8 Steps to Bagging the Pool Boy
by Leah Skay
Let’s call your collective husbands Dennis. If your husband’s real name is Dennis, then mark out all of these mentions of Dennis with something equally uninteresting like Bob or sophisticated like Quentin. This Dennis is well-meaning and dumb the way only office middle-management workers at expensive companies can be, like the world simultaneously revolves around and ignores them so they can go about their days unbothered and wealthy.
He’s boring you.
Everything’s boring you.
Occasionally, you just want a little bit of spice, and what better than a pool boy in summer, all sweaty and contractually obligated to be there?
Take the advice from your rich wine Auntie, the charming devil on your shoulder, your favorite Pinot on a hot summer night: Sometimes, a small summertime affair is all you need to push yourself through to the next year. It can be so exhausting to be good all the time. Allow me convince you to do something bad, for the sake of your psyche. Let me lay it out for you, step-by-step, and by the end, you’ll have everything you need to live out the fantasy that led you to this article in the first place. Don’t worry—nobody has to know.
No. 1 – Convince Dennis to Buy a Swimming Pool
Of course, you first need a pool in order to have a pool boy. And it’s just so hot in Kentucky, Dennis. He’s a good southern boy so he’s used to sweating, but you? You’re probably from New England with the rocky cliffside clubhouses and whales and not a tick in sight. You just want to enjoy the sunshine coming through the hickories and yellowwoods without having to shower off or change clothes again. You thought there’d be more hanging trees like wisteria or weeping willows or Spanish moss, but there’s something charming about the landlocked trees and the way the sun loves them. Come on, Dennis. It doesn’t have to be big—just a small in-ground pool, over there, half-sun, half-shade. It’ll be an investment for when you sell the house—it drives the price up.
No. 2 – Convince Dennis to Hire a Pool Boy
Now, you both know neither of you have the time to take care of a pool. Pools need to be sparkling pockets of paradise whether the grass is gray or green, but spending an hour every day scooping seeds, leaves, bugs, and drowning animals out of the water just to dip in for fifteen minutes isn’t quite worth your time, is it? You’re meant to enjoy the luxury, so what’s a couple dollars a week to spend on top-notch care?
Only you know how to convince your Dennis to comply with your wishes. Use your legs, words, threats of disappointment and silence—whatever you need. Though, it’s vital that by the time a decision is reached (in your favor, of course), Dennis believes it’s his idea. Men like Dennis love to be in control, even of stupid little things. When in truth, he only needs to believe he’s in control. A dumb Dennis is a good Dennis.
No. 3 – Don’t Make a Big Deal About Applicants
There are always college kids looking for jobs, so the number of options should be plentiful and diverse. Dennis will look for someone young and strong, probably local—one of your neighbor’s kids, young upstarts from the golf club, or a business associate’s visiting nephew. You absolutely cannot allow Dennis to choose someone familiar or related to your immediate group. You don’t want a rich kid wandering around your property, scrutinizing your interior design, and drinking lemonade from the pitcher like he owns the place. Instead, steer the conversation toward helping someone less fortunate. Give the poorer but hard-working boys a chance. Don’t look, but be extra nice to Dennis when he talks about an applicant with fast-food on their resume, or retail—other summertime gigs. Camp counselors or ex-boy scouts offer the type of labrador enthusiasm for following orders. You want them a little sad and eager to please, and make Dennis feel like he’s looking at the son he never had.
We’ll call this ideal boy Tyler.
If you and your Dennis have sons, this process might offer you a few extra mental hurdles to jump. First, you must accept that Tyler is not your son. He might be of similar build or age, but Tyler is a separate entity and it’s vital that you divide the two people. You must see Tyler as a man in his own right. Your sons will always be your sons, even at sixty-years-old when they’re fighting their second wives for custody of the dog. Separate yourself from the role of mother when Tyler is in the picture. Tyler is an object; you are selecting him from a catalogue of the season’s latest styles and patterns. You don’t need an emotional connection to him to get what you want.
I can hear some of you now saying, “But I don’t know how! I’m a mother at my core!” I must remind you that before you were a mother, you were a woman, just as every other mother is and was. If you’re still having doubts, you can stop reading now. There’s no sense in pursuing this if you cannot separate yourself from the roles you’ve been playing unless you’re playing them with purpose. Being a mother does not suit you now.
No. 4 – Make Yourself Scarce
After Dennis makes his (your) selection, it’s easy to want to throw yourself on the nearest lawn furniture, twist your hair around your fresh pink manicure, and go spreadeagle under the sweet summer sun screaming, “Take me now young hot Kentucky stud.” It’s natural. However, it’s imperative that you don’t bow to this desire. You’re smarter than that. You know that a bigger build up makes for a bigger payout, and the chase is part of the allure.
Spend the first week or so of your Tyler’s employment like the ghost of a perfect housewife in the windows of your home. Linger near the glass slider in the kitchen, gingham sundress to your knees and barefoot, and sweep from surface to surface with long strides and rags, not Lysol. Even young Tylers and Dennises have the same fantasies of simple wives and women with maturity in their obedience and youth in their breasts. It’s all men want. You’ve known it from the time you were twelve; Mama told you to cover up when your uncles came over, men honked at you from those big tall trucks while you walked home from school, and you learned real quick—so use it. Glide around the house a puff of femininity and secrecy and let Tyler distract himself with loose leaves.
If you find yourself glancing around corners at him too often, leaving the house might be more effective a strategy than simply avoiding him. Spend an hour in the open seating of a fancy hotel, somewhere with those grand, gilded doors, a doorman and a bellhop, chandeliers, crisp white lilies, and important people sliding in and out of elevators. Wear sunglasses inside with a blazer or sweater draped over your shoulders, cross your legs at the ankles and observe. Act like you belong there and nobody will notice you don’t. They’ll whisper about you behind the counter, glancing up at you, poorly pretending they’re not staring. If you’re lucky, a brave one might come over and ask if there’s something they can help you with. Tell them you’re meeting a friend.
Another place to putter about might be the grocery store. Invisibility and anonymity thrive in overstuffed aisles, so here is the place to practice balancing your desire for affection with your skill for simplicity. Inspect a box of granola while watching the young mother with toddlers struggle to stuff them into the plastic car at the front of the cart. Smile at the deli workers as you select a delicious-looking mozzarella with two fingers, then place it into your basket like a delicate piece of art.
And when you walk out of this hotel or grocery store onto the street where the smog of the world attempts to smother you, claim the air you’re meant to breathe. It’s yours. It’s all yours.
No. 5 – Slowly, Introduce Yourself
If things are going well, Dennis will spend a few minutes every day talking to Tyler on his way out of the house. Dennis will stand there in the lawn, hands in his pockets, the fat of his stomach like a bag of Jell-O under his button-down, talking to Tyler about college sports. Tyler plays lacrosse, or soccer, or baseball, maybe even football, but whatever it is, he’s a mid-range player. If he brings a duffle-bag when he comes to clean the pool, make note of it but never approach it. Instead, whip up some sweet tea or lemonade in a big pitcher and take it outside. Here are a few lead-ins that might help you enter the conversation in a non-threatening, non-invasive, yet substantial way. You can gag on it later.
1. “Look at the men at work!”
2. “Dennis, sweetie, I brought y’all some lemonade.” (The y’all is important, even though you’re from Boston.)
3. “Y’all better have some sunscreen on, standing out there like that.”
4. “Dennis, introduce me to the nice young man.” (This one is the riskiest, simply because it expresses interest. If you know your Dennis is jealous, maybe don’t use this one unless you’re planning on giving him head later.)
No matter what you choose, be sure that at some point you’re standing in the yard with Dennis and Tyler. Look at him. He’s beautiful—beautiful in the way only young men can be. His arms are working arms. Tyler echoes all the boys of your youth. Your brother had a pack of friends that addressed your mother as Mrs. Mom and left clouds of cheddar cheese dust on the couch where they slept in cuddling heaps and tried to deny it. You crept along the stairs to get a glimpse of them and their soft breaths. Little bubbles of excitement jittered through your body and you assumed this is what drugs felt like.
Well, now you’re a woman. You know what drugs feel like—the ones that rush through your blood and boil it, the ones that slow down time into a smear of lights and vomit outside nightclubs—but something else happens when someone smiles at you. Once at a bar, a girl smiled at you, shook her drink at you, and you floated to the bathroom mirror and took pictures on a plastic disposable as proof. But this drug—Tyler’s eyes on your dress, his lips on a lemonade glass—this is the most powerful drug of all.
You finally understand what men are on about, what all the generations of smart women in houses have understood since the dawn of marriage: power comes in a dozen, addictive forms.
“You’re very nice, Ms. Doherty.” Tyler might say to you one afternoon.
Hear it for its subtext.
Nobody says what they mean out loud.
No. 6 – Embrace the Attention
Once you’ve established yourself as a character, you’re free to go about your day as the fluttering example of a woman who can do it all. Because you can. You take care of your home, cook warm meals, and know your neighbor’s secrets, and all of that ends with a young boy wanting to please you like his mother. Enjoy the affection, the nods of acknowledgement through the glass door as Tyler tests the water’s PH with colored strips; the way you linger in the mirror longer, seeing yourself the way someone else sees you. You’re bringing nice pajamas to bed, and you seem much more interested in sex than usual. Dennis attributes it to the Kentucky summer.
“I always told you how romantic it was out here,” he might say to you one night. “You should listen to me sometimes. It’s almost like I know things.”
He might drape his arm over your stomach and look up at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Because you are. Even Dennis is beautiful on nights like this. You can almost see his younger self in this light: dark hair, bright eyes, slim, inexperienced with the ways of corporate and women and lawnmowing on Saturday mornings.
You might see yourself loving him again. You might see having babies, or your babies being babies again, or dogs instead of babies. Flashes of the good times in your marriage are a side-effect of this stage, as clinical as it may sound. Be wary of longing for your wedding dress, staring at travel pamphlets to New Orleans, listening to albums from your youth, and eating pizza on boardwalks. That’s not who you are anymore. You wouldn’t be this deep, this precise and detailed in your seduction, if you already had everything you wanted.
You were born to be worshipped.
No. 7 – He’s Yours
Tyler cleans up the pool quicker than usual. He’s standing there glistening on the lawn, texting someone that doesn’t matter—maybe a little girlfriend that nags him for being late or won’t let him touch her without a date first. How could he want something so fickle? So ill-controlled and flimsy?
Initiate conversation with lemonade. It’s always lemonade, isn’t it? Sticky sweet and sour with perfect ice cubes and a tall, round glass. The backyard is gated and quiet, protecting your privacy with dangling tree-limbs and six-foot-tall fencing. You’re the muse in the garden, the woman pouring life-wine from an ancient decanter carved from marble. You’re the only thing he looks at.
“I think you’re beautiful,” you say to him.
Tyler blinks at you and flushes pink. “That’s very kind, ma’am.”
“Do you think I’m beautiful?”
Tyler doesn’t answer. He laughs, delighted by your humor, and looks down at his shoes.
“Tyler,” you say, “did you not hear me, sweetie?”
Tyler shakes his head. “Ma’am, I’m sorry but I think—”
You touch him. For the first time all summer, after countless dreams of crushing his face between your thighs, you touch him. He’s so soft you think you might pass right through him. He pulls away, overwhelmed by your divinity.
“Mrs. Doherty,” he says, flustered. He calls you missus. You’re Dennis Doherty’s wife. You’re ambrosia, perfect and intoxicating. He should be bowing to you, and he does, bows his head so low that you can’t see his eyes anymore. You put your hand under his chin, gentle, like a leading lady, and make him look at you.
“Mrs. Doherty, stop.” His eyes meet yours. There’s nothing diminutive about them. He looks you square in the face and his voice commands even the birds to go silent. “I have to go. I’ll pick up my money from Dennis later.”
Now, this is the most crucial moment in the process. He wants you. You know he wants you because you want him. Don’t allow your doubts to unmake your progress. You have him now, after weeks of denying yourself the pleasures of his company and attention, of perfection in his periphery, of powerful and egregious connection. This is what it means to be a woman.
“Get back here,” you say, giggling. He keeps walking. No, this isn’t right. You grab the back of his shirt. “Where are you going?”
“Don’t touch me,” Tyler demands. He flings his arms back and separates you from him, a gasp of air filling the space between you. “I quit, Mrs. Doherty. I’ll grab my bag and get out of your hair.”
Do you feel it? The heat in your gut? You might call it betrayal, or embarrassment, but that warmth in your chest and coldness in your hands is what you’ve been looking for. You absolutely cannot let him leave. He is yours. This is where it happens. This is it. You’ve never been after the sex of it all. Sex is just an example, the most malleable and accessible of them all, but an example. You want to choke the world with your hands and look good doing it. You want to chew the ice off of sidewalks and puncture the foundation of your house with your heels. Claw his shoulder with your manicure and make him listen.
You don’t need me to tell you what to do now. You already know.
No. 8 – Commit
Let this be my final piece of advice to you. I mean it in every sense of the word, in every verbiage, context, and motive. Your choices are yours and only yours. I’m merely a cheerful guiding hand leading you toward yourself. Whatever you’ve decided, do it fast and do it proud. Commit yourself to the ecstasy of the moment, the violent wildness that inflicts you, and see it through until the air is silent and you are still. Commit to the consequences of Dennis discovering your rendezvous, to the tears you wield like silver knives. Stage it all, from the tremble in your hands to the panic in your voice to the way you weep in his arms and stain his shirt. Some of these feelings may be honest, guttural reactions to your indiscretions, and that will make it all the more convincing. In the end, of course Dennis will take care of it for you. He’s such a good man. Collapse into his warm arms, wipe your mascara on his white button-down, and when you see your reflection in the windows of your home, the pool glistening starlight in the glass, know with all the certainty of death that you chose this.
About the Author
Leah Skay is an author committed to throwing her work at the wall and seeing what sticks. She writes various genres and has words with Windmill, Progenitor, The Bookends Review, HAD, and more. She recently transplanted to NYC from Delaware, received her degree in Creative Writing from Ithaca College, and coordinates creative content for B&H Photo's Explora site in Manhattan. If she's not writing, she probably should be. You can find her on X – @anxiousinithaca and on Instagram – @littlelonelyleah and @fieldnotesbyleah.
