Off the Deep End

I splash my gaze on The Boy over the champagne fizz of his jacuzzi, watching him walk ’round his patio, backgrounded by a moving postcard view of Los Angeles’ coast. Spotlighted by the sunshine is his house with empty servants’ quarters 25% bigger than my shoe box home, is his groomed grass, is almost everything he’s earned–

Including the pool he’s cleaning.

I pull my topless top half out of the hot bubbly, so he can hear me when I ask, “What if we play out a pool boy porno?”

The Boy laughs, not looking up from the baby blue water he’s skimming. “So that’s what you’re thinking about, little fucker, while I work? That’s–”

“Pool boy,” I interrupt. “Pool boy, when are you coming into the jacuzzi?”

Under his surface seriousness I see a smile. “Soon, miss.”

“I’d prefer immediately, Pool Boy.” I slap wet the Italian tiles of his hot tub, with authoritative impatience. “Please strip, right now.”

“You know I prefer to pretend that I do you voluntarily, miss.”

“That does polish the fantasy, indeed.” I lay my head down on the warm curb of the jacuzzi, letting the sunshine bake my thoughts. “I’ll give you another bonus for that. Do you like earning your bonuses, pool boy?”

“I would do this for free, miss, with no money involved. The bonuses you give in correlation with how often I allow you to ride my pole mean nothing to me.” He shakes out his net; he’s caught something. “I just enjoy your company.”

I’m offended–”That’s what my third husband said, before he left me for someone younger and richer, pool boy.”

“Miss, I believe he didn’t leave you. You asked me to have him to check out a crack in the bottom of the pool, and then you threw a blow dryer in.”

“That was an accident.” With each word I slap my little fist into the water, making a mini storm in the spa, though, part playing eccentric rich lady, part prissy Krissy, I’m careful not to splash my face or hair. “What looked like a grin was really a gasp, pool boy.”

The Boy looks up from the choppy glow of his pool. “Do you even know my name, miss?”

“That’s a ridiculous question,” I answer. “Your first name is Pool, and your family name is Boy.” The jet streams in the tub pump out popping bubbles, and their crystal explosions blow up little bits of water that kiss my face as I reminisce. “I knew of some Boys during my youth. An aristocratic family with roots in the south of France. I believe they came into fortune with some sort of pussy cat litter.”

The Boy finally looks up from his work, his eyes catching the sun bouncing off my body, and he laughs.

“Now, pool boy,” I say. “Get naked.”

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