NSFW Erotic Writing Adults Only Please
I go to the pool a lot. I see the same faces, the same bodies, the same swimsuits. I know who will do what when I see the person exit their respective shower room door. At least I say that, so I can pronounce myself immune to surprises in all my jaded supercilious arrogance.
Until one day when even I was surprised. It was one of those afternoons when the middle school swim team, in all its youthful exuberance, were doing their sets and drills and flip turns, taking up five lanes in the seven lane pool. Sharing the pool comes with the membership. And sharing the pool often means sharing a lane. No biggie. Today, just as I entered the open lane, a women looks down from the deck, smiles and asks real friendly-like, “Mind if we share? I’ll take the right side.”
“No problem. I have to warn you, I’m old. I just do a long swim .”
“That’s fine,”, she answers, “I’m old too, not as old as you though, Gramps. And I will be doing some intervals.”
I liked the spunky “Gramps ” dig. As far as old is concerned, anybody who looks like they don’t remember Nixon isn’t old in my estimation. She isn’t old.
So we start. True to my word I am grinding the 2500 meter swim out. I check my watch at what I think is every 250 meters, just to see if my pace is consistent. True to her word, she is doing sets About the time I am in my last 500 meters, she does some kick drills with the kickboard. I finish up as she does.
“You’re like the Energizer bunny, You just keep going “
“Good analogy,” I say. “This is the time I have to myself. No phone. No interruptions”
“This is my escape too. It is required for me.”
Required? I think. This is unusual.
As she climbs out of the pool, I notice a tattoo on her left inner thigh, A bluebird. Quite lovely and in a most enigmatic place. However, this is the Twenty First Century. Women drive cars and even vote. I guess they can get inked anywhere they want. Walking back to the women’s locker room, she covers her ass with a towel. It’s a nice ass too, the kind you get when you are serious about swimming. Then takes off her white silicon swim cap, I expect her to shake her hair free, but no, her hair is damn near a buzz cut. With red-orange on top and blue on the sides, the same colors as in that bird tattooed on her thigh.
I shower off, wondering how long before my hair turns to straw again from pool chemicals. And I remind myself again to get one of those rubber hats like Bluebird Woman wears.
I finish up, put real clothes on, head over to the coffee carafes, and fill my travel cup. Not the best coffee, but it’s free with the membership. I see her turn the corner,as I finish filling my cup.
“Fancy that. You drink this swill too.”
“I have very little pride and even less money. Truth be told, it’s my first time here today. But is it really that bad?”
“It’s about four notches higher than AA coffee.”
“Say no more. I know where of you speak. Sounds delicious to me.”
The witty repartee carried over from the pool.
“By the way, my name’s Bob.”
“How original, Bob. My name is Azulão, but folks call me Azu. My mother is Brazilian, Azulão is Portuguese for Bluebird. There was a song by that name she loves. But I was christened Maria Magdalena.
I know, you wanted to know my name, not my life story.”
“Not a bad story, Azu. I must admit”
Just then, our scintillating banter was interrupted when a powerful looking woman, also sporting a short haircut, absent the Technicolor enhancement, walks up to Azu, gives her a kiss on the cheek and says,
“I see you’re making friends already.”
She turns to me, extends her right hand, and introduces herself as Iris, pronounced, “eh-REES.” Latino.
I shake it and notice, in the web between the thumb and index finger, a bluebird tattoo, same as Azu’s, only smaller.
“My name is Bob. Let me guess. That is short for Arco Iris, the rainbow.”
“We’ve been here a week and already I’ve met a clairvoyant.”
“Let’s just say, I figure stuff out quickly.”
Iris turns to Azu, tells her they have to go, mentioning a massage therapist with whom they have an appointment.
Off they go in an old VW beetle with the air-cooled rear engine.
Next week I run into them again, Azu in the pool, Iris later. Iris asks if there is a coffee place nearby, not a Starbucks. I tell them of the place, with home made pastries to die for, about two miles away.
“Please be my guests, this time,” I offer. They accept without any
phony “no we couldn’t possibly” hemming and hawing.
We settle in with Viennese coffees, heavy with schlag and slices of a Sächer Torte. As we sit,
Azu makes a gesture of obeisance to Iris, getting her a napkin, inspecting the cleanliness of her flatware, even asking for a cleaner fork.
“Very good. Thank you.”
I am happy it pleases you.”
They have a protocol. I notice.
We chatter on, getting acquainted, realizing we are something of kindred spirits.
The bottom line is they invite me to their place for dinner, to have something Brazilian, with lamb, from the South.
A few days later, I show up with mineral water and some tropical fruit, papaya and mangoes.
We sit and eat and talk. Azu is very attentive to Iris. I am getting euphoric from the good food, superb coffee, the beauty of the flowers which grace their home. It was an ambience of languid sensuality, from the lavender fragrance wafting from the oil diffuser to the Burmese cat who settled in my lap, intuitively knowing I would stroke her sable black fur.
“How long have you two been together?”
“Ten years,” answered Iris, “when I knew that I simply could not deliver another package for UPS, and the novel in my head would not write itself.”
Azu added, “i made enough from my photography free lancing to support us plus the money I saved from. covering the war in Colombia. You know, a war nobody cared about that lasted forever. Afghanistan with bigger snakes.”
She was more blunt than a ball peen hammer. Her cynicism was showing, like mine when I got back from Lebanon.
I looked at Azu, then Iris, the look shared among people whose hearts have held too much pain. And that maybe, just maybe, a night’s sleep after some hard fucking in the shared warmth of a big bed, might yet be the optimal therapy.
When you’re sober and you want to have a go with other sober sluts, you just put it out there. And if the women you’re hot for are queer with each other, well you just might be surprised.
I reached in to Azu, kissed her, then turned to Iris. She nodded. It’s OK, Cowboy, this isn’t our first rodeo.
I wasn’t interested in being God’s gift to Lesbians, just extruding the hard and dirty passion that had been inside me out through my tongue and fingers and, yeah, my dick.
I was amazed at how quickly and easily we found a rhythm. Iris and I made Azu the focus, then Azu and I shifted to Iris then those two to me. Simple kisses, caresses, stroking,probing, jacking up to a frenzy, , breathing heavy, a cry, a slap, a pinch, bellies sticking together, and a hand on my ass, Fingers up my butt, gloves, and dams and condoms, littering the bed like latex and vinyl leaves. If it was possible for me to do Azu while Iris did me, then surely Iris on Azu, while I slid my dick into Iris was possible too. We were busy fucking, not busy calculating the combinations. We were lovers, not mathematicians, after all.
Finally at dawn, when we woke up and I showered and dressed, Iris walked me to the door as I saw Azu on the bed, in all her lush nakedness, Iris said to me, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. That’s Emerson, Cowboy.”
Then she kissed me good bye.