And then almost immediately, the horror crystalises in that realisation. My right hand, wrapped around the base of my erect shaft – …releases, and gropes for my discarded clothes – a couch cushion – anything… my hardness springing free – standing upright, turgid, engorged. Finding nothing, I then let go of the picture in my left hand, grasping in the brightness, eyes half closed – and finally my panicked hand falls on my T-shirt – dragging it quickly across my body as I struggle against the soft couch to sit up… My mouth, which has fallen open in the wide-eyed look of shock-and-desparation – snaps shut again. And it snaps shut, as I reaslise that it’s you standing there, framed in the door way, staring back at me. You. A similar look – also open-mouthed – on your face, and wide-eyed in your surprise. All lithe, pert, twenty-year old sweetness, long dark straight hair framing your green eyes, staring back at me through the befuddling smoke as it clears. You, wearing that bikini.
The next door neighbour’s daughter who sometimes borrows my pool on the hot summer afternoons, you’ve probably suspected that I’ve secretly lusted after you. You’ve caught me staring on more than one occasion, as I’ve worked in the yard while you’ve lolled on a lounger by the poolside – and yes, you’ve admitted to yourself that sometimes your lounging is just a little-too-provocative, in an innocent-yet-teasing way. You’ve never really admitted it, but you’ve always enjoyed the attention, covert though it has always been. The first time you caught me, you felt confused – it made you wonder just how long I had secretly admired your body. It wasn’t like I’d ever said or done anything inappropriate over the years. It made you think back, to before my wife had left me and taken my daughters with her when they all moved away interstate. My older daughter had left the high-school cheerleading squad, which you had always captained – and since then, it had made you smile to yourself, as you wondered if I’d enjoyed the idea of driving the two of you to and from practices.
And now – here I am – naked, staring up at you, as you stand in that bikini – you, apparently transfixed, mouth open, staring down at me. And as I stare, the awfulness – that rushing sound in my ears, my face suddenly burning, the whole terrible hoping-the-floor-will-just-open-up-and-swallow-me-awfulness of the moment rises up inside me – the incongruity of my arousal, my hardness, like an accusation, tenting the t-shirt over my thighs. I reach forward, unable to say anything, mouth dry, down to the floor. The magazine, glossy but well thumbed, is open to a picture of a young, dark haired model kneeling, thighs spread wide, the fingers of one hand buried wetly between them. Her head is thrown back, eyes half closed, the fingers of her other hand pinching at a nipple, with her forearm crooked across her, half-cupping, and lifting both breasts as she does. The picture is taken partly from above her, as she leans back, the camera angle giving her a look of wanton abandon, almost hungry for release.
And as I reach for the magazine, the picture I was holding when you surprised me is dislodged – my hurried elbow, brushing it from where it has been dropped, face down on the couch, only a half-second ago. Spinning it off the edge of the cushion, it slides through the air, and then see-saws to the ground. Face up. Landing in between us, dividing the ten or twelve feet that separate the door and couch neatly, like some kind of marker. And as it comes to rest, there is further rushing sound – this time it is only in your ears, as your own face abruptly flushes – and you recognize the photo. It’s a cropped blow-up from a snap, a photo taken at your cheerleading team’s end of season party three years ago. The party was held outside the pool-house -right behind where you stand now. You recognize the picture, partly from the haircut – tied back in a pony tail, the way you wore it for cheering –and from the laughing grin on your face. You probably wouldn’t have been so happy at the time the photo was taken if you’d known the rest of the cheer team were going tease you about it for months afterwards – about the way that your bikini top had been brushed partly to one side, the tiny triangle of pink lycra over your left breast showing the edge of your areola, and the nipple clearly showing through the wet fabric. But it makes the photo instantly recognizable.
And in that flurried one or two seconds from the door opening, to the photo settling between us, there is silence, punctuated only by my initial gasp. Neither of us say anything once it has come to rest either. I’m still too stunned – aghast – as I glance from the picture – to the now-closed magazine cover – to my t-shirt – glancing up to your red, unmoving face, and back down. You, on the other hand, just stare at the picture – and stare – and stare. A tableau, frozen. And the stark reality – and the almost surreal, yet overwhelmingly palpable eroticism of the situation sinks in, as you look up, and take in the scene. The details that you missed in that first moment. The tube of lubricant on the couch beside me. The title on the magazine – ‘Naughty Teens’. The sweet smell of the smoke, which only now you become aware of. And you put your hands on your hips, as you stand in the doorway.
“You were…-”
You trail off, your tone accusing. You clear your throat, and again start;
“You were… – you were smoking… – smoking weed, weren’t you?
“You’re stoned! Mr Jenkin – I never – I never knew…!”
“…and – you were… – you were…”
With a meaningful glance – down, from my face, to look pointedly at the t-shirt. You bite your lip – obviously shocked – The outline – even the bulge of the hard head of my erection – all-too clear through the fabric…
“You were – …you were… – Well, you were…you know… – You were jerking off, weren’t you!?”
The rhetorical accusation – almost indignant now – and as you look down to the picture – and then, finally back up, up to my face again, and take in my fixed, panic-striken expression –
“You were jerking off , weren’t you!? And you – you – you were holding my picture, jerking off as you did…!”
Your initial surprise, mortified at seeing the picture again after so long, and your accusations, as the whole situation dawns on you. Your surprise, too, at the realization of what you’ve just uttered, only really sinking in, as you suddenly recall those occasional covert poolside glances, the idea twisting as the thought settles – into a mix of amazement, shaking your head, as you become aware that I haven’t moved – or even taken a breath.