Page 2 of Teach Me To Sin

“Do you want to see the glassblowing demonstration with me?” Maya pulls on a bralette and a semi-sheer white sundress that would turn on every straight man in the world except me.

“I don’t feel great,” I say honestly, rubbing my eyes. “You should go, and then I’ll take you to dinner. My treat, anywhere you pick.”

The mattress shifts as she sits down and runs a soft, feminine hand along my hip, coaxing me onto my back. “You didn’t even come earlier. At least let me get you off first.”

I watch blankly as she grasps the base of my flaccid shaft and leans in. If this works, maybe a pill really can fix the rest. At the last minute, I squirm away in a wave of queasy panic, covering my junk with my hand like she’s trying to attack me. “Wait. I’m sorry, babe. I don’t know… I can’t right now.” Avoiding her eyes, I sit up and kiss her freckled shoulder. “Have a good time in town.”

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, turning toward the window and braiding her long, chestnut hair. “Get dressed and we’ll walk downstairs together.”

The air between us feels fragile and spider-webbed with cracks as I pull on a pair of shorts and one of my seven hundred blueLang Aquatic Centert-shirts. I don’t think I remember what I look like in any other color. Sitting on the bathroom counter with my back to the mirror, I brush my teeth and rake wet fingers through my chaotic post-failed-sex hair. On my way out the door, I risk a glance at myself. Nobody has ever known me as one of the best pro swimmers, but my black hair and pitch-dark eyes made me one of the most attractive ones. Now I look five years older than I am, aged by no sleep and fast-food meals grabbed between classes. Maya had to bribe Victor and Tate to lock me out of the swim center for me to agree to this vacation.

The folder of work documents I smuggled into my suitcase earns me a frustrated look as we head into the hall, but Maya doesn’t say anything. Our fingers lace together as we descend the staircase, gripping tight against a feeling of drifting. The whole lodge is decorated with nature paintings from local artists, and Maya has already bought half of them for our Seattle condo. She’s the one with a design background and the income to pay for whatever she wants, so I support anything that makes her happy.

In the lobby, she pecks me on the lips and steals the keys to my sensible electric hatchback, which looks ridiculous parked next to all the 4Runners and Jeeps. I loiter a minute, nodding to the receptionist and pretending I’m not a predictable person who knows exactly where I’m going. Without Maya to direct me, I always drift toward my center–work and water.

The aches and pains of this morning’s failed exertions are catching up with me as I head out the back door, onto an expansive pool deck paved with a pebble texture that massages the bottom of my feet when I slip off my sandals. A muggy breeze tousles my hair as I drop into the nearest umbrella-shaded lounge chair, ruining the delicately folded towel swan as I push it aside.

I’m sweaty in all the wrong places under my clothes, and my abused cock hurts. A dip in the cool water sounds like heaven. The chlorine tang in the air is the most familiar scent in the world—it fills my days, and at night all my dreams smell of it. Every time Maya napped or went out on her own this week, I found my way here. But I don’t even own a bathing suit anymore. The water and I are toxic exes who will never touch again but can’t stop following each other at a distance, watching, craving the dysfunction that feels more real than anything else.

Since this is an adult-only resort, there’s no screaming or laughing to disturb the gentle lapping sounds as I set my folder on the foot of my chair and flip it open. The wind keeps picking up sheets of paper and throwing them off until I chase them all down and pin them under my knees and elbows as I work. I’m sure the nine rich, elderly vacationers scattered around the pool are enjoying the free show to go with their margaritas.

Grimacing, I hunch over and focus on drawing circles and arrows as I try to rearrange next semester’s classes, therapy programs, summer workshops, and family events into something that makes sense and doesn’t double-book any of the facilities. What started as twenty low-income and disadvantaged students has turned into seven hundred over the past six years, and even though we’ve long since run out of capacity, staff, and money, I can’t stop adding new programs every time I see a need. I make the schedule work by assigning myself all the gaps that Tate and our trainee coach can’t cover. Victor’s too erratic to do more than sub, but he spends the rest of his time finding all our grants and donors. As long as I stay after hours each night to ensure our finances and logistics don’t collapse, our janky system keeps us afloat.

It sounds like hell, but when Maya made me take a weekend off, I was crawling out of my skin with boredom after ten minutes. She complained that I couldn’t sit still for longer than a hyper preschooler. I asked her what people are supposed to do with all this pointless time, and her face looked like she was smiling to keep from crying. Afterward, I apologized and offered to go pick up dinner, where at least I could ride my bike until my body felt as tired as it needed to be.

The rhythmic splashing goes on for a minute or two before my brain latches onto it. It’s focused and incredibly consistent, much too aggressive to be a grandpa doing his vacation laps. I lower my pen and squint at the sun-dappled pool. On the far side, a lithe body flickers through the water like there’s no such thing as friction or drag. Ever since Victor’s genius captivated the world, most swimmers try and fail to copy his expressive form. This precise, beautifully technical specimen is the complete opposite. Even though he’s still unperfected, I can see that he’s trying to make every breath and movement of his arms exactly the same. It’s the way I always wanted to swim, but never had the talent to achieve.

The swimmer slaps his palms on the wall and throws his head back, water flying off his damp tangle of auburn hair. His goggles clatter against the pebbles as he tosses them aside, and it feels like the world switches into slow motion as he slips easily out of the pool and straightens up. His supple body is smaller than I expected, maybe five foot nine, and he’s under-muscled for what I’d expect from a professional swimmer. Stretching his arms over his head, he arches his spine and yawns lazily as water droplets trickle down his tan skin into the waist of his lime green swim trunks.

I can’t pry my eyes off him as he trots across the opposite side of the pool to an empty chair, slides on a pair of sunglasses, and throws himself face-down with an ecstatic groan I can make out from here. Instead of drying off, he uses his towel-swan as a pillow and lets the sun evaporate the moisture beaded along his tan shoulders.

After a full minute of just watching his back rise and fall, I realize what an absolute creep I’m being and force my eyes up to the panoramic views of the Cascades all around us. My fingers fidget uneasily with the rusted hardware on the underside of the lounge chair frame as I try to refocus on my work.

Tap, tap, tap. I glance up. He’s bouncing a foot against the corner of his chair, toes spread, one long-fingered hand dangling off to play with a loose rock that must have gotten missed when they swept up this morning. He’s beautiful, and he swims beautifully, and I haven’t seen the pure beauty of my sport in a very long time.

I should go. My life is a single, easy equation–don’t touch the flame and you won’t get burned. But when that one flickering candle is my only light, it’s hard not to wonder if I’d rather be on fire than safe in the dark.

Shoving my feet into my cheap rubber sandals, I stand up so quickly that the corner of the umbrella bangs my head. The woman in the next chair over snickers. Once I’ve fumbled my papers into their folder, I take a step toward the lodge. Maya will be back in no time; I should shower and wait for her in the lobby.

Abruptly, I turn and circle the puddle-splashed deck until I’m standing a few feet away from the careless, languid form. I’ve spent my whole life around wet men in tight swimsuits and thought nothing of it, but even I can’t miss the way this one leaks sex from every pore, or how his ass pushes against the fabric of his trunks. I’m suddenly aware of all the sensations in my body at once, a wave of nerves and confused urges like some teenager.

He doesn’t seem to notice me, so I take a step closer, wondering what on earth I came here to say. At last he angles his face toward me, then rolls onto his back and folds his arm behind his head. He tugs down his sunglasses with one finger and hits me with wide, green puppy dog eyes full of light and mischief. I’m surprised to realize that he’s more of a boy than a man, somewhere in his early twenties. That would explain the flawless physique I faintly remember having myself many years ago.

“Hi.” His voice sounds young too, lilting and playful. I catch myself gawking at his firm pecs and jerk my eyes back to his face. His perfectly uniform white teeth flash in something between a grin and a smirk. Pushing his glasses up into his hair, he looks me up and down without another word.

It feels like the whole pool is watching me loom over him, so I awkwardly drag the nearest chair closer with a loud scraping noise and sit down. “I noticed your swimming.” I clear my throat and glance up to see if he’ll bail me out. Apparently not. I’ve never been known for my eloquence; media outlets only wanted me around to play off their darling Victor. Our coach, who also happened to be my dad, once told me I should snort coke before interviews, since that’s the only time I had any personality.

“You’re extremely good,” I offer.

His eyebrows go up slightly, but his dry smile doesn’t change. “Am I?”

“Are you a professional? Is your team from Seattle? I don’t recognize you.”

Those eyes, the color of grass in the sun, search my face curiously like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Are you?”

“A professional? No, I don’t swim.” Not in over six years. “But I teach. I run a nonprofit swim center, and we…” When he pulls up one knee, unconcerned with how it displays the bulge in his swimsuit, I lose my way through the sentence and pause.

“You’re cute, but I’m not a pro anything.” He smiles again, a little tightly, and drops his head back on his arm. “Have a nice day.”

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