Poolside Memoirs...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

A brief dash of an afternoon

Ahhh, blessed Sunday at the neighborhood Ardmore pool. Were it not for my trusty earbuds, the words 'relaxation' and 'this afternoon' would easily qualify as mutually exclusive; for frolicking about like ravenous baby warlocks or hyenas are any number of rather morbidly obese children yelling, \"Mom! Mom! Mom! Watch me! Watch me! Watch me dive! Mom, watch me dive!!!\" I'm just about to issue my own directive at 'Mom', \"For Heaven's sake, would you please just watch your Goddang children dive?!!!\" But then again, I imagine these childish pleas extend to every aspect of their lives: \"Mom! Mom! Watch me do a cartwheel! Mom! Mom! Watch me eat! Watch me poop...\" Or some such thing. In all actuality, however, I am a fairly tolerant and patient person these days, it's senseless to get worked up/max out the 'ol blood pressure over matters beyond one's control. A rough maxim I at least profess to follow... The amount of pleasure these moms derive from seeing their children pleasure themselves seems roughly negligible, though it's rather obvious they enjoy feeding them (and no, it is not just baby fat). Over the past few hours I've overheard mothers, from two separate waves of poolhounds nonetheless, quietly exclaim to their adult companions, \"At least they're tiring themselves out. Hopefully now little Jimmy, or Ashley, or Jessica, will sleep through the rest of the afternoon and give Mommy a little peace and quiet for once.\" Nods of affirmation from said adult counterpart, along with what I imagine a black woman in a similar situation would offer, something like, \"You said it, sister\", or \"Ain't that a Goddamn fact!\" \"Ok, 5 more minutes, kids.\" Seven minutes later, \"Ok, time to get out!\" Child A, \"Please, just 3 more jumps?\", as though the meaning of life for their five-year-old souls consists of one final heave into a pool... \"No, that's it, let's go!\" \"Please, Mom, Two more jumps,\" in a slightly higher pitched plea now closer to a whine. \"No, that's it, we need to go home and start dinner for daddy.\" \"Just one more then? It's not fair!\" \"Get out of the pool now. One, two....\" Kids hesitantly now slowly wading towards stairs with sourpusses on their faces. The more affected older boy defiantly huffing and puffing his way out of the water, then, although strictly verboten, breaking into a run across the slick concrete. My head is down and I only catch the beginning of mom's fragmented, \"What did I just....\" before the sickening slap of skin and flab against pavement jolts my attention away from my new Danielle Steele and over to the fallen mound of childish blob now lying prone upon the silent floor. \"Jimmy, or Billy...\" or whatever-his-name erupts from mom's mouth and there's actually not much to elicit concern. Looks like a mere bloody nose, perhaps a bit of pain, but the sight of his own life-force dribbling down and off his chin brings some tears into the mix, as well as a high-pitched wail and a fast walk, not run, into mom's comfortable and flabby arms. Victory for Mom. Hmmm, just as moms and shuffling, pouty kids are leaving the neighborhood pool, in walks an average-looking dad; average in the sense of appearance at least, displaying a heavily-defined farmer's tan, clothing marketed for teenagers, hair product and 50+lbs of extra flab around his midsection and rear. What becomes immediately clear is the attention and 'fuck-me eyes' he directs towards what appears to be the family's au pair. Through a bit of discrete eavesdropping, I learn the family's matriarch is in Ohio for two weeks, caring for her emphysemic mother and apparently clueless as to the cuckoldry developing inside the walls of her own home, and probable bedroom, in her absence. With two children no older than four, therefore incapable of interpreting daddy's wanton and lustful glances and furtive little ass-slaps as nothing more than friendly-fire, daddy seems to have it made in the shade. The au pair has even been brazenly sneaking into daddy's bedroom and unholy embrace nights after bedding the children. For the au pair, this tryst is just the trick to compensate for her lingering 'father issues', as well as earn a few extra dollars towards her college fund. Unfortunately for dear old dad, he's beginning to confuse lust for this girl's tight little body and alluring gleam in her eye as something closer to love. Looks as though nothing good can possibly come from this judgement lapse, \"But we're in love!!\" Not five minutes of blissful solitude later, the door opens and in walks the perfect representation of young love, personified by a young man with hipster ink and an extremely fertile looking young woman. They can hardly keep their hands off one another as they remove each other's clothing and I can almost hear the faint basslines and swanky wah-wah guitar of 70's porno funk. She's pushing the limits of her skimpy black bikini, flowers gracing the breast-cups, and as they enter the water and each other's loving (lustful?) embrace, I almost feel threatened by such an open display of sexuality. I recline in my loungechair, book shielding at least any untoward visuals, though the succulent sounds of kissing are more difficult to ignore. I am not a dirty old man. I am merely exercising my right to share the common space. The sunlight shifts and shadows grow as day limps along under an increasing pall of poisonous smog and heat. Sunday is beginning to retire the side and I'm actually quite relieved.


Submitted: November 16, 2014

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