not to yield to that violent urge for pasta, occasionally.
One night there was nothing much else around to eat, and so I gave in to my lust, so to speak. I made a big steaming bowl of oniony, garlicky, buttery spaghetti, which my mother, in a worse than usual mood, ate very little of. Which meant that the next day there was a lot left over, and at noontime, Iwas unable not to eat quite a lot of it for lunch. I brushed my teeth before I went off to swim, but of course that doesn’t help a lot, with garlic. However, since I almost never talk to anyone at Rossi it didn’t much matter, I thought.
I have worked out how to spend the least possible time undressed in the locker room: I put my bathing suit on at home, then sweatshirt and jeans, and I bring along under-things wrapped up in a towel. That way I just zip off my clothes to swim, and afterward I can rush back into them, only naked for an instant; no one has to see me. While I am swimming I leave the towel with the understuff wrapped up in it on the long bench at one side of the pool, and sometimes I have horrible fantasies of someone walking off with it; however, it is comforting to think that no one would know whose it was, probably.
I don’t think very much while swimming, not about my old bra and panties, nor about the fact that I ate all that garlic for lunch. I swim fast and freely, going up to the end with a crawl, back to Shallow with my backstroke, reaching wide, stretching everything.
Tired, momentarily winded, I pause in Shallow, still crouched down in the water and ready to go, but resting.
Just then, startlingly, someone speaks to me, a man’s conversational voice. “It’s nice today,” he says. “Not too many people, right?”
Standing up, I see that I am next to the blond-bearded man, the violent swimmer. Who has spoken.
Very surprised, I say, “Oh yes, it’s really terrific, isn’t it. Monday it was awful, so many people I could hardly move, really terrible. I hate it when it’s crowded like that, hardly worth coming at all on those days, but how can you tell until you get here?” I could hear myself saying all that; I couldn’t stop.
He looks up at me in—amazement? disgust? great fear,that I will say even more. It is hard to read the expression in his small blue bloodshot eyes, and he only mutters, “That’s right,” before plunging back into the water.
Was it my garlic breath or simply my height, my incredible
size
that drove him off like that? In a heavy way I wondered, as I continued to swim, all the rest of my laps, which seemed laborious. It could have been either, easily, or in fact anything about me could have turned him off, off and away, for good; I knew that he would never speak to me again. A pain which is close to and no doubt akin to lust lay heavily in my body’s lower quadrant, hurtful and implacable.
Sex
The atmosphere in the pool is not exactly sexy, generally, although you might think that it would be, with everyone so stripped down, wearing next to nothing, and some of the women looking really great, so slim and trim, high-breasted, in their thin brief bathing suits.
Once, just as I was getting in I overheard what looked like the start of a romance between a young man, fairly good-looking, who was talking to a very pretty Mexican girl.
The girl said, “You’re Brad?”
“No. Gregory.”
“Well, Greg, I’ll try to make it. Later.”
But with brief smiles they then both plunged back into doing their laps, seeming not to have made any significant (sexual) contact.
I have concluded that swimming is not a very sexual activity. I think very infrequently of sex while actually swimming. Well, all sports are supposed to take your mind off sex, aren’t they? They are supposed to make you miss it less?
The lifeguards, during swimming hours, usually just situp on their high wooden lifeguard chairs, looking bored. A couple of youngish, not very attractive guys. Every now and then one of the guys will walk
One night there was nothing much else around to eat, and so I gave in to my lust, so to speak. I made a big steaming bowl of oniony, garlicky, buttery spaghetti, which my mother, in a worse than usual mood, ate very little of. Which meant that the next day there was a lot left over, and at noontime, Iwas unable not to eat quite a lot of it for lunch. I brushed my teeth before I went off to swim, but of course that doesn’t help a lot, with garlic. However, since I almost never talk to anyone at Rossi it didn’t much matter, I thought.
I have worked out how to spend the least possible time undressed in the locker room: I put my bathing suit on at home, then sweatshirt and jeans, and I bring along under-things wrapped up in a towel. That way I just zip off my clothes to swim, and afterward I can rush back into them, only naked for an instant; no one has to see me. While I am swimming I leave the towel with the understuff wrapped up in it on the long bench at one side of the pool, and sometimes I have horrible fantasies of someone walking off with it; however, it is comforting to think that no one would know whose it was, probably.
I don’t think very much while swimming, not about my old bra and panties, nor about the fact that I ate all that garlic for lunch. I swim fast and freely, going up to the end with a crawl, back to Shallow with my backstroke, reaching wide, stretching everything.
Tired, momentarily winded, I pause in Shallow, still crouched down in the water and ready to go, but resting.
Just then, startlingly, someone speaks to me, a man’s conversational voice. “It’s nice today,” he says. “Not too many people, right?”
Standing up, I see that I am next to the blond-bearded man, the violent swimmer. Who has spoken.
Very surprised, I say, “Oh yes, it’s really terrific, isn’t it. Monday it was awful, so many people I could hardly move, really terrible. I hate it when it’s crowded like that, hardly worth coming at all on those days, but how can you tell until you get here?” I could hear myself saying all that; I couldn’t stop.
He looks up at me in—amazement? disgust? great fear,that I will say even more. It is hard to read the expression in his small blue bloodshot eyes, and he only mutters, “That’s right,” before plunging back into the water.
Was it my garlic breath or simply my height, my incredible
size
that drove him off like that? In a heavy way I wondered, as I continued to swim, all the rest of my laps, which seemed laborious. It could have been either, easily, or in fact anything about me could have turned him off, off and away, for good; I knew that he would never speak to me again. A pain which is close to and no doubt akin to lust lay heavily in my body’s lower quadrant, hurtful and implacable.
Sex
The atmosphere in the pool is not exactly sexy, generally, although you might think that it would be, with everyone so stripped down, wearing next to nothing, and some of the women looking really great, so slim and trim, high-breasted, in their thin brief bathing suits.
Once, just as I was getting in I overheard what looked like the start of a romance between a young man, fairly good-looking, who was talking to a very pretty Mexican girl.
The girl said, “You’re Brad?”
“No. Gregory.”
“Well, Greg, I’ll try to make it. Later.”
But with brief smiles they then both plunged back into doing their laps, seeming not to have made any significant (sexual) contact.
I have concluded that swimming is not a very sexual activity. I think very infrequently of sex while actually swimming. Well, all sports are supposed to take your mind off sex, aren’t they? They are supposed to make you miss it less?
The lifeguards, during swimming hours, usually just situp on their high wooden lifeguard chairs, looking bored. A couple of youngish, not very attractive guys. Every now and then one of the guys will walk
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