Date: Thu, 30 Aug 2001 03:58:24 EDT
From: Crankyboi@aol.com
Subject: hotel

We arrived in the afternoon. Naptime. I was woozy from a long car ride and
exhausting exchanges with my father. Songs on the radio. Signs. Thoughts.
We arrived at the hotel and I was already set to go to bed.
	I set my head down on the pillow and when my eyes next opened the
sun had long since set and the television was blaring. I rubbed my eyes,
groggy and hungry. I spotted the swimming pool, situated just outside a
sliding glass door. My swimsuit lay, dry, forgotten at home, six hours
away.
	I was alone, my father neither in the bedroom or the bathroom. A
small tremor awoke in my belly, a fear or excitement. I wondered how safe I
was in the room, who could see into the glass door. the curtains were open
and my skin glowed sickly blue in the TV light. A lone figure paddled in
the pool, one arm tugging lazily out of the water, arcing overhead,
repeating.
	My father always did his laps. He kept active, even though he
drank. His sturdy frame caught my attention as he got out of the water,
clad in a pair of boxer shorts. Forgot his swim trunks too.
	He asked if I was hungry, which I was. He decided that we would
shower and go out to eat. I was ushered into the bathroom and undressed,
waiting as he turned on the water and stripped out of his wet, clammy
shorts.
	The water warm, we stepped into the stall and he soaped me up
first, knowing I would take longer in my sleepy haze. As I rinsed myself, I
watched his lean body while he washed his hair, oblivious to my young eyes
roving.
	The nipples were tight and erect, balanced at the center of
generous muscles. Hair rippled across his chest down his stomach. He
reminded me of an action hero in one of those sword-and-sandal epics of the
50s. Barrel-chested.
	His sex made little sense to me at first. So large, partially
buried in hair, enormous testicles. My own penis hung at only a few inches,
puberty was still a few years away. My body was a place of potential.
	He soaped himself and scrubbed his hairy armpits. My small hand
reached up. I was curious. I had to touch it.
	His eyes darted to me, conveying surprise. For a moment I held his
flesh in my hand and stared at him boldly. Then I let go and looked
down. "Why did you do that?" he wanted to know. I had no answer. He
regarded me for a moment, then proceeded washing himself.

	Later, in the car, after the restaurant. The ride home. I put my
head on his lap after the first mile. His shorts were tiny, rode high up on
his leg. My face rubbed against his hairy thigh, moist in the humid
southern air. I could smell the soap and musk of the place between his
legs. I held his hand.
	He let me suck his thumb.


(c) 2001 dangerous arts