The Depths of the Pool – 1965

The locker room at the YMCA smelled of tile soap, old steam, damp wool, and cedar. Arthur stood just inside, his canvas bag slung over one shoulder, his heart fluttering like a trapped bird. The sign on the door—“No Swimsuits Allowed”—was simple, yet it seemed to tower over him now.

He hadn’t entered a communal changing room since college, and back then everything had been more discreet. Here, in this welcoming Midwestern town, he was literally expected to shed his clothes among strangers.

He edged toward an empty bench and began to unbutton his shirt, fingers both practiced and hesitant. All around him, the room was in motion.

At the far end, Ronny Blake, the high school auto shop teacher, laughed as he slapped his towel against the bench. He was a bear of a man—broad through the shoulders, soft at the middle, with dark chest hair curling like ivy. He stretched confidently in the nude, chatting about carburetors as if he were picking produce in a grocery aisle.

Nearby, Walt—a wiry man in his sixties with a shock of white hair and a sharp nose—sat polishing his wire-rimmed glasses. His bony frame, knobby knees and all, possessed a certain angular elegance. He caught Arthur’s eye and offered a brief, courteous nod.

Facing Arthur on the opposite bench was Jim, about his own age, round in the middle with a rosy face and gentle, sleepy eyes. Jim folded his clothes slowly, methodically. When he glanced up, he gave Arthur a warm smile that made Arthur’s stomach twist—not with nerves, but with something softer, something almost familiar.

The last figure Arthur noticed was George, broad-backed and thick at the waist, his skin smooth and fleshy. George leaned against the lockers, towel slung over one shoulder, bantering with Ronny in a calm, reassuring voice. Every now and then his gaze flicked to Arthur, curious.

Arthur stood frozen, trousers unbuttoned, shirt folded, shoes off. The final step felt impossibly hard. Then Jim cleared his throat.

“First time?” Jim asked gently.

“Yeah,” Arthur admitted. “I wasn’t expecting… all this.”

Jim chuckled. “Most aren’t. But once you’re in the water, it all goes away.”

Arthur nodded, looked down at the softness of his belly, the curve of his thighs, the years written on his skin. He exhaled, stepped out of his underwear, and folded it neatly.

He padded toward the pool, the tiles shockingly cold underfoot. Jim came alongside him, towel slung over his shoulder.

“Water’s warm,” Jim assured him. “Always is.”

By the edge, George floated chest-deep, arms resting on the pool’s rim. Ronny cannonballed in, sending a wall of spray skyward, while Walt slipped into the shallow end like a graceful heron.

Arthur gripped the ladder and paused, then descended. The warm water closed over him, easing the tension from his shoulders.

“You swim much?” George asked, drifting closer.

“Used to,” Arthur replied, wading forward. “Not in years.”

George smiled. “You’ll pick it up again. Most of us do.”

They moved together slowly, each stroke loosening something inside Arthur. His skin no longer burned with embarrassment but instead tingled with the unfamiliar thrill of proximity.

There were more than four of them, it turned out; the pool seemed to draw others like a small animal secreted in a den soon draws kin. Arthur lost count when two more arrived, their names vague in his mind (“That’s Alan—no, Alen, with an E,” “And Phil, but everyone calls him Philly”). They circled the shallow end in lazy, social loops, the way men will gather around a bonfire or billiards table, but with less clothing and more unspoken rules.

A few laps in, Arthur realized that the water did something to the body—not like in the locker room, where gravity and chill made everything seem smaller, but here, the water preserved one’s form, both in outline and in motion. Jim paddled alongside him, and for a few easy laps they swam quietly, shoulder to shoulder, sometimes trading a joke or a trivial complaint about the chlorine. But soon there was a deviation from that pattern: Jim’s hand, while pretending to steady himself at the wall, landed briefly on Arthur’s lower back. The touch lingered, just a second too long.

Arthur laughed it off, and Jim did too, but the contact had sent a visible ripple through Jim’s face—his lazy eyes hooded, the smile less certain than before.

“You good?” asked Jim, sotto voce.

Arthur nodded, a little out of breath. “Just out of shape, is all.”

Later, in the deeper water, someone suggested Marco Polo. It seemed a joke, but the group took it up with good-natured intensity, splashing and ducking and, at one point, clustering together around the blindfolded swimmer—Ronny, of course—who reached out, groping with exaggerated comic lustfulness. Each time, a new body pressed close to Arthur: Walt’s knobbly knees at his flank, Philly’s hairy forearm grazing his own, George’s chest glancing his shoulder underwater, smooth and buoyant. The physicality was relentless and totally deliberate and yet still, somehow, plausible deniability hovered over all of it. If you were to accuse anyone of groping, they would merely laugh and say, “That’s just the game.”

It was only when Arthur’s foot slipped and kicked out—brushing against something soft but unmistakably hard between George’s legs—that the fabric of the game changed. George grinned, locking eyes with Arthur for a microsecond, and then released him back into the whirl of the pool.

Afterward, as they clung to the wall to catch their breath, Arthur could see with bleary clarity that several of the men were half-erect in the water, their cocks floating and jostling as naturally as the rest of their bodies. The sight was neither grotesque nor especially comedic; in the diffused, aquamarine light it was almost ceremonial, like a line of kelp swaying from the tide.

“So,” Jim murmured above the lull of splashing water and clinking lane dividers, “want to come up with us? The sauna’s open tonight.”

Arthur paused at the bottom of the stairs, his too-thin towel doing little to ward off the damp chill. Chlorine beads glistened on his skin, and his stomach knotted—half nerves, half curiosity. Above him, muffled voices, the creak of wooden benches, and a faint cedar scent called to him. He didn’t know the unspoken protocols—only that something awaited beyond that door.

He pushed through the modest sign reading MEN’S SAUNA – MEMBERS ONLY and stepped into a warm corridor of pine-hued shadows. Inside, a square room of tongue-and-groove cedar stood simple and inviting: two tiers of benches lining each wall, and a stout electric stove in the corner sending dry heat into the air. Someone had just splashed water on the hot stones; tendrils of steam drifted upward like incense.

Beneath a dim red bulb encased in wire, five men sat in respectful silence, their towels loosely draped around hips, some slipping precariously low. Arthur found a spot beside George, whose steady warmth spoke volumes without a word. Their thighs brushed; in this heat, proximity was an unspoken language.

High above, Jim leaned back on the upper bench, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. He met Arthur’s gaze—no words, just a lingering, open look.

Ronny let out a soft laugh. “Man, nothing beats this after a long week. My boss yelled at me twice today, and I didn’t even flinch—just knew I had this waiting.”

Arthur closed his eyes for a heartbeat, breathing in cedar and salt and skin. The room felt timeless, a place where the world thinned and something deeper—something honest and masculine—could breathe.

He felt sweat tracing lines down his sides, heard water dripping somewhere beyond the steam, and sensed George’s leg pressing closer. His towel slipped but he made no move to adjust it. Here, the usual rules didn’t apply.

Talk drifted into occasional whispers. Only the hiss of steam and the soft exhalations of weary men remained constant.

Jim shifted forward, elbows on knees, broad shoulders slick with sweat. “I don’t usually linger after the pool,” he said, “but tonight just felt right.”

Arthur edged closer, their knees nearly touching. Jim’s steady gaze invited him in.

“Yeah,” Arthur replied softly. “It really does.”

Across the room, Ronny and Walt settled into their own quiet camaraderie—low chuckles, knowing smiles. Walt reclined on the top bench, sweat gleaming on his pale torso against the glowing wood.

Arthur took in these imperfect, unapologetic bodies—weathered by labor, content in this shared warmth—and realized he felt at home. Not desire yet, but belonging.

Jim tilted his head. “You settled in faster than I expected. First-timers usually cling to the corners.”

Arthur smiled, surprised by his own confidence. “I almost did. But I’m glad I didn’t.”

A loaded silence fell, thick with possibility. George’s leg pressed firmly against his. In the heat and hush, their forms blurred together.

Jim rose, towel slipping loose around his waist. “We usually grab coffee afterward. Diner’s right across the street.”

Arthur’s smile deepened. “I’d like that.”

George stood next, stretching as the wooden bench groaned. His towel hung low, and he flashed a sly look. “You two go on ahead,” he said. “I’ve got the basement key. Showers down there are quieter… and hotter.”

He winked, then melted back into the curling steam.

Arthur glanced at Jim, who laughed and offered his hand. “Come on,” Jim said. “I’ll show you the rest of the place.”



But Arthur’s steps faltered at the corridor’s bend. From the stairwell on the left came the soft echo of water—pipes tapping behind plaster, a solitary drip from a faucet not fully closed.



“Arthur?” George’s voice floated up from below. He didn’t really expect an answer.

Arthur turned and went down.

The basement shower room was dim, a gang shower lined with worn porcelain, overhead bulbs humming. Under the spray stood George, towel slung on a hook, his sturdy frame glistening in backlight. He looked relaxed—yet the way he waited was charged with intention.



Arthur said nothing. He crossed to the far wall, unwound his towel, and let it fall onto the bench. The tiles felt icy under his feet, but the water was hot when he stepped into the stream, a few paces from George.

Steam curled around them, but instead of blurring the scene, it made every detail sharper.

George turned slowly, their eyes locking in a quiet, heavy moment. Then he reached out and rested a warm hand on Arthur’s side, just above the hip where the flesh gave easily.

Arthur inhaled, breath catching—not from fear but from something close to relief.

“Still glad you came?” George whispered, water masking the words.



Arthur nodded and leaned into the spray—and into George. No hurry. They had all the time in the world.



The water drummed over Arthur’s shoulders, hot and steady, as if the room itself breathed on him. George’s hand stayed where it was, a soft question pressed against his skin.

Arthur didn’t flinch. He let the water run through his hair, tracing the curves of his body, following old contours he’d spent years hiding. But here, under the buzzing lights and George’s anchoring touch, he felt weighty and worthy, not small.

George edged closer until their bellies met—warm, damp flesh against warm, damp flesh. Arthur opened his eyes to find George’s gaze calm and inviting, the corners of his mouth relaxed.

“I thought I might’ve scared you off,” George murmured.

“No,” Arthur replied, finding his voice. “I’ve just… never done anything like this before.”



George’s thumb slid up Arthur’s side, grazing beneath his ribs.

The room smelled of soap, old tile, and men, steam drifting in heavy wisps. Arthur lifted a hand and placed it on George’s chest, feeling hair cling to muscle warm with water.

Their faces were inches apart. Arthur felt his pulse thud against his lips when George leaned in. Foreheads touched, then noses brushed, then lips met in a slow, deliberate kiss—gentle, sincere. Arthur’s heart pounded, not from fear but from sweetness, from the raw newness of it.

The kiss deepened, tentative at first, then surer. George’s hand moved to the small of Arthur’s back, firm and reassuring, as Arthur leaned into him, softness meeting strength beneath the steady spray.

When they finally parted, foreheads still together, Arthur whispered, “I didn’t expect a place like this…”

George smiled. “Quiet spots often surprise you.”



They lingered under the water, bodies pressed, fingers tracing backs and shoulders in a slow exploration. It wasn’t just physical—it was tender, born of two lonely people recognizing each other.

After a while, George reached back and shut off the shower. The sudden silence felt warm around them.

“I’ve got a car. Want to go somewhere else?” George brushed a droplet from Arthur’s cheek with his fingertip.

Arthur laughed softly. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

Side by side, they toweled off, no longer hiding. In the mirror above the sink they saw two middle-aged men: not perfect, but solid and real. Arthur felt something stir inside him—something he thought had been asleep forever.

Outside, the late afternoon had faded into a gentle gray. The street was quiet, the town moving at its usual, leisurely pace. George’s old green Buick was parked under the oaks by the building's side.

The silence of the street was broken by the soft sound of tires on gravel. A simple blue Ford Fairlane cruised past, windows slightly down to welcome the early evening breeze. Behind the wheel was Jim, his round face partially lit by the dimming light, his eyes flashing with irritation as he glanced at George’s car. He had hoped to have Arthur join him for coffee.

As he drove by, he slowed, his head turning slightly, drawn to the two figures sitting close in the front seat. His gaze lingered—curious, wary, and something more. Arthur tensed, uncertain whether to wave, feign ignorance, or sink into his seat. But George merely chuckled softly.

“Well,” George murmured with a slight grin, “he saw us.”

Arthur’s heart pounded, but there was no shame, only the potential that stretched between them.

George turned to Arthur, speaking quietly, “Should we invite him?”

Arthur regarded George—his strong forearms resting casually on the wheel, his shirt clinging slightly from the shower—and felt an unexpected calm. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think we should.”

George smiled and started the engine.

The Buick roared to life and moved onto the road, tracing the gentle curve of the street. Jim’s car had turned the corner and parked under the maples on Eldridge Avenue. As they pulled up behind him, Jim stepped out, his expression unreadable at first. He adjusted his jacket, hesitated, then approached the Buick.

George leaned out the window. “Heading home?”

Jim tilted his head, his expression softening. “Not just yet.”

George nodded toward the passenger seat. “You’re welcome to join us.”

There was a brief pause—barely a heartbeat—and then Jim opened the back door and climbed in. The bench creaked under his weight. Arthur glanced back at him, searching for doubt or hesitation. Instead, he saw a gentle smile and something else—relief.

They rode in comfortable silence to George’s house, a modest brick residence nestled on a quiet lane at the town’s edge, where sprawling maple trees formed a tangled canopy overhead. George unlocked the door, turned on the soft, warm lights, and led them through the neat living room to the den. There, a well-worn leather sofa sat beneath a large window with its curtains drawn.

“I have coffee,” George offered, “or something stronger, if you prefer.”

Jim gave a slight smile. “Something stronger sounds good.”

George left them briefly, and Arthur stood by the window, hands tucked in his coat pockets, until Jim joined him.

“You two looked at ease together,” Jim observed, without any accusation.

“We were,” Arthur admitted, surprised by his own candidness. “We are.”

Jim nodded. “That’s good.”

George returned with a small tray holding three tumblers and an open bottle of bourbon. He poured generous amounts, and they all took a seat on the couch—Arthur in the middle, George on one side, and Jim on the other. The couch was spacious but not enough to prevent them from brushing against each other.

The bourbon went down smooth and warm. Their conversation flowed easily—touching on books, past jobs, and local gossip. Time seemed to slow down.

At some point, George’s hand found its way to Arthur’s knee. A few minutes later, Jim’s fingers grazed the back of Arthur’s hand and stayed there. The connection wasn’t intense; it was quiet, steady, intimate—like sharing breath in the dark.

Arthur leaned back, relaxing his shoulders against the couch, enveloped by the warmth of these two men—each carrying the marks of life, restraint, and private longing. Here, there was no rush, no need for explanations.

George stood and turned off the light, leaving the room in shadows softened by the glow of a single corner lamp. He returned to the couch, placed his hand on Arthur’s chest, and looked him in the eye.

Arthur smiled, his heart steady.

The room grew still, the only sound the gentle clink of ice settling in their glasses. The amber glow from the corner lamp highlighted the curve of George’s shoulder as he sat back down beside Arthur, his broad chest rising with a quiet breath. On Arthur’s other side, Jim’s knee gently touched his—a small but lingering contact.

No one hurried. The stillness was shared, sacred.

Arthur tilted his head back against the couch, the bourbon warm in his belly, and let the presence of the two men sink into him like the heat from a bath. George’s hand, broad and sure, rested on his chest, grounding him. Arthur reached up and placed his own hand over it, their fingers slowly intertwining in an instinctive gesture.

Jim’s smile grew slowly, his hand coming to rest on Arthur’s thigh, giving a gentle squeeze—not urgent, but meaningful.

Then George leaned forward, kissing the space just below Arthur’s ear, a soft, searching kiss. Arthur took a deep breath, not sharp, but full. Encouraged by the closeness, Jim cupped Arthur’s face and kissed him from the other side, his lips thinner, more careful, tasting faintly of bourbon and breath.

Arthur sat still between them, eyes closed, their warmth seeping into his skin, their hands exploring his sides and chest with reverence, not greed.

The buttons of his shirt were undone, one by one, each pop of thread making his breath hitch a little more. George helped him ease it off his shoulders, palms dragging across his soft arms, touching every place Arthur had once tried to hide.

Then George kissed him again—fully this time. The kiss was firmer now, deliberate, the scrape of stubble against Arthur’s chin sending a thrill down his spine. Jim’s lips found his neck, tracing the gentle curve beneath his jaw, his hand brushing up beneath the hem of Arthur’s undershirt to trace the warm curve of his belly.

Arthur’s breath escaped in a soft moan—surprised, grateful, hungry.

The couch creaked beneath their shifting weight. George reached over Arthur’s lap, his arm thick and strong, to pull Jim closer, and suddenly the three of them were entwined—legs, hands, mouths—fitting together not perfectly, but earnestly. It wasn’t rehearsed; it wasn’t something they’d done before. There were awkward elbows, missed kisses, shared laughter between touches. But the awkwardness only made it sweeter—three older men, undone by each other’s nearness, unpracticed but willing.

Arthur’s trousers were unfastened with gentle fingers, peeled down with slow precision. Jim helped ease them off, pressing an affectionate kiss to Arthur’s thigh as he did. George’s hand skimmed up his side, calloused fingers pausing over the softness of his stomach, his chest, the slope of his shoulder.

Arthur found himself in a silent dance, a scene he might have dreamt or glimpsed secretly in locker rooms, but never experienced. George gently guided him down to the cool leather of the couch, while Jim knelt on the carpet between Arthur’s open knees. They removed their shirts, their chests glistening with sweat and anticipation.

Jim's mouth, soft and slightly wet from drinking, enveloped Arthur’s cock, the contact so intense it momentarily took his breath away. Jim was direct, his tongue deliberate, hands gripping Arthur’s thighs. Behind him, George knelt on the cushion, kissing Arthur’s shoulders, his broad hands exploring Arthur’s chest, circling his nipples between thumb and knuckle. Each sensation built upon the last.

The men worked together, helping Arthur overcome the initial awkwardness, until he felt a shift in his awareness. George gripped his hips, massaging the flesh firmly. Jim’s mouth remained constant. The surroundings—the couch, the lamp, the bourbon—all blurred into a single, throbbing pulse.

At one point, George pulled Jim up for a passionate kiss, sharing Arthur’s taste between them. Arthur, trembling, watched their mouths intertwine above him, feeling the barriers of his life not just broken, but obliterated.

Jim broke the kiss and the three men moved activities to the bedroom. Jim and George positioned Arthur onto all fours. The world narrowed to the warmth of hands moving across his back, nails lightly scratching. George spat into his palm and carefully eased a finger into Arthur, making him gasp in surprise, then desire.

The stretching was slow and patient; George took his time, and Jim joined the rhythm, neither rushing nor hesitating. When George finally entered fully, Arthur’s breath hitched, his knees gripping the couch. There was pain, but it was dulled by the context, a heat that made sense within their entwined bodies. George filled him, never stopping his comforting grip on Arthur’s side. Every time Arthur squirmed, George paused, kissed his damp spine, and murmured reassurances.

Jim, kneeling opposite, guided Arthur’s mouth onto his penis with the same care, his length warm and salty against Arthur’s tongue. Jim’s hand stroked gently along Arthur’s cheek, the gesture more comforting than anything else.

They created a living triangle, each man supporting the others: George moved slowly and deeply within Arthur, steadying himself by holding Arthur's waist. Arthur was savoring Jim's precum as he took him into his mouth, eliciting moans from Jim.

At the height of the act, George leaned forward, pressing his chest against Arthur’s back. He reached around, grasping Arthur’s cock, stroking as he thrust. The dual sensation swept Arthur past control: his climax came in waves, his teeth gently clamping onto Jim, who shook and came in turn, his taste bitter and electrifying on Arthur’s tongue.

Arthur exhaled a low, incredulous laugh. The mingled scent of cedar and sweat clung to their skin, joined by the warmth of the sheets and the faint tang of spent bodies. He was still catching up—his heart drifting between astonishment and relief.

George’s arm tightened around his waist, keeping him grounded. “There aren’t many places,” he said softly, more reflective. “A few hidden corners in small towns, a sauna here, a diner where nobody asks.”

Jim traced a lazy thumb across Arthur’s chest, following the soft hairs curling between his nipples. “The Y’s always been one of those spots,” he said. “For years now—just a handful of men who understand.”

Arthur lifted his head to look at him. “You mean… there are others?”

George chuckled quietly. “Plenty. More than you’d guess. Some come for a glimpse, others for a touch. Most are married or widowed. All of them searching.”

Arthur swallowed, letting the notion settle. The idea of so many men moving by an unspoken code felt both comforting and startling.

“You’ll meet them,” Jim murmured, brushing his lips against Arthur’s shoulder. “One at a time, sometimes two. They’ll come to trust you, like we have.”

“Like tonight?” Arthur whispered, voice trembling with anticipation.

George hummed. “Some nights, yes. Some are quieter—just a hand in the steam, a look across the pool. But they’ll find you, and you’ll learn to find them.”

Arthur closed his eyes as calm and excitement washed over him. His body still tingled where their hands lingered—Jim’s teasing circles on his belly, George’s firm warmth over his ribs.

Jim’s voice was softer than a breeze. “And now you’re one of them.”

They lay in the hush that followed, breaths steady, bodies warmed by shared proximity. Outside, a distant train whistled, its moan fading into the quiet night.

Arthur said nothing. He simply reached out, lacing his fingers with Jim’s while his other hand found George’s on his side. He held them both—skin damp, heart unshaken.