What the pool man to the stars knows: A Salon After Dark read

My salary was modest; tips for the extra services were not

By Dale Chase
Published April 20, 2019 7:30PM (EDT)

Excerpted from "Legend" by Dale Chase, published in "Best Gay Erotica of the Year, Volume 4" (Cleis Press 2018; Rob Rosen, editor). Reprinted by permission of Cleis Press.

I never paid much attention to the house at the top of the hill until police and paramedics appeared. The officer who chased me off acted like my approach was a breach of national security, as if a pool man could pose any sort of threat. I retreated reluctantly, huffing at the injustice, since I wouldn’t get paid for work not done.

Sitting in my truck, I watched cops move in and out. I counted nearly a year of work behind those gates, sweeping the pool in absolute silence. Not once had anyone appeared; not once had I glimpsed anything more than a squawking scrub jay or dragonfly buzzing the water. I’d long ago written off the occupant as elderly, someone unwilling or unable to muster curiosity, because I couldn’t begin to consider that anyone in his prime might ignore my presence—especially since I provided sexual services to my customers down the hill.

I loved the life, lived the cliché to the fullest, fucking aging moguls, up-and-coming hotshot producers, oftentimes sucking cock before I got anywhere near the pool. My salary was modest; tips for the extra services were not.

The topmost house had always looked tired, an aging, two-story Spanish style with stucco fallen away in places and fissures along staircases. The garden was more rampant than lush, overgrown with a generous mix of orange and lemon that gave everything a citrusy smell. The lawns were mowed but the rest of it looked heavy, in need of pruning, and I wondered why they paid a pool man but not a decent gardener. Was the owner a swimmer who darted out to the water and rushed back inside, never noticing his s...

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Dale Chase

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