tagMatureSwimmerboy Pt. 04: Rocky Love

Swimmerboy Pt. 04: Rocky Love


At swim meets I love the way women's eyes move over my body, always stopping at my groin as if they can't believe it. I love the way their eyes look away not wanting to be obvious, but always return within a second or two, widening with intensity, pupils dilating, lips parting and chests swelling with the extra breath required by physical attraction, anticipation and desire. I love it when women realize they're staring, then look at my eyes to see if I've noticed them staring. I love catching them like that. The smart ones look away first then eventually make eye contact. I like catching the smart ones, too. Sometimes they smile, fooling themselves into thinking I didn't catch their eyes on the front of my speedo because they looked away before looking back to make eye contact. They let themselves off the hook that way, but I know they've been ogling me all along. Even after fooling themselves this way they get uncomfortable when I make eye contact, especially if I hold and maintain it. Sometimes I smile at them. They always smile back, subtly arching their backs, sticking their chests out, sometimes touching their hair.

Looking back I didn't want to sleep with every woman who undressed me with her eyes. I was mildly interested in my girlfriend Naomi that summer, but the women I really wanted were the ones I knew best and trusted most: mom's best friends. They did everything together as a foursome: cards, bowling, parties, exercise, diets, kid care, cooking, book club, crafts, holidays, a little travel and--of course--shopping. All three babysat me from infancy except Third Best, who joined their little cabal when I was seven when she began babysitting me, too. All were kind to me, interesting, supportive, and physically affectionate even though I was an ugly ducking of a child. They liked my music, attended my piano recitals and cheered me at swim meets. My mother returned the favor, cheering her friends' kids at their events. All three noticed my body as it changed from a boy's to a man's. They acted like the massive bulge in my speedo was normal as was my transformation into a sleek, muscular teen swimmer. While boy-crazy girls at school flitted from one guy to the next, Mom's friends continued to love and accept me as I was and as I changed.

I loved them, too. Romantically. You may call it Oedipal, but as I grew into a young man, I wanted to bed all three. I had sex dreams about them, fantasized about them, and masturbated thinking of them, but I never thought it would ever come true. Always primed about their looks, mom's best friends wore bikinis in the pool cementing the idea in my mind that swimming is something done nearly naked. As a kid it didn't phase me. Once my balls dropped and grew to large, deep-hanging cahunas I began thinking of them less as surrogate moms and more as sexy women.

My first wet dream happened at twelve when, after swimming with Third Best, I took a nap on her couch in the family room of their Phoenix home where she was watching me while my parents were at a party. We had wrestled in the pool, dunking each other, swimming between each others' legs underwater, and swimming while clamped to each others' backs. I didn't get a hard-on or anything, but once asleep I dreamed of her in her two piece. She let me pull it off and caress her breasts and butt, the two areas most covered by the swimsuit and the softest to touch as well. I kissed her and suddenly our clothes were gone and we are fucking. I was on top thrusting uncontrollably into her. In seconds I come, her hands pulling on my shoulders. I collapsed to her soft breast, unable to believe how intense it feels to ejaculate for the first time and how good it feels to have her warm legs around me. I woke up to Third Best's hands on my shoulders, shaking.

"Hey... hey, you... wake up," she said. "It's time to go. Your folks will be here soon."

Waking, I rolled over, felt the wetness, saw the front of my shorts stained wet, and realized what had happened. Sitting on the edge of the couch, Third Best saw it, too.

"Oh God!" I said, rolling back over, trying to hide it from her. Panicking, I tried to cover myself. The wet spot on my shorts began at the end of lump of my erection way off to one side of my shorts. There was no mistake about it. I could even smell it and was sure she could, too.

She did the right thing, immediately letting go of me and turning to face away. "I'm not looking," she said. "It's all right."

"Oh God, I'm sorry," I said, still awkwardly trying to hide the obvious boner in my shorts and the even-more-obvious semen stain and my shame for having shagged her in my dream.

"Listen. Listen. Listen," she said, her soft tone stopping me. "It's alright. It happens. You didn't do anything wrong, alright?"

"Okay," I said, blushing violently, unable to look at her even tho she had turned away.

"There's nothing to worry about," she said softly. "I won't tell anyone. It'll be our secret forever, okay?"

"Okay, okay," I said, looking around, wondering what to do next. I couldn't wear these shorts home with mom & dad could I? I tried pulling my shirt down far enough to cover it but it was too short. Third Best already had a solution. She knew just what to do.

"Listen," she said, lowering her voice in confidence but still looking away, "your swim trunks are in the bathroom, right? Go change into them and I'll throw these and your underwear in the wash. If your mother asks we'll say you spilled food on them at supper and I put them in the wash. Okay?"


Mom did ask. Third Best lied to protect my privacy and spare me the humiliation. I never forgot it. I never forgot her in my first ever sex dream, either. Now I would never forget that my first full night with a woman was with her. It wasn't an all nighter, but after an hour of raucous sex watching her move on top of me, we slept in the same bed. My only regret is that I didn't wake up every hour to experience the bliss of her body next to mine in the night. I woke only once and she sighed happily while I slowly fucked her spooning.

I felt freer than ever at time trials the next day. I really let my body go, shaving a another three seconds off my best in both the hundred meter butterfly and two hundred meter freestyle. My coaches were impressed and the training staff glad all their work on me the previous day had paid off.

When I got home at five she was waiting for me and asked me to sit on the couch.

"There's no other way to say this so I'm just going to say it," she said. "What we did last night and this morning was a mistake. I'm a married woman. I love my husband more now than I ever have and I violated my vow to be faithful to him. You and I had a lot of fun together, but it can't happen again. I don't regret it and neither should you, but it can't happen again, okay?"

I dropped my head into my hands, stunned. My face felt very hot.

"Please don't be hurt. I love you, but you're the son of my best friend. I'm supposed to be looking after you, not taking advantage of you. Besides, you're eighteen. I'm thirty-five. You're my guest and my friend and I totally messed up."

"I'm really sorry," I said, stabbed with guilt for making her hurt like this. "It's my fault, not yours. I should have worn something in the jacuzzi."

"No, it's my fault. I'm the one who disrobed in front of you and climbed in. I'm the one who made contact, massaged you, and pressed against you. I touched you first. It's only natural that you responded they way you did. I'm really, deeply, terribly sorry."

"Does he know?"

"Of course not. I'm not ever going to tell him and neither can you. We have to agree not to tell anyone. Ever."

"I won't. You have my word," I said.

She looked away, unable to maintain eye contact.

"Look, I'll move out," I said, trying to find a solution that would separate us. "The USOC has dorm rooms available and I can sleep there."

"No. You can't move out. Your mother will want to know why. So will my husband. Too many questions. You have to stay here. We can't do anything to draws suspicion."

"Make something up," I said, "like we had a fight or I played loud music or started bringing girls in or stayed out late partying—you know, something believable."

"You don't do any of those things. No one will believe it."

"Sure they will. Every teen goes off the rails sometime, away from home for the first time. Say I went a wild, drove you crazy and you had no choice but to throw me out. Better yet, I stormed out on my own and moved to the dorm. That way you're blameless."

"No. You have to stay," she said. "We have to work this out."

"I'm not sure I can."

From slumped with elbows on knees and head in my hands I laid all the way back against the couch, my head atop the back, my eyes searching the ceiling. Suddenly I felt very, very tired, physically exhausted from the day and starving as my empty stomach pinched me. It felt as if I had swam halfway around the world in a day. We weren't actually touching, but Third Best sat too close. Her scent made me crazy. Still I sat and thought about it for a long time, but could not find a better solution than separation. That's what you to end an affair. Separate the parties. For good.

"Talk to me," she said. "What do you think we should do? What do you want to do?"

"There's no other way to say this," I replied, using the same language she had, "so I'm just going to say it. I want to be your lover. You're incredibly beautiful, kind and supportive. I've loved you since I was little, I've wanted this to happen for a long time, and I think you have, too."

Her mouth fell open and she looked away, trying to gather her thoughts. Unexpected answer.

"What am I going to do?" she said, talking to herself. "What should I do?"

"Take me as your lover," I said. "Keep me for your lover as long as you want. When it's over, keep me always your deepest secret."

"Oh God," she said. It was her turn to hold her head in her hands. But her nipples were up. I could see them through her cotton knit top. I wondered if I'd ever touch or kiss them again.

"Remember when I had a wet dream on your couch when I was twelve?" I said. "That was my first sex dream ever, and I dreamed of you. You were my first and I've dreamed of you ever since. You're so caring, beautiful and affectionate. I love you more than I can say. I want to be your lover. I want you to be mine."

"God. That was my fault, too, wasn't it? Swimming with you."

"It's not your fault I love you and you love me, or that we have affection for each other, or that we're attracted to each other."

"I'm supposed to be a mother figure for you. Someone you can trust."

"I trust you completely. I already have a mother," I said. "I have never thought of you as my mother. You haunt my dreams every night as a lover and now that it's finally come true, I don't want it to end. Do you?"

She looked at the floor and shook her head a little, but I couldn't tell what it meant. Then she put her hand flat on the couch between us. I immediately took it in mine. Looking at our hands, she linked fingers. Having trouble making eye contact, she returned to inspecting her hand in mine.

"I have dreams about you, too," she said softly, as if revealing a terrible secret. "For a few years now as you've grown into a man."

I exhaled, relaxing a little, sinking a little further into the couch. Up to that point it felt like I couldn't breathe.

Third Best looked in my eyes. I met hers and held them in mine.

"Yes I want to be your lover," she said.

Not knowing what to say and half terrified of her answer, I blinked a few times. She looked back at our hands, fingers, linked. I was glad it was her right hand.

"You have beautiful hands," she said wistfully. "So big. So strong. So powerful. So gentle. I can't believe how kind and gentle you were with me last night. I expected you to be, um, different."


"When I was your age teen boys didn't behave like you. They weren't... gentlemen."

After four years of high school locker room talk--of teen boys boasting about the girls they hosed and what sluts they were--I knew exactly what she was talking about.

"I care about you," I replied, almost in a whisper. "More than I can say. Words can't begin to get at it."

She blinked this time. Was she unable to find words?

"I know you do," she replied. "I care for you, too. So much you make my heart ache. And my body."

I moved over, closing the foot or so that separated us. She slipped off her sandals, folded her legs under and to the side away from me and leaned against me, holding my hand in her lap. She rested her head on my chest and neck.

"This really complicates my life," she said.

"I don't want to mess up your life like this," I said. "It's selfish of me. I'll go."

"No. You'll stay, but I need a time limit. When you're done here, we're done. Agreed?"


"One more thing. No physical contact outside the bedroom in case someone happens by or shows up or sees inside."


"Good," she sighed, her warm breath on my chest. "You know, this would have been a lot easier if you were wearing a shirt when you came in the door. Do you have any idea how distracting your physique is?"

"Sorry. It's hot out."

"It's alright," she sighed, reaching across and placing her other hand flat on my belly.

Just then my stomach rumbled magnitude ten on the Richter Scale. It might have surprised others, but Third Best knew how much I had to eat to swim & train eight hours a day.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get you fed."

Neither of us rose. Instead she lifted her face to mine and we kissed a gentle kiss, violating her no contact rule.

I pulled on a shirt. We made supper together without physical contact. We ate together without physical contact. We cleaned up the kitchen together without physical contact. It wasn't cold: we chatted warmly throughout, but the mood was subdued, having gone to the brink before declaring our mutual desire to be lovers. Then we drifted apart, she outside to work in flower beds around the house, me to the baby grand in the living room where I unwound practicing a few classical pieces.

Piano and swimming have a lot in common. Both flow through me, electrify me, and liberate me. It may take a while to practice and warm up, but eventually I let myself go in both. You have to. To succeed in either, one must be absolutely fearless, let go, stop thinking, and allow the body to do what it has been trained to do. I could not swim without piano or play piano without swimming.

Lost in the second movement of a Mozart piano concerto, I didn't realize she had come into the room until I finished.

"That was wonderful," she said as I began leafing through sheet music for the next one I wanted to practice. "You know that by heart, don't you? You started out but never flipped the page."

"Yeah. Thanks. I didn't hear you come in."

"I could hear you outside. I had to come closer."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"What're you playing next?"

"Um, I don't know. Any requests."

"Yes. Finish the third movement of the one you're playing. Mozart's nineteenth. I love it."

"Ooo. I'm rusty on it. Turn pages for me?"


Third Best sat next to me on the bench and flipped to the beginning of the third movement. I warmed up with a few bars, chatting.

"This piano rocks. It sounds perfect. Beautiful. Resonant. Ours is a dog by comparison."

"I had it turned especially for your arrival."

"God," I said. "If you're trying to seduce me, it's working."

She giggled at that but pointed to the music. "Come on."

"Alright. Here we go. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Shhh. Just play."

I dove in. Concertos aren't solo pieces. They're written for orchestra, half orchestra or less, but usually not less than a dozen instruments. So some of the time I'm playing nothing at all, counting off the time and humming the melody of what everyone else would be playing had I been performing with an ensemble. Third Best hummed along with me during those breaks, reading the music along with me, but most of the time I played. She flipped pages leaning against me, most distracting. I made a boatload of mistakes, but finished.

"Very good," she said, flipping pages back to the beginning. "Do it again."

"You like it?"

"It's my all-time favorite of his."

"You never told me you had a favorite."

"There's a lot you don't know about me."

"Like what?"

"I have a black belt in karate."

"I never knew that. What level?"

"Fourth. I was really into it in my teens and early twenties," she explained, "but haven't practiced since."

"So you're a lapsed black-belt?"

She laughed.

"That's awesome," I added. "So you know how to protect yourself."

"Oh yes."

"Ever have to use it?"

"Oh yes."

"Tell me."

"Later. C'mon, play."

I played the third movement a second, third and fourth time. At five minutes each it wasn't time consuming, but it's amazing how many notes Herr Mozart crammed into those minutes.

"Very good," she said. "You amaze me."


"How good you are. How quickly you pick it up again. I'm jealous."

"Jealous? Why?"

"Of your skill. Of your natural ability."

"I've been at it since I was five."

"I started at five," she said, "but am nowhere near as good."

"You're very good," I said. "I've listened. And you enjoy it. That's all that matters."

"I'm still jealous. The whole world is jealous of you."

"Of what? Swimming and piano?"

"Virtuoso at at both. And all men are jealous because of your height, youth and what you have between your legs."

"I'd trade it for a normal size."


"It'd be more comfortable. Easier to wear pants. And a Speedo."

"Ahh," she smiled, "into which pant leg do you put the male member?"

"Exactly. Thank God baggy pants and shorts are in style. Have you seen the pictures of the crap they wore in the seventies?"

"Hey, I lived through the seventies and eighties. Spray-on jeans. Spray-on everything. All so tight it was horrible. You should see my pictures."

"I'd like that."

"No you wouldn't. Believe me, they're terrible."

"You're a beautiful woman. Styles change, but beauty never does."

"Thanks, but you've been warned."

I giggled.

She closed the music.

"Any other requests?" I asked.

"Yes. Go to your room."


"That's the idea. I'll be along in a few minutes."

"God I love your eyes," I said looking into them and brushing her jawline with my fingers. "It hurts to leave them."


She closed my door behind her and locked it. I rose from the reading chair. She walked over and placed a hand flat on my chest over my heart, almost eye level to her.

"God you're tall," she whispered, placing her other hand on my chest as well. They moved and held my pectorals, squeezing them, caressing them through cotton knit. Then her hands swept slowly down my chest, lifted my shirt, and swept slowly back up underneath. Her eyes followed her hands, then looked up in my eyes. She blinked.

I reached out and held her tiny waist, one hand on each side, my paws so big my fingers nearly touched in back.

"God your waist is so narrow," she said, her eyes having followed her hands there.

Her husband had let his waistline go, but I don't know if that's why she said it. Maybe she just liked a ripped swimmer's body. Anyway, her hands ran up my flanks to my pits then back down again, feeling my lats.

"This V-shape destroys all women who see it," she said. "We are powerless before it. I makes our knees buckle. Our sides ache with longing to have this muscular butt between our legs, this narrow waist between our knees and this massive, spreading chest covering us... these sheets of back muscle between our fingers. Then to top it all off, you're a nice guy who actually cares about me, knows me, likes me... loves me."

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