2001-06-04 - 11:26 p.m.
You Can Lead A Skank To Water...

You Can Lead A Skank To Water...

Yesterday afternoon the back doorbell rang; sometimes J.C. doesn’t hear it, so after a minute or so I went to investigate. There stood a tall, strapping yet slightly pudgy young black guy; J.C.’s younger brother, I presumed.

I’d never met Oliver before. He’s only fifteen, but—like J.C.—looks years older.

J.C. and I had made tentative plans to go for a swim; I was relieved, actually, to see his brother show up. I’d been a bit nervous about going for this swimming lesson, feeling my usual loserish qualms about trying to learn a new athletic activity. Brings up a lot of stuff from my adolescence, unpleasantness which I tend to avoid.

Foolishly, as it turned out.

J.C. came up a bit later to use my oven, asked if I still wanted to go for a swim. “Oh, but you have company,” I said, to which he quickly clarified that Oliver did not count as company. J.C. was still game if I was.

He saw the reluctance on my face, asked what was up. I confessed my resistance to going through with this, worried I’d look stupid floundering about in the pool.

J.C. gave me that wonderful, loving, bemused look he shoots me when I need it. I acquiesced, said sure; we agreed to go swimming once he’d finished cooking. “Besides,” he said, “Oliver would probably like to come along too.”

Okay, now this was going to be doubly interesting.

I’ve written lots before about how much I love J.C.’s laugh. My god, I’ve never heard him laugh like he did yesterday afternoon down there watching TV with his brother. They were both shrieking as they watched some stand-up comedy special. I was aroused most of the afternoon, listening to the sibling peals.

As Oliver, J.C. and I ambled down the street towards the bus stop (it was raining, or we would have walked the twenty minutes to the gym), the brothers traded the odd comment back and forth in patois. This didn’t bother me; in fact I was yet again fascinated by the cadences and near-intelligibility of this "language".

So I asked them to explain a little bit about patois. J.C. informed me that it’s a blend of English, French and Spanish. Oliver added that while many of the words are in English, it’s the way they get "stretched out" that makes it difficult for me to understand. They grew up speaking patois and English at home; at school in Jamaica, only English is taught though.

Patois is mostly an oral language, but some people write it too. J.C. said he doesn’t know how to write it.

He has a cool patois greeting on his outgoing voicemail. I have no idea how it’s spelled, but it’s pronounced DUH-GAY-YELL. Sounds so sexy.

There is something indescribably erotic about patois. I suppose it helps hearing two beautiful young men speak it.

The three of us being together was a tad uncomfortable for me at first, as J.C. is not out to his kid brother. But I could soon see what a sweetie Oliver is, so I relaxed totally around him. He’s a big teddy bear.

I asked J.C. if he’d ever been to this gym before. Once or twice, he said. You see, J.C. does not work out. Isn’t that disgusting? He’s got the most amazing body imaginable, and he does nothing by way of regular exercise.

"Well, my dear," I said, "You better start working out three or four times a week like I do, eh? That is, if you want to look like me."

Down in the change room, only my eyes misbehaved, especially once we got into our trunks and were showering.

My optic misbehavior started the instant J.C. stepped under the shower nozzle. He was wearing loose white shorts that, wet, went completely transparent.

(swoon)

J.C. looked down on himself, giggled, and said "Oh. I think this was a bad idea."

His choice of swimwear seemed like a most excellent idea to yours truly.

Oliver soon joined us in the shower room. He was wearing bright pinkish-red shorts, and I could already detect his sizable penis pressing up against the crotch. And once he got under the shower, his trunks too left little to my overactive imagination.

You might say I was beginning to enjoy my swimming lesson, eh?

After joking that I’d need to start out in the kiddy pool, we opted for the next most-shallow pool for my lesson. Standing up, the lukewarm, chlorinated water reached my belly button.

"Okay," J.C. began, his voice manly and kind, "lay down on your belly as if you’re going to float. I’ll hold you up."

Oh my god, thought I. I hadn’t bargained on this.

I did as he instructed, pivoting my belly on J.C.’s upturned hand. He held me up on top of the water. Instantly, I felt extremely sexual; I could feel my abdominals flexed against his big hand. I wanted him to hold me up like this, forever.

He started gliding me along, telling me how to move my arms, how to kick my feet. I did my best to take in all these instructions, but I was acutely aware of that hand, how sexily muscled my belly felt against it.

Eventually, once I’d begun to thrash my arms about and kick with my feet, J.C. let go. I splashed my way awkwardly down the pool a ways before stopping, exhausted. Couldn’t believe how quickly I got winded.

J.C. said this was a very fast swim he was trying to teach me, which would give me the best work-out. On Oliver’s suggestion, he showed me some slower strokes; they were both surprised at how quickly I caught on to them.

"I thought you said you couldn’t swim!" Oliver exclaimed, after I’d rather competently bobbed under the water half way down the pool. The boys clapped at my impressive performance. "Yeah, I think you were just joshing us," laughed J.C.

Now why would he think that? Funny, Matt implied the same thing on the phone last night, said I’d merely been faking my aquatic ineptitude to play in the pool with J.C. Geez, some people…

Truth is, I did take several years of swimming lessons when I was a kid. In fact the only trophy I’ve ever received was for “Most Improved Swimmer” one summer when I was ten or eleven. Yay me. But I’ve not swam since; last summer when my niece and nephew, J.C. and I went to the pool, I stood around in the water and that was about it. Mostly gawking.

But there I was yesterday, actually swimming. Wow, I could feel what a terrific work-out this will be. I’m going to get J.C. to give me another lesson or two later, but I feel ready to, um, dive in.

Oliver was hell-bent on teaching me every stroke in the book. Against his brother’s advice, he wanted me to try the backstroke. J.C. didn’t think I was ready for that yet. Nonetheless, I agreed to give it a whirl.

Oliver first demonstrated it, floating his 200+ pound body in the water and gliding gracefully backwards. Then he told me to lean into him and he’d guide me to get started. Oh my god, I thought again. I did as I was told; he grabbed me around the torso to hold me up in the water, my head resting up against his big smooth chest. J.C. grabbed onto my feet and showed me how to kick.

So there I was, stretched and held by these two luscious young men. They were barraging me with important technical instructions, and all I could take in was J.C.’s taut chest, his black hands on my pasty-white feet, the feel of Oliver’s sturdy arms and pillowy torso. I tried—honestly, I did—to do what they said to do with my arms and my feet, but I wasn’t very successful.

Then Oliver stopped for a moment so he could give me a more detailed tutorial. Talking away, he bent his knees and rested me on his submerged lap. J.C. still held onto my feet; my lower body was above water.

At that moment, I became distinctly aware of two things: (1) my butt coming to rest on Oliver’s ample genitalia, and, not unrelated, (2) all the blood in my body suddenly throbbing towards my own nether regions, regions very much in view.

J.C. immediately interpreted the panicked excitement in my eyes; breaking into a grin, he let go of my legs. The backstroke lesson was aborted.

While I managed to tame my inchoate erection, its juice streamed up inside me: my eyes got the hard-on.

Meanwhile J.C. and Oliver, both strong swimmers, were itching to get into deeper waters. As we trundled over to the deepest pool with all the diving boards, I stole several glances at their hefty dicks swaying so visibly beneath soggy trunks.

There was no way in hell I was going to dive, but I was happy to pull up a chair and watch. J.C. was surprisingly reticent about diving off the boards, even the shortest one. Oliver showed him up; he wasn’t scared at all, although he didn’t dive per se; he just jumped off into the water a few times. I couldn’t take my eyes off him; he was so gleeful, so friendly with a couple ten year olds hanging out in the pool.

I loved watching J.C. and Oliver interact. I don’t have a brother (well, not really) and I find them fascinating. There was such a playful, zesty affection between these two; sure, I watched with my dick, but it wasn’t only the erotics that intrigued me.

I guess part of it goes back to my ex, Mark; he had a younger brother, seventeen when I first met him. Mark treated him like shit, all parental and condescending whenever they were together. It used to drive me crazy; in fact it was my first—regrettably, not my last—glimpse of Mark’s asshole side.

Watching Oliver, I thought about bodies. His is by no means perfect: a bit doughy, not rippled and lean like his brother’s. His waist is thick without being flabby; the more I watched him, the more I could see how beautiful and sexy he was. Such an open, expressive face, such a mischievous, fun-loving gleam in his eye.

Made me think of my own imperfect body; how unusual and beautiful it is when I can see my sexiness past its flaws.

Lust can be such a wonderful teacher.

And of course there was that big dick swinging under those trunks; my god, the young fellow is enormous!

At one point, J.C. shyly ventured out onto one of the low diving boards, grinning at me impishly as he pretended he was about to jump, then pulled back. He did this a few times and finally Oliver followed him out onto the board as if he was going to push his brother off. J.C. scolded him, said the lifeguard would give him heck if he didn’t behave. Oliver plopped down on the back-end of the diving board, playfully sulky at this reprimand.

And out plopped that colossal penis through the button fly.

I noticed the exquisite protrusion before Oliver did; an electrifying moment or two passed before he looked down, tucked his lusciousness away, shot me a bashful glance and said “Oops.”

Yes, boys and girls, this was one swimming lesson I shaln’t soon forget.

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