Pool Day 2.0

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The Rashomon effect is a term that has been used by a number of different scholars, journalists and film critics to refer to contradictory interpretations of the same events by different persons, a problem that arises in the process of uncovering truth. The phrase derives from the movie Rashomon, where four witness's accounts of a rape and murder are all different.

"I don't just want words. If they is all you have, you'd better go" F.Scott Fitzgerald

Intro: London Grammar - Strong


Theophilus London. Wine & Choclate

Moderat - "Bad Kingdom"


Steve Harley - Make Me Smile

Writing credit:

Dr Smith

I’m without my partner, sitting at the hotel pool propped up in a chaise and reading my book when the 

nymph first appears. My wife is back in our room taking the rare opportunity to sleep late.

The girl seems to float, drift, as though she isn’t aware of me, yet at the same time acutely aware of my 

appreciation of her. T-shirt, flip-flops, denim skirt and large, round dark sunglasses. Dark blonde hair to 

her shoulders, spontaneously disheveled. 

If our eyes ever met—even for an instant—neither would know behind our polarizing filters of 


She selects a chaise directly in front of mine. Facing me, she slips off her sandals. The sun illuminates 

the fine blonde hairs of her thighs. My fantasies, up till now inchoate, start to form. My lips on her 

warm, golden flesh, the feeling of those tiny hairs tickling. My mouth suckling a pretty little toe. Fractal 

fancies that form unbidden in an instant and dissipate just as quickly.

I feel my balls twitch, stirred into production by the primitive drives that come lurching out of my animal 

hindbrain. Aching needs that are felt rather than thought. Feelings that are only corralled by cold 

consciousness, carefully bounded by my cultured sense of propriety. Usually. My hot blood starts to 

thicken my maleness, preparing me for impossible possibilities.

I am still pretending to read, my face pointed at the book with my eyes surreptitiously angled upward, 

relishing the stunning sprite as she undresses before me. 

It’s so intimate, the act of undressing, or at least it should be. I’m sure she has no idea that the middle 

aged businessman reclining before her--dressed only in sunglasses, a swimsuit and wedding band, so 

diligently casual--is awash with powerful, scarcely controlled lust.

She reaches down to grasp the hem of her t-shirt. It rises slowly up her smooth, kissable belly. I wonder 

what style of bikini her t-shirt temporarily conceals. Something feminine and pink, or maybe powder 

blue…she might look good in that color.

There are moments in a man’s life when all thoughts seem to cease, or maybe when there are so many 

flooding in from so many directions that intentionality simply becomes inconceivable. When I first 

glimpsed the curved swell of naked breast as she raised her shirt—even before her dark, erect nipples 

came into view—it was one of those rare, extraordinary moments.

The soft breeze brought the smell of her skin and suntan lotion to my nostrils. She would have been 

close enough to touch if I simply leaned forward in my chair. It took a significant act of willpower to 

override my urge to reach out and make such uninvited contact. 

I wondered if in that overwhelming moment I accidently let loose the sound that I felt rising up inside 

my throat—a growl of appreciation, a visceral expression of needful irrationality.

If I had made any noise she didn’t react. 

I realized I had stopped breathing. My heart was pounding and the half-erection in my swimsuit had 

become fully engorged, fighting to be released from the suddenly confining fabric.

She dropped her t-shirt carelessly and leaned forward as she unbuttoned her skirt and hooked her 

thumbs inside her waistband to push it down. Her perfect breasts swayed beneath her, tantalizing and 


I was certain, this time, that I gasped audibly as the naiad stepped out of her skirt to reveal her naked, 

nearly hairless mound to my now obvious gaze. She either ignored me or didn’t hear the sound of my 


Usually at this point in a dream I wake up, but this was a mouth-watering reality, not a febrile fantasy of 

my sleeping mind.

She lay on her back, feet toward me, knees bent and slightly spread so that I could clearly see the puffy, 

folded lips of her delicious pink sex. I reminded myself again to breathe.

Didn’t she realize what she was doing? 

She seemed so unintentional, so nonchalant in her cruel torture. Every instinct of my trembling body 

drove me to act on my basest impulse. Here was a female of my species laid out before me ripe, spread, 


Earlier harmless erotic musings of placing tender kisses on her thighs were roughly displaced by a 

consuming greed for the mysteries that lay between them. It seemed every fiber of my masculinity was 

constructed to impose my inborn passions on her exposed form, driving my throbbing erection deeply 

into her, ravishing her sensitive nipples with my teeth, raising her dainty feet to my shoulders to impale 

her even more deeply upon my shaft. 

To fuck…her cunt…with my cock.

Instead, I hardly moved. Not because I thought she might cry rape and that I would be punished by a 

disapproving society…. That’s all true but far too abstract and too rational to hold back the beast I was 

barely keeping caged.

That beast, ferocious and achingly hungry for her flesh, could only be contained by her ultimate 

supremacy. Her gift of vulnerable nakedness stole whatever authority that my more heavily muscled 

frame might have allowed. 

I needed her to give me what I wanted, and therefore was powerless to take what I needed. A furrowed 

brow of disapproval, a curled lip of disgust, a mocking smile, a blanch of fear, or worst of all, a salty tear 

of hurt escaping from her eye and I would be unmanned.

So I stayed on my side of the invisible boundary of propriety, reveling in her sweet torture. She applied 

her lotion, gloriously spending far too long on her firm young breasts and the glistening, delicate creases 

of her labia. 

When at last she protected her pretty freckled face with the warm, creamy liquid, she had to take off 

her dark sunglasses. Revealed were amazing, sparkling, sapphire eyes, looking straight at me. A gentle 

smile curled the corners of her beautiful mouth. 

I had to take off my own sunglasses. It was only fair.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” her voice was as pleasant and kind as I expected. Her toes curled as she enjoyed the 

warm breeze and temperate sun.

I was surprised to find that my own voice still worked. “Lovely, simply lovely.”

The look in her eyes indicated that she knew precisely what I meant.