I don’t recall exactly why. Seems like my mother had to go to the doctor or something medical. On a summer’s day in the South, the perfect solution seemed to be letting the kids go to the nearby lake with neighbors.
Not just a small lake. This one had several access points and so the “beach” attracted dozens of people. An older man and woman — very distant relatives of ours — picked my little sister and me.
Who knows the exact date, but I’m guessing 1978. My memories fade from extremely blurry to crystal sharp, so forgive the moments in between. It’s as if some of my memories live beneath the murky lake water where it started and then emerges as it gets closer to the surface until it breaks and emerges above the surface. And then I can see what happened. But more than see it, I can feel it. It’s not just the sensation of him but also the confusion and conflicts I felt every moment of that day. Drawn to stay in the water and allow him to touch me.
I remember us going into the men’s changing area and him teasing me. At the time, he was probably in his early 40s with a respectable body — big wide chest with a little hair, more than six feet tall and a long angular face. We changed.
As an awkward, not very athletic child, my photographs show me as lanky, too thin with a bowl-cut for a haircut. Indistinct. At least this occurred prior to the plague of acne would take away my smooth ivory skin.
Playing in the water with my sister and others probably was the norm. But the moment his strong arms wrapped around me, I didn’t move much. I’m shy by nature and, back then, even more so. At some point, a game of swimming beneath the water’s surface and between each other’s legs occurred. At first, just a brush. Then a little more obvious. My cock ached beneath the surface of the water.
As I would swim beneath his legs, under that crotch, I remember him making sure to push me down and toward his cock. I know I felt it, but it would be months before I really touched or saw it.
My cock pulsed harder than ever. I’d felt it like this in the gym when we did something called “donuts,” lying flat on our stomach and lifting our legs and shoulders off the floor so our tummies and crotches were the only thing on the gym floor. It would be years later before I’d realize the dry orgasms I’d had everyday in gym, looking forward to this “exercise.” So much so, I’d do it at home on my own.
As my cock ached, my sister retired to the beach with the wife and we were alone. I didn’t dare return to shore. Unsure whether I wanted to stay here, in the water, with this man I barely knew. But something kept me there. Something in the back of my mind. Something that made me fantasize about Tarzan rescuing me from the jungle and carrying me to safely against his bare chest and in his strong arms.
That fantasy seemed to turn reality, as he stood behind me and took me deeper into the water but held me safely in his arms. Around my back, his hands rested on my bathing suit shorts. Right on my cock. He stroked me through the thin fabric.
I remember his hot breath on my neck. The only words about what was happening beneath the murky surface, “Do you like this?”
I hesitated. How should I answer this question? What should I say?
I stuck my face into the water and screamed into it, “I don’t know.” Only bubbles emerged and I swam away.
When we changed to go home, I found a stall by myself. I made sure not to be alone with him. I stayed quiet and distant. I do remember getting ice cream — an orange cream “push up” as they were called.
Only recently do I recall these details. If you want to know, the man lives — still a neighbor to my mother. He suffers from cancer and Alzheimer’s. My stories do not end here, but my next memory occurs in the winter. I’m not certain if I’ve somehow blacked out some of those moments or perhaps there’s no memory because nothing happened.
But it began at a lake in murky waters. He touched me. I was changed.