Better ways… Part 2

A couple of days ago I was writing about how a rainy day in Palm Springs had me thinking of warmer, sunnier days, which let me to reminisce about my first experience skinny dipping a few years ago.

Well the rains continued through the weekend and into today. The forecast is for more of the same tomorrow, and I’m still dreaming of sunshine and warm weather – and a soothing dip in the pool. So, I guess I should tell how one of those soothing dips in the pool resulted in shear panic.

My friend B was spending a lot of time out of town, but she gave me a key to her house and encouraged me to use her house and her pool. Which I did, gladly. But my first trip to her house when she was out of town was a little unsettling.

What if someone saw me entering the house and called the police? How could I demonstrate that I had permission to be there? It’s not like she left me a letter or anything. Or what if I screwed up something with the heater to the hot tub? A smattering of those paranoid thought rambled through my brain.

I was uncomfortable the whole time I was in her backyard, so I cut my planned stay short.

But I soon relaxed and got into the spirit. Before long I was packing up a cooler of cerveza, taking along some tunes, and having a fantastic time. I took along swimming trunks as well, but found I was wearing them less and less when by the pool. It still felt funny to walk around naked, but I would take the trunks off before hitting the water, then put them on again when I got out.

On one such visit I even called my friend who had told me about the joys of skinny dipping just to boast about how I had this beautiful pool all to myself. Unfortunately, she was a little too far away to pop over and share it with me.

Yes, I’d grown quite comfortable there, and was lamenting the fact that B would probably be moving out of town. There would go my pool access. So I resolved to take maximum advantage while I could.

On one sunny Sunday afternoon, I took my supplies and headed over to B’s house. I left my trunks and towel on a lounge chair and swam to the point of light fatigue. Then I lounged on this inflatable chair B had by the pool. Just drifting on the water, letting the wind blow me around the pool. Occasionally, I would dip a hand into the cool water and dribble it over my bare skin to cool me off. And if I got too hot, I would just slide into the water to cool down.

B had one of those automatic pool cleaners, and it did an amazing job keeping the pool clean. But the pool filter only kicked on at night. And Palm Springs has a fair amount of wind. So leaves and other debris were floating around in the pool. I decided that with free pool access, the least I could do was clear out some of the gunk in the pool. So I paraded around the deck, naked, except for sandals to protect my feet from the blistering-hot tiles and cement.

I must have made quite a site. The naked pool boy, with a long-handled net, removing leaves from the pool. But it felt good. It felt like I was earning my keep. Maybe nudists are onto something.

I walked over to the hot tub to clean some of the leaves out of there too. But the long-handled net didn’t work to remove the leaves and twigs that had collected in there.

This was going to take some good, old fashioned elbow grease. So, I put my net down and climbed into the hot tub. I was pulling out leaves and twigs, giddy with own thoughtfulness and initiative.

Just then some movement caught my eye and I froze.

Through the patio door I could see somebody entering the front door of the house. I didn’t think B was supposed to be home that day. I hope she doesn’t mind I’m back here. But she will know I’m here. My truck’s right out front. It might be a tad embarrassing to be nude in her pool, but she had seen me nude before. I’d live.

But then I saw the silhouettes of three people coming through the open front door.

That’s not B.

Oh shit.

Then it dawned on me.

This house is on the market. I’d seen the little key box real estate agents use outside the front door several times. What the hell is a real estate agent doing working on a Sunday? What happened to the day of rest?

My mind started racing.

It was difficult to make out any coherent thoughts. My body was immobile, like the water in the hot tub had suddenly turned to cement. But my mind was spinning so fast that there was a perceptible buzz inside my head.

You can’t just stay here stupid!

Well, you can’t get out either, the patio door looks right out onto the pool.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I willed myself to figure something out before terror overcame me. But panic was lapping will and pulling away.

Then, slowly an elaborate plan started to come together.

When they are back in one of the back rooms, I will slip over the wall of the hot tub and into the pool, swim to the other side. Lift myself out. Grab my trunks and slip them on.

But there were problems with that plan. Could I do it fast enough? Could I do it quietly enough in trying to be quick?

The sun’s glare off the patio door made it hard to tell what was going on inside the house. I could never really be sure where the interlopers where, and they didn’t seem to be sticking together.

The gate to the backyard was a short sprint away, but running out into the front yard wouldn’t help. It would make a bad situation worse. Then I’d be even more out in the open. More exposed.

And I knew, sooner or later, they would come out back. You don’t show a house with a pool without looking at the pool, right? Maybe the aspiring owners would hate the place so much they wouldn’t bother with the back yard and its pool and hot tub, and the stunning view of the mountains.

If only I'd turned on the pump to the hot tub. Maybe the bubbles would obscure my nudity. Can I make it to the pump switch and back to the tub?

And then it was too late.

The patio door slid open

“Hi there,” the male aspiring homeowner said.

Shit.

“Hi,” was my feeble reply.

Shit, fuck, Shit!

The rest of the conversation is a bit of a blur. The man walked out onto the patio. He started asking me about the house.

I confessed it wasn’t my house, but a friend’s.

“Oh,” said.

Not knowing what else to do, I made another confession.

“Can I ask you a favor?” I pleaded with every bit of sincerity in my being, my voice and body trembling.

“Can I trouble you to bring me those swim trunks over there? I didn’t know anyone was coming by, and this back yard is so private, and …” my voice trailed off. Not quite sure how to explain why I was NEKKED in the back yard of the house this man was considering purchasing.

The man laughed, which relaxed me a little, but not much.

“Sure,” he said.

I pointed feebly to the swimming suit and towel about 10 feet away from him.

I hugged the inside wall of the hot tub as this stranger approached, my swim trunks in his hand.

Hopefully, he’s a prudish homicidal maniac and will just kill me now.

No such luck.

But he did hand me my trunks and walked back into the house.

I slipped the trunks into the water and over my legs.

The people in the house left shortly thereafter.

After my heartbeat returned to something approaching normal, I left as well.

That pretty much ended my skinny dipping that summer.

The couple that caught me bare assed in the hot tub? They didn’t make an offer on the house.

Too bad they didn’t see the mountain view from the hot tub. It was spectacular. That may have sold ’em on the place.

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