The pool

A few weeks ago, I started going to the pool. Since my heart condition, I haven't had the motivation or initiative to do anything in my daily sedentary life, except watch series, movies, and spend hours lying in bed with my laptop.

The pool is small, 25m, but the water is very clear, probably because of the few people who use it. Few pee and few dead skin cells in suspension. The one I used to go to was murky after about 6-7m. Normally, there were only two or three lanes for free swimming, and we were always at least two in each lane. Here, I have only swum once in a shared lane and for just a few minutes.

More women go than men, and everyone agrees on two things: one is wearing black speedos, which is a mandatory rule in all sports pools; the slip part is the requirement, not that they have to be black. The other, I’ll keep to myself.

I always run into someone during my time slot who makes my eyes wander between strokes, or when we cross paths, or when I’m a few meters behind. Those little butts moving synchronously, all curvy and well-defined, regardless of the body that accompanies them, and those little bulges barely visible.

One day, when I arrived, several lanes were occupied, and underwater I almost ran out of breath. Unfortunately for me, there was a swimmer who met all the minimum requirements I like in a man. It took just one stroke, a stolen glance for me to realize. Call it experience or a trained eye, but the more I looked, the clearer it became, and the more I understood. Whatever little I found unappealing was more than covered by what I did like. I couldn't stop looking at him. I tried to focus on my strokes and my swimming, but reflexively, my eyes searched for him.

I started going to the pool more obsessively every day. But I soon realized that I only went on Saturdays. It frustrated me to only coincide one day a week, but it allowed me to focus more on swimming, which is why I go.

But one weekday, I saw him swimming when I arrived. And like a teenager, my heart skipped a beat. I felt nervous, I was happy; it was absurd. I'm not at an age to get worked up like that, or maybe that's why emotions at a certain age are more intense, because even though you have a life history, feelings have the same strength as when you experience them for the first time.

Although I don't have it diagnosed, I have the feeling and it's becoming clearer that I have OCD. A few years ago, I wondered why I did certain things, and when I relate it or look at it through the eyes of OCD, everything makes sense. That would also explain why I've always been a poor student; on the other hand, I have knowledge of various topics, even my high IQ, which I’m embarrassed to acknowledge because it makes people uncomfortable.

A couple of times we coincided in the locker room. There’s an unwritten rule to greet each other even if you don’t know each other. It’s probably because you’re going to shower, undress, and be in your underwear with other men, strangers, and greeting is like validating and accepting that the intimacy you’re about to show is less violent or embarrassing since you've greeted each other. The complex has a gym on the upper level of the locker rooms where they do crossfit, with large windows overlooking the pool. So, if I don't run into a swimmer, I run into a crossfitter, and there are a couple I wouldn't mind having a fling with. So not every day, but often, I run into a little butt or a swaying penis while they’re drying off with their towels, and I have the impression there's some exhibitionist or simply nudist who revels in their nudity. Because others do the act with proper morality by putting on the speedo with the towel knotted around their waist like a pareo; they are the least. I've also noticed I see more speedos than boxers, which makes me disproportionately happy.

As I said, a couple of times we coincided in the locker room, and we greeted each other. And if I liked him through glasses and a water filter, in person and standing, he seemed like a divine gift. I’m not one to like cover models or advertisements; I prefer more normal, borderline unattractive guys. They seem much more attractive and alluring to me. They turn me on and excite me much more. Give me a good truck driver or a goat herder over American actors, even if they are porn stars. I can appreciate and admire the beauty of well-groomed bodies and harmonious, proportionate faces, but they don't excite me for physical encounters.

Another time he came accompanied, and I overheard him speak beyond just a good morning, and I thought he had an Argentine accent or something similar. Good.

What always happens with him is that he looks me in the eyes for a second so the greeting isn't one of absolute indifference, but immediately looks away, and I find that pleasurable because it seems to have an embarrassing, even childish quality.

One day, when I went to the shower, there was a speedo on the upper part of the panel separating the showers. My God, I stopped breathing, and my mind began to work like a coal train. That day, the only swimmer I had seen leave was my little angel. I always swim for an hour; some do three-quarters of an hour, even many do half an hour, which is how long some aqua gym classes last, so maybe that's why they get accustomed. He left in the middle of my session, and no new ones came in. It could also have been a crossfitter's, but it coincides with the stall that my angel always uses to shower. Besides, it was a dark blue-gray speedo, with an 80s retro print that is making a comeback; it doesn’t fit with a crossfitter; they tend to wear tighter boxers.

When I finished showering and getting dressed, I went and picked it up. I put it in my pants pocket. I wanted to smell it and rub it on my face and my balls; I wanted to put it on and jerk off while wearing it, wow.

I could only smell and admire it when I got home; I didn't want to wear it to avoid changing its scent and to make it last that way for a long time. I had never felt this obsession for anyone’s underwear; maybe it was because he was so unattainable for me or due to the furtiveness of the situation, but it was all very exciting. I’ve liked men in speedos; it's a kink, obsession, or fetish I've had since I was very little, when I cut out the models in underwear from the packages my mother bought for my father. I wasn't even pubescent. But seeing a man in underwear turns me on more than seeing him naked, even doing bondage or dog training.

One day, I arrived late at the pool; I had a bad night. I usually set the alarm for six in the morning; the pool is a twenty-minute walk from home, plus time for breakfast and grooming. Still, most days I arrive around eight or eight-thirty, but that day I arrived at ten. I wasn't sleepy, but I felt tense, even nervous. Upon entering the locker room, I found my cherub with his legs open. Bent over his backpack, and the black speedo outlining a butt and ass that had already forced me to several morning jerks. I stood next to him and greeted him with a good morning while placing my bag on the bench, wearing a smile of happiness from ear to ear. He returned the good morning with a nod, without looking at me, which was what I needed after my night.

I slapped him. Open-handed. One of those that makes a sound.

"When you greet me, look me in the eyes," I said in a calm voice. He looked at me, wide-eyed.

"And now go to the shower, and don’t dare say anything," he already had the gel and the towel in his hands, which he gripped tightly, but he turned around, and I got hard.