighty on his back. The rhythm was lulling him to sleep. Nothing could have been more luxurious than the still, sweet water. It was strange to be out so early in the morning. Usually he stopped after work, an hour or so of freedom carved out of the daily schedule. The sun angle was completely different. The water still had a bit of chill to it. In the evening, everyone was leaving. Now, they were just starting to show up. It looked already like it was going to be a very interesting day at the pond, and he was going to miss it.
He started to daydream. What would he have done, if those bikers had actually gone through with their threats? A rock, maybe he would have thrown a rock at them. He had a very accurate arm -- he might have been lucky enough to score a hit. Of course, that might have just enraged them more. Maybe a big stick, use it to beat their stupid brains out? They'd been too drunk to put up much of a fight. He felt a sudden surge of blood lust, he started to stroke more violently. Then he laughed as the absurdity of it hit him.
In truth, he'd never been much of a fighter. There was that one time just before he got married, when he'd tripped that black kid running away with a stolen grocery bag. The old lady who owned the bag had been overjoyed, he'd felt like a hero. Then suddenly the kid was back, confronting him. He remembered being totally dumbfounded that the kid could be so far away from him, and still reach his nose with a jab. Once, twice -- and he had just stood there, in a daze. Dimly, he began to realize that the kid might have a knife, or a gun, that if he moved in to return the blows he might be getting into a lot of trouble. He'd thought about all the work they'd put into to getting the wedding set up, how a groom in the hospital or the morgue was going to really screw things up. While he'd been thinking about these things, belatedly, his nose had started to bleed from another impact. He'd finally worked up the awareness to move a bit further off, to block the next jab, and to tell the punk to get out before the cops arrived. And that had been the end of it.
The way he had handled the bikers, talking his way out of it, had probably been the best. Not heroic, not satisfying. He really would have liked to leave them dead or maimed. Too many hassles, though. Legal problems, maybe a trial, maybe even jail time. Not worth it.
Not worth it. That was the story of his life. He was going to look back on a lifetime of safe choices, good decisions, and boredom. He remembered how he'd envied that couple out on the island last week, the guy sitting there like a little god while his lady sucked him off for all to see. They'd known damn well they'd had an audience, and they'd played to it.
Gradually, the rage subsided. The little adrenaline rush worked itself off in a few hundred strokes, and left him if anything even more relaxed than before. Just as he was reaching a state of total, careless bliss, something bumped into him.
His first reaction was one of pure terror. Otter, beaver, snapping turtle -- he wasn't interested in tangling with any of them. Snake, bear, goose -- he turned, splashing water frantically at whatever it was that had attacked him, hoping to scare it off. What the hell was it? Something small, furry, with a strange yellow beak. He realized it was the little dog, with a very soggy tennis ball in its mouth.
"Terry, get over here! I am so sorry! Did he hurt you?"
He looked over to the source of the voice. It was one of the girls, floating on her back, her bare breasts jutting up like two little islands. The other girl was some distance behind, swimming hard but not too well, trying to catch up.
"Just startled."
They were close to the inner island. The first girl swam over to a rock and pulled herself out of the water. Her breasts were larger than he had realized, seeing them floating in the water. The rest of her was skinny. His wife had been skinny like that, a couple of babies ago. The dog scrambled up past her, and dropped the ball in front of her, on the slope. The girl bent over, reaching to retrieve it before it rolled into the pond, opening herself to his gaze. She missed, and the ball went floating towards him.
"Damn!" She didn't turn around, instead, she looked out from between her legs, to watch the ball floating away. "Terry, go get the fucking ball!" But Terry was already up on top of the rocks, barking down at her.
Gallantly, he swam over to retrieve the ball. He moved in close to her, treading water, and tossed it up. The second girl arrived. She was younger, chubbier, red frizzy hair, fair, freckled skin turning into one big sunburn. She was gasping for breath, looking up at the rocks as if she were confronting El Capitan. Gallantly, again, he helped her get up out of the water. It was only by accident that his arm was rubbing over her big soft breasts, or that his hand found purchase in the red curls between her legs as he was steadying her. She was too tired to notice, in any case. She sat on a rock, gasping, waiting to catch her breath before she attempted to climb up the little cliff that skirted the island.
"Need a hand?" He climbed up beside her, stood up, and helped her to her feet. Together, they scaled the ten feet or so of granite that led to the flat surface above. The first girl was already lying down, seemingly unconcerned about her companion. She was lying, disconcertingly, with her legs sprawled wide open to let the sunlight ravish her. Danae and the shower of gold. That was what it seemed like. She was offering herself to the sun.
It was time to go, past time to go. It was time for him to climb back down the rocks, slip back into the water, swim back to the boys, put his shorts and shoes back on, run back to his car, and drive back home. It was time to do those things, to make sure that he returned before his wife. That was the safe thing to do, the reasonable thing, the right thing. The thing he always did. It was not the right thing to be staring at some random girl's naked crotch, certainly not to say "hi." It was not the right thing to blush a bit as he felt her appraising him, as he saw himself, naked and perfect, reflected in her eyes. It certainly wasn't the right thing to start shivering from excitement or terror when she gave him a welcoming smile.
"Hi. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he said, but his teeth were chattering. "Got to go."
"You'd better warm up first." She motioned for him to sit down next to her. "You've got goose bumps."
