Summer Lust

We all thought Shawn Kiely was sex in a Speedo the summer of ’87. Adults openly clucked tongues while whispering about the Adonis on the local pool swim team.  We were less subtle; when he walked by the lounge chairs, still wet and glistening in the golden light of late morning, girls would close their eyes and take a long, slow breath, trying to capture his sweet smelling skin over the chlorine; boys would watch too, with mixed parts of jealousy, awe, and a hidden desire to be him or naked next to him in the shower, pulling the cheap white plastic curtain shut, ignoring the metal scraping as the grommets screech across the rod, if only for a brief, tangy, mind-melting kiss. Yet he was either unaware, uninterested, or unwilling. By summer’s end, we came despite brutal heat for one last glance, sigh, and poolside fantasy before the first sprout of hair on his shaven legs popped out, heralding the end of our time with the sensuality that remained ephemeral and palpable.