Chrisonomicon

Tuesday, October 8, 2002

J had bought us matching speedos earlier in the day to parade at the clothing-optional Atlantic Shores pool, a small gay hotel at the end of the strip in Key West that butted right up to the cloudy waters along the so-called beach. We found it the day before, situated around the corner from the B&B we had shacked up in. J, being more than a little of an exhibitionist, couldn't pass up swimming in front of 20-or-so, older, gay men in a speedo so I humored him to avoid having to deal with the passive-aggressive backlash later.

I wasn't too keen on flaunting our relationship status with identical swimwear. After all, we had broken up the weekend before and as far as I was concerned, that was the way it was going to stay. Even together, I had a better time flirting and innocently exploring potential options while we were out than I did announcing to everyone that I was taken. I did have to admit though, the speedos looked good and J wasn't exactly chopped liver so we managed to accrue quite a bit of attention regardless.

The parking lot was full at 3pm. J got out of the car, quickly stripped and threw a towel around his shoulders, while I reluctantly peeled off my clothes, throwing glances towards the sounds of bass and conversation drifting off of the pool. It was a boiler of activity. Plodding behind J in identical dark blue lycra, I verdantly glanced between the resort's leathery patrons and the leathery planks of the sunbleached wood veranda as we approached two pool chairs and stowed our belongings.

A splash sounded behind me as J dove into the pool, now freely mingling with other swimmers. Looking up, I greeted the sun, the heat pushing me forcibly back into the chair and I closed my eyes. The pool drifted in and out of my perception, pool sounds mingling with crashing waves below, and I could be anywhere—Southbeach, Los Angeles, the pool on Peterson. I'm 12 and the smells from the grill remind me of lazy summer days, grass between my toes, and strawberry Mentos .

There's a squeal of metal as a pool chair is extended next to me. Blue light filters through my squinted eyelids, and I hold a hand up to shade my eyes as I work to make out who's sitting next to me. A sarong-clad boy of about 25 or so, is watching me as he straightens the back of the chair and smiles. I can't really do anything but smile back, although I wonder if it merely looks like a squint.

"Nice speedos," he says, and motions to an older man in glasses, holding a large, paper-parasoled drink. The man starts with a jump and heads over. I thank him with a squinty smile and he asks if I want anything to drink. Sure, Bud Light. His bronzed muscles ripple in his lower back as he walks briskly towards the bar, and I admire how his short-cropped blond hair is lighter than his skin. He's also obviously not wearing anything under his sarong. I glance over at J who's propped against the pool edge, talking to a threesome of muscleboys.

Later, J has dripped back from the pool and stretched himself out next to me. We talk about leaving, but I respond quietly, my eyes assidiously following the pool boy as he pulls his sarong off, tosses it nonchalantly across a stack of pool chairs, and dives into the now-vacant water. It's clear he's practiced this routine for quite some time now, flexing his body like a dolphin, moving through the water effortlessly, silently. He turns his body upward and surfaces, all eyes light soundlessly on the pool.

J is gathering our things and the pool boy pulls himself out of the water and begins toweling off. Let's go, J says. I follow him to the front, and right as we reach the entrance, a hand catches the crook of my elbow. I turn and feel a smile spread across my face.

"Will you wear those for me tomorrow?" he asks, nodding at my speedos. I wink and turn to catch up with J.

To be continued...