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  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Selena Kitt

  PJ’s Pool Party © March 2010 Kris Klein

  eXcessica publishing

  All rights reserved

  PJ’s Pool Party

  By Kris Klein

  Sometimes good people do stupid things, especially in the name of love. I’m one of them, and it was why I’d ended up in a no-tell motel on the southwest side of Houston, on a humid Friday night in May. I’d gotten in on a Greyhound bus a few hours earlier, after traveling halfway across the country from Philadelphia for a day and a half and was so tired I couldn’t even think about what my future might hold. Instead I crashed on the bed, asleep by 7:30pm, without even pulling back the covers. Probably a good thing, since God only knew what the sheets used in a fleabag motel like this might contain, even washed.

  I slept for twelve hours straight and the next morning found a couple packs of peanut butter crackers in one of my bags to nibble on for breakfast. Sitting at the scarred wooden table in my room, I mulled over how much my life had changed in the last few weeks, since finally ending my relationship with Brian.

  We’d move to Philadelphia together, in January of last year, and right away I knew it wasn’t going to work. Brian and I had been a couple for over three years, meeting soon after I’d moved to Houston at the Olive Garden where he worked as a server. I’d been taken to lunch by my boss at the time and had been blown over by Brian’s dark, sensual, model-like looks and charm—so much so, I’d slipped him my cell phone number while my boss was in the john, something I’d normally be way too shy to do. He called and we went out, the age difference making no difference to me (I was eighteen, he was thirty-five)—but from the beginning, Brian was self-conscious about dating someone old enough to be his son; he often joked about it, calling me “boy” or “my kid” in front of his friends. I put up with it because I thought it was his way of dealing with it, but now realized that from go he’d always treated me the same way, too. Brian ran our relationship—choosing what movies we saw, what restaurants we ate dinner at…and if Brian didn’t like one of my friends my own age, he pressured me until I stopped hanging out with, or talking to, that person.

  It was my first relationship, and this was how I thought things were supposed to go—especially when dating an older man. I moved into Brian’s place after six months, for sure it was the real thing and convinced I was blissfully in love—and because he did run things, when he told me a couple of years later we were relocating to Philadelphia…well, I thought such things were what good boyfriends did, going with the flow in order to keep their man.

  I was twenty-one then, though, and more sure of myself. I tried talking Brian out of the move; he was in management at a different restaurant now, and I had a stable job I loved, working in the Student Services department for Houston Community College. Things were good, even if—deep down—I knew we weren’t.

  Brian’s heart was in the theater, not the restaurant industry, and he’d been offered the Assistant Artistic Director position for a huge theater company in Philly. It was his excuse to move near New York City at last and pursue a career he’d put on hold for a long time. Never was it discussed whether he was taking the job—he was—and it was never anything but assumed I was moving with him…something I resented. I was determined to be the good, supportive boyfriend however, so I sold a lot of my stuff and quit my job and put my share of the money together for our crazy-expensive new apartment in Center City.

  I hated Philadelphia. Worse still, I hated what Brian became once we got there. Right off, he became distant, withdrawn, and even verbally abusive, even putting me down in front of his new friends—that is, whenever I saw him. This new crowd of friends were all closer to his own age, theater people, and they didn’t want me along whenever they were out partying—which, sometimes, could be as often as four nights a week, since their work schedules allowed for it. Me, I was having trouble finding a job, period, out hunting by day and spending many a night alone in the ratty, tiny apartment. I missed Houston and my job—even my old friends, even if most of them had fallen by the wayside thanks to my relationship with Brian.

  Then, about six weeks ago, I found the envelope. The fat manila envelope Brian kept switching from bag to bag as needed, so I was never able to see what was in it. One night, after he came home drunk and passed out in bed, I had my chance…and opened the bulky package, sifting through cards and love notes and pornographic letters from Brian’s “friend” Marty—outlining their entire sexual affair which had, I soon learned, been going on for over five months now. Many of the letters referred to me as “the brat,” or “that child you can’t let go of,” and considering Marty could not have been more than thirty himself, I thought it pretty shitty that he’d called me such names. The smutty letters outlined the various things Marty and Brian had done, would be doing, or had talked about doing together, and it was that stack of trash that was the last straw for me. The same day, I went down to a gay club in the heart of Center City’s rainbow district and got a job as a dancer, only to make a shitload of money fast enough to get the fuck out of town. It took only a few weeks of me gyrating in a silver g-string, showing off my hot little Mexican ass to men who tried groping my dick or bare butt every chance they got, before I had the money for a bus ticket and about a month’s rent on a new place. Brian thought I had taken a night job at a convenience store, and when it came time to leave I simply packed my shit and took off, while he was out partying with his friends or fucking Marty or whatever he did, now, for fun. During those weeks, I had multiple opportunities to have as much sex as I wanted, with guys my age, or older, or even older than Brian (one guy of about sixty offered me two-hundred dollars to spend the night with him), but I turned them all down. I was determined, from day one, to never cheat on a guy I was with, no matter what. To not become like so many other gay men. While I lived with Brian, I was determined to stick to my golden rule.

  Meanwhile, I’d been in touch with a lady I’d met on craigslist, who had a room for rent in her home on the southwest side of Houston, near Fondren and Westheimer. She was asking a more-than-reasonable $350 a month, knew I was gay and understood my situation, and was even cool with my not having a month’s security. We talked on the phone a few times, and she was way cool. She had a four-bedroom, two-story home; she was renting out the spare bedroom on the ground floor of to me, while she occupied the master on the ground floor. The two upstairs bedrooms were reserved for her sons—one of whom was sixteen and lived with his dad in Chicago, the other nineteen and going to college in Austin—when they were home, but she needed the extra money so had decided to rent the ground-floor room, to the right person. I guess she thought that was me.

  Charlene, my new landlady/roommate, wasn’t available on the Friday night I came into town, however—she was a singer in two bands, outside her regular job as an office manager, and weekend nights were booked—so I’d taken m
y fleabag motel room for my first night back home…and sat waiting now for Charlene to come pick me up to take me back to her home.

  She arrived about nine in a small blue station wagon—a very pretty, very fit woman of about forty, with dark brown hair and eyes and a nice figure. We chatted and got to know each other on the way back to her place—which, when I got there, really took me by surprise.

  “Wow,” I told her as we entered the house. “It’s awsome!”

  It really was. We’d walked in through the back door to an open space leading to a living room on the left, the kitchen on the right. The kitchen was amazing, all Italian tile countertops that—on one side—surrounded a black, built-in stove. Most of the wall between the kitchen and living room had been knocked out, so when done cooking on the stove all you had to do was pass the food across the Italian tile, where barstools were lined up, and people could just get off the couch to come eat—or even chat with you as you cooked. Another white door, to the left of the living room, led to a patio and a small in-ground pool taking up most of what would otherwise have been the backyard and a four-person mini-Jacuzzi divided separately from the rest of the pool. I hadn’t even seen my room yet, or any other part of the house, and was already in love with the place. I paid Charlene my first month’s rent right then and there, and within ten minutes she was headed out to work, leaving me alone in this beautiful house on my very first day. Her trust in me was amazing, and I was very grateful.

  Then, as she was heading back outside to her car, she turned back to add, “Oh, and PJ—my oldest son—is coming in tonight, from Austin, for the weekend. I told him about you, so don’t worry about introducing yourself and making yourself at home. He’ll probably spend the weekend with his girlfriend, in his room or out by the pool, anyway.”

  “No problem,” I said, “and thanks again!”

  I would learn, in the coming weeks, how rarely Charlene was ever home—except to sleep. As a full-time office manager with a boyfriend, with constant rehearsals and performances for both bands she sang for, it was no wonder.

  I put my few bags of clothes and possessions in my bedroom, which was tastefully furnished—including a four-poster bed and a television with digital cable—then took a look around the house. Everything was immaculate—Charlene told me she even had a pair of cleaning ladies who came in every other week to take care of the house—and I couldn’t believe my luck. Back in the living room, I turned on the HD TV and collapsed on the overstuffed brown sofa, channel surfing until I spotted a family portrait on the wall. I went over to look at the photo, which depicted Charlene and—I suppose—her ex-husband, the guy looking pretty stern and at least a decade older than Charlene. They were sitting in the portrait, and behind them stood two boys—a dorky, pimple-faced teen with an attitude, whose expression said he wished he could be anywhere other than where he was right then…and beside him, an older teenaged boy with a thick mop of shaggy dark-brown hair on his head; a truly handsome, masculine kid with clear skin and a big, white smile that pushed his looks a couple of notches above sexy.

  “Wow,” I whispered aloud, licking my lips. My dick was getting a little stiff in my jeans just looking at him.

  “I’m the ugly one,” I suddenly heard behind me, a door slamming at the same time.

  I jumped, turning around—and the hot teenager in the family photo was now standing before me, a couple of years older and light-years sexier. My mouth fell open as I stood there, dick still growing as I tried to cup my hands naturally over my budding erection.

  “Uh…hi,” I said, as the beautiful brown-eyed boy—his hair still as thick and dark and disheveled as it was in the photo—strode over to me on long, lean legs, holding out his hand.

  “You must be Jaime,” he said. “Hi, I’m Paul—PJ. Charlene’s my mom.”

  He was even better-looking in person; in person you could feel the masculinity, the young manhood, rolling off him in waves like airborne testosterone. He was tall, over six-foot, and wore a UTA t-shirt and multi-colored print shorts that went past the knees, still revealing his hairy, thick calves. He had big feet, maybe a size twelve, stuffed into generic gym shoes with no socks. Very sexy. With all that, though, it was the face and the smile and that amazing head of thick, dark-brown hair that had me turned out—and turned on. Knowing he was straight even made him more an object of desire than ever, I guess, because I was so aroused by him it was hard to breathe…and it had been a long, long time since I’d even been attracted to a guy anywhere near my own age. According to Charlene, PJ was even younger—nineteen to my twenty-two.

  Good God, was he hot.

  “So…you making yourself at home?” PJ asked me, as he slung a black book bag from his shoulder onto the living room coffee table. “My mom said you’ve been through a rough time here lately, with a bad breakup and all; sorry to hear it.”

  “Yeah,” I smiled, shrugging. “Me, too.”

  “It happens,” PJ replied, shrugging. “It sucks, but it happens. Me and my girlfriend, we’re going through some shit too, and she’s not even talking to me right now. That’s one reason I had to get out of Austin.”

  My gay antenna shot straight up at his words, sexual fantasies about PJ now free to roam my mind. “S-sorry to hear that,” I told him.

  He clapped me on the shoulder. “Ahh, fuck it,” he replied, smiling his flawless Calvin Klein-model smile. “We can hang out together this weekend, if you want; just the two of us. Forget the females and make it a guy’s weekend, with you back in town and all—eh, my friend?”

  I about had a heart attack on the spot; Charlene, I guess, had neglected to tell her son I was gay.

  Wow, was this going to be a long weekend.

  * * * *

  Tall, tan, and athletic, PJ of course was in the pool by noon—wearing only a baggy pair of bright red trunks with white trim, a white beach towel over his shoulder as he headed out the back patio door to the pool. I tried to beg off joining him, but PJ was determined not to swim alone so I had to dig out the one bathing suit I had in my small suitcase…a robin’s egg blue Speedo so tight, even a slight erection would have been visible half a block away.

  “Come on, Jaime!” PJ called, from the living room, as I was slipping my tiny swimsuit on. I sighed, leaving my new bedroom and ducking into the downstairs john next door, where I grabbed a white towel of my own to wrap around my waist. I returned to the living room in time to look through the big picture window out back and see PJ execute a perfect dive off the diving board at the deep end of the pool, water splashing up onto the stone patio floor on contact. His body was perfect, lean and muscular, his long arms stretched to a point above his head as he plunged head first into the cool blue water.

  The patio door was open, and he had the radio in the living room turned on; rock music pulsed through a set of invisible speakers outside—loud, but not so loud we couldn’t hear each other—and as I tiptoed out onto the stone patio, afraid to even look at PJ for what it might cause in my Speedo, I saw him shoulder-deep in the pool, smiling and laughing and waving at me.

  “Hey Jaime!” he yelled, “come on in! The water’s great!”

  His brown hair was wet, matted down with water and hanging down over his eyes, but as I watched, PJ reached up with on hand and swooped the heavy bangs back off his forehead, tossing his head back as he wiped water from his eyes. His chest was hairless, nipples big and dark and flat, and as I edged closer to the pool I could make out his strong athlete’s body, longs legs kicking to keep him afloat as his outstretched arms moved back and forth in the clear blue water.

  “Come on!” he said, waving me in. His grin was as bright as the sun—his wet, messed-up hair sweetly goofy on his head.

  I sighed, removing the beach towel from my waist to toss it on lounge chair nearby.

  “Wow, Jaime,” he said, chuckling. “Tight suit.”

  I blushed. “It’s all I got.” I plunged into the water before he had any more of a chance to see my dick already hardening again.


  For the next hour, lust aside, I don’t think I’d ever had more playful, relaxing fun. PJ was an expert swimmer, at home as a fish in the water, but I still kept up pretty good as we raced laps in the pool under the bright Texas sunshine—my small, five-foot-six-inch frame moving dolphin-like at times underwater. When PJ jumped out to get a beach ball from the garage to toss around, his baggy wet trunks clinging to his trim physique and I couldn’t help but notice his ass was big, high, and very round as he trotted off to the garage. On the way back, I tried so hard not to look…but of course had to, and saw the big, flaccid cock that hung between his legs, his soaking wet trunks clinging to it with as much love as I wanted to give to it with my mouth and ass.

  It would be amazing to have sex with someone my own age again, I thought, watching him run and jump back into the pool with the ball, yelling loud as his warm body contacted with the chilly water again. He landed about ten feet away from me, dousing me in the spray, and we laughed as he tossed me the ball.

  I threw it back at him, and it sailed high over PJ’s head, toward the deep end of the pool. PJ dived and swam for it—the globes of his perfect ass visible out of the water for a second before he went under again—and when PJ had retrieved the ball he turned back to me and grinned, yelling “Come and get it, if you want it!” as he stuffed the multicolored beach ball under one arm.

  Boy, did I want it—but knew he meant the ball so I took off after him anyway, swimming the length of the pool toward him…PJ darting out of my way with the ball under his arm as I had been about to snag it. He laughed, swimming back in the direction I’d come in, and I took off after him again—this time gliding underwater toward his kicking legs and that sweet, sweet ass.

  He was almost at the shallow end now, feet touching the bottom of the pool as I kicked harder, pushing upward, and burst from the water right in front of him, PJ screaming and laughing in surprise as I yanked the ball out from under his arm.