She had to know what she was doing to all the young guys who hung around the municipal pool.
She had a sleek, athletic body. Her simple black swimsuit hugged her gorgeous figure. When she moved, her every step and gesture signaled confidence and poise. In the water, she swam with incredible grace and skill.
Mrs. J was also 45 years old and the mother of Charlie, a high school pal of mine.
She wasn’t the only female at the pool. Plenty of girls and young women went there to show off, same as the males. But they all seemed like clumsy players in a performance dominated by this grande dame of the water.
Oh, did I mention I had the worst crush on her, despite being half her age?
My infatuation went back to my teen years, when Charlie’s mom would host pool parties and dress in even skimpier swimwear. All the boys, and most of the adult men, would furtively drool over her.
Now she was divorced from Charlie’s dad and living in a place without a pool. So she often visited the city’s watering hole where I was working as a lifeguard and in charge of closing up. Every time she came to swim I had to fight down a fierce hard-on so I could concentrate on my job and not look like a total perv.
Sometimes I would distract myself by watching what her presence did to the other guys. As she swam her graceful laps, male heads would turn to follow. Boys would break off conversations with girls to ogle her, which usually earned them an annoyed slap on the arm or at least an affronted harrumph.
I understood her allure. It wasn’t just that Mrs. J was classically beautiful. It was her very maturity that was so beguiling. She exuded this aura that said she knew sensual secrets, things you didn’t learn until you had put some serious years into life. She could give you a casual look that would make your heart pound — or a provocative smile that got your balls humming.
I always suspected she was wholly aware of her effect on the younger males in her vicinity. Perhaps she guessed that I felt privileged to see so much of her or that I had a catalog of images in my head that I would jerk off to shamelessly in my bed at night.
One evening, when closing time was approaching and everyone else had left, she waved me to the edge of the pool. I scampered over, thrilled by the attention.
“Wayne,” she said — she remembered my name! — “can I ask a huge favor? Let me swim alone for half an hour after you close.” She was treading water. She blinked up at me with her smoldering eyes. “Please,” she added, in a huskier voice.
I stammered okay, then went off to shut the doors, trying to hide the hard-on swelling beneath my swim trunks. Everybody else was out. I locked up and shut off the outside lights. When I came back, the lone splashes of her doing laps sounded strange in the cavernous space.
I sat on a bench and watched her. It was so much nicer without the distraction of having to keep watch on the other swimmers. She moved with such an easy gliding motion, never showing any strain. Her leg and arm muscles were slight but solid. I wondered if I would be in half as good physical shape when I was her age.
She came to the end of the long pool and climbed out. The water spilled off her as she pushed back the damp hanks of her hair. I studied the swells of her breasts beneath the black swimsuit, feeling like a drooling teenager all over again.
“Wayne,” she called out. “Would it embarrass you if I got…a little more comfortable?”