I don't know exactly why he was only at the apartments occasionally. Maybe he was somebody's relative. But I saw him in the pool from time to time: long of limb and torso, smooth. He wore two different suits, both Speedos. There were the yellow and blue striped ones, with the thin red line at the edge of each blue stripe. Those went across his bulge, from leg to leg, the lines emphasizing the voluptuous fullness there. Then there were the white ones with the red stripe that ran vertically. Those were just a tiny bit loose and, as we frolicked in the pool, delicious ripples would run through them. Mysterious ripples in the plenty there. The red stripes candy like: I somehow associated them with eating, with some sort of assimilative gratification not oral, exactly.

I knew, even as young as I was, that I wanted him. Nights, I thought of doing something with him. Something indistinct, that satisfied the need to have him. Over time and many fantasies, the actual desire gelled: to be had. To have and have him have me. Have him give me what was in there, what rippled in the candy secret promise place between the long thighs, at the base of the long spare torso, beneath the rippling candy bulge.

We played all sorts of pool chase games, none but an excuse to touch and slide and brush the candy bag. Touch the loose ripples, until they weren't so loose. Until he looked at me and grinned. The accidents happened again and again, till the moment we both knew what I was doing and, at last, the incandescent excitement as my hand slid beneath the waves of peppermint fabric, to graze the glory of the long smoothness and cup the taut sack, the spare smooth essence of his boy/man self, to withdraw, slipping deliciously from base to tip, and turn and run away squealing from his pursuit.

I finally managed to get him to chase me to the cabana, to come in pursuit, as pay back for some mock coup delivered in mock pool combat, to come pounding after me, into the changing cabana, to come streaking in hot delicious pursuit, into the hot cabana. To come catch me, and take me down squealing and cooing to the vinyl day bed, to feel my hand, once again to his smooth scrotum, to run down the length of his hard immensity, as he pressed himself, all delicious threat of him, to my now bare bottom, to the delight of my hole, begging to be thrilled and had.

Rolling, now to my back, legs coming up to make myself open, to feel his heat and immensity graze my eager sack, graze beneath, my groaning desire, to feel him lodge against the gates of the temple and enter a little, a little, a little, both of us in a state of worship -- each of our own god. Enter the gates and open, open, open. More than possible. Heart wildly pounding and the smell of the pool and his breathing raspy, and bigger than anything and claiming me, bit by bit, almost casual, almost deeper incidentally with the eagerness of his motion. Until the threshold is crossed and the longness, like the spareness of him, the longness, like the longness and smoothness of his limbs, gliding. Long, smooth, tenderly huge and hard with the eager joy of a boy 20. Deep, long, smooth, mine; me his. Deep pressing, pressing at the deep places. A sigh, another. Stillness. Frozen, an eternal moment. His tiny cry, the electric feel of his joy, and pulsing. Warmth and the gentleness of his smile and embrace.