Every town in the Catskills either had a swimming hole or was within a few miles of one. There were so many creeks, streams, ponds, and small lakes—if there was water, we’d swim in it. It was how you survived the hot summers when you were a kid, and where you learned how to French kiss when you were a teenager.
There were multiple great places to swim around Bailey Falls, but The Tube was my favorite. Close to the edge of the Bryant Mountain House hotel property there was a small spring and pond that fed the larger lake on the hotel’s grounds. Clear cold water, rocky bottom, and lots of outcroppings if you were feeling daring and wanted to jump. It was a cool respite on a hot day, and it was exactly where I wanted to take Leo today.
When I pulled up to the big stone barn, it occurred to me that I still didn’t know where Leo lived. He’d said he didn’t use the main house, as it was used for tours and tended to be the domain of his mother when she visited. Which I gathered was rarely. So where did he sleep at night? There were guest houses that he’d converted into dormlike quarters for the summer interns in the apprentice program, but I doubted he stayed there.
But before I could think too long on it, there he was. Taller than the rest of the group, his sandy blond hair shining in the sun, getting lighter by the day.
He waved good-bye to the group he was chatting with, then jogged over to my Jeep.
“So mysterious,” he said, sidling up to the window. Looking left and right (to make sure no one was looking?), he leaned his head in to kiss me once, twice, three times. “Where are we going, Sugar Snap?”
My toes pointed involuntarily and the engine revved, a consequence of being called by my nickname. Chuckling, he backed away, hands held up in an I give gesture.
“Get in,” I said. “And buckle up.”
“So this is where you brought all of the boys to have your wicked way with them in your younger days.”
We’d turned off the main road into the woods, onto a dirt path barely large enough for my Wagoneer to fit down without snapping off a few branches here and there. I was pleased to see no other cars here when I parked, and I led him a few hundred yards or so to the clearing above the clearest, and coldest, swimming hole for miles.
Starting as an underground spring, the water forced its way up through the rock underneath, creating this beautiful little pool ringed with huge craggy boulders, some rough and pointed, some flat like giant platters. The pool was somewhat oblong, more like a tube than a circle, hence the name. Since it was smaller than some of the other swimming haunts near town, it usually wasn’t as crowded.
And today, we had it all to ourselves.
As we admired it from above, what he’d said finally registered. His eyes were full of fun and mischief as he gazed down at me, waiting expectantly for my answer.
“I never brought boys here, mister. Not for wicked ways or any ways.” I punctuated my statement with a smack on his buns.
“Oh, I find that hard to believe,” he teased, returning the buns smack. “Come on, you can tell me. Teenage Roxie, with her legendary culinary skills, must have made a helluva picnic to tempt the boys out to skinny dip.”
I thought about it for a moment. How perfect that version could have been. Snapping a red-and-white checkered tablecloth onto the grass and wildflowers. Sitting with The Chad Bowman crisscross applesauce while we ate tiny sandwiches and talked about . . . whatever we would have discussed.
It was hard to put myself in an imaginary memory with my former A-number-one crush, when I had my current A number one here in the flesh.
“That wasn’t me,” I explained, pulling him close and tucking his hands around my lower back. He slid his palms into my back pockets like they did in every eighties music video on MTV. Back in the day when MTV actually ran videos. “I was shy. A people watcher who kept to myself. I didn’t turn into a brazen hussy until after I left Bailey Falls.”
I nipped his chin with my teeth, earning two firm bum squeezes. “And speaking of brazen hussy, I’m down with creating some wannabe superhorny teenage memories right here and now. Interested?”
A deep, searing kiss was the answer. Interested.
We climbed carefully down the rocky path. He was all chivalrous with his “Oh, let me help you down” hands that landed and lingered on my backside. Or the casual lean-in that brushed against the side of my boob, which I didn’t immediately lean away from.
We just couldn’t keep our hands off each other. And I was quickly becoming addicted to that comfortable sweetness mixed with steadily growing passion. It was going to be hard to cut myself off cold turkey at the end of the summer.
I leaned into his shoulder to smell the summer on his skin.
Wella, wella, wella, huh.
I was addicted to all things Leo. Right now, as we picked our way down across the rocky shale, I settled on his fingers. Tan, strong, and all man. Not the manicured, pristine, hand-creamed-to-hell fingers that most of the guys in Los Angeles had. These were callused and hardworking, and of the earth.
And at the moment, they were toying with the hem of my shorts. The frayed bits that dangled against my legs were a particular favorite of his. He wound them around his index finger as we walked, and the contact points became little fiery spots that sent tingles up my spine and down my shorts.
And lately, his hands had been coming into contact more often. For obvious reasons, sure, but it was more. When he wasn’t playing grab ass or boobie graze, there’d be the lightest brush here. The softest touch there. It felt like he was unaware that he was doing it too, like the zing he got from making contact surprised him just as much as it did me.
There were multiple great places to swim around Bailey Falls, but The Tube was my favorite. Close to the edge of the Bryant Mountain House hotel property there was a small spring and pond that fed the larger lake on the hotel’s grounds. Clear cold water, rocky bottom, and lots of outcroppings if you were feeling daring and wanted to jump. It was a cool respite on a hot day, and it was exactly where I wanted to take Leo today.
When I pulled up to the big stone barn, it occurred to me that I still didn’t know where Leo lived. He’d said he didn’t use the main house, as it was used for tours and tended to be the domain of his mother when she visited. Which I gathered was rarely. So where did he sleep at night? There were guest houses that he’d converted into dormlike quarters for the summer interns in the apprentice program, but I doubted he stayed there.
But before I could think too long on it, there he was. Taller than the rest of the group, his sandy blond hair shining in the sun, getting lighter by the day.
He waved good-bye to the group he was chatting with, then jogged over to my Jeep.
“So mysterious,” he said, sidling up to the window. Looking left and right (to make sure no one was looking?), he leaned his head in to kiss me once, twice, three times. “Where are we going, Sugar Snap?”
My toes pointed involuntarily and the engine revved, a consequence of being called by my nickname. Chuckling, he backed away, hands held up in an I give gesture.
“Get in,” I said. “And buckle up.”
“So this is where you brought all of the boys to have your wicked way with them in your younger days.”
We’d turned off the main road into the woods, onto a dirt path barely large enough for my Wagoneer to fit down without snapping off a few branches here and there. I was pleased to see no other cars here when I parked, and I led him a few hundred yards or so to the clearing above the clearest, and coldest, swimming hole for miles.
Starting as an underground spring, the water forced its way up through the rock underneath, creating this beautiful little pool ringed with huge craggy boulders, some rough and pointed, some flat like giant platters. The pool was somewhat oblong, more like a tube than a circle, hence the name. Since it was smaller than some of the other swimming haunts near town, it usually wasn’t as crowded.
And today, we had it all to ourselves.
As we admired it from above, what he’d said finally registered. His eyes were full of fun and mischief as he gazed down at me, waiting expectantly for my answer.
“I never brought boys here, mister. Not for wicked ways or any ways.” I punctuated my statement with a smack on his buns.
“Oh, I find that hard to believe,” he teased, returning the buns smack. “Come on, you can tell me. Teenage Roxie, with her legendary culinary skills, must have made a helluva picnic to tempt the boys out to skinny dip.”
I thought about it for a moment. How perfect that version could have been. Snapping a red-and-white checkered tablecloth onto the grass and wildflowers. Sitting with The Chad Bowman crisscross applesauce while we ate tiny sandwiches and talked about . . . whatever we would have discussed.
It was hard to put myself in an imaginary memory with my former A-number-one crush, when I had my current A number one here in the flesh.
“That wasn’t me,” I explained, pulling him close and tucking his hands around my lower back. He slid his palms into my back pockets like they did in every eighties music video on MTV. Back in the day when MTV actually ran videos. “I was shy. A people watcher who kept to myself. I didn’t turn into a brazen hussy until after I left Bailey Falls.”
I nipped his chin with my teeth, earning two firm bum squeezes. “And speaking of brazen hussy, I’m down with creating some wannabe superhorny teenage memories right here and now. Interested?”
A deep, searing kiss was the answer. Interested.
We climbed carefully down the rocky path. He was all chivalrous with his “Oh, let me help you down” hands that landed and lingered on my backside. Or the casual lean-in that brushed against the side of my boob, which I didn’t immediately lean away from.
We just couldn’t keep our hands off each other. And I was quickly becoming addicted to that comfortable sweetness mixed with steadily growing passion. It was going to be hard to cut myself off cold turkey at the end of the summer.
I leaned into his shoulder to smell the summer on his skin.
Wella, wella, wella, huh.
I was addicted to all things Leo. Right now, as we picked our way down across the rocky shale, I settled on his fingers. Tan, strong, and all man. Not the manicured, pristine, hand-creamed-to-hell fingers that most of the guys in Los Angeles had. These were callused and hardworking, and of the earth.
And at the moment, they were toying with the hem of my shorts. The frayed bits that dangled against my legs were a particular favorite of his. He wound them around his index finger as we walked, and the contact points became little fiery spots that sent tingles up my spine and down my shorts.
And lately, his hands had been coming into contact more often. For obvious reasons, sure, but it was more. When he wasn’t playing grab ass or boobie graze, there’d be the lightest brush here. The softest touch there. It felt like he was unaware that he was doing it too, like the zing he got from making contact surprised him just as much as it did me.
