Night Swim

You



Ning always sat on the edge for a little while, enjoying the mostly silent nights, and the feeling of release that she got just before she pushed forward and slipped into the water.

Each night was different — cool and blustery, warm and still, clear, cloudy, raining, hot, heavy with humidity, or so cold that her skin shrunk into goose pimples — but every night was special to Ning. She indulged in the changing nature of her time once the sun was gone each day, and she accepted whatever awaited her.

Tonight was very calm indeed and with her bare skin pressed into the rough cement edge of the pool and her legs dangling in the water, Ning was, as always, in her element.

The moon was high and the sky very clear, enough so that she could easily see a few dozen stars and further, out beyond her town, the dim yellow glow of the city. This was her favourite part, just before she slipped in — the thought of the water taking her, the knowledge that she shouldn’t be there (the pool was closed at night) — it was her secret after-hours playground.

And…

The thought of being caught, in the dark, naked, at the public pool. It was enough to make her blood boil with electricity. It was the feeling of being alive.

Something rustled in the bushes behind her but Ning only glanced back out of pure physical reaction. She was used to bats and birds and rodents sharing the night with her. She had stopped being scared a long time ago.

Inching forward on the cement, she lifted herself up and then dipped straight down.

She was submerged.

Underneath the water entirely for a moment, she bobbed up again, smoothed back her long hair and let her lungs open up and fill with air.

This was her night swim.



***



Me



I’ve been waiting.

I’m leaning against the thick palm tree just down from the public pool. I know I’ll hear you when you climb over the fence — it always rattles loudly in the quiet night — more than you seem to think it does. You throw your towel over first and then look both ways, as if you were about to cross the road. I’ve learnt that’s just habit though, because you know that no one will see you. You look but you don’t really look. It’s almost as if the act itself is muscle memory.

I wonder to myself how long you’ve been coming here. I've wondered this many times before. I feel sad that I don’t know the answer and that I also potentially missed out on many nights.

This is the hard part though — waiting. I like to wait by the palm but I feel seedy when I do it. There’s a bench further down with a lamp post directly above (bright enough for me to read by) but it’s too close to the school that owns the pool, and if I sit there I’m always afraid a passing police car will think I’m their quota for the night.

But they don’t know about you. They don’t see you.

They don't see the girl at the pool.

I’m anxious tonight. I got here early because I couldn’t stand to be at home. I had this feeling that you might be early as well, but I was wrong. It’s 11: 47 when I see you walking quietly up the path towards the pool fence and it’s so calm tonight in the street that I’m worried you’ll hear my watch ticking.

But you don’t — of course you don’t; it’s just a watch. I’m being paranoid.

You’re wearing that nice, bright blue dress with the zip down the front, and your hair is tied up in a bun. I wish I could tell you how much that colour suits you, and how I love it when I finally get to see you with your hair down. It’s usually tied up — I  guess you don’t like to walk with it out. Pity.

Today was a bad day. I feel it on my heels as I make my way along the fence on the other side of the street, keeping to the shadows, watching you get closer to the part of the fence that has a fire hydrant in front of it — you need to stand up on it to get high enough to pull yourself over the fence.

Today was a bad day. Mr Greenwald said my piece on the closure of the butter factory wasn’t inspired. Jesus. Does he know that no one cares about the fucking butter factory. I did the best I could and the piece was a failure because there was nothing to get — dusty floor, rusted broken down churners, cleared out cupboards and only one, grey-ish guy who was willing to say more than two words to me — the piece was hollow, but the photos turned out quite well. I considered making a small collection and approaching the The Alley. It's that tiny art gallery behind the bank. Maybe. I don’t know.

Today was a bad day. Mr Greenwald is an idiot. I’m quiet and I don’t argue with him so he gives me jobs that he is certain will flop. Still, the guy wouldn’t know a story if it blew his head off with a semi-automatic. Those who have no talent, manage.

Today was a bad day. You would touch my hand and your dark eyes would soften and you would tell me it was okay that I had a shitty day. You’d fix my Tuesday. I know you would. You’d tell me to work a little more on the photo collection and go for it. You’d tell me it was good enough. You’d tell me I was good enough.

I stop when I see you get to your spot and throw your towel over the fence onto the grassy grounds that surround the pool. You have it down to a fine art — stepping up on the hydrant, steadying yourself with both hands on the fence, you pull up, up and UP. Your hips are on the fence like a gymnast and you swing your legs up either side of you like a monkey. You stand, then, tall; a beautiful statue upon the vertical metal prongs.

You look down over the pool. This is your domain. And then, gracefully and without fear (it seems) you jump straight down. It’s a good seven feet to the ground but you land on bent knees and your hands touch the ground momentarily before you grab your towel and straighten up. You are a seasoned professional. You are a cat burglar in the night. You are a fucking ninja. You are perfect.

My camera is heavy around my neck. On one hand I regret bringing it, but on the other…

I’m tense. Taught with excitement and anticipation. If I don’t crumble to ash perhaps I’ll get some nice, clear photos of you. Ones that I can print up big, big, in my dark-room. I could frame them. Look at them all day. Your blue dress. Your hair. And, and, all of you…

allofyou. ALLOFYOU.

 You’re about to walk to the far side of the pool so I know this is my chance to move. You won’t hear me while you walk, as long as I’m quiet, and I can usually circle the pool fence and get all the way to the side that is lined with dense shrub before you even start taking out your hair.

I’m right (of course), and we both move, purely out of habit. You, across the grass to the diving blocks and the corner that you like best; me, around the edge of the fence to the place where I like to sit. We’ve done this a million times — not that you know.

I know it’s not a million but it feels good to say that.

I’m sat between two trimmed hedges in the moonlight. The safety lights are on you and on the pool, and I know you can’t see me.

But I can see you.

You.

I watch you. This is a good part, but it’s not my favourite.

This part.

You dump your towel on the ground at the edge of the pool and reach up to unzip your dress. I get hard as you slip it down I see that you’re not wearing a bra tonight. Your knickers are black and you take them off and toss them onto your discarded dress. Your caramel skin is darker in the moonlight than I imagine it is in the daylight, but your business center is neat and your breasts…

Your breasts.

They’re small and pert and oh my God I’m so fucking hard.

You reach up and take the pins and ties out of your hair. It falls down around you in dark waves and I get up on my knees. This is my favourite part.

You sit down on the edge of the pool and each time, I wonder what it feels like — that cold hard cement against the bare skin of your butt. I want to touch that skin. Oh god, I want to touch your bare skin. I want to touch any part of you. I want to touch all of you.

You lift yourself forward and the moonlight and the safety lights reflect off your caramel and I can see you breasts and the tight skin that leads down to your belly button, and the skin that leads down from that, and the small patch of hair just above your sweet spot.

You splash into the water and I am overcome. I’ve seen you do this for one thousand, one hundred, and twenty-eight days and it doesn’t get old. We're not up to a million yet. I push through the honey that is desire and keep my eyes on you. The best part is over but the other stuff is so good that I don’t care.

You float on your back and your small breasts breach the surface of the water. Your nipples pull up in the cool air and I can see them in the moonlight. The water laps over your skin and you breathe deeply to fill your lungs with air and keep your body afloat.

You do an upside down breast stroke for a while. You watch the sky. I don’t know what you see up there but I know that all I see is you.

Eventually you turn over and pick up a lazy sort of freestyle that takes you all the way to the hundred meter mark. When you get there I kneel up and look through the fence to where you float at the edge of the pool. I snap a few quick pictures. I get some good ones of your wet hair and the droplets of water that hang on the lower part of your stomach.

I love your night swim. I wonder if you get off on it (like I do). I wonder if your pussy is wet, or if you wish there was someone here with you. I wonder if you have a boyfriend. I wonder if he’s handsome. I wonder if he has a big dick. I wonder if he knows about your night swims.

You do a few more laps and I see the moonlight again on your wet skin and I’m literally about to explode in my pants.

My phone buzzes silently in the pocket of my pants and I check it.

It’s my brother. He’s drunk.

    dude! izzy is messy tonight. think I can coax her into sucking me for once?

I ignore the message and the fact that he can manage the word ‘coax’ when he’s inebriated — overachiever.

I should be polite, but as a matter of fact, I don’t give a fuck that my brother’s wife refuses to put his dick in her mouth — that’s his problem.

I come back to you. I focus on you. You’re almost at the other end of the pool and this is my other favourite part.

When you get to the edge you swoop up and the water pushes your hair out of your eyes. Your hands get purchase on the cement and your hoist yourself up.

I watch as your hips hit the cement and the smooth, wet cheeks of your butt reflect the moonlight. You bend forward and give me the best view — the back of your upper thighs, and the just the hint of your cunt.

You’re dripping water and I’m hard and you glide up out of the pool, as if by magic. You glisten in the moonlight. You are impossible.

I want to be near you. I want to smell you and touch you and hold you and eat you up until there’s nothing left.

I want you.

I want to be part of your night swim.

I want to be your night swim.

You pick up your towel and wrap it around you and with the rest of your clothes in one hand you head back to the fence. There’s a ladder propped in one corner and you find it easier to exit that way. I don’t know who put it there but it looks dusty and old and abandoned.

I circle back around the pool fence and I have a very strong urge to stroke a hand along my dick, but I don’t.

I’m watching you. I’m watching as you towel off and get back into your clothes. You’re still a little bit wet. I know because they stick to you as you get back over the fence. I watch you try to un-stick them.

I can see the line of your knickers through your blue dress. I can see how you smile to yourself.

I think I might follow you home tonight.